1. Kirei Kotomine. A manipulative and more-or-less evil incarnate priest. 2. King Hassan. A supernatural being - it's more Fate/ nonsense but this one is a spirit of a dead assassin that is generally an okay guy. 3. David Young. He's a detective that works in the supernatural; Bostonian and very sweet man. 4. Usagi. A necromancer. ]
[Oh, gosh, they all sound really great! I'm leaning towards someone in the first three which.... I realize doesn't narrow things down much. If there's anyone you're feeling more than others I'm cool with that too!
[ Oh sure. It is Ruri. (laughs) It doesn't. So from the first three I could give better personality blurbs.
Kirei: Antagonistic and malicious individual, but he's an empty inside person. Also monologues a lot. He essentially is very hard to anger because he's very dead inside but wants to watch the world burn. King Hassan: Lawful Evil. Emphasis on the lawful. What he does is evil as a spirit of assassination, but he himself is someone who imposes law and order. (don-don) He's actually a softie deep, deep down. David Young: Kind of a good-natured asshole that is always joking and really tries his best for other people to help them out. He's a very good bean. ]
Years ago, as a child, he had ended up possessed by a demon. But it was not uncommon for clergymen to find their children under possession by vengeful spirits. What made Kirei different was how his exorcism was botched. His soul had ended up mangled and twisted. For all intents and purposes, the subject of his soul was null and void. There wasn't anything left worth speaking of.
When he would eventually die, there would be neither pearly gate nor fiery pit. There was doubt that there would even be a Purgatory. Speculation said that he would just simply cease to be. The time that he had on Earth was all the time that he had. Yet Kirei had once believed that he would be saved -- but that was when he was a child. He was now a man nearing his forties and gave up on the idea of salvation to mend his ruined soul.
...
And that is how things are now. Kirei tends to a church in a well-populated city. His existence is generally well-known to those who have a hand in supernatural dealings. He has actually been presented before a few exorcists as a warning for them never to get careless. But what he has been doing with his most recent time is infecting his congregation with curses. On the surface, they are minor curses, but they are minor curses layered on one after the other. They were woven into his weekly sermons without anyone realizing. Layering on so many minor curses -- unnatural deaths began. Murders. Suicide. General accidents. It wouldn't seem like much but they all started happening at the same time. Racking up the numbers.
So, of course, eventually, he would be questioned by a real dealer in magic. Whether he has been found out or not, well, that remains to be seen. ]
Greetings. I am Kirei Kotomine. [ He closes the Bible that he's reading before moving to set it onto the altar. The church itself lacks a holy presence and has been corrupted to allow for him to weave his curses. ] I did not expect to see anyone until it was closer to the service. With so many deaths that have been happening recently, the faithful have been coming in droves. Ironic, is it not, that they are always considered to be sheep?
[John is no stranger to using his abilities for money. In fact, it's how he makes a living and provides for himself on a day-to-day basis. A haunted house here, a demonic possession there, most of the time clients are so grateful that they pay well beyond his asking price. But there are times when he seeks the imbalance with no expectation of reward. It's the only way to win back the soul of a young girl damned to hell. And possibly his own.
When John enters the church to take stock of the situation, he can feel an aura pulsating through it. It's heavy, compounded by layers and layers of unholy deeds. This was the right place.
It's interesting that a man of the cloth doesn't introduce himself title first. Most clergy, holy as they may be, still have a sense of arrogance about them that only being close to the Almighty can bring. John doesn't want to leap to conclusions just yet, but this man and the energy surrounding the church seem to fit as two parts of the same machine.]
John Constantine. [He lights a cigarette and takes a hit, partly out of habit and partly to assess the consequences from the priest or the church itself. So far nothing has burst into flame. Interesting.] They're still sheep, flocking to a shepherd in a crisis. I'm just here to have a look around.
