A/N: This is pretty long and not meant to be an RP starter-- it's more of a little more context snippet to help move along the dead!Constantine storyline while developing Violeta's character a little more.
Link to Open RP →
Word Count: 1.4k
Violeta didn't think of it as moving in. The camper wasn't her place. It was Mr. John's. Maybe she was mildly taking over his space, but it was only because having her supplies conveniently nearby her patient made the healer's job that much easier. The bundles of drying herbs, mortar, and containers of living plants in Mr. John's kitchen were all her working materials to help hold down his fort.
She brought only the essentials she might need while ensuring his safety. Though she was still relatively clueless about what was going on, she still put all the effort she could towards protecting the camper, caring for Silky, and keeping his husk safe.
His soul had detached from his body, and while a part of her was compelled to perform the death rites, her gut nagged at her, insisting she wait. So she did. It's been two days, and his body hasn't shown any signs of decomposition, proving her instincts to be right once more.
Death usually showed symptoms quicker than this. She's already had her experience with death, being one of its many facilitators and having visited the underworld personally. That last part was a rite of passage for some of the more involved death workers. Violeta was very involved.
So, with her being such a diligent little worker, she was starting to get pissy about Death not answering her calls. Oh, come on. Was she still getting blacklisted from the whole WGBS thing?
Violeta sighs as she turns off the stovetop, allowing the eucalyptus, rosemary, and chamomile tea to finish steeping. Once that was cool, Mr. John was getting a sponge bath. Dead or not, she still felt a duty to care for John Constantine's mortal husk, as both his friend and a humble servant of the dead.
Thanks to the odd delivery job, she earned an extra $200 to care for Silky's needs and replenish supplies as needed. She couldn't understand why cat litter would cost so much if it's just sand-- they had sand outside-- but she wasn't about to stomp all over John's carefully crafted quiet life while he was away.
Silky meows in anticipation as Violeta serves the cat her meal, watching the feline eagerly eat. A good, healthy appetite.
"You need to eat soon, too, Mr. John," she tells his body quietly. His cheeks had started to hollow out. It could be the start of muscular atrophy. It could be the first signs of decomposition. Does a semi-dead body even metabolize? What about his gut bacterial biome? Was that dying too?
Violeta returns to the kitchen to begin fermenting things to help Mr. John recover his beneficial bacterial biome once he comes back. She kept saying that.
"Once he comes back."
Was she really so sure he would? Death was usually a step forward... not something many stepped back from. But this was John Constantine. ...Whatever that meant. He's apparently kind of a big deal. She didn't know what it was about him that inspired her to stay so hopeful.
She stops her movements when the hairs on her neck suddenly stand on end. Even Silky stops eating and retreats under a piece of furniture. Crap-- the spells.
Cursing under her breath, she hurriedly checked on each of the protection spells she had set up in different parts of the camper. Kitchen, bathroom. Entrance, left window, right window... bedroom. All intact, but due for a refresh. The disturbance was outside. Powerful enough to make its threat known in spite of the layer of protections, spells, and wards.
"Puta..." Violet sits on the foot of Mr. John's bed as she projects an extra shield of protection from her own magic. The threat eventually passes, yet she feels its promise to return.
For any threat to come this close meant that the spellwork outside had been tampered with. Someone in the physical realm was sabotaging them.
Violeta refused to be prey.
She allows herself to peruse the few tomes, books, and grimoires Mr. John had scattered across the camper. She grabs one of those big, thick ones, feeling its weight in her hands.
It was heavy. Heavy with history. She could plainly tell by the multitude of notes sticking out of the pages, the thin layer of dust, and the fact it was one of the few personal belongings Mr. John seemed to have. Steeling her nerves, she sits on the cushioned bench by the sill and begins to study.
Samaykita had to help her practice and understand a few details, but Violeta was beginning to understand a different branch of magic. It held some similar principles to what she had inherited, but relied much more on her own mana and will.
Some of it was more mathematical, with specific incantations, sigils, or rituals to achieve certain results. She wasn't too much of a fan of all the rules, though. Perhaps she could take some of the root principles...
Violeta ventures outside the camper, closing the door behind her. She forms a hollow chamber with her hands and blows into pulverized St. John's Wort, charging it with magic and intention. A locator spell.
The herbs dance on a magical breeze, leading the shaman to a patch of green in the parking lot. Well, it used to be green. Even the St. John's Wort was tainted black when it reached the spot. The grass was dying, and even the tree there seemed sick. Obeying her intuition, she avoids using her hands to dig, snapping off a branch from the dying tree to use instead.
Digging three inches under the surface, the stench of decay hits her nose, and she coughs at the smell. Pulling her shirt over her nose and mouth, she uncovers a rat's carcass, wriggling with worms, and a rusting nail pointing towards the camper buried in its insides.
"Oh God..."
A counter spell. Actually, a hex was probably more accurate.
Brujeria.
Though she never came across them herself, as her village's keeper of knowledge, she knew of brujas and brujos. Vengeful dark mages who perverted the old ancient knowledge to cast harm upon others and serve themselves. Brujeria surged as a response to colonization, mixing the Christian pantheon of infernals with indigenous knowledge.
They were meant to be protectors of their people at first, but with all the war, pestilence, and bloodshed, demons easily overtook the practice and corrupted Brujeria to become self-serving and evil. The brujas have long since lost their way.
As Violeta moved the hex far away from the camper to deal with later, she couldn't help but wonder what the hell La Brujeria would want to do with John Constantine. Just how many enemies can one man have?!
No matter. Knowing he had people wishing him harm only strengthened her resolve to be a good friend to Mr. John.
She removed the nail from the rat's innards with the stick, debilitating the hex so it wouldn't cause others harm in the meantime.
...She was being watched.
It's not human.
Violeta tosses the stick away and dusts off her hands. She's been stalked before. She wasn't scared.
"Fuck off and leave us alone!" she calls, to no one in particular. She didn't care to investigate; she had more important things to do.
She senses Samaykita leave her side for a moment, probably to investigate or spook whatever was spying or threatening them.
She spends the rest of the day reinforcing the protection spells in the area, applying the knowledge she picked up from the books. Besides keeping his body safe though... Violeta didn't know what more she could do for Mr. John.
You could ask the Prime Magus for help.
Violeta sputters at the suggestion as she cleanses Mr. John's body.
"The Prime Magus? Please, she's too busy to deal with-"
I heard they're good friends. A bit of a messy history but...
Violeta pauses, looking over Mr. John's pale body. She didn't know the details, but what she gathered from an old letter she found was that he and Miss Zatanna Zatara were not exactly on speaking terms. Still... John could use the help. Violeta could use the help.
The shaman huffs as she continues her chore, ruminating over the idea.
Now that she knew the Brujeria was involved, she figured out that Mr. John had been cursed. She didn't know the particulars, and with the magnitude and strength of the curse, she knew it was likely impossible for her to break on her own. Not to mention incredibly dangerous to attempt to do so.
Dampening the towel once more in the purifying herbal tea, she works on cleaning his hands.
"I'll figure this out, Mr. John," she promises quietly, "You won't be alone in this."
