1964-07-26 - Two Summonings and a Funeral
Summary: Awkward.
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
nightcrawler gwen-stacy lucian 


To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, a time to die… - Ecclesiastes 3:1-2a

"We commend the body of Jonathan Hicks to the earth. Taken from his family too soon, but You alone know the purpose…"
The funeral was huge. Gwen hadn't known there would be so many people. She felt out-of-place in the dress she bought yesterday—none of her others fit and she didn't want to show up like Marilyn Monroe, or Jayne Mansfield in a dress meant for a stick-figure girl. She wore black flats, a simple black Ship 'n Shore dress, and cheap black sunglasses. She couldn't hear other people clearly, but there was an undercurrent of distaste. Johnny had been her boyfriend once.
People began to walk along the length of the coffin. Gwen had to wait until being the very last one. She wasn't welcome here.
Her hand tightened on the lighter.
*It's a tough old world, RAY.*
The muted flump of the flame.
Gwen closed her eyes and shivered.

Pity too many people view beautiful days as abominations for a funeral. How better to celebrate the life of a young man passed than under the bold blue sky, sun shining, and proof life does in fact go on? Mourners aren't gathered under pouring rain or turning slowly into icicles while the blade of a shovel breaks on the earth.
Of course the mourners currently assembled on paths and lawns join in the multitudes of New York dead. They probably cannot imagine the circumstances in which fine weather serves as testament, a sweet memorial, rather than a personal affront. That's why two people hold black umbrellas in defiance.
It's also why some fellow sitting upon a bench with a program from the funeral service, a number of substances acquired with great difficulty from dodgy sources, and a cigarette. Nothing weird about a cigarette. Nothing odd save the contents are not tobacco but rather chock-full of wicked substances, including rum drenched leaves, a bit of grave dust, yew, hellebore, aconite. Smoking a lungful of that would normally kill a man but not when used in a proper designation. The gentleman is some distance from the open grave and separated by a row of sad willows and at least three angelic sculptures for very elderly occupants six feet down. Thump. Soil falls on Jonathan. Thump. Another bit of ash falls. Thump. Insert appropriate incantation in bad Arabic.
Thump. The heartbeat of a dark ritual taking hold makes the shadows a little darker. The circle drawn in the soil and gravel around the bench is easy to ignore from the side but not above. He waits, this gentleman, in hope and eagerness. "Come on, devil, show yourself!"
Famous last words.

Having just left the Church, Kurt decided to take the 'scenic route', as he calls it, moving to the top of the cathedral itself to teleport along the skyline of Hell's Kitchen. It isn't far to get from one place to his apartment building and it was a nice day to spend outside. It's easier, he's found, to be above the pedestrians than among them most of the time. Today he doesn't seem to mind as he was planning on hanging out on a rooftop or two to just enjoy the day and the view.

He's casually making his way from one rooftop to another when there's a very strange pull just as he teleports. It's not the same pull that he's felt with Illyana has him pause in Limbo. This is almost like something has grabbed him by the gut and is forcing him somewhere he does -not- want to go! The teleport seems like it lasts for hours as he's pulled despite his attempts to get free, only to suddenly appear in a cloud of his usual brimstone, not far from that funeral in Brooklyn. "Was ist das?" is asked as he looks around, golden eyes blinking when he catches sight of the older man.

Looks like he summoned something…but do demons really wear jeans and button-down bowling shirts?

Gwen was the last one. Utterly fitting, really.
She walked along the length of the casket, placing a rose on the lid…and one other item. One she didn't want any more. As she stepped away, she heard, "Why are you here?"
She looked up to see Aunt Rose. Johnny's Aunt Rose. She'd never liked Gwen, and she'd thrown a party when he had dumped her.
"Just paying my respects." She had to get out of here. It was getting stifling.
Aunt Rose spit on the ground. "THAT is for your respect. Cheap dime-store slut…"
One of the other women stepped up. "Aunt Rose, language. Would Johnny want you acting like this?"
Aunt Rose glared at Gwen. "You no good. You NEVER any good," she hissed.
Yeah, welcome officially worn out. "I'm leaving…" she said quickly, holding up her empty hands.

