( catch-all ) take a hit if you miss the mark

[oldhound]

Who: John Constantine oldhound+ you!
What: all of the things. well, at least a lot.
When: September to November
Where: all around the place!

Content Warnings: none yet. will update here and in subject lines as needed.

Comments

@herc

[oldhound]

[ By the time the two of them manage to get back to the cabin, John's questioning just about every decision in his life that has led him up to this point. Then then to make matters worse his boyfriend has the bloody audacity to smile at him that way he does and John's defenses against such attacks are weak, to begin with. As focused as he is on breathing those shields are virtually nonexistent and all he can hope to offer is a mild glare with nowhere near the ire he's hoping to portray. ]

Never again, mate.

[ He managed a sentence. Good for him. He's just going to lean over and put his hands on his knees while his body revolts at the torture he just put it through. ]

I mean it. [ Breath. ] I don't do this, the running, no. [ A vague wave of his hand as if to gesture at it all before he wipes the sweat from his brow. ] If I'm running then there's something worse than me nipping at my heels or that I'm trying to stop.

[ Right, John's starting to feel a little less like he's going to fall over at any moment. Another deeper breath, through his nose, and he slowly stands back up, rolling his too tense shoulders from all that. That's miserable, it's going to take a half-hour at least to work all that out. A soft noise of discomfort as they head inside and John sees his man heading for the stairs. ]

Oi, where do you think you're going? We're not done, no. You put me through that and let me say it was a particularly nasty level of Hell I've not yet been to before now. [ He jabs a finger in Herc's direction with a pointed look. ] You and me have a yoga date.

[luckystriker]

What? A bit of jogging is enough to have you wanting my blood? It was only a mile...

[ Herc's pulling a face because yoga? Really? ]

I'm not much for yoga. How about I shower and get breakfast going for us?

[oldhound]

We'll consider other options of payment later if you cave after this.

[ That may or may not be a joke. ]

And I'm not much for running, yet here we are. How's about you help me shift the sofa a bit so we have enough room here?

@ finding the shop - october (ota)

[oldhound]

[ For the last few weeks of September, in something of a manic episode due to anxiety and lack of sleep that then morphed into sheer determination by the time October rolled around. Truthfully, he's been so possessed (poor verbiage for an exorcist, shame) with the idea of relocating the old place and the stuff inside that he hadn't really noticed how little sleep he was getting.

Which is probably why this is the second time he's caught a map on fire and had to toss it to the floor to stomp out the flames in short order. Yes, there's cursing. Shouting. General upset. Cover your ears, children. ]

Bloody stupid useless bastard thing!

[ Or any other number of colorful expletives shouted out into the shop he's currently inhabiting where he may or may not be alone now. Well, this is lovely. He puts his hands up in a gesture like a surrender and then beckons at the person lingering not far away. ]

No, it's all right. I've got it all mostly under control. Just a small job hazard, you might say. [ He goes to retrieve a nearby broom and a newspaper to sweep the ashes up into. ] Was there something I could help you with in particular or just browsing?

[ Or if you're a familiar face. ]

Oh give over, my outburst there wasn't near as bad as some might've been.

OR

[ Having given up on the idea that he'll find the old shop via scrying, John decides to try a different way. Really, there are two ways to go about it. Which he'll enumerate. ]

Okay, I'm going to pretend anyone here is part of the uninitiated to magic for the most part and if you're not keen then this is as polite as I'll get: sod off. [ Unless you're one of his many kids, his boyfriend, girlfriend, or any of the other Legends (adopted or otherwise) or a friend. In which case he'll mouth a not you. ] In attempting to locate a place that was in Deerington and is now somewhere here but difficult to find with its protections in place—-I've burned through about four maps. Literally. They've actually caught on fire.

So, my thinking is I've got two ways I can manage to get to it. One is the safer route, I charm a pendulum and we follow the trail. Hope it doesn't turn us around in circles for days. [ Pause for dramatic effect? Check. ] The other is a mix of a couple of spells I know. Part bilocation and part portaling. The second won't hurt you but it isn't going to tickle exactly.