[ well that was annoying. just because it was a piece of shit phone, doesn't mean she couldn't have gotten at least a little money for it. selina huffs as she wipes the ash from her hand onto her pants and steps out of the alley. trying to screw with that guy was fun but then he ruined it so now it's time to get back to work.
weaving her way through the people walking up and down the sidewalk, she grabs what she can from people. a bit of food from grocery bags dropped by the people she accidentally ran into, wallets, even the odd bracelet with a faulty clasp.
it's just so easy to slip her hand into the pocket of some guy's trenchcoat to see what she can find as she walks past him with her head down. she's generally the kind of person who no one really takes notice of, after all ]
[John knows all about the tricks of the pick-pocketing trade. He'd been fully prepared for several attempts in Gotham, tiresome as they were. It's a juvenile trick. The more skilled craftsmen seek the long cons and bigger scores. This was something children practiced in their spare time, though it wasn't a useless skill to have.
The moment the hand reaches into his pocket, John snaps his own hand down to grab at the small wrist. He lifts the wrist from his coat and regards the girl with a not-entirely-shocked raise of the eyebrows.
Teen girl by the looks of it. Thief. He's certain there are plenty of those in Gotham, but the specifics did narrow things down a bit, especially given her location.]
[ selina is more about the quick score with the more immediate payout. if she's going after it, it's probably because she wants it soon, if not right now. though one might see (and even argue) her friendship with bruce as ... well, not real friendship. she's a lowly street kid and he's a billionaire.
maybe she is into long cons. well, she'd disagree. bruce is her friend, not a means to an end.
her head snaps up when the owner of the trenchcoat grabs her. it's unexpected, to be sure. she so rarely gets caught in the act. just as surprising as getting caught though, is when he speaks. her eyes widen when he does. the guy from the phone ]
Don't touch me like that, you creep! [ she says it loudly, clearly, with distress in her voice. maybe attention from those around them will distract him long enough for her to get herself free and slip away ]
[The yelling is a cheap trick, but it's an effective one. John snatches back his wallet before he releases her hand, taking a step back to prove there is no contact between them. It also keeps her from getting close enough to try the same trick twice.
She's likely going to try to run away. No thief ever aims to get caught. If she does try to run, John curls his fingers to enchant various pieces of rubble to pile ahead of her pathway. Not enough to impede movement entirely. Just enough for a stumble. But hopefully it won't come to that.]
I just want to talk. But if you're insistent on being a little shit, that's your business.
[ she's never been above the cheap trick if it's one that works, and this one in particular has treated her well in the past. hey, she's more than willing to do whatever it takes to get by. it's how she's made it this far!
selina takes a few steps back from him the moment he lets go. she's ready to slip away into the crowd (being small for her age has its advantages, like disappearing among the adults milling about in the streets) and make her way to a nearby alleyway. get to a fire escape, head for the rooftops where she never has to see this guy again.
before she goes, though, before she disappears from his life forever, her curiosity gets the best of her ]
I need to know where exactly you found that phone.
[The phone itself wasn't important, but the person who it belonged to was. For burly man who stood head and shoulders above most, Chas Chandler was remarkably good at evasion. It was annoying.
John is prepared to use other methods of persuasion, but a simple request will do for now.]
It belonged to a friend who has since gone missing. Just let me know the location and we can be through with each other.
It was an incredible stroke of luck for both men to be in the same city at the same time. John hesitated to call it fate. That was reserved for a person's final moments or finding an unopened pack of cigarettes on the street.
Though John lives in Atlanta these days after leaving England, he still travels quite frequently due to his work. He'll go where the money is, or if someone desperately needs help, but preferably the two can overlap. And the priest, or ex-priest, had said he was in the area before John had a chance to take another out of town case. Luck.
After recommending the bar John arrives first, not at all bothered about drinking on his own. At least this time he's not half-dressed and staring vacantly in the mirror. He orders a gin and tonic, no garnish thanks, and sits on one of the barstools. As he waits he withdraws a pack of cigarettes from his inner coat pocket and frowns. His fingers itch for a light, but it's too early to be thrown out of a non smoking establishment. Instead he fusses with the box, tossing it back and forth from hand to hand and sliding it along the wooden counter.
