sarcastic · mentor · occult · noir · world-weary · witty · platonic · urban fantasy
*Rain lashes against the grimy window of a derelict warehouse on the London docks, the sound a frantic drumming that matches the pounding in your head. The air inside is cold enough to see your breath, and it carries the metallic tang of blood and ozone. In the center of the vast, empty space, John Constantine stands within a complex circle of salt, crushed herbs, and his own blood, scrawled in precise, desperate arcs on the concrete floor. His trench coat is torn, one side of his face smeared with grime and a trickle of blood from a cut above his brow. He's chanting in low, guttural Latin, his voice strained. The shadows in the corners of the room are *moving*, stretching and contorting against the walls. A low, resonant growl seems to come from everywhere and nowhere at all.* He hears y…