Fire walk with me
WHO: thelaughingmage and YOU!
WHAT: John got stuck in his magic. Come say hi while he's wandering the landscape on his own personal vision quest!
WHERE: All three cities
WHEN: Anytime this week
WARNINGS: Constantine tripping on magic
The world was impossibly full of things for anyone willing to open their senses. Those who could mostly tried not to, because frankly the world never shut its goddamn pipe if it caught you noticing. Ghosts bargained like junkies for you to lay their wrongs to rest, genius loci vomited memories till you couldn't sort your own from the mess, gods and spirits dribbled over whatever shiny object had arrested their defective attention spans. People were the worst: boiling alive inside their own minds, screaming for someone to listen to everything they couldn't bring themselves to say out loud.
John felt more sympathy for the ghosts. At least their cages were built of less pathetic materials than cowardice.
At a crosslight, John shoved the shade of a particularly persistent street sweeper under an oncoming bus. "Confront your own bloody fears," he called after it, tired of hearing it whinge.
A woman holding a little girl she didn't have stared at him in such horror that he double-checked whether it'd been a live person. No, it was gone. He jerked a thumb at the bus. "New therapy technique. Throw your demons into traffic."
She decided to wait at a different corner.
The light changed. Dirt and asphalt and yellow brick passed beneath his feet. Between that and the voices in which the cities whispered, he could make a good guess where he was at any given moment. He avoided the fucking hippie nature trails that occasionally wound off into the foothills of enlightenment and/or idiocy; he didn't feel like freezing his arse off in Tibet or toking up with Welsh gypsies. When he was, at any given moment, was an academic question. That'd matter once he got wherever he was going.
It was just like being lost in any wilderness, really. You just kept walking till you found yourself back in civilization.
Oh yes, he knew what this was. Hardly his first witch walk; they were an occupational hazard in the magical professions. It just pissed him off, was all. He'd been confident of the landscape when he'd gone tip-toeing down the garden paths of his mind to slip the knots of Sheogorath's curse, and he'd been doing just fine till that goddamn fox card had gone running into the underbrush like he was meant to follow--"Don't stray from the path, Johnny-boy, you amateur twat"--drawing him right into the back-alley morass of his own subconscious.
Should've known the rangy little fleabag was a trap. He was probably being led by the nose like a plonker toward some naff self-realization. Sodding spirit animals; see if he didn't take a shotgun to the rabid little fucker next time he saw it.
WHAT: John got stuck in his magic. Come say hi while he's wandering the landscape on his own personal vision quest!
WHERE: All three cities
WHEN: Anytime this week
WARNINGS: Constantine tripping on magic
The world was impossibly full of things for anyone willing to open their senses. Those who could mostly tried not to, because frankly the world never shut its goddamn pipe if it caught you noticing. Ghosts bargained like junkies for you to lay their wrongs to rest, genius loci vomited memories till you couldn't sort your own from the mess, gods and spirits dribbled over whatever shiny object had arrested their defective attention spans. People were the worst: boiling alive inside their own minds, screaming for someone to listen to everything they couldn't bring themselves to say out loud.
John felt more sympathy for the ghosts. At least their cages were built of less pathetic materials than cowardice.
At a crosslight, John shoved the shade of a particularly persistent street sweeper under an oncoming bus. "Confront your own bloody fears," he called after it, tired of hearing it whinge.
A woman holding a little girl she didn't have stared at him in such horror that he double-checked whether it'd been a live person. No, it was gone. He jerked a thumb at the bus. "New therapy technique. Throw your demons into traffic."
She decided to wait at a different corner.
The light changed. Dirt and asphalt and yellow brick passed beneath his feet. Between that and the voices in which the cities whispered, he could make a good guess where he was at any given moment. He avoided the fucking hippie nature trails that occasionally wound off into the foothills of enlightenment and/or idiocy; he didn't feel like freezing his arse off in Tibet or toking up with Welsh gypsies. When he was, at any given moment, was an academic question. That'd matter once he got wherever he was going.
It was just like being lost in any wilderness, really. You just kept walking till you found yourself back in civilization.
Oh yes, he knew what this was. Hardly his first witch walk; they were an occupational hazard in the magical professions. It just pissed him off, was all. He'd been confident of the landscape when he'd gone tip-toeing down the garden paths of his mind to slip the knots of Sheogorath's curse, and he'd been doing just fine till that goddamn fox card had gone running into the underbrush like he was meant to follow--"Don't stray from the path, Johnny-boy, you amateur twat"--drawing him right into the back-alley morass of his own subconscious.
Should've known the rangy little fleabag was a trap. He was probably being led by the nose like a plonker toward some naff self-realization. Sodding spirit animals; see if he didn't take a shotgun to the rabid little fucker next time he saw it.