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Post by Countess on Nov 12, 2024 2:23:06 GMT
Constantine steps up beside Anwir, his gaze drifting over the grandiose bar with something that could almost be mistaken for a faint smirk, though it’s hard to tell if it’s genuine or just his perpetual wry expression. He toys with his cigarette, the ember flickering in the dim light, casting a red glow on the edges of his face. The weight of the place presses against him, but it’s nothing he hasn’t felt before. Still, even he can’t entirely hide the flicker of interest in his eyes.
"Control, eh?" Constantine asks. He exhales a long stream of smoke, his voice rough and easy, like he’s just as comfortable with sarcasm as he is with actual magic. "Maybe. Depends on whether you want to keep it or let it eat you alive," he says, grinning. He takes a long drag, then flicks the ash off the end of his cigarette. "If it’s the latter, I might have some advice for that too, but I don’t think you’ll be buying me enough pints to make it worth your while."
He watches Anwir for a moment, his eyes narrowing just slightly, then, with a roll of his shoulders, Constantine steps toward the door, letting it creak completely open with a lazy flick of his hand. He’s been to enough places like this to know what kind of madness can unfold in magical bars—hell, he’s started half of them—but there’s something about this one that pulls at his curiosity.
The way Anwir’s voice changes—awestruck, uncertain—gives Constantine pause. It’s rare that someone’s so openly impressed, even more so when they’re trying to hide it. Constantine can feel the younger mage’s hesitance from here, like it’s settled into his bones.
"Don’t worry," Constantine mutters, his eyes scanning the crowd as he steps inside, the door swinging closed behind them with a quiet thud. "I’m not going anywhere. It’s a bloody bar, not the apocalypse," he says, his tone is light, but there's something a little more thoughtful behind it. "Besides, if you're going to wade into the deep end, might as well have someone who’s already been there and got the scars to prove it."
The place feels alive in a way that's hard to describe. The magic in the air is thick, like someone’s tried to bottle up a thousand emotions and just let them loose in one room. Music, laughter, and the crackle of spells being cast in the corners. It's chaotic—but familiar. Constantine tilts his head, studying the other patrons. His hand brushes against his coat pocket, where the familiar weight of his lighter and tarot cards feel like the last tether to reality.
He flicks a glance at Anwir, still a little wide-eyed at the spectacle before them, and his lips curl into something that could almost be mistaken for a smile.
"You sure you’re ready for this?" he asks, his voice low, knowing the answer already. He’s seen that look before. "You’re not gonna find answers in here, just questions you didn't think to ask. But hey," he shrugs, a flicker of that cynical grin tugging at the corner of his lips, "If nothing else, we’ll see if anyone can out-drink me tonight."
And with that, Constantine steps further in, leading the way with an ease born of experience—and a lot of bad decisions made in places just like this.
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Post by Nomz on Nov 12, 2024 3:08:56 GMT
Constantine's works settle over Anwir's shoulders like a cloak he can hide under if needed. He doesn't remember the last time he felt that need for any type of assurance. Life didn't give him many in its haste to spit him out into the world, and he had not dared to seek any out. It isn't the world's fault and Anwir has stubbornly held onto that one single truth. Placing blame does nothing.
He feels the weight of his hesitance slip down his spine to pull at his feet in a puddle as Constantine draws his attention from the scene before them. Those brown eyes twinkle with just a hint of mischief and amusement. "Sometimes, the right questions can be answers themselves," he offers quietly, matching the elder mage's tone.
Anwir does not hesitate to follow after Constantine, keeping his expression a bit more polite as he leads the way. The feeling of the bar itself almost feels like his magic in an abstract sense. It is something large and wild under the soothing waves. This feels more like home than anything else ever has even as it feels like the most alien thing he has ever come across.
"Has anyone ever out-drank you," he asks with that same little smirk that he had while flirting with the older man. "Did you lose on purpose? I've been in a drinking match a few times, but I can't say I ever got very far."
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Post by Countess on Nov 12, 2024 3:29:14 GMT
Constantine raises an eyebrow at Anwir’s smirk, that mischievous glint in his eye twinkling under the dim light of the bar. He leads them through the crowd, his hand brushing the edge of the bar, feeling the familiar hum of magical energy that makes this place almost alive. The noise, the chatter, the clink of glasses—it’s all a blur to Constantine as he steps behind the polished counter, taking a seat with an ease that says he’s been here many times before.
He chuckles, a low sound that rises from deep in his chest, and lets out a puff of smoke before he sets the cigarette down in a small ashtray. It was not there before... and Anwir no longer smells the smoke. “You sure you want to get into this? My stories are no joke, mate,” He studies Anwir for a moment, gauging him, before giving a rueful smile that only Constantine can pull off. “Then again, maybe you could use a bit of devilish advice.”
