Maybe it was the amount of booze he had been going through during the week, about twice as much necessary to kill a man four times over in some vein attempt to bury away several rounds of demented thoughts and depression. Or maybe it was the pressures of dealing with the number of visitors, both wanted and unwanted, causing the pulls of manifestation in singular dimensions to weaken. One way or another, perhaps it would’ve been wise for Constantine to pay attention to the shudders in the old wooden floorboards and how often the rooms seemed to shift with every step.
It sure would’ve made finding out that it was possible to be unceremoniously booted from his own home a little less emotionally painful. And maybe physically as well, Constantine certainly didn’t appreciate getting dumped flat on his face and tripping on some abandoned train tracks where it had been.
“’course the day’s gotta take a pissing turn.” The drip of annoyance as John grumbled to himself was eminent. Just when he thought he had an understanding of the place, about twenty new and unknown things decided to come to light.
Get your bearings straight, self. If the house is open then that can’t be a good thing.
First thing first was location. After a brief dusting off and, luckily, finding out he still had a pack of cigarettes on hand, Constantine made his way towards the familiar sounds of city life to an open street. Cars driving by like they had to go somewhere fast, the stench of gas and sweat playing at his nose, the all too familiar sound of the thick east coast American accent… well, at least he had a vague idea of where he ended up. Problem one, mostly solved.
Problem two would be how to find the house. He puffed lightly on a lit cigarette, deep in thought. Considerations for some of the stronger tracking incantations were made (though there was doubt on how quickly he could procure iron shavings in the US), or maybe even a basic divination that drew to the strongest pulse of magic in the area--
Or maybe following the crowd of people screaming and running for dear life ought to do it.
Already, Constantine was stomping out his cigarette and running and pushing his way in the opposite direction. Something told him that if he followed the people trail, he’d have a good idea of where to start his search.