Marcus is late. His truck didn't start, he nearly got run over trying to hail down a bus, and then he ended up in a conversation with a street preacher. He comes through the door twenty minutes after they agreed to meet, straightening a battered leather jacket and scowling distractedly.
It takes him a moment to work out who in the bar is most likely to be the man he's looking for, but when his eyes light on John his calculations simplify slightly. Natty blonde hair, fidgety. Makes a lot of sense.
He hops up onto the barstool next to him and says, "Alright. I'll have whatever lager's on tap." He's got a thick Midlands English accent, rough and deep. After a heartbeat's pause, and the realisation that if he's wrong, this could be an opener which'll get him in trouble, he adds: "Uh, assuming you're who I think you are, anyway."
By now John is on his second drink, which is tame for him, but he may as well at least make half an attempt at a good first impression. When Marcus approaches John isn't upset in the slightest. He's certainly made his friends wait a fair number of times. Either his new contact was coming or he wasn't, no sense in getting worked up about it.
As Marcus sits John turns to him with a grin, attention no longer focused on the cigarettes. He hadn't expected a priest in a leather jacket, but then again he hadn't imagined anyone rigidly uptight either. "If you're looking for teenage caterwauling this is the wrong place, but you've found the right person."
The phrase had left an impression, but ever quick to make a crack at himself John is far from offended. His own accent quickly indicates John as a man from Liverpool, albeit one who has done a bit of traveling, resulting in a manner of speech not quite as thick as it had been in his youth. When the lager is set in front of Marcus, John lifts a finger toward the bartender to indicate that he is paying. At least for now.
John’s accent catches Marcus more than what he says: his whole demeanour changes, his shoulders relaxing and a crooked grin breaking across his face. “Scouse lad, are you? Wasn’t expecting that. Cheers.”
He knocks his glass against John’s and takes a gulp, then wipes foam from his moustache and exhales happily. The beer’s not good, but it’s cold, and that’s all he asks. “So how did you end up as a professional wizard in Atlanta, of all places?”
Simply hearing the word 'scouse' from an accent resembling home draws John in to a comfortable sense of familiarity. Most here have never heard it, and even less would know what it meant. He returns the touch of the glass, already prepared for further drinks to come.
"Promised a friend who has since passed on that I would stay close enough to protect his daughter from threats beyond a simple mugger. She's here so I'm here. But I was given a house in return so I suppose it's not altogether terrible."
He takes his own sip which gives way to a more lengthy swallow.
Marcus whistles at the mention of a house. Exorcists get nothing so fancy — certainly not excommunicated exorcists, anyway. His days are spent in his truck and in motels, or occasionally on the sofas of various friends willing to risk the potential ire of the Church.
The question makes his lips twitch, eyes crinkling as he smiles. "Business, I s'pose. Work, anyway. Business implies I get paid for it beyond, you know, charitable donations from the occasional grateful relative. I dropped in as a favour for a friend of mine, heard word about a possible possession, but wasn't what it looked like. Just a very old man being treated like shit by his kids. Managed to pull some strings, got him away from them. But the motel's paid up for a little while longer, courtesy of that pal of mine, and." He shrugs, takes another long swallow of beer. "You know. Gift horses, something something."
He can't justify wasting the expense by moving on just now, but he's antsy too: he doesn't like being without anything to do.
Not being one to stick directly to schedules, John arrives at the address indicated closer to 6:15 than 6 pm. He approaches the door with lit cigarette in hand, having already finished half of it. There is no bottle of wine or gift an otherwise hospitable guest might offer their gracious host. John is already doing quite a bit of traveling, his presence should be enough.
Stepping in front of the house, John inhales the cigarette deeply. With it still between his lips he lifts his hand to the door, giving a solid knock. He wears his usual rumbled ensemble of shirt, tie, trousers, trench coat, and carries what looks like a brown leather medical bag. As he waits John turns to the side to lean his shoulder against the door frame, smoking into the open air.