Bit like getting the wind kicked out of you.

[creidim]

[ In all honesty there isn't much of a reaction as the map goes up in flames other than a slightly bleary look over in his direction. She'd woken up with a bit of a headache that morning, nothing too terrible. Probably from her staying up too late the previous night; getting into the swing of classes a bit too enthusiastically.

She watches the whole swearing song and dance as he stamps out the flames, her expression deadpan. Another map gone. Not very good, looks like whatever's left of the shop is proving trickier to find than they thought. She wanders over to tilt her head at the charred remains of the map, pulling out her wand. ]

... I think I might get you a Sickle Jar.

[ Yes, she means a swear jar. ]

Do you need me to do create another duplicate of the map?

[oldhound]

[ The deadpan look he gives over at her comment speaks multitudes. His head drops, chin to his chest before he reaches up with both hands to cover his face and groan softly. It's a mostly private moment of frustration with it all. First Deerington and now here, he's really tired of feeling like that teenager he was just stumbling around like some bull in a china shop. He didn't spend years and years teaching himself this and doing some pretty awful things along the way to get knocked down a whole dozen ladder rungs. ]

Is that for your college fund? I reckon have that paid in the space of a week tops.

[ He gives a derisive huff but then nods. ]

If you don't mind, love. I'll get some tea going for us then give it another go. Maybe I can work out a different way to try.

[obeir]

[ K is stood with his hands in the pockets of his long coat, head bowed and shoulders drawn in as though to make himself appear as unobtrusive as possible, maybe a bit like a dog who's been kicked too often. Old habits die hard, especially those that had served him well in a dystopian hellscape populated by android-hating humans. He's observing the flaming map being stamped out with the look of someone who's wondering if he chose the right person to help him with his own unpredictable powers. A look that he's polite enough to at least attempt to mask when Constantine addresses him, brows knitting with concern. ]

Both. [ Because there's that matter they'd discussed on the network, but he's also curious about the shop's wares. He'd been browsing while Constantine was otherwise occupied, and now nods toward the ashes on the floor. ] Want help with that?

@ finding hestia - october (ota)

[oldhound]

[ John's been out and about for weeks off and on doing this. What exactly is this? Carrying a bundle of wrapped turkey from the local butcher and calling out the name "Hestia" with a click of his tongue and a whistle. ]

Come on, sweetheart, I know you're here. Charmed that collar of yours way back.

[ When he was looking for the shop, he thought to also put out feelers for her. He admittedly didn't hold out a lot of hope considering the last time he saw her the house was coming down around their ears. He'd only barely manage to cast the spell to get the door open so she could bolt.

After that, he was a bit too useless to manage looking for her and she seemed to realize all that dream nonsense was ending as well so he didn't hear tell of her at all at the end of it. He's not one to cling to a lot of hope and that bastard place had done a number on all of them from the start. He wasn't planning on pining after the pup, she was a Hellhound and she could certainly take care of herself.

But then people were talking about dogs from home, the old town, and things carrying over—- He misses her. Never had a pet before all this, not really. Always wanted one but it was never in the cards. ]

Hestia? [ He hunkers down where he's at just off the tree line and tears off a piece of the meat to offer out. He leans up a little, thinking he's seen a bit of her but then footsteps get his attention. He's quick to stand and look toward the sound. ] You'll show yourself if you know what's good for you.

[ If it's someone he knows he might be a touch apologetic at the tone but it's easier to lean on old habits in this new town than try for a soft touch with everything. ]

[catchatting]

I'm not afraid of you, John.

[ Her voice is playful as she approaches.

Truthfully, she's a little afraid of him, but not because she thinks he's dangerous. It's more what he could do to her without really trying. She's never really let anyone in, not entirely, and he's dangerously close to getting through the rest of her defenses.

She reaches down to rest a hand on his shoulder. ]

Maybe she's not ready.

[jedies]

[ obi-wan chuckles lightly, watching john futilely trying to get the hound to came out. ]

That's no way to provide incentive.