"Uh." The sudden brimstone filling out the circle covers the startled jerk in the seat. The man in his homely brown suit jolts upright. Aconite blossoms in smoke around him as the offering on the bench burns merrily at one end. There's a particular kind of smell that hangs in the air, worse than incense. Burning herbs and oils will get into someone's clothes. Even bowling shirts.
"Devil," he announces. "You've come." A crow of laughter boils over thin lips under a mustache cropped to acceptable lengths. He claps his hands together and mutters again in Arabic. The effect is bound to be far less impressive. Whatever protection he thinks the incantation offers isn't real. The summons, though, is the authentic thing.
Mourners aren't likely to stream past in large numbers, if the screen of weeping willow boughs stays in place. Just a man on a bench, and a blue devil.
Someone else will take a little longer to get there. He's got a fairly far path to travel to that nagging tug. There are faster ways of getting around than walking. Lucian holds a folded up newspaper exactly like someone might comically smack the nose of a dog with.

Nightcrawler looks around at where he appeared and then at the man who somehow brought him there. Yellow eyes narrow and he scowls when he's called a 'devil'. "Ach, you are a dummkopf. I am not a devil und you should not be doing these things." He waves away the acrid smoke of the incense before he steps easily out of the 'circle of protection'. "Go home," is offered as he tries to shoo the man before looking around. A funeral? He brought him to a -funeral-? "How can you have such…respektlosigkeit…for those who have died und who are mourning? Shame on you!"

No doubt the older man didn't expect a chiding from the cross-wearing 'devil' that he summoned. He starts to move away only to see another man seemingly making his way towards them. "Now you will be in trouble, I think…" is said almost smugly to his summoner.

Aunt Rose sees the blue demon first. She looks at it, then at Gwen, then screams.
The scream seems to set nearly everyone off. At the sight of Nightcrawler, the funeral-goers suddenly to a mix of screaming, yelling, and running. Pandemonium not only reigns, it pours.
Nearly everyone. Gwen Stacy peers at the blue person with the yellow eyes, then back at the fleeing people. Murphy's Law dictates Rose will pin this on her. She tilts her head, walking closer to the "demon" as she draws the glasses forward on her nose, exposing iceberg-blue eyes.

Pandemonium is the native state of affairs for humanity. Isn't it? Mankind has never excelled much at being normal.
Lucian has the newspaper to prove it. The rolled up copy of the Times tucks under his arm perfectly well. His pace is quick without being hasty, that irregular boundary adopted to deal with the sudden cacophony heard throughout the sprawling cemetery. His mildly annoyed expression becomes outright a frown. Gold brows sharply converge and he almost puts his hand to his ear in an attempt to silence it.
"Calm yourselves!" won't do a lick of good. He cuts in through the first fleet footed runners making their escape. One gets too close and he gently nudges his elbows out to get more space. Going upstream is awfully slow but he is a force in action. He isn't yielding. They can go around.
The summoner on the bench hisses, "You are supposed to show respect to your betters. Not act like a mouthy teenager. I will not be upbraded by someone without a soul." His gravelly voice is surprisingly deep for someone so thin.

Nightcrawler can't help but give a little sigh and slump at the scream and the sight of folks running away. "Look at what you did…" is offered to the older man before his eyebrows lift. "Respect? To you? Why?" He may no longer be a teenager, but he seems pretty mouthy at that. Turning to note the young woman's approach, he takes a couple of steps towards her and holds up his arms in a conciliatory gesture. "I am very sorry. I did not mean to scare all of you in your time of sadness. I am very sorry for your loss," is all offered earnestly with a thick, German accent. He then glares at the older man, "You should apologise also."

Yellow eyes glance at the other man making his approach and he takes a couple of steps back, as if giving himself room to 'bamf' away if necessary.

Gwen blinked at the words. Her breath caught in her throat, and she sniffs. "I…thank you."
Whoever or whatever he was, he was no demon or monster.
She took off her glasses, smiling wryly if sadly. "My…my name's Gwen."