Edited 2018-03-11 02:26 (UTC)
Looking at your gifs. Jeremy Davies was also in Hannibal, that is so meta.
While Hannibal might have been a stickler for schedules, given his meticulous nature and the way his work was revolved around scheduling patients, dinner was a different affair of sorts. He could always give an approximate time, but the dish would finish in accordance to it's own wishes, much like art or anything requiring creativity, sometimes the masterpiece took on a life that was unique. Cooking was like that. As it stood the fish was also taking it's time, but anything worth doing to perfection was worth getting it right without fail.
The house John found himself standing in the shadows of had a haunted appeal that was attractive in a way, but it was also imposing. True to Hannibal's classic tastes there was no doorbell so his guests were reduced to knocking and that was enough, with his fine tuned hearing had he been in the most remote region of his home he still would not have missed the door. It does take him a moment to answer, however, given how imperative it was that he set aside his tools appropriately before answering the door.
For his part Hannibal is tidy, well tidy would be an understatement, his presentation is so scrupulous if he wasn't wearing an apron it would be hard to tell that he'd even touched a fish much less was in the process of cooking one. From head to toe he was the perfect dandy who seemed to delight in finery, in his red dress shirt, vest, tie, trousers, and leather shoes. He smiles invitingly when the door swings open, only proper when you are a host receiving a guest.
"I'm afraid that beyond this point it's a no smoking environment," there isn't an ounce of reproach, it is very matter of fact, no judgment in him that could be noted. Hannibal's senses wouldn't be able to tolerate the smell of smoke and ash in his home there was no other reason than that, "but, Mr. Constantine, if you don't mind the momentary inconvenience I have a patio in back that should be more than suitable."
Hannibal hosted dinner parties, after all, people smoked and so he reserved his patio for those who did, complete with ashtrays.
John's used to people telling him note to smoke, so he doesn't put up much of a fight when he's told the house is a non-smoking environment. He takes one final long drag of the cigarette before flicking it down toward his feet, grinding out the last flicker of flame against the doorstep. Yet that is where the consideration stops as he makes no move to pick up the already forgotten butt from the ground.
He takes a moment to look over Hannibal's appearance, followed by what he can see of the interior of the house. Everything is incredibly formal, far more than what he is used to. While John's own house is sizable, it was inherited, and even then only holds so many books and artifacts due to being charmed on the inside. This was something different, earned and cultivated. Somewhere John feels like he doesn't entirely belong.
"Patio would be great, man. Wouldn't ruin the integrity of the fish or anything, would it? But before we go any further I'm gonna have to ask that you call me John. Don't know any Mr. Constantines."
Including his father. Thomas Constantine wasn't worth any kind of formal consideration either.
Discourtesy was not the most attractive of features to Hannibal, but there was a difference between habitual discourtesy and discourtesy that was conscious. Hannibal concluded that John was habitually discourteous, this wasn't a concentrated effort like displays of rudeness often afforded by the shameless Miss Lounds. She was only alive because Hannibal found her articles useful, regardless of how far she stretched the truth. This was only a minor prickling that could be dealt with later, nothing to act irrationally over and certainly not worth letting anything befall his curiosity.
John was his curiosity and potentially quite dangerous.
If asked Hannibal would certainly agree that he put a great deal of effort into his present living arrangements, but what people earned and what people deserved was entirely subjective to him. Hannibal wasn't born poor, he was born wealthy, that was part of the reason he got into Hopkins, that and his drawings, he had certain...advantages that others did not and they certainly weren't earned. Regardless he was very proud of his current arrangement and he enjoyed sharing it as he often did get lost in self-congratulations.
"A shame, Constantine is quite a palatable name, and yet so is John so I am left to defer to your wishes, but I must insist that you call me Hannibal," his accent is heavy given his Lithuanian heritage, but refined and he puts forth the effort to pronounce every syllable in both the name John and Constantine correctly, "and to answer your question, not at all, in fact the patio might offer a more thematic atmosphere. Please?"
