[The voice is calm but entrenched in a rough Liverpool accent. It's a far cry from the high-class London that most people are expecting. Had he been there before? Probably had been although there had been something about him that directed a person not to look at him. Not to see him. As if he had been casting an illusion around himself. Weird, huh?]
There's elsewhere to go other than here.
[And they might find themselves believing that as well. The sharp stink of sulfur might sting their nose as the man scratches a match along a strip. In the sudden flare of fire on the head of the match, a plain scruffy blonde man in a tan trench is revealed as he brings the flame to the tip of his cigarette.]
Go on. Bugger off back to wherever you can from. You don't want to be here with me. I'm a nasty piece of work.
[In the dying light of the match that might be all to easy to believe with the man's cold grin. There's too many teeth, too much ugliness in his eyes. Or maybe that's just more illusion meant to turn away the faint hearted. To purposely make them afraid of the street wizard who knows what is coming.]
Ask anyone.
[John Constantine took a draw off his cigarette, greyish smoke curling around him in patterns only a few could see and fewer still make out.]
John Constantine | Constantine/DC's Hellblazer
You don't want to do that.
[The voice is calm but entrenched in a rough Liverpool accent. It's a far cry from the high-class London that most people are expecting. Had he been there before? Probably had been although there had been something about him that directed a person not to look at him. Not to see him. As if he had been casting an illusion around himself. Weird, huh?]
There's elsewhere to go other than here.
[And they might find themselves believing that as well. The sharp stink of sulfur might sting their nose as the man scratches a match along a strip. In the sudden flare of fire on the head of the match, a plain scruffy blonde man in a tan trench is revealed as he brings the flame to the tip of his cigarette.]
Go on. Bugger off back to wherever you can from. You don't want to be here with me. I'm a nasty piece of work.
[In the dying light of the match that might be all to easy to believe with the man's cold grin. There's too many teeth, too much ugliness in his eyes. Or maybe that's just more illusion meant to turn away the faint hearted. To purposely make them afraid of the street wizard who knows what is coming.]
Ask anyone.
[John Constantine took a draw off his cigarette, greyish smoke curling around him in patterns only a few could see and fewer still make out.]
Now fuck off.
[F. wildcard - choose your own adventure!]