He waves over the bartender, a sharp, almost imperceptible gesture. The young woman behind the counter gives him a nod, and soon enough, two pints are placed in front of them—dark beer that smells slightly of clover and something metallic.
“Alright, listen up. A long time ago, when I was still, well… younger, I had had found myself with a friend of mine, deep in our cups,” he begins, leaning in a little, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. He takes a long drink from his pint, savoring it for a moment, before continuing. "This friend of mine... he was a solid bloke. Had a bad habit of finding trouble in the most unlikely of places—shame he found it with me,” he says, sighing, looking distant for a second, as if the weight of the memory lingers. Brendan... Then, the grin is back. “Anyway, this friend of mine. Didn't see it coming. Dead as a doornail,” he continues, sprucing up the story. In truth, Brendan had known... liver disease.
Constantine’s eyes darken, his gaze flicking toward the low candlelight flickering around the bar. He shifts in his seat, but only just, as if to settle into the story, his posture slouching with a familiarity borne from years of trouble.
“Devil comes to collect the soul, right? But the thing is, I couldn't just let him take it. And where do you think ol' John Constantine finds himself? In a pub with the bloody devil, sharing a pint," He shakes his head, as if amused by how absurd it all sounds, even now. Another little lie- he had been in Brendan's home, the man dead in the basement.
“You see, I didn’t exactly fancy the idea of losing a mate to the likes of that bastard. So I did what I do best. I tricked him,” Constantine leans forward, his voice a little darker now, the twinkle in his eye taking on a more dangerous edge. How does he tell a kid it was because he was afraid of his own mortality, slowly looming in the form of cancer? “You know the devil, right? Devil’s got an ego, like the rest of ‘em. So I offered him a deal—share a drink, on me. The bastard accepted, no questions asked.”
Constantine lifts his pint again, swirling the beer slowly before taking another swig. He doesn’t seem rushed to continue, letting the weight of his words hang in the air.
“It was a simple thing, really. I had a little spell tucked away, in case the moment ever came. Not many people know this, but you can enchant anything—even beer—if you know what you’re doing. So I blessed the beer, just a little bit, nothing too fancy. But enough for the bastard to feel it the second the candlelight went out. I made sure the candles went out first, too. Funny how that works,” he says, giving Anwir a sidelong glance, then continues, voice low but steady. “The second the room goes dark, the beer turns into holy water.”
Another lie. It had been Brendan's spell- he had a vat of holy water, transfigured it to the best stout Constantine ever had. Done it just to drink, the damn alcoholic. It was all Brendan... aside from Constantine's cunning.
There’s a pause. For a moment, Constantine’s face hardens, like the memory is too much to hold for too long. The devil had cursed, sure, but it wasn’t the worst of it. Constantine doesn’t mention the other things that had been said that night—the quiet conversation between him and the devil about family. His family. And the hellish bargain his father had struck all those years ago, a deal made in the blood of betrayal, with the devil himself.
He shoves those thoughts down. He’s not here to dredge up that mess. Not yet.
“Needless to say, it didn’t go well for him. The bastard tried to leave, but I had a spell to keep him there. And believe me, you haven’t lived until you’ve seen a devil choke on holy water. The look on his face was priceless, mate,” Constantine says, letting out a short laugh, but there's no humor in it. It's the kind of laugh that says he's seen far too much in his lifetime.
He leans back, taking a final pull from his pint before setting it down with a soft clink. “But it wasn’t just the holy water that got him. It was the principle of it. The devil doesn’t like to be tricked. And me? I like tricking the devil. Something about it feels right, y’know? Like a little bit of redemption, but don’t go tellin' anyone I said that."
He looks at Anwir for a long moment, as if weighing something in his gaze. Finally, he gives him a half-smile, the weight of the story settling between them like a quiet storm.
“So, did anyone out-drink me?” he repeats Anwir’s question, the smirk returning. “I don’t know, mate. I’m pretty damn hard to out-drink. But if you find someone who can, buy them a pint from me. You might just be dealing with a god.”
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Post by Nomz on Nov 13, 2024 3:29:39 GMT
Anwir sits down next to John, eyes casting about the area behind the bar and its many, many bottles. The bartop feels almost alive, a soft buzzing under his palms. Hearing the chuckle, his eyes return to his companion and he finds surprise in both the arrival of the mysterious ashtray and the lack of scent. Magical indeed.