The gentleman scoops out something from his pocket, a baggy holding rock salt. He throws a handful of it at Kurt with no real sense of accuracy. A spray of it likely ends up on the ground. "I don't take guff from a devil, especially one as minor as you. Girl, get going. This ain't none to worry yourself about." He certainly has the cocky attitude and balls to sneer down what he expects truly is a demon, but then conjuration isn't an art for the timid.
The path bends round more graves, and there soon enough comes the fourth to the company. His shoes smartly crunch over the gravel brushed along the route, and faint trails of dust afflict the smart, spotless polish they used to have. Lucian isn't quite the typical bartender, and in a suit, he looks rather professional. Perhaps ominously. "What on earth is going on?"
Make that Englishman in New York, the precise clip worthy of broadcast. His summer blue eyes move in a triangle. Gwen to Kurt to gentleman in a suit.

There's a little bow towards Gwen and the 'devil' offers, "You are welcome. I am Kurt…" not any sort of devil's name, is it? When the man throws some rock salt at him, he frowns and brushes the flakes off of his sleeve. "I am not a devil. I do not know how you brought me to this place, but I am not a devil." He even hooks a thumb around the gold chain about his neck to show the man the small cross he always wears. "Now be quiet."

As the Englishman joins the motley group he gets a glance and a nod, "I am sorry. I seem to have frightened these people here. I did not -mean- to come here," the older man gets a glare before he looks back, "Und I will leave so there will be no more trouble." Another look to Gwen, "Again, I am very sorry."

Gwen looks at the man as she removes her sunglasses, placing them on the top of a tombstone. "Not as sorry as I am, Mr. Kurt. I'm about to something VERY unladylike." She begins moving. "If you don't get outta here," she tells the scruffy "summoner," "There's gonna be three hits. Me hitting you, you hitting the ground, and the ambulance hitting NINETY taking you to the hospital!"

|ROLL| Lucian +rolls 1d20 for: 9

"That isn't going to do you a lick of good." The gentleman glares as he puts the salt back. Clearly something isn't quite right. Doubly so with that chit in the dress talking back too. He raises his hand and scowl. "You don't have any idea what you are dealing with." Confidence and anger leave their stain as he chooses then to withdraw to the bench to grab the cigarette. At least he's not up to leaving that about, glaring over his shoulder at them. And Lucian because he's simply in the way.
The blond keeps a hand in the pocket of his trousers. His frown is easing back into a harder expression, not necessarily better. "They ran to all four corners due to you, did they? I fail to see how she fits into it, other than offering to punch someone." His tone isn't quite bored, edging swiftly into territory that holds the vaguest thunderstorm undercurrent of a threat. Not exactly directed at anyone, though, the discomfort is marginal at best.

"Nein, nein…do not…" Kurt tries to place himself between the older man and Gwen when she steps closer. "Do not meet his bad ways with violence." He doesn't seem to want the other man hit even though he's been nothing but rude. The blue 'devil' looks back to the blonde man, "I think so, ja. It is not…" he gives a sad sort of sigh, "New." People in his neighborhood know him but outside of it? Reactions are anywhere from stares to screams to threats and actions of violence. "But," he manages to muster up a smile, "What is the saying? Water off of a duck's back?"

Gwen looks to Kurt. He isn't the only maligned party, but…his appearance didn't exactly swing the pendulum all the way from Friendly to Hostile, did it?
She points a finger at the would-be summoner. "I'm going to count to ten, AS FAST AS I CAN, and I want to see nothing but the soles of your shoes, daddy-o! My dad's a NYPD cop, and he LOVES making examples of idiots like you!"

The angry summoner pulls his jacket tighter and chuckles under his breath. Different kinds of chuckles have different kinds of sounds, sometimes warm, and others broken, sometimes soft and sometimes acidic. This one falls squarely in the hypochloric acid on rocks variety as he carries on slowly down the path. The gentleman emerging into the grieving mourners and scattered funeral won't have any problem negotiating his way out. He might stop for a handful of dirt to line his pockets with.
Lucian abandons the newspaper to the bench for a moment. Free hands let him go about rubbing at his temple. "You're not to blame for that. Clearly not. How did you both end up here?"

At least the man left peacefully. Sort of. The chuckle wasn't very pleasant and Kurt frowns after him a moment before he looks back to Gwen, "Danke for that. I do not know how or why he brought me here but…again, I did not mean to frighten you und your friends und family. I am very sorry for your loss," even though he already said that.

Looking back to Lucian, there is a shrug before he answers, "I do not knw. I was in the city und the next thing I knew, I was pulled here somehow. I do not even know where I am…" besides in some cemetary.

Gwen sighs. "I'm an…ex-girlfriend. Not part of the family by any stretch." She looks back towards the gravesite, and sees the coffin has already descended. "I had to come, even though I wasn't welcome." She sniffles once, and quickly goes to get her sunglasses, wiping at her eyes as she does. "I'm sorry. I just…this is hitting me worse than I expected…it's not your fault."
She, of course, can't say what she feels. That it's her fault.

Factor for the moment. "He brought you here?" Lucian strokes his jaw for a second. "You stood in the city. Where, precisely? Did you see or feel anything?" Devil's in the details, as they say, and it's an entirely true statement with all things considered.
"Apologies for your loss." No point in saying anything more than that. "So you did not come together to this. I thought I heard something." His smirk is a short, brief appearance of consideration before it vanishes. "Clearly not, though."

Nightcrawler reaches out with a three-fingered hand to lightly pat Gwen on the shoulder in show of sympathy. The other man's question then catches his attention and he pulls his hand back to rub the back of his neck. "Ah. I was…on the rooftops…" it's said almost sheepishly, as if he knew he shouldn't have been there. "It was in Hell's Kitchen und I was about to go to another roof when I felt this…pull…" he places a fist on his stomach, as if to indicate that's where it was from. "It was forcing me to go where I did not want to go und I could not break free." He may be having some PTSD nightmares about that tonight.

Gwen doesn't pull away from that hand. Either she doesn't notice, or doesn't care. "Well…I did get to say goodbye to him. So that counts." She looks to Lucian, struck by his presence seemingly for the first time. "I…I appreciate the sympathy. Both of you. I just…have to start my life over again now. Don't know how I'm going to do that."

"Take this however you like, but come by Lux in East Village. You can't fail to miss the place." Truth in that, the lines tend to snake around through the street and the place has an atmosphere unto itself. Only appropriate given the proprietor. Lucian rolls his shoulder. "As you sound to be truly at a loss, I can offer an ear to listen," he says to Gwen. "I run the bar." Truth, technically. "Listening to the cares of another without judgment comes with the territory, you see. And it's traditional to have a toast to the departed. We stock a range for all tastes, including those who prefer not to partake of alcohol. As for you, sir, that's ominous. You were conjured up out of nowhere? Have you made any enemies lately? "

"You will do it," Kurt offers optimistically. "Because you must. The only other alternative is…not a good one, so you will find a way." He even smiles as if that could help. "It may be hard, but you do it one day at a time." It's generic advice but she -is- a relative stranger. He looks to the other man, "Well, I was -somewhere-, but then I was brought here somehow. I did not like that feeling und I hope he does not try it again." At the mention of enemies, his brows lift and he spreads his arms, "Look at me. There are many who do not like me because of this, I am afraid."

Gwen shakes her head, talking under her breath. "Many people have their heads so for up their chocolate wizzways everything looks crappy." She sighs. "I'd…better get out of here. I'm getting paranoid, I think."
She doesn't say what she really feels. That she will never touch a drop of alcohol. Not with what she can do. And if she tells what she knows, she's a terrorist after the fact.
"I'm sorry, but I don't drink alcohol. And I am done with getting other people in trouble. The kind of trouble where you have to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God."

"Exactly how many hermetic sorcerers using a secondhand copy of the Lemegeton do you know? Can't be very many of those around. Much less one who keeps calling you a devil." