John Constantine; The Laughing Magician
Time to do what I do best: get my fingers burned and burn the bastard's arm off in return.
March 2012
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Tags
- !application
- !contact post
- !ooc
- agnes cook
- balthazar
- buck jones
- catherine gryffiths
- chas chandler
- cian andley
- clyde
- constantine doesn't find the work
- dominic munroe
- edmund donovan
- eli csontos
- emily andley
- ephraim sullivan
- estelle bennett
- fuck the lot of it
- gideon foster
- gray adams
- hana otonashi
- home again home again jiggity jig
- hunt and game and all that nonsense
- jegudiel
- jim chatterjeee
- joss makepeace
- judgment calls
- kitty huntington
- leo gryffiths
- london burning
- madam
- maria-nives gagliardi
- nic santoro
- nina baird
- olivia leonard
- ophelia ziegler
- post-london burning
- rook
- rudo iekanjika
- sachiel
- sallying forth
- shopping lists or epithets?
- talia sullivan
- temeluchus
- that's hard to say
- the work finds constantine
- toby randall
- tomas riley
- vivi leon
- workaday
- wren shelley
- you and you and you
Page Summary
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Nov. 9th, 2020
Nov. 9th, 2019
Mar. 10th, 2012
[His bones itch. London has settled down once again, back into something approaching sleepy mien when set against its passing madness, but Constantine has been unable to forget. He thinks, and often, of the heart's blood he spilled to help drive a demon back into the wrappings of a woman-child, of Nina grinning with Ophelia's mouth. He thinks of magic burning through his veins like a particularly visceral trip, of Balthazar's toothy jeering, and of Haven's little tin soldiers throwing themselves bodily into the fiery fray. John thinks of Eli's composure cracked, then taped over back into place as they plus her little king of the necromancers descended on the decrepit church. He thinks of having been able to taste his own end -- again -- and as he lay on the ground bleeding out into the earth, he could almost hear Heaven and Hell gearing up as one for gleeful business.
And then he was dragged back with mouth full of his blood and others' besides, and now he itches down to his bones and focuses on the slow maddening sensation of that, rather than circle 'round to a false world where Kit Ryan still loves him. The loss won't eat him alive this time, oh no. But it's enough to leave him feeling hollow, and as the days wind on, becoming longer and longer, everything invariably circles back to Ophelia and the man Stone. And John Constantine knows something is off, something is wrong, but can only wonder whether or not he cares enough to chase it to final solution.]
Look at us, then, we merry survivors. Fought the night off yet again; now to wait for the congratulatory glad-handing and back-patting. How many of those funerals we've all been haunting wind up being for Librarians?
[Ophelia]
Going to assume you're still sewn up. All quiet on the western front?
And then he was dragged back with mouth full of his blood and others' besides, and now he itches down to his bones and focuses on the slow maddening sensation of that, rather than circle 'round to a false world where Kit Ryan still loves him. The loss won't eat him alive this time, oh no. But it's enough to leave him feeling hollow, and as the days wind on, becoming longer and longer, everything invariably circles back to Ophelia and the man Stone. And John Constantine knows something is off, something is wrong, but can only wonder whether or not he cares enough to chase it to final solution.]
Look at us, then, we merry survivors. Fought the night off yet again; now to wait for the congratulatory glad-handing and back-patting. How many of those funerals we've all been haunting wind up being for Librarians?
[Ophelia]
Going to assume you're still sewn up. All quiet on the western front?
Feb. 26th, 2012
[It's merry hell and the depths of depravity, and chaos ripped free from all its many bindings to spread smiling influence across the city. Kit's gone; they cut their way across London, stepped foot on Circus grounds to give regards to the birthday boy, and the rampant magic hit him so hot and harsh that he let go of Kit's hand in desperate attempt to ground himself, to prick that little hurt which would give him back his autonomy. And reality -- ugly, horrible, shite reality -- reasserted to remind him that Kit Ryan had never practiced magic, had given him a chance he'd tossed away, and had subsequently moved herself back to Dublin. So. Kit was gone (he could still taste her, hear that mocking burr wrapping itself around him), and Constantine had come to ground zero with empty hands and scoured heart.
There was no easy way of putting everyone back in their respective boxes; John could feel the thing which wriggled Its claws and made the Skipper jerk grinning down in great glory, and he could hear the laughing-screaming coming from all corners. This, then, would take more than smoke and swagger. Blood, most like. His normally spiky, offensive writing unravels itself fast and loose, sprawling across the journals in a fit of stability when most of what's hitting the pages is bile and madness.]
Roll call; who's out there in a bind? Shout it out, now.
[Eli]
Pick up the magical phone, Eli.
There was no easy way of putting everyone back in their respective boxes; John could feel the thing which wriggled Its claws and made the Skipper jerk grinning down in great glory, and he could hear the laughing-screaming coming from all corners. This, then, would take more than smoke and swagger. Blood, most like. His normally spiky, offensive writing unravels itself fast and loose, sprawling across the journals in a fit of stability when most of what's hitting the pages is bile and madness.]
Roll call; who's out there in a bind? Shout it out, now.
[Eli]
Pick up the magical phone, Eli.
Aug. 17th, 2011
God as absentee landlord. Discuss.
It's a distraction, the kissing cousin to Constantine's endless inner monologues while he works and he wonders and he examines all corners with wary mistrustful eye. It's taking inventory, in its own odd way. Rousing the rabble and seeing what they've got to say. And this time, he's not smiling about it.