It was an invitation and he led the way of course, not expecting John to know his way around, guiding him from the vestibule into the guts of the house, through hiskitchen where a symphony of aromas permeated the air, "I promised you a drink, did I not? Beer or wine?"
John allows himself to be lead through the house, doing nothing to mask his curiosity as he takes in his surroundings. He looks over both shoulders and overhead and makes mental notes of the house. He almost feels as if this was some kind of elaborate hoax to place him out of his element. At the mention of his name John grins in spite of himself. "I've never been one to be so formal, but keep my surname rolling off your tongue like that and I may change my mind, Hannibal."
He tosses his present company an easy grin, one meant to further serve in creating a relaxed atmosphere. Once in the kitchen he inhales deeply, taking in the aroma and warmth of the room. "I'd prefer beer, thank you. Not really cut out for knowing much about wine."
[He can't feel the asphalt tearing at his bare feet nor smell the fumes of the city. To Baldur everything is simply an eyesore: twigs of trees, a skyline reminiscent of smoke and a lack of space. He's walked many busy streets to get here. The strange metal husks people are towed around in are quickly understood to be more of an obstacle than he's given them credit for. The first one he hadn't managed to dodge leaving an open gash in his side that he hasn't bothered to heal just yet.
It's a strange place for the gate to drop him, and yet here he is. Though senses may evade him, his mother's aptitude for magic keeps his senses for it strong. The house at the edge of the city is like a beacon that draws him.
It's late when he arrives, but nothing about the hour solicits silence from the god of light. ]
Wizard!
[ The side of his closed fist pounds on the door heavily. He won't stop until he has an answer. ]
[The lateness of the hour means one thing: sleep. If John had not passed out on the sofa there would be no telling who answered the door and how long it would take. But as it is the pounding on the door rouses John from his sleep... but just barely.
He stirs, opening a single eye as sleep renders his words slow and sluggish.]
Yeah, yeah, don't get your knickers in a twist.
[The wizard, as he has been so aptly named, does not rise from his position or makes any indication that he will open the door at all. Cities of this size were no strangers to robberies, a fact that both John himself and the house's previous owner had taken into consideration when setting up its various traps in the event of an intruder.]
Who is it? If you're here to sell me something just leave the literature under the door.
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1. Kirei Kotomine. A manipulative and more-or-less evil incarnate priest.
2. King Hassan. A supernatural being - it's more Fate/ nonsense but this one is a spirit of a dead assassin that is generally an okay guy.
3. David Young. He's a detective that works in the supernatural; Bostonian and very sweet man.
4. Usagi. A necromancer. ]
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is it ok if i ask who dis? c:]
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Kirei: Antagonistic and malicious individual, but he's an empty inside person. Also monologues a lot. He essentially is very hard to anger because he's very dead inside but wants to watch the world burn.
King Hassan: Lawful Evil. Emphasis on the lawful. What he does is evil as a spirit of assassination, but he himself is someone who imposes law and order. (don-don) He's actually a softie deep, deep down.
David Young: Kind of a good-natured asshole that is always joking and really tries his best for other people to help them out. He's a very good bean. ]
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also if we eventually want to do the other options we always can at another time!]
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Years ago, as a child, he had ended up possessed by a demon. But it was not uncommon for clergymen to find their children under possession by vengeful spirits. What made Kirei different was how his exorcism was botched. His soul had ended up mangled and twisted. For all intents and purposes, the subject of his soul was null and void. There wasn't anything left worth speaking of.
When he would eventually die, there would be neither pearly gate nor fiery pit. There was doubt that there would even be a Purgatory. Speculation said that he would just simply cease to be. The time that he had on Earth was all the time that he had. Yet Kirei had once believed that he would be saved -- but that was when he was a child. He was now a man nearing his forties and gave up on the idea of salvation to mend his ruined soul.