[falsify]

[ Eames is out on the hunt, but he did thoughtfully think to stay out of the way when he caught a whiff of John's magic. ]

[ On the other hand though he's fucking nosey so it's no surprise he got noticed. He steps out with a light smirk and gestures to the meat. ]

That for me?

001.

[oldhound]

𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠.

(  𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦'𝘴 𝘢 𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘧𝘪𝘵 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘭𝘺. )

𝙬𝙖𝙡𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙧𝙤𝙧𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙛𝙡𝙤𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙨.

[ John's been looking for a variety of the fungi blooming since the town went near out of their minds over it. They already have a lot of use for his usual work, never mind cooking, but he's more interested in the ones not particularly for use in usual ways. He's interested in their uses both fresh and dried and ground for potions and such. Talking with the locals over the varying types has been a huge help and he's avoided a number of pitfalls he might've pitched himself headfirst into already.

Namely the fact that he has a loony habit of putting things in his mouth to figure out what they are at the best of times. For the most part he doesn't do that with the ingredients of spells and strange mushrooms but the day is young.

Foraging for the walking terrors is one of the trickiest parts. He's got his trench charmed with protections to dispel the spores and keep them away but it only seems to work for a very small radius around him. Wearing a pair of goggles and a piece of fabric that he's also drawn sigils onto to help. Even with all the protections, John can only stay out so long before he as to portal back.

If he finds someone out there whose already ingested the spores, he'll approach carefully after conjuring a bit of wind via incantation to bear the majority of them away. ] Mate, you doing all right over there?

[ He's not so keen on running up on someone who is currently trapped in their own personal Hellscape. ] Can you hear me?

OR

[ Dealing with Floaters takes significantly less work but still requires precautions. John had got himself stuck thanks to one early on, despite warnings from the Trenchies. Mostly cause one got too close whilst going by and decided he was an easy perch to light on. Pretty sure he spent a few hours just laying there useless on the bloody forest floor before it decided to mosey on its way.

While he isn't out much at night, he does still make a couple of trips a week. So if he finds you out there in need of getting one of those bastards off, he'll be there, pulling gloves on as he does in case he brushes one of the tentacles whilst trying to pry it off. ] Easy, take a breath. I'll have this little bugger off in a mo.

[ Then to the mushroom. ] Come on, sweetheart. Don't be that way. This one here isn't a good perch for you at any rate. ]

𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙗𝙡𝙪𝙚 𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙚𝙠𝙨.

[ Searching for weepers is turning out to be far more difficult than even the Trenchies made it out to be. He's managed to get barely a handful. Still, it doesn't stop him looking. Those ones seem far more useful from day to day than the others. A useful ingredient to possibly stock up on or try and duplicate when things get far worse here.

So that might be when he starts cheating a bit. Once he finds one, he eats it, reveling a moment in the feeling that starts to wash over before he starts the incantation. The only unfortunate side effect is that the spellwork burns the useful properties of the mushroom out of his system. The good one is that after a spread of amber light from his position glittering around the other mushrooms twinkle like fairy lights spread out over the forest floor in a certain radius from him. He rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck. ]

Easy peasy.

OR

( 𝙘𝙬. 𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙪𝙘𝙚𝙙 𝙫𝙤𝙢𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜. )

[ Maybe he's caught you about to touch one of those blue cheeks and calls out: ] You want to have gloves on in case before you do that! Pretty little baubles but they are dangerous.

[ Or if you're less lucky and have already ingested one, then it's just good for you he's close by: ] Hang on, yeah. I've got you. [ Rolling the person over onto their side, and half-straddling them to keep them from flailing, he grimaces. ] Sorry in advance about this.