It's a distraction, the kissing cousin to Constantine's endless inner monologues while he works and he wonders and he examines all corners with wary mistrustful eye. It's taking inventory, in its own odd way. Rousing the rabble and seeing what they've got to say. And this time, he's not smiling about it.
Jun. 24th, 2011
Murdered magicians and fireworks in the city, and now a lost child: just another day-week-month-life in London. Constantine wonders to himself whether the lot is connected, some strange tapestry of synchronicity while he walks feet-to-street with far more quiet than is his wont. He smokes excessively, drinks too much shit coffee at shit diners and every now and again, John winds his way into the Gem or No. 9 in attempt to remind himself that yes, the world still turns. It's not all blood and viscera; he is yet alive. Pity he's not always sure about everyone else.
Sacrifices. What to make of them.
Sacrifices. What to make of them.
May. 2nd, 2011
The hunt is on, the game afoot, all those ridiculous fucking types and tropes which applied. But ah, John had hit the wall running rather than the ground, and he found himself in need of information held elsewhere, housed by others -- best prised out from a girl's experiences rather than brokered or bartered or bargained for by himself. And so the journals, so Constantine's sharp-smug writing gracing others' pages early in the morning while he sat and smoked and stared out the window, elbows propped up on his table.
Where's our little seer gone, then? Girl with the visions, the one with the warnings. No 'don't trod through the park' or 'best to avoid SoHo'?
Where's our little seer gone, then? Girl with the visions, the one with the warnings. No 'don't trod through the park' or 'best to avoid SoHo'?
Apr. 8th, 2011
Flip, scratched out scrawl like a note-to-self, an ash-smeared thorn-in-paw spike of irritation. John's been reading, then. Watching.
And then there's magic.
And then there's magic.
Mar. 23rd, 2011
No profanity from Constantine's corner, not today. Just notes-to-self left out in the open for all the world to see; it's unlikely anyone will translate his odd scrawled references into the layman's. This is just John taking a half-step away from his constant inner monologue, a saunter out toward the never-ending polluted stream of people outside his door. Pontificating, even, with neatly-drawn symbolism beside his sharp and biting handwriting.
♗/♛
+
♞ (wanker) ♘ (insufferably self-righteous wanker)
House on High. Paper peeling from the walls, moldy old shag carpet (remember the '70s? I do.), gone all squidgy from unspeakable things hidden underneath. Not a haunting. Not a possession. Something else, then.
♗/♛
+
♞ (wanker) ♘ (insufferably self-righteous wanker)
House on High. Paper peeling from the walls, moldy old shag carpet (remember the '70s? I do.), gone all squidgy from unspeakable things hidden underneath. Not a haunting. Not a possession. Something else, then.
Jan. 18th, 2011
Hard to believe there was a time he went looking for the work, rather than the work finding him with guided missiles and clever, grasping hands. If life hasn't been quiet -- Hell-built false churches and demons squatting inside young women and now men driven half-mad by ghosts not their own -- then at least it hasn't been boring. Still, as Constantine sits and smokes, contemplates magic, there's a distinct feeling of 'not done yet', of the other shoe preparing to drop. He snorts at it, cynicism masquerading as amusement, and decides to reroute some of that constant inner monologue to pen and paper.
A man wakes up, lives his life, comes home to hear voices drifting out the walls of his flat. Haunted by memories not his own, he's dragged down the rabbit hole of someone else's former life and is prepared to go mad as a hatter. Question being, is it right to sort him out instead of shuffling the dead off to new locales? Is it fair? Nasty bit of business.
A man wakes up, lives his life, comes home to hear voices drifting out the walls of his flat. Haunted by memories not his own, he's dragged down the rabbit hole of someone else's former life and is prepared to go mad as a hatter. Question being, is it right to sort him out instead of shuffling the dead off to new locales? Is it fair? Nasty bit of business.
Dec. 22nd, 2010
He'd been trawling Glasgow for a month now, or rather shuttling between Glasgow (nasty old place in her day, full of filth and hate; John rather liked it) and Edinburgh as part of a pet project. No money to be made on this one -- wasn't that always the case? -- but rather favors to curry and favors to spend on a pert little organization what fancied themselves the Second Coming. Demons, John snorted, all disdain. Then people, because weren't they just as cocked up? He left when he was good and ready -- when a man-built church founded by Hell's most pissant was burned to the ground and Constantine had his fill of drink and humanism and one more ghost to add to the armada.
Then home. Then to London. Happy fucking Christmas, indeed.
Then home. Then to London. Happy fucking Christmas, indeed.
Nov. 20th, 2010
John is not as communicative as others when it comes to this cocked-up journal system. He drags it along with him now and again, but is just as liable to leave the tatty old thing in Yemin or the hinterlands and then be faintly exasperated (occasionally amused) when it finds itself back in his care despite sabotage attempts. He reads, though. Constantine is a known entity in all equations, and to observe without being seen coming? Sometimes that's a right handy trick.
Every now and again, however, he scratches out something inconsequential because he can, or to test the metaphorical waters. (It's as likely to be in blood or spit than ink, though; respect is not John's middle name.) Today it's thin black letters, the kind which somehow give the impression of a vulpine smirk, a few stray smudges on the page ground-in cigarette ash rather than misplaced pen.
Dog piss.
Every now and again, however, he scratches out something inconsequential because he can, or to test the metaphorical waters. (It's as likely to be in blood or spit than ink, though; respect is not John's middle name.) Today it's thin black letters, the kind which somehow give the impression of a vulpine smirk, a few stray smudges on the page ground-in cigarette ash rather than misplaced pen.
Dog piss.