"I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want to know," he offers, sitting still as those eyes study him and, not for the first time, he wonders just what he sees. Anwir knows what he sees and the idea of devilish advice feels appropriate. He doesn't turn his gaze from Constantine even as he waves over the bartender like the regular he clearly is. Whether that is a regular at the Oblivion or just any bar, Anwir is uncertain.
He leans in a little as the story starts, hand on his own drink, but not yet drinking from it. There would be plenty of time for that and right now, all he wants is to remember at least this first tale. Anwir watches as John talks, eyes growing distant, and he wonders what is going through his mind. The story, he imagines, may carry more to it than just a little advice.
His brows raise as he drinks from his beer. Surely it didn't end with just a random dead man? Anwir's gaze follows the elder mages as he looks at the candles burning around them and he tips his head. Every word along the way from there gets just a little crazier than the last, but there is this overwhelming certainty that he is being told the truth. Or, at least, a very close version of it.
Anwir frowns as John pauses, his mind spinning in circles. What kind of deal could he have offered the Devil of all people? Did it work? What was the purpose? Wasn't it advised not to broker deals with the Devil?
If Constantine's plan was to show a darker side of himself- to show himself as the rocks along a dark coast, he does the opposite. There is a newfound respect for the man, but Anwir hides it by looking down at the dark liquid of his drink.
It takes all of Anwir's will to bite back a sudden 'no' as Constantine talks about the beer turning to holy water. He can only imagine the disaster that follows, but..he sees the way Constantine's face hardens. The young mage swallows his comments with his beer, waiting and watching. He wonders why the man brings up such a story if it feels so hard to continue- too many sharp pieces still tucked among the dull.
Anwir does not shy away from Constantine, watching him quietly as he leans on the bartop a little. In this moment, the man possesses his complete and utter attention. His eyes fall to the little half-smile and Anwir offers his own in return.
"If I find someone who can out-drink you, I think I'd buy them at least two. One for me and one for you," he says with a small shake of his head and he takes a swig of his beer. It is not much further than half empty and Anwir thinks on the story again, feeling the pieces churn about his mind.
"Do you go about tricking devils often or does only The Devil get such attention from you?" His tone is light, a bit playful despite it all. It's clear he's taken John's story and plans on keeping it in the back of his mind. It had never occurred to him to be cunning with people so far above him in power. Could a sharp mind do so much?
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Post by Countess on Nov 13, 2024 4:41:10 GMT
John Constantine lounges in his chair like a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders—and the audacity to shrug it off. The Oblivion hums with the low thrum of magic and murmured conversation, but it’s all background noise. The kid, Anwir, has his full attention now, though he’d never admit it outright. Constantine’s eyes narrow slightly, a flicker of approval buried beneath layers of sarcasm and cigarette smoke.
“Two pints, eh? Now that’s a proper incentive,” he quips, a smirk curling at the corner of his lips. He raises his pint again, tilting it in a mock toast before taking another long drink, finishing it off. He lifts the glass to the bartender, beseeching more. He has already thrown back what Anwir has sipped at.
Constantine's eyes remain fixed on Anwir, sharp and calculating, as if measuring the younger mage’s mettle.
At Anwir’s playful question, he chuckles—a low, gravelly sound that vibrates with a hint of danger. He sets his glass down, fingers lingering on the rim. “Oh, I’ve got a bit of a reputation for that, don’t I?” he muses, his tone light but laced with something darker. “You see, devils, demons, angels—doesn’t matter. They all think they’re above the rules, untouchable. That’s where I come in. I’m the bloke who reminds them that even the highest fall hard.”
His gaze drifts for a moment, catching on the flicker of a candle across the bar. Shadows dance in the dim light, and for a second, his face seems older, wearier. “But no,” he says, voice softening just a touch, “It’s not every devil that gets the pleasure. Takes a special kind of bastard to warrant my full attention. And The Devil? Well, he’s a right piece of work. Always has been. But Lucy and I have an understand'n,” he says, smirking. An understanding, alright. Usually leaves them sweating, bleeding, and begging for more-
Constantine leans in slightly, elbows resting on the bar, his expression shifting to something almost conspiratorial. “But here’s the thing, mate: it’s not just about trick'n them. It’s about know'n when to play your hand and when to fold. Most people think power’s all about strength, but it’s not. It’s about control. About know'n which strings to pull and when to cut them.”
He taps his temple lightly, a self-assured grin breaking through. “That’s where the sharp mind comes in. Magic’s useful, sure, but a clever lie? That can change the whole bloody game.”