[ Because as uncomfortable as it is, there's only one way he knows how and that means making you get sick. At least with this, he can do a minor incantation to produce the same effects as physically inducing. ]

weepers

[zoomzoomzip]

[ Pietro's got something of a collection going - there isn't much to do, currently, other than go looking for the small, valuable mushrooms, and trying not to fall to the aliments of the more dangerous ones. it's akin to hide and seek, or some other finding game; nostalgic enough to remind him of the fun times he's had with Wanda, romping through the woods, looking for anything edible to eat that night.

that the mushrooms inexplicably begin to glow makes the task all the easier, though by the time he's round up all of them in the vicinity, he's found that there is no challenge anymore, now that they all have been inflicted with a tiny, twinkling beacon. it's rather disappointing, really.

the last one that is obviously apparent sits near a vaguely haggard looking man, and Pietro snaps it up before the man can blink, coming to a stop only slightly out of breath from his exertion, the soft hiss of electrically charged air following in his wake. the small bag in his hand is full, and curiously, still twinkling, but he writes that off as a property of the mushrooms he hadn't yet noticed.

curiously, he regards the man, ]

What is, 'peasy'?

002.

[oldhound]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐫𝐦.

(  𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘺𝘦𝘵, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘭𝘺— 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺, )

𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙖𝙜𝙚.

(𝙘𝙬: 𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙, 𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙚, 𝙞𝙢𝙥𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩, 𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙢 𝙝𝙤𝙤𝙠. )

[ The blood pollution was getting worse and worse as time goes on. He'd only gone to clean his face off in a basin in the shop before he was waking up in a fetid, cramped hall. Blearily attempting to look around it took only a shift to prove that as a mistake and he howls out in pain.

Moments pass, shock leaving him shaking as it pain pulses through him, radiating mostly from his left shoulder where a glance over shows a copper hook rammed through the meat of it to suspend him on one side. Copper means no regular magic and his blood magic feels far away. There's more tearing around the shirt than seems right for the wound. Did he wake up before? He can't remember. Swallowing back the nauseous feeling that sweeps over him as his movement sets him swaying briefly. He hums in discontent, trying to focus past the pain and call out: ]

Hello? [ A wet cough and he squeezes his eyes shut tight a moment. ] Anyone hear me? Preferably not the bastard that's gone and strung us up like this.

[ Not getting a response immediately, John lets his head sag. Consciousness is being threatened again but he's pretty certain that if he passes out again that'll be it for him. He's not dying in a bloody meat locker from hell. He refuses. Drawing in as steadying of a breath as he can, John reaches up with his other hand, slick and icy with his own blood, and takes hold of a bit of metal above his head to use as leverage.

A wary glance around then back at the hook before he steels himself for the inevitable. Though no amount of preparation can ready him for the agony that tears through him at trying to lift himself up off of the hook he's impaled on and he doesn't even attempt to swallow back the cry torn raw from his throat. It takes more than one try, pauses between that leave him sweating and shaking from shock but eventually unless your character comes along to help, he'll manage to get himself off the hook and drop unceremoniously to the floor. He doesn't even care that he's not got his wits about him enough to stop the sobs of relief that wrack his frame. ]

𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙨𝙩.

(𝙘𝙬: 𝙢𝙪𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙗𝙤𝙙𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙤𝙧𝙜𝙖𝙣𝙨, 𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙.)

[ Somehow John's gotten separated from anyone with him for most of the trip up, despite their best efforts. Normally he would try and backtrack. Find them. He can't afford that. He can feel his cold, slick blood leaving icy trails down him from the places he's been impaled and carved into.

Sometimes the best decision also feels like the worst, and that's to get yourself out to live to fight another day. It's all he's got in him and he can barely manage as he is. The nature of his blood and the weakness from torture makes pushing the door open more of a struggle than it normally would. When he does, he almost wishes he hadn't.

Weak as he is, the sights and smells of it make him feel like a bloody novice. He has to remember to breathe through his mouth and still nearly gags. There are very, very awful and terrible things that he's witnessed in his time and even had a hand in doing in some cases. This nearly outclasses all of them. ]

Oh. [ Exhaled on a trembling breath as he tries to piece together all that he's seeing and still is left grasping at straws. Clearly, it's a sacrifice but is it wanted by the Patron or just some twisted thing contorted into a ritual by whoever brought them all here? ] Christ, what've you lot done?

[ Distracted momentarily by the primary drive to escape, his morbid curiosity compel him to wander and look at the bodies and vials and tubes and jars strewn about. His face contorts in abject horror. It isn't easy to unnerve the exorcist. Congratulations on that, you freaks. ]

𝙚𝙨𝙘𝙖𝙥𝙚.

(𝙘𝙬: 𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙, 𝙞𝙣𝙟𝙪𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙨, 𝙘𝙝𝙤𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙙𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙤𝙛 𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙯𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙤𝙩 𝙫𝙞𝙖 𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙢𝙖𝙜𝙞𝙘)

[ Everything is a dizzying mess of shallow, rapid breaths, adrenaline, and a driving need bordering on madness to get away. It's like a running ticker on a news screen in his head. A primal urge to be free of the wrongness of it.

He barely remembers cutting open his own palm in order to sacrifice to the Tower in order to get free. It doesn't seem to have done it quick enough though cause he's got one of those Zealot bastards hot on his tail. Stumbling blindly out of an alley, only barely aware that he's going in the direction of the shop. Shop. Wards. Safe. It's all he can think. All he can hope at the moment cause his too quick breaths stop him and he coughs blood while trying to gasp in enough air to push himself again. It's not far, he can practically taste it.

But it's only that pause that gives him enough of a chance to flatten himself to the cobbled stone when a hook materializes out of nowhere and sweeps over his head. Crawling a few feet, he uses his good arm and his feet to push himself for distance. It isn't enough and eventually, another chain wraps around an ankle to drag him back with a shout.

Grabbed up by his ragged and bloody shirt front, he isn't even thinking of retaliation. No, he just can't handle going back to that place and he knows deep in the hollow pit of his stomach if he does he won't come out again. He lashes out with little finesse, clawing at what's left of the face of the thing but the hand that wraps around his throat is quickly making the world fade at the edges. Palm sliding down as everything starts to numb, buzzing in his ears growing to a dull roar, he doesn't realize anything has changed until there's a lessening of that grip around his throat, and his body jolts as he feels his feet hit solid ground again.

There's an inhuman snarl from the zealot and a blue glow emanates from John's hand. His mind spins when he finally drags in a pained breath through the bruised feeling around his neck. Confusion takes over as the Zealot's face contorts, color draining, and stumbles back against the opposite wall. So addled from the goings-on of it all and the weakness still plaguing him, John only looks mildly confused before he stumbles a half-step back and collapses against the opposite wall from the now-dead Zealot. ]

tasty blood harvest

[falsify]

[ Eames isn't in much better shape. It's hard for him to appreciate the absurdity of what this much blood loss looks like for a darkblood when, well. It's this much blood loss. He doesn't remember the last time he felt cold, but he does now. Cold, pale, breathing laboured as he staggers through the room. Omen following close, keeping an eye on his condition as much as it can. ]

[ He hasn't figured out how to leave, but he sure has seen what's behind at least one of the doors, and assumes it's probably a similar sight behind all of them. So he almost laughs when he hears John's voice, a noise that comes out in a rush of air through his nose followed by a cough. ]

It gets worse.

[ His voice is rough and hoarse, no prizes for guessing why. ]

storage

[wwrench]

Yet again, Wrench has to wonder what the point is of trying to hang onto anything when it can be taken from a person in an instant. If there's a benefit to possessing anything in this place, it takes little more than the bat of an eyelid to remind them there's no such thing as protection. He's not even resting when it happens. Not even sitting down, in fact, when he stumbles over a twig out in the forest and finds himself face-down in a river of sticky blood.

Everywhere he looks there's carnage, the scent of it so thick and overwhelming to his senses it takes longer than he'd like to discern what part of it belongs to him and what to those around him. He can feel their agony almost as though it's his own, and it's too much for Wrench to endure. So he stumbles his way through the maze of it all, guided perhaps by the most acute misery he can sense in this place. It calls to him like a homing beacon.

He doesn't hear John's outcries, of course, but something nameless and shapeless scratches at his brain and propels his feet. Further up and up it takes him until he's reeling from the stench, half-choking in desperation. The bodies are everywhere, some motionless and some writhing on their hooks like a bit of bait on the end of a fishing line. He doesn't know what trips him the second time, but he stumbles in front of one of them, and when he finds his feet again he recognizes the shock of blond amid the mats of blood on the man's head.