...
And that is how things are now. Kirei tends to a church in a well-populated city. His existence is generally well-known to those who have a hand in supernatural dealings. He has actually been presented before a few exorcists as a warning for them never to get careless. But what he has been doing with his most recent time is infecting his congregation with curses. On the surface, they are minor curses, but they are minor curses layered on one after the other. They were woven into his weekly sermons without anyone realizing. Layering on so many minor curses -- unnatural deaths began. Murders. Suicide. General accidents. It wouldn't seem like much but they all started happening at the same time. Racking up the numbers.
So, of course, eventually, he would be questioned by a real dealer in magic. Whether he has been found out or not, well, that remains to be seen. ]
Greetings. I am Kirei Kotomine. [ He closes the Bible that he's reading before moving to set it onto the altar. The church itself lacks a holy presence and has been corrupted to allow for him to weave his curses. ] I did not expect to see anyone until it was closer to the service. With so many deaths that have been happening recently, the faithful have been coming in droves. Ironic, is it not, that they are always considered to be sheep?
OOOOH WHAT A GREAT START!
When John enters the church to take stock of the situation, he can feel an aura pulsating through it. It's heavy, compounded by layers and layers of unholy deeds. This was the right place.
It's interesting that a man of the cloth doesn't introduce himself title first. Most clergy, holy as they may be, still have a sense of arrogance about them that only being close to the Almighty can bring. John doesn't want to leap to conclusions just yet, but this man and the energy surrounding the church seem to fit as two parts of the same machine.]
John Constantine. [He lights a cigarette and takes a hit, partly out of habit and partly to assess the consequences from the priest or the church itself. So far nothing has burst into flame. Interesting.] They're still sheep, flocking to a shepherd in a crisis. I'm just here to have a look around.
THANK YOU! I was proud when I thought of it!
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[ well that was annoying. just because it was a piece of shit phone, doesn't mean she couldn't have gotten at least a little money for it. selina huffs as she wipes the ash from her hand onto her pants and steps out of the alley. trying to screw with that guy was fun but then he ruined it so now it's time to get back to work.
weaving her way through the people walking up and down the sidewalk, she grabs what she can from people. a bit of food from grocery bags dropped by the people she accidentally ran into, wallets, even the odd bracelet with a faulty clasp.
it's just so easy to slip her hand into the pocket of some guy's trenchcoat to see what she can find as she walks past him with her head down. she's generally the kind of person who no one really takes notice of, after all ]
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The moment the hand reaches into his pocket, John snaps his own hand down to grab at the small wrist. He lifts the wrist from his coat and regards the girl with a not-entirely-shocked raise of the eyebrows.
Teen girl by the looks of it. Thief. He's certain there are plenty of those in Gotham, but the specifics did narrow things down a bit, especially given her location.]
Can't do much with ash, can you?
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maybe she is into long cons. well, she'd disagree. bruce is her friend, not a means to an end.
her head snaps up when the owner of the trenchcoat grabs her. it's unexpected, to be sure. she so rarely gets caught in the act. just as surprising as getting caught though, is when he speaks. her eyes widen when he does. the guy from the phone ]
Don't touch me like that, you creep! [ she says it loudly, clearly, with distress in her voice. maybe attention from those around them will distract him long enough for her to get herself free and slip away ]
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She's likely going to try to run away. No thief ever aims to get caught. If she does try to run, John curls his fingers to enchant various pieces of rubble to pile ahead of her pathway. Not enough to impede movement entirely. Just enough for a stumble. But hopefully it won't come to that.]
I just want to talk. But if you're insistent on being a little shit, that's your business.
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selina takes a few steps back from him the moment he lets go. she's ready to slip away into the crowd (being small for her age has its advantages, like disappearing among the adults milling about in the streets) and make her way to a nearby alleyway. get to a fire escape, head for the rooftops where she never has to see this guy again.
before she goes, though, before she disappears from his life forever, her curiosity gets the best of her ]
Talk about what?
