When it came to his room, one could tell if John wanted company or not by if his door was hanging open. When it was shut, the Hotel's own wards as well as some John had layered on for additional protection. Never trust another's work when he knew the level of his own. True to his word, John's room didn't have a cigarette smell to it although it did often look like a man who didn't care much about his surroundings lived there. His 'workspace' was clear of any clutter, a few empty bottles of various colours sitting benignly in a circle. If one looked closely, each was enscribed with different sigils and symbols. To the magically inclined, each had a different prey.
Seemed that most of John's money had gone to getting book on the gods and legends of this place, where the power was. A hand drawn map (based off the one at Zee's Welcome Centre) spanned one wall, John's careful script marking out the very few places he had gone to in black. In blue were notated information he had one each area. It was all perfectly legible if one could read Mayan.
John himself was working on another bottle, this one clear. The device he wore on his right hand brought to mind steampunk with only the tips of the glove encased in metal, wire sliding back along the rest of his hand to his wrist. Finishing, he blew on the bottle to clear away the last bits of curled glass. His gloved hand raised, words in a langauge dead for a thousand years were spoken as the etched in sigils solidified into a coherent and strong ward. Depending on the person, they might sense a demon containment bottle being constructed. Or it might not register as anything.
Looking the clear bottle over, he reached for the bottle of amber liquor at his elbow.
--------------------------
Around the Hotel itself
John was a curious man by nature. Chances of him turning up anywhere was likely, especially while he was trying to mentally map out the Midnight Hotel. Shudder and anyone else could give him all the reassurances they wanted that nothing could or would get in here, but John hadn't lived this long by depending on others.
The wards were just as interesting for him. Most people didn't stand in the hallway with what looked like a circular stone with a glass set in it up to their eye staring at a wall. The scry glass was a long used tool of demonologist, what the planchette for an Ouiji board had been based on. Staring through the enhanced lens, John could watch the surface movement and flow of the ward he was studying.
"That is impressive," he said more to himself than anyone around him.
And it was from his point of view. In his world, magic was a thing that existed, but more people killed themselves (or others) trying to weild it than succeeded. Like he'd told the one kid, they weren't playing with fireworks. Magic was napalm. Darwin's theory in action, cleaning out the old gene pool of the stupid that shouldn't be tampering with forces beyond their control.
"The weaving is amazing."
Making one ward or sigil work with another was always a chancy thing in his world. Unless they were scripted to be the same, it could blow back on the caster. This though? This was a wonder from Constantine's point of view. If someone ended up behind John, looking through the scry lens as he was, they would see a glittering mess of lines, curves, marking and completely incomprehensible things.
He didn't tamper with them, not at all even if John would have loved to pull one apart and see what made it all work. The idea of having Anton Tremble-In-Fear-Of-My-Bald-Head descend on him was not a happy one. Instead, John dragged his little notebook out and began sketching.
"Hey mate," he called out to someone he saw passing by. "Hand me that flower over there, will you?"
Although he wasn't going to tamper with wards, he had no problems stealing from the vases set about.
---------- [ooc: if someone enters John's room without him there, they might find themselves caught in a Levitation Trap ward which will hold them a few inches from the ceiling until John gets back. Which would amuse the hell out of him and could be why he leaves his door unlocked and cracked open when not around.]
John Constantine | Constantine | OTA
When it came to his room, one could tell if John wanted company or not by if his door was hanging open. When it was shut, the Hotel's own wards as well as some John had layered on for additional protection. Never trust another's work when he knew the level of his own. True to his word, John's room didn't have a cigarette smell to it although it did often look like a man who didn't care much about his surroundings lived there. His 'workspace' was clear of any clutter, a few empty bottles of various colours sitting benignly in a circle. If one looked closely, each was enscribed with different sigils and symbols. To the magically inclined, each had a different prey.
Seemed that most of John's money had gone to getting book on the gods and legends of this place, where the power was. A hand drawn map (based off the one at Zee's Welcome Centre) spanned one wall, John's careful script marking out the very few places he had gone to in black. In blue were notated information he had one each area. It was all perfectly legible if one could read Mayan.
John himself was working on another bottle, this one clear. The device he wore on his right hand brought to mind steampunk with only the tips of the glove encased in metal, wire sliding back along the rest of his hand to his wrist. Finishing, he blew on the bottle to clear away the last bits of curled glass. His gloved hand raised, words in a langauge dead for a thousand years were spoken as the etched in sigils solidified into a coherent and strong ward. Depending on the person, they might sense a demon containment bottle being constructed. Or it might not register as anything.
Looking the clear bottle over, he reached for the bottle of amber liquor at his elbow.
--------------------------
Around the Hotel itself
John was a curious man by nature. Chances of him turning up anywhere was likely, especially while he was trying to mentally map out the Midnight Hotel. Shudder and anyone else could give him all the reassurances they wanted that nothing could or would get in here, but John hadn't lived this long by depending on others.
The wards were just as interesting for him. Most people didn't stand in the hallway with what looked like a circular stone with a glass set in it up to their eye staring at a wall. The scry glass was a long used tool of demonologist, what the planchette for an Ouiji board had been based on. Staring through the enhanced lens, John could watch the surface movement and flow of the ward he was studying.
"That is impressive," he said more to himself than anyone around him.
And it was from his point of view. In his world, magic was a thing that existed, but more people killed themselves (or others) trying to weild it than succeeded. Like he'd told the one kid, they weren't playing with fireworks. Magic was napalm. Darwin's theory in action, cleaning out the old gene pool of the stupid that shouldn't be tampering with forces beyond their control.
"The weaving is amazing."
Making one ward or sigil work with another was always a chancy thing in his world. Unless they were scripted to be the same, it could blow back on the caster. This though? This was a wonder from Constantine's point of view. If someone ended up behind John, looking through the scry lens as he was, they would see a glittering mess of lines, curves, marking and completely incomprehensible things.
He didn't tamper with them, not at all even if John would have loved to pull one apart and see what made it all work. The idea of having Anton Tremble-In-Fear-Of-My-Bald-Head descend on him was not a happy one. Instead, John dragged his little notebook out and began sketching.
"Hey mate," he called out to someone he saw passing by. "Hand me that flower over there, will you?"
Although he wasn't going to tamper with wards, he had no problems stealing from the vases set about.
----------
[ooc: if someone enters John's room without him there, they might find themselves caught in a Levitation Trap ward which will hold them a few inches from the ceiling until John gets back. Which would amuse the hell out of him and could be why he leaves his door unlocked and cracked open when not around.]