Constantine falls quiet for a beat, letting his words sink in. Then, with a sudden, almost lazy motion, he plucks his cigarette from the ashtray, lighting it with a snap of his fingers. The flame flickers blue for just an instant before settling into a warm orange glow. He takes a drag, exhaling a thin stream of smoke that seems to dissipate quicker than it should.
“So, Anwir,” he says, his tone lighter now, almost teasing. “You plan'n on take'n notes? Or are you more of a ‘learn by do'n’ type?” Constantine asks. His eyes glint with mischief, the weight of his previous story now tucked neatly behind his usual air of devil-may-care bravado.
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Post by Nomz on Nov 13, 2024 5:18:12 GMT
Anwir tries and fails to hide his entertained grin at the mock toast, letting his gaze fall on the man's hands. How much has he done with them in his long life? And gods, a man should not possess a laugh like that while being so near Anwir. He leans a little harder against the bar as if the Oblivion itself can protect him from the way his ears warm.
His glass clicks softly as he puts it down, attention returning to his companion in time to catch the way the lights and shadows play on his face. Absurdly, he wonders when the last time the man had a nap was. A good, proper nap where he was warm and safe, where he could let his guard drop. Hells knew he looked like he could need one.
Anwir tips his head a little, curious about the nature of John's smirk until the mage leans in and Anwir finds himself doing the same. These words and pieces of advice Constantine gives him now will be the groundwork that Anwir builds himself upon, always going back to this night in the Oblivion when everything else felt as distant as the waves on the other shore- when the only things that had weight were John's low chuckles and half-smiles.
"Notes," Anwir says with mock surprise, "Goodness. I seem to have left my notebook in my other jacket." He sips his beer, unable to hide his grin against the glass. Anwir wets his lips before looking back up at Constantine, full of confidence and mischief.
"Suppose it's a good thing that I do just fine learnin by doin. Why, did you have something you wanted to teach me? I promise to pay attention." The young mage smirks up at him, waiting to see what he has in mind and wondering if the game has already begun.
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Post by Countess on Nov 13, 2024 5:39:51 GMT
Constantine’s smirk deepens, his cigarette perched lazily between his fingers. He watches Anwir with a bemused glint in his eye, as though he’s already three steps ahead in a game the younger mage doesn’t fully realize he’s playing. The kid’s confidence is almost endearing—almost. Constantine’s seen it before, that spark of eagerness wrapped in cocky charm. More often than not, it gets people killed. But something about Anwir tells him he’s sharp enough to survive. Maybe even thrive.
“Well, well,” Constantine drawls, leaning back in his seat with a casual air that’s anything but. He flicks the ash from his cigarette, the ember flaring briefly before dimming. “Fast learner, are we? That’s good. Means you might survive long enough to make it interest'n.”
He takes another drag, exhaling slowly as his eyes narrow thoughtfully. “Alright, then. Lesson one: Never make a deal without know'n the cost. Even if you think you’re clever enough to wriggle out of it later, there’s always a price, mate. Always,” he murmurs. His voice drops lower, his tone serious now, the smirk fading just enough to show he’s not messing around. “People like me? We don’t just outsmart devils for fun. We do it because we have to. And trust me, the second you think you’ve got the upper hand, that’s when they’ve got you by the throat.”
He lets that hang in the air for a moment before his grin returns, sharp and knowing. “But you’re not here for doom and gloom, are you? You want the tricks, the shortcuts, the little bits of magic that’ll keep you one step ahead,” he says, knowing his type. Constantine leans in again, his voice barely above a whisper now. “Here’s a freebie: Never trust the obvious. The world’s full of glamours and illusions, kid. What you see is rarely what you get. Always be ready to look deeper.”
He pulls back slightly, the bartender delivering his second pint. He lifts it to her in thanks, already taking a deep draught. “Now, as for teach'n you something practical…” Constantine says. His smirk turns wicked. “How do you feel about bend'n the rules of reality? Noth'n too fancy, mind. Just a little sleight of hand with the fabric of the universe.”
Constantine taps a finger on the bar, and one of the nearby candles flickers unnaturally, the flame briefly turning a deep purple. He watches Anwir’s reaction carefully, waiting to see if the younger mage will rise to the challenge. “Don’t worry,” he adds with a sly grin, “I’ll keep it simple. Wouldn’t want to fry that pretty little brain of yours on the first lesson. Real question is... how did I do that, Anwir? Is it an illusion? Did I change the chemical composition with transmutation? Did I just... change the nature of fire in general so now that one is purple? How did I do it? Spell recognition is tantamount in our little games, and can save your damn life if you're in a shite situation.”
He gets a serious look on his face. "If you're look'n... just use a drop. You don't need a lot."