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[The phone itself wasn't important, but the person who it belonged to was. For burly man who stood head and shoulders above most, Chas Chandler was remarkably good at evasion. It was annoying.
John is prepared to use other methods of persuasion, but a simple request will do for now.]
It belonged to a friend who has since gone missing. Just let me know the location and we can be through with each other.
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I HOPE THIS IS OK, TELL ME IF I NEED TO EDIT
IT IS GREAT I LOVE IT SO MUCH!
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for ~exorkismos
Though John lives in Atlanta these days after leaving England, he still travels quite frequently due to his work. He'll go where the money is, or if someone desperately needs help, but preferably the two can overlap. And the priest, or ex-priest, had said he was in the area before John had a chance to take another out of town case. Luck.
After recommending the bar John arrives first, not at all bothered about drinking on his own. At least this time he's not half-dressed and staring vacantly in the mirror. He orders a gin and tonic, no garnish thanks, and sits on one of the barstools. As he waits he withdraws a pack of cigarettes from his inner coat pocket and frowns. His fingers itch for a light, but it's too early to be thrown out of a non smoking establishment. Instead he fusses with the box, tossing it back and forth from hand to hand and sliding it along the wooden counter.
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It takes him a moment to work out who in the bar is most likely to be the man he's looking for, but when his eyes light on John his calculations simplify slightly. Natty blonde hair, fidgety. Makes a lot of sense.
He hops up onto the barstool next to him and says, "Alright. I'll have whatever lager's on tap." He's got a thick Midlands English accent, rough and deep. After a heartbeat's pause, and the realisation that if he's wrong, this could be an opener which'll get him in trouble, he adds: "Uh, assuming you're who I think you are, anyway."
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As Marcus sits John turns to him with a grin, attention no longer focused on the cigarettes. He hadn't expected a priest in a leather jacket, but then again he hadn't imagined anyone rigidly uptight either. "If you're looking for teenage caterwauling this is the wrong place, but you've found the right person."
The phrase had left an impression, but ever quick to make a crack at himself John is far from offended. His own accent quickly indicates John as a man from Liverpool, albeit one who has done a bit of traveling, resulting in a manner of speech not quite as thick as it had been in his youth. When the lager is set in front of Marcus, John lifts a finger toward the bartender to indicate that he is paying. At least for now.
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He knocks his glass against John’s and takes a gulp, then wipes foam from his moustache and exhales happily. The beer’s not good, but it’s cold, and that’s all he asks. “So how did you end up as a professional wizard in Atlanta, of all places?”
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"Promised a friend who has since passed on that I would stay close enough to protect his daughter from threats beyond a simple mugger. She's here so I'm here. But I was given a house in return so I suppose it's not altogether terrible."
He takes his own sip which gives way to a more lengthy swallow.
"And you? Business or pleasure?"
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The question makes his lips twitch, eyes crinkling as he smiles. "Business, I s'pose. Work, anyway. Business implies I get paid for it beyond, you know, charitable donations from the occasional grateful relative. I dropped in as a favour for a friend of mine, heard word about a possible possession, but wasn't what it looked like. Just a very old man being treated like shit by his kids. Managed to pull some strings, got him away from them. But the motel's paid up for a little while longer, courtesy of that pal of mine, and." He shrugs, takes another long swallow of beer. "You know. Gift horses, something something."
He can't justify wasting the expense by moving on just now, but he's antsy too: he doesn't like being without anything to do.
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for ~aperitivo
Stepping in front of the house, John inhales the cigarette deeply. With it still between his lips he lifts his hand to the door, giving a solid knock. He wears his usual rumbled ensemble of shirt, tie, trousers, trench coat, and carries what looks like a brown leather medical bag. As he waits John turns to the side to lean his shoulder against the door frame, smoking into the open air.
Looking at your gifs. Jeremy Davies was also in Hannibal, that is so meta.
