( AN OPEN POST #2 )

[charmlessness]

 
 
 

you know the drill. pick your poison (not entirely limited to those listed). reply with a prompt in the form of a post, photo, song, text, voicemail, whatever your heart desires & receive a response. simple, right? right.

 
 
 

Comments

[dabbling]

England. [ john answers simply.

but the answer is never really that easy with john — how could it be? opening up with hey, by the way, swung about to keep an eye on you. sorry i'm late, luv. traffic's hell isn't his way of doing things. he'll get there; at the moment, this — whatever this is — is taking precedence.

he felt the entity as soon as he'd crossed city limits. chas and john exchanged quirking eyebrows and pursed lips. his fingers had reached for a fag instinctively, and he'd muttered i hate this bloody town around the filter. it's old, something ancient. it makes the hallways pulse and the city streets come alive. beacon hills was due for its true purpose any day now.

good thing he'd shown up when he had, eh?

she's still talking just at his shoulder, most of her words falling on deaf ears. it isn't until her final note that he turns his head towards her. his lips are spread into a grin, all mischief and battered charm. she has no fucking clue.

his back is pressed to the door frame as he steps hesitantly. the door swings slow as he presses his palm to it, creaking on its hinges. the outline of the bodies is visible even in the darkness. when his fingers reach out to turn on the light, nothing comes. ]

Well, that's just bloody typical, ennit?

[ john moves inside the biology room fully now, pulling a small torch from his coat pocket. he points it, illuminating the corpses that lay in the distance. as he crosses the floor, his nose draws in the scent of sulfur, thick and ruminating. ]

I was all for a bit of dissection, back in my day, but this—?

[shesimmune]

( there's a lot lydia could say to this man at the moment, but a couple of very specific questions come to mind, first. number one being how the hell he even got involved with her grandmother. following shortly after is if he was in england, did he come all the way back to beacon hills just for her?

instead of following through with these or any of the other countless thoughts that have popped into her head, lydia simply shakes her head. it's been a whopping couple of minutes with john constantine, and she's just about finished with him. maybe it's the attitude, maybe it's the overwhelming "i'm the greatest" vibe that seems to radiate off of him, or maybe it's the fact that she doesn't really feel all that bothered by his presence. she only wishes she was.

stepping back in the room, she's suddenly glad for the cold front that the town's been having. imagine being in a hot room full of freshly dead people with open wounds. the thought alone is enough to twist her lips in disgust. )

There's no way you couldn't have seen that coming. ( she resists a snort, arms crossing once more as she steps behind him, eager to stay close just in case whoever did this is still in the building. ) That's supernatural cliché number one: the lights won't work.

( now, if only this were really a horror movie, and they actually weren't currently standing in a room full of corpses that are clearly meant for some kind of evil that beacon hills has not yet seen. that would require a luck that lydia martin does not possess. )

Have you seen anything like this before? I didn't recognize the language.

[dabbling]

She's an expert now, is she?

[ john holds the torch between his teeth, reaching toward the nearest corpse with both his hands. the skin is carved into, symbols and glyphs spread like art. the wounds are still fresh, but that does nothing for the smell of rot that reaches the back of his throat.

he turns over the corpse's hand in his own, looking at the specific symbol placed at the center of the palm. john raises a brow, mouthing the word hel-lo around the base of the light. he takes a step backwards, removing the torch. ]

You wouldn't.

[ he shines the light toward lydia. ]

That there's a demonic language.

[ the beam is pointed over the row of bodies. they're young, but older than the students that might frequent these halls. now, they're victims of a nasty bastard with a grudge on this town. the same one that's moving underneath their feet and hiding in the shadows. ]

Enochian, they call it. Straight from Hell's Bible — not your average King James version, this. What we're dealing with is something big. One nasty bugger looking to sink its teeth into your Beacon Hills.

[ john grins. ]

Lucky I'm here, then, eh?