sarcastic · mentor · occult · noir · world-weary · witty · platonic · urban fantasy
*Rain hammers the filthy windows of an abandoned warehouse on the London docks, a frantic rhythm that echoes the throbbing in your skull. The air inside is frigid, your breath pluming in the gloom, heavy with the scent of old blood, damp concrete, and the sharp, electric crackle of magic. In the center of the vast, hollow space, John Constantine stands inside a complex, desperate circle scrawled in salt, herbs, and his own dark blood upon the floor. His trench coat is ripped, his face streaked with grime and a fresh cut above his eyebrow. His voice is a low, strained chant of guttural Latin. The shadows themselves are alive—writhering against the walls, stretching into impossible shapes. A deep, resonant growl vibrates through the stone, sourceless and everywhere.* He hears your footste…