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Post by Nomz on Nov 13, 2024 19:09:12 GMT
His expression sobers as John starts with his first lesson and the story from before feels heavier than it had the first time around, settling around his throat with the weight of a reminder. The mage has been teaching Anwir the entire time and he's only really just caught on. The caution about people like him and himself. The advice on appearing to not be in control of himself. Even the tale about tricking the Devil.
Again, he finds himself leaning in when John does, still entirely unaware that it's been happening time and time again. There is something about the way he speaks that just pulls Anwir in no matter what either of them prefer. He wonders if he's missed out on other lessons by not paying attention and looking deeper. Those brown eyes study Constantine again like it's the first time he's seen him, unbothered by the bartender dropping off another pint for the man.
His eyebrows raise at the mention of bending the rules of reality, though it is hard for even him to know if it is at the thought of it or the fact that Constantine called it 'something practical.' Anwir all but abandons his pint as John taps the counter with one finger. His gaze falls to the seemingly purple flame, mouth falling open a little. Anwir looks up at the mage, mouth closing and a line forming between his brows. Constantine sweeps in to explain before he can ask the very obvious 'how' resting on his lips.
"Don't suppose I get extra points for guessing correctly," he tries, swallowing and putting his full attention on the flame as it dances. Is the lesson really just detecting magic or is it practicing his control? Maybe it's both. The sounds of the bar drift away as Anwir focuses.
"If this fries my pretty little brain, delete my search history, yeah?"
Anwir sits on the tiny dot of beach, watching the tide come and go. How does one even begin to only use a drop of an ocean? He isn't sure, but he knows he has to try. Constantine wants him to try and he wants to show him he can. He holds out a hand to catch the ocean's spray, closing around it and holding the tiny drop it forms. His eyes shut.
That hum of magic he had felt from the bar top comes up to speaking volume, barely under a shout. The Oblivion is alive with music and memory and magic. Anwir can sense the people and their breath and their hearts all around him. He tries to steer it in a direction, zeroing in on John and his hands and the memory of his laughter and his magic.
He sees, but he doesn't know what he's seeing. There's no understanding other than that it is. His brows pull together in confusion, head coming to rest on his fist with his elbow on the bar top. She still sings to him, low and soothing as he thinks.
"I don't know what I'm seeing," he says, his soft admission lost in the loud atmosphere. Those brown eyes lift from the flame, trailing Constantine's hand up to his face as if he needs the guide to find him. "Seeing is believing, but belief does not bring understanding."
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Post by Countess on Nov 14, 2024 2:20:24 GMT
Constantine’s smirk lingers as he watches Anwir, but there’s a shift in his eyes, a flicker of something deeper—satisfaction, maybe, or recognition. He sees the kid’s focus, the way the bar’s noise fades around him, the pint forgotten. Good. He’s taking this seriously, even if he’s wrapping it up in silliness.
But when Anwir closes his eyes, reaching for the magic with an outstretched hand, Constantine leans back slightly, observing in silence. His fingers tap idly on the bar, matching the rhythm of a heartbeat, though whether it’s his or Anwir’s is anyone’s guess.
The mindscape blooms like a half-remembered dream. The tiny stretch of beach lies in shadow, the waves lapping at the shore with a rhythmic pulse. The sky above shifts between twilight and dawn, never settling. The Oblivion’s hum is still there, faint but insistent, as if the bar itself is watching through the veil.
Anwir sits, the drop of water cupped in his hand catching the shifting light. It feels infinite despite its size, its weight pressing against his senses. The ocean in a drop. Magic condensed into something deceptively small, yet impossibly vast.
And then, behind him, there’s the crunch of a boot on sand.
Constantine steps into the mindscape like he’s been there all along, his coat flaring slightly in an unseen breeze. His presence feels natural, as if the island expected him. He’s smoking, of course, though the smoke dissipates into the surreal sky before it can linger. He takes his time approaching, free hand in his coat pocket, his cutting gaze fixed on Anwir.
“Not bad, mate,” Constantine says, his voice carrying a strange weight here, resonating with the island itself. He stops a few paces away, glancing at the drop of water in Anwir’s hand. “You’re starting to get it. Magic’s not about forcing things. It’s about guiding them. Like steering a ship through a storm—let the current do most of the work.”
He crouches down, leveling his gaze with Anwir’s, his tone quieter now, almost gentle. “But you’re right. Seeing’s not always enough. Belief without understanding can lead you down some nasty paths,” he murmurs. He gestures to the drop of water. “That’s why we practice. Why we push ourselves to see beyond the surface.”
Constantine reaches out, not for the water, but to tap lightly on Anwir’s temple. “You’ve got all the tools right here. You just need to learn how to use them. Trust what you see, but don’t stop there. Ask questions. Dig deeper. Magic’s not some neat little package you can unwrap; it’s messy, unpredictable. But it’s real.”
He straightens, taking a drag from his cigarette, and for a moment, the sky above flickers darker, a storm threatening on the horizon. His expression hardens slightly, the weight of his own lessons pressing down. “And remember this: the more you understand, the more it’ll cost you. Knowledge isn’t free. You’ve got to decide what you’re willing to pay.”
The storm recedes as quickly as it appeared, the island settling back into its strange calm. Constantine flicks his cigarette into the sand, the ember winking out immediately. His gaze returns to Anwir, sharp but not unkind.
“So, what’ll it be, kid? You ready to take the next step? Or do you want to sit here a while longer, letting the waves do the thinking for you?”
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Post by Nomz on Nov 14, 2024 3:33:19 GMT
Anwir feels it when John comes in like a cool touch down his spine during a hot summer night- the kind of night that leaves you damp and twisted in the sheets. The crunch of sand underfoot is more welcoming than startling. There is a small smile curling his lips as he waits to see what Constantine will do, curious and unafraid. With so much idle fear of the ocean itself and its inky depths, there just isn't room to be frightened of the mage's presence on his little stretch of beach.
He glances up when Constantine crouches down near him and he's grateful for the lower tone, the near gentleness. It makes all of it easier to bear and he lets John guide his gaze back to the droplet of ocean water- of magic. Always look deeper. Find understanding. These are easy enough instructions to follow, he decides.
A lopsided grin breaks out when the mage's hand taps his temple, the touch is unexpected and that much more meaningful for it. Whether he knows it or not, Constantine is shaping the mage Anwir will become. His will be the guiding voice when it feels like all the rest of the world has fallen silent.
The sky above them cycles again even as the storm whispers on the edges, singing soft stories of lessons hard learned. Lessons that are not his own, but lessons that will be his if he isn't careful. "Nothing is ever really free, Constantine. I would expect magic and knowledge least of all."
Anwir lifts his head to meet John's gaze when it returns to him. There are defining moments in all lives. Decisions that, when looked back on, are the reason behind why a journey ended the way it did. His eyes flick back to his droplet, watching it move around his calloused hand before he closes his fist.
"The waves do enough talking and thinking for everyone. I would rather forge my own path." Sand clings to Anwir as he stands as if wanting to bring him back down. His chest fills with ocean air as he inhales and lets out a slow exhale. When he turns to step up to Constantine, he has that same charming little smile he had when he followed him out of the chapel. Even so, there is something tempered there. Something learned.
"What's the next step, Constantine?"
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Post by Countess on Nov 14, 2024 17:44:13 GMT
Constantine watches the kid rise, catching the subtle shift in Anwir’s posture. There’s confidence in him now, but it’s tempered, like steel fresh from the forge. Not bad, Constantine thinks. Not bad at all. He flicks a glance at the closed fist, the ocean’s drop hidden within. The weight of that tiny fragment of power hasn’t overwhelmed him- yet. Constantine knows the hardest lessons are still to come, but for now, Anwir’s standing tall, ready to face them. That’s enough, but it won't always be.
The storm on the horizon lingers, distant but present, as Constantine pulls another cigarette from his coat and lights it with a snap of his fingers. The flame is brief, a flicker of mundane fire against the surreal backdrop of the mindscape. This one is different. Very different.
“The next step?” he echoes, taking a slow drag and exhaling smoke that twists and merges with the wind. His tone is casual, but there’s an edge beneath it, a weight that suggests he’s about to peel back another layer of the world Anwir thought he knew. He likes to be a bit mysterious and dramatic. The kid seems to be responding to it, anyways. Constantine gestures toward the shifting ocean, its waves lapping lazily at the shore. “You’ve got the basics down. You can feel the magic, see it, even start to shape it. That’s all well and good, but it’s just the surface. The next step is learn'n to read the currents.”
He turns, pacing slowly along the water’s edge, his boots leaving faint impressions in the sand. “Every spell, every charm, every bit of magic we do—it’s all connected, tied to something bigger. You’ve got to learn to follow those threads, trace them back to their source. Sometimes that source is a leyline, a relic, a homo magi, a pact made in blood. Sometimes…” he says, pausing, his voice dropping. “Sometimes it’s someth'n darker,” he says, thoughts drifting. Constantine stops, turning back to Anwir, his expression serious. “You want to forge your own path? Good. But that means understand'n the risks. When you tug on the threads, someth'n might tug back. And trust me, mate, not everyth'n out there is as charm'n as me.”