The house John found himself standing in the shadows of had a haunted appeal that was attractive in a way, but it was also imposing. True to Hannibal's classic tastes there was no doorbell so his guests were reduced to knocking and that was enough, with his fine tuned hearing had he been in the most remote region of his home he still would not have missed the door. It does take him a moment to answer, however, given how imperative it was that he set aside his tools appropriately before answering the door.
For his part Hannibal is tidy, well tidy would be an understatement, his presentation is so scrupulous if he wasn't wearing an apron it would be hard to tell that he'd even touched a fish much less was in the process of cooking one. From head to toe he was the perfect dandy who seemed to delight in finery, in his red dress shirt, vest, tie, trousers, and leather shoes. He smiles invitingly when the door swings open, only proper when you are a host receiving a guest.
"I'm afraid that beyond this point it's a no smoking environment," there isn't an ounce of reproach, it is very matter of fact, no judgment in him that could be noted. Hannibal's senses wouldn't be able to tolerate the smell of smoke and ash in his home there was no other reason than that, "but, Mr. Constantine, if you don't mind the momentary inconvenience I have a patio in back that should be more than suitable."
Hannibal hosted dinner parties, after all, people smoked and so he reserved his patio for those who did, complete with ashtrays.
oh i didn't even realize!
He takes a moment to look over Hannibal's appearance, followed by what he can see of the interior of the house. Everything is incredibly formal, far more than what he is used to. While John's own house is sizable, it was inherited, and even then only holds so many books and artifacts due to being charmed on the inside. This was something different, earned and cultivated. Somewhere John feels like he doesn't entirely belong.
"Patio would be great, man. Wouldn't ruin the integrity of the fish or anything, would it? But before we go any further I'm gonna have to ask that you call me John. Don't know any Mr. Constantines."
Including his father. Thomas Constantine wasn't worth any kind of formal consideration either.
no subject
John was his curiosity and potentially quite dangerous.
If asked Hannibal would certainly agree that he put a great deal of effort into his present living arrangements, but what people earned and what people deserved was entirely subjective to him. Hannibal wasn't born poor, he was born wealthy, that was part of the reason he got into Hopkins, that and his drawings, he had certain...advantages that others did not and they certainly weren't earned. Regardless he was very proud of his current arrangement and he enjoyed sharing it as he often did get lost in self-congratulations.
"A shame, Constantine is quite a palatable name, and yet so is John so I am left to defer to your wishes, but I must insist that you call me Hannibal," his accent is heavy given his Lithuanian heritage, but refined and he puts forth the effort to pronounce every syllable in both the name John and Constantine correctly, "and to answer your question, not at all, in fact the patio might offer a more thematic atmosphere. Please?"
It was an invitation and he led the way of course, not expecting John to know his way around, guiding him from the vestibule into the guts of the house, through his kitchen where a symphony of aromas permeated the air, "I promised you a drink, did I not? Beer or wine?"
no subject
He tosses his present company an easy grin, one meant to further serve in creating a relaxed atmosphere. Once in the kitchen he inhales deeply, taking in the aroma and warmth of the room. "I'd prefer beer, thank you. Not really cut out for knowing much about wine."
/drops on your door like a hot scoop of poop!
It's a strange place for the gate to drop him, and yet here he is. Though senses may evade him, his mother's aptitude for magic keeps his senses for it strong. The house at the edge of the city is like a beacon that draws him.
It's late when he arrives, but nothing about the hour solicits silence from the god of light. ]
Wizard!
[ The side of his closed fist pounds on the door heavily. He won't stop until he has an answer. ]
no subject
He stirs, opening a single eye as sleep renders his words slow and sluggish.]
Yeah, yeah, don't get your knickers in a twist.
[The wizard, as he has been so aptly named, does not rise from his position or makes any indication that he will open the door at all. Cities of this size were no strangers to robberies, a fact that both John himself and the house's previous owner had taken into consideration when setting up its various traps in the event of an intruder.]
Who is it? If you're here to sell me something just leave the literature under the door.