Wrench wraps his arms around the man's middle and hefts him up, slackening the line on the hook and taking the weight of the man's body entirely from him.

storage

[luckystriker]

It's for the better that John's strung up. He probably doesn't want to see a remix of that one time he and Herc don't speak of any more, with the Ranger strung up with meathooks in his hands above his head. Hearing the exorcist's cries rouses Herc enough to grit his teeth and get down himself, an anguished grunt escaping past grit teeth, strangled in his throat as it is, and he grips hard on the hook in one hand, wrenching off the other one. It smarts, but he's noticed he doesn't feel pain too keenly any more, and takes full advantage of it to get his other hand off the second hook.

Herc hangs onto the hooks for a moment, swinging quietly in place as he breathes through the pain, and then drops down to his feet as quietly as he can. Then he's padding out as quietly as he can, ears trained for whatever other strange noises he might hear as he goes to find John.

When he finds the blond, his breath catches in his throat because that is not a sight he ever wanted to see, and he rushes over, breathing out, "Hey, hey, easy there, Connie. I gotcha-"

He puts his arms around John's middle, supporting his weight so he's not just hanging on the damn hook, and he looks around, trying to see if there's anything to lower the chains by. "Breathe, Connie. It's gonna be okay."

escape

[catchatting]

[ It hasn't exactly been an easy month, especially in the wake of the lighter fare of last month. It feels like Zari's gone form dressing like a cute cat to waking up in some Texas Chainsaw disaster and she's not having any of it.

Open streets aren't any safer than alleys, though, so she'd rather take the fastest route home and that's why she turns down the alley and-- ]

John! Oh my god!

[ But of course these zealots don't always hunt alone and she misses the scraping sound that trails her into the alley. ]

escape.

[possessum]

( The second time Peter ends up caught and taken to the slaughterhouse, he's alone, not with Luna like before. And almost immediately he'd lost himself to Paimon, the boy fizzling away in a panic in favour of the much stronger demon. It means that when the demon's finally out of that place and the boy's slowly swirling back into consciousness, Peter's left with wounds that seem brand new to him: a jagged line down one side where they'd been bleeding him, clothes torn. Exhausted, barefoot, bloody all over. At least Paimon had seen what Luna and Peter had to do in order to escape last time; the demon, clever, had sacrificed someone else's organs this time instead, preventing his vessel from further being maimed.

But Peter's still not in great sorts, perhaps emotionally more than anything. Caught, they caught him again, and he thinks they'll keep catching him, just like back home— So many eyes watching him from the darkness, hungry smiles as they close in. These cultists may not be the same as Paimon's worshipers back home, but they represent the same thing. He's the lamb and they're forever finding him again to push him through to the slaughterhouse, feed him to the grinding whir of the machine.

He passes out for a long while, in the safety of a nearby alley.

If something inexplicable connects him to John Constantine, perhaps this is evidence of that — or perhaps it's all simply coincidence — but either way, the alley Peter ends up in is right across the one the exorcist stumbles out of. Though time has separated their journeys by a bit; for Peter it's been a couple of hours since escaping the Tower and conking right out, and it's the man's shouts that stir the boy awake again.

Peter sputters against the taste of bile in his throat and wakes with a start, heart immediately hammering in his chest. He's trying to crawl further into the darkness of this alley away from the sounds, from the jangle of chains and hooks he can hear; god, so familiar, no, no, they've found him again —

— but he recognises the shouts, and he's looking that way to see John there, trapped in place by one of the.... things.

Horror and fear for the man he loves grasps Peter's thudding heart and squeezes it like a fist, but instinct and terror push at him and he starts scrambling back again. It's horrible; his stomach knots against itself like too many snakes caught up in one another, and he's trying to run away. He can't think, can't reason, can't attempt to be brave and help; panic fuels him and propels him to leave everything behind.

Until there's a flash of blue. Surreal, supernatural; it freezes him in place. Peter looks up at it, gaping, terrified — but the horror shifts forms when he sees that it's John doing the killing, and the thing falls back, face awful and twisted, collapsing to the ground in that strange limp way, that dead way, as though boneless.

The boy's gasping so hard it hurts, terrified and relieved and terrified, an endless cycle. Endless thoughts. It's dead, the thing's dead, John killed it — Peter's never seen him kill something before — it's dead, it can't hurt him, John's....

John. Peter finally moves again, this time towards, not away. Stumbling from the safety of his own hiding spot now that the danger's over (a coward, his mind whispers against itself); the boy finds the man. Peter's own blood is stained by now, matted and dried against his ruined clothing and tangled mess of hair, but John's blood is........ fresh. The boy absorbs this fact with a fresh wave of horror, crouches down beside him and grabs for him. It's strange, but he grabs for his neck for some reason, hand curling there close to the collar of the man's shirt, fingers curving inwards. It's to try and tug him upwards, he realises, only as he starts to do it. Maybe he's afraid John could pass out like he had, because the man looks— strange, kind of dazed. )

John—! Are you hurt?!

( A stupid question, he clearly is, if all the blood is anything to go by. Somehow Peter can't seem to accept the concept, but he's never seen John collapse like that. (Also never seen him drain the life out of something, Peter didn't even know he could do that, has he always been able to do that—) )

003.

[oldhound]

𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐳𝐞𝐝 𝐳𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐭𝐬.

( 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘧𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥, 𝘐 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥. 𝘗𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦. 𝘗𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘨 𝘨𝘰𝘦𝘴. )

( 𝙘𝙬: 𝙙𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙤𝙛 𝙖 𝙯𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙤𝙩, 𝙘𝙪𝙩𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙯𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙤𝙩, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙. )

[ Once John is well enough to go out again, he has no intention of hiding away in his shop or looking scared over his shoulder. No, they wanted to bring this to his door? Knock and it shall be bloody opened.

He can be found in the streets saving those not quick enough to get away or too addled to fight. One might think it's purely altruistic but it isn't. Not by a long shot. Keeping others out of the clutches of these crazed bastards is good but the real treat is putting the Zealots down for good.

And so he is leaving a rather impressive trail of Zealot corpses littered about in his wake. If one is quick enough and catches him in the middle of it, he's got a palm against one of their chests from where they are suspended in the air in front of him with a blue glow emanating from his hand and alight in his eyes. The snarling and contorting and groans of pain slowly die out as the color drains from the creature. John seems utterly unaffected and dispassionate as it goes on, eyes cold.

It's clearly dying and John has absolutely no intention of stopping. Either join in or try and talk him down. Only one of those options is going to be well-received.

If one finds him after the fact then they'll see that he's cutting into the flesh down to a vein in order to bleed what he can into a small glass bottle. ]

[frogfear]

[There's no migraines or foggy headedness in November, and it's enough that Willow is finally able to start working on learning to control her abilities. At times, it's easier than others to block herself off from feeling too deeply the emotions of those around her but so far, she's mostly only been able to chalk it up to her own ability to focus.

The zealot is absolutely radiating with terror and pain, and it's impossible to miss that someone is being attacked. Of course she's going to try to help - whoever it is, is probably dying, and needs intervention. She's beyond shocked when she finds it's John doing the attacking, and it's one of the creatures who have been torturing the Sleepers of Trench that is his victim.

She's inflicted a draining spell on exactly two people, and it's impossible not to recognize what John is doing now is similar, and of course her first instinct is to intervene. She does not want to see anyone make the same mistakes she has in the past.

She grabs him by the shoulders to try to shake him out of it, or forcibly break the connection between him and his victim.]

John! John! Stop it!

[kingofsarcasm]

[Stiles is still recovering from the drawn out torture he received at the hands of Zealots. Some of those that… did the things they did to him, that he can't really even being to vocalize, he felt like he… knew. One even talked to him like she knew him long ago 'in another life' and another was a grotesque wolf man more horrifying than Peter Hale.

To say that this has shaken him to his core in multiple ways is probably an understatement. But it has not made him sympathetic to the Zealots in the slightest. He's always been kind of cynical and morally flexible here and there, and he finds John's small trail of bodies. It's impressive considering how powerful some of these Zealots can be, but that's his main takeaway so far as he gingerly steps over the body nearest John.

He watches for a moment with a pinched expression as John drains the thing of its blood. It's clear he's injured by the way he's standing off balance like it hurts more on one side, there's also a tremble in his frame he can't help but is clenching his jaw to try and control.]

…Did killing them help? [His voice is still recovering from all the screaming he was doing a few days ago.]

cw: cenobite-style injuries, eye gouging and eye trauma, biting, blood consumption

[survivalthroughhate]

[Maul has several hooks digging into the flesh of his upper arms, piercing through to try and restrain him. He's being dragged along back towards one of the portals that has been opened up by the zealot to return him to the sleeper farm. The cultist, some figure missing all of their fingers and toes yet still powerful enough to restrain the Sith Lord, chuckles. "Now, now, don't fight. You only have half as much blood as most Sleepers after all."

The jab at his half-mechanical state enrages Maul and he clings fast to a lamppost close by, even using the chains that have come out of nowhere to anchor him despite the pain he feels in his shoulders and upper arms as they continue to dig in. He holds fast, refusing to let go or make this easy for his tormentor. The zealot turns, tutting and now a touch annoyed. "You are just making this all the worse for yourself."]

When John appears, Maul wonders if the smug sorcerer is there just to watch him get dragged off to the hellscape of the farm before he realizes he's there to save him. The zealot releases him to deal with this new threat. Apparently, John has started developing a reputation among them and they see him as dangerous now. Maul lies there for only a moment, bleeding out before he regains his strength and launches himself at the zealot.

You want to make a sacrifice? I'll give you a sacrifice!

[Maul roars out furiously and attacks the cultist not with his Force powers or lightsaber but with his own two hands. They aren't expecting such an attack or how brutal it will be. Usagi tends to file his claws down but they're still deadly when he needs them to be. He grabs the cultist's face, digging deep grooves into the skin, When the being trying to pry him off, he moves to their eye sockets, finding the soft flesh there pliable enough to dig into with great vigor. The pressure from his sharp claws makes the eyes give way until they is nothing left in the sockets but a gory mess oozing out.

Then he bites down viciously on their neck, tearing a chunk of flesh out and consuming some blood as it spurts from an injury that would have been fatal for any other type of creature, which helps to start healing the hook-made injuries. He steps back and nods to John.]

Do what you will with this thing.

[He hisses out.]

[creidim]

[ Luna's been through the Sleeper Farm and fortunately managed to come out relatively unharmed. But they seem to know fine well that she can fight against them, considering how they'd literally muzzled her for it. The Sleeper-Witch with her magic words are powerful things, after all. It's been keeping her on her toes for the rest of the month, trying to stop Zealots from getting other Sleepers.

It's one of these nights she stumbles on John, and she stops, breathless — wide eyes watching him for a moment. ]

John—? [ There's no surprise to the fact John tends to deal with the darker, nastier aspects of magic; it's something she's known for a long time. And of course, Luna is no stranger herself to dark magic. There's plenty of curses and hexes in her own arsenal, even if she tries her best to keep things strictly to disarming and subduing rather than outright killing things.

Sometimes killing is necessary, though. She understands that.

But this? This... doesn't seem right. It isn't right. This magic isn't right, the coldness behind his eyes makes the hairs on the back of neck stand up. He's... literally draining the energy from them; something unnatural, and considering who it is he's doing it to. Energy is a dangerous thing. Who knows what kind of thing he's bringing upon himself. ]

John, wait— [ She reaches for him with her free hand, her wand in the other, grips him by the arm. If he could try and see some reason, hopefully he's not completely fallen off the deep-end. ] Stop, stop it—! Not this, don't do this.

004.

[oldhound]

𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐝.

( 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦, 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘣𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘦? )

( do you have a different route for things in mind? i’m easy, hit me up @ silkcuts for plotting or just toss something up here! )