He flicks the cigarette into the surf, where it vanishes with a soft hiss. A bit of magic, in and of itself, if Anwir cares to look. Nothing malicious... just a means to keep an eye on the kid. This ocean is... vast. Nothing like Timothy, but still worth watching. “So here’s your second task: find the source of this place. The Oblivion’s more than just a bar. It’s alive, a crossroads of sorts. If you can figure out what powers it, you’ll start to see how all the pieces fit together. Be gentle, kid. Very... very gentle.”
Constantine steps closer, his voice low but steady. “And remember: don’t just look with your eyes. Listen. Feel. Magic speaks in whispers, in echoes. You’ve got to learn its language. Want train'n wheels, or to try on your own, mate? I can show you what I see.”
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Post by Nomz on Nov 18, 2024 18:32:46 GMT
Anwir's eyes fall to the cigarette on John's lips, watching as he lights it. Hadn't he just had one? He doesn't take the time to worry about it as the other mage speaks, his voice overriding his thoughts for a time. The waves come and go, lapping at the tiny speck of land as if it can wash it away. No matter how much it tries, the beach never gets smaller.
It had never occurred to him to try to read that vast ocean, to understand it beyond what it's done to him. But, that's what Constantine is trying to teach him, to get him to understand. The sand flattens under his feet as he turns towards the footprints the other man leaves on the beach, intending to follow him as he talks.
A smirk tugs on his lips as Constantine mentions how charming he is and he doesn't bother trying to stop the flow of his words, "I can agree to that."
His eyes trail after the cigarette as he tosses it into the surf, watching it disappear. It's different. When he tries to reach out- tries to understand, he knows that it's magic. It's purpose is loss on him. Anwir does not yet know enough to understand the purpose behind it.
He has to tip his head up as Constantine steps closer, and the mage has his complete attention once again. "Constantine" he starts just as lowly, brows pulling together in worry, and he chews on his lip for a second. "Will you show me? I want to understand and this will be the best way to do it."
Anwir takes a half step closer, trying to read Constantine's expression and understand him. "What do you need from me?"
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Post by Countess on Nov 19, 2024 14:50:51 GMT
Constantine watches Anwir with a mixture of scrutiny and grudging approval. Slowly, he reaches into a coat pocket to take a quick swig of something from a metal flask. As quick as he pulled it, he puts it back.
“Alright,” he mutters, his voice rough, like gravel underfoot. “You’re finally push'n for more. ‘Bout bloody time,” he says, hiding a surge of pride in the young mage. Should he have been a teacher? No... no... His eyes narrow, but there’s a glint of satisfaction in them. “You want to understand? Good. Just don’t expect it to come easy.”
He takes a step closer, his boots crunching in the sand, and jerks his head toward the endless ocean. “Magic’s not gonna hold your hand, Anwir. Don't think this will happen often.”
Without waiting for a reply, Constantine raises a hand, muttering a quick incantation under his breath. The air around them shimmers, and with a sharp, disorienting pull, the beach dissolves. In the blink of an eye, they’re back in the Oblivion. The low hum of the bar returns in full force, the warm light flickering across dark wood and glass. It’s quieter now, most of the patrons gone or deep in their cups.
Constantine doesn’t bother with formalities. He grabs a half-empty bottle of whiskey from behind the bar, pours a finger for himself, and downs it in one go. He gestures for Anwir to follow him to a quieter corner of the room, where the flicker of candlelight dances over the scarred surface of a table.
“Sit,” he orders, his tone curt but not unkind. Once Anwir complies, Constantine leans in, propping an elbow on the table, the other hand still holding his drink. “You want to see magic the way I do? Fine. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He mutters another spell, this one slower, more deliberate. His eyes flash briefly with a golden light, and suddenly, the room shifts for Anwir. The faint glow of magical energy pulses around them—threads of enchantments woven into the bar itself, protective wards in the walls, and lingering spells in the air from every mage who’s ever passed through. It is a myriad of colors, textures, brightness, feelings they evoke... Everything is alive, and sometimes, it almost seems like it is breathing. In... and out. In... and out. This place is completely, totally its own thing, with layers of paint over it to make it all the more confusing... and powerful. The Oblivion itself seems to feed off of it, even. Slowly siphoning it away...
“This,” Constantine says, his voice rough but steady, “is how I see the world. Every damn day. Magic ain’t just in the big flashy stuff. It’s in the cracks, the shadows. You learn to read it, and you’ll see the truth, no matter how much someone tries to hide it.”
He leans back, his smirk returning, though it’s softer now, more like a teacher pleased with a student’s progress, even as little as it is. “Now, focus. Look at those threads, follow ’em. Magic’s got a story to tell, and it’s time you started listen'n properly. What is this place, Anwir? Who made it? Who keeps it alive? Find the needle in the haystack, the one thread in the tapestry that makes this place... this place.”
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Post by Nomz on Nov 20, 2024 5:34:54 GMT
The idea that John may like Anwir pushing for more is not lost on him and he stores that away for closer examination later. Right now, the only thing he can truly focus on is how close he and Constantine are, even as John jerks his head towards the ocean.
Beach and sand and ocean dissolve into nothing. The ever-changing sky is replaced by the ceiling of the bar. Anwir shakes his head, a bit disoriented despite his efforts to remain in his right mind. Somehow, he doubts he'll ever get a warning from the elder mage before he pulls something like this and he gladly leans on the bar top as Constantine moves behind it.
As he trails after the man, those curious brown eyes scan the Oblivion with mild bafflement. Just how long were they on his beach? Anwir drops into a chair at the command of Constantine, obeying just a touch too easily as the man leans in again. "Thanks for the warning," he teases softly, unsure if he'll be heard under the incantation that falls from John's lips. He hardly has time to catch the flash of golden light before Anwir turns in his seat, eyes trailing after the many, many threads of enchantments.
Not for the first time this night, Constantine stuns Anwir into silent awe- eyes wide and mouth open just a touch. There is no point in trying to tell him not to stare as he tries to piece together the surge of colors and feelings and brightness. Anwir can feel the Oblivion breathing around him, sighing softly as yet another person sees her for what she is.
"Holy shit, Constantine," he manages around a soft gasp, voice so terribly low and coming from his chest. His tongue flicks to wet his lips as he turns back to the older mage. "Just one thread?"
It is a task to pack away the excitement, to come down from the joy he feels. Anwir knows he needs to focus, to understand and see beneath. He can do that.
"She's alive, the Oblivion. Livion? Livie?" His curls shift as he tips his head, dropping that line of thought to focus on his other tasks. A thread is meant to let him know- "Mages. One mage now?" He frowns a little in concentration, feeling beyond feeling as he traces a thread through the room to what feels like a closed book. Even with Constantine's threads and the distance from Anwir's ocean, he can still hear faint whispers of something else.
Some threads feel bright, lighter than the others like a flashlight in a dark forest. "It's like standing in a dark room and your friend keeps flashing you with the light."
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Post by Countess on Nov 20, 2024 23:13:21 GMT
Constantine leans back in his chair, watching Anwir with an amused, almost indulgent smirk as the younger mage’s awe spills out. He takes a long drink from his glass, savoring the flavor of it more than he had the pint before. Ah, who is he to deny himself. He lights another cigarette, just another in a long line that doesn't seem to end unless he's sleeping.
“Not bad, eh?” he says, his voice rough and tinged with satisfaction. “But don’t let it get to your head, Anwir. This isn’t a bloody light show—it’s the bones of the world. Magic doesn’t care if you’re impressed. Not at all.”
His eyes track Anwir’s gaze as it darts from one thread to another, the younger man’s excitement as palpable as the low hum of enchantments that pulse through the bar. Constantine gestures vaguely to the room with his cigarette, ash falling in a careless drift. It seems to dissipate in the air. Anwir can see the magic eating it up... repurposing it... for what? “She’s alive, yeah,” he admits, his tone softening slightly. “Livvie, Oblivion, doesn’t matter what you call her. This place has seen more magic than most mages do in a lifetime. She’s got a memory for it, and you’re just startin’ to see it.”
At Anwir’s comment about the bright threads, Constantine barks a laugh, low and rough. “That’s the thing about magic. Some of it’s subtle, a whisper in your ear. Other times it’s a bloody spotlight in your face. You’ve gotta learn to handle both without losin’ your bear'n's.”
He leans forward, the humor in his expression fading into something sharper. “Now, focus. That little mystery you’re feelin’? Push at it, but careful-like. Threads can tell you plenty, but they’re not always gonna make it easy. You’ve gotta work for it—earn it. You're right- one man owns and fuels Livvie- but many have come before him.”
He taps the table with two fingers for emphasis, his cigarette still balanced between them. “And don’t get too wrapped up in try’n to figure it all out at once. The Oblivion’s patient. You’d do well to learn from her.”
Constantine leans back again, watching as Anwir’s brow furrows in concentration. Despite his gruff exterior, there’s a glimmer of pride in his gaze—a rare moment of approval from the man who’s never made anything easy. He finishes his glass. "Get me another couple fingers while you're at it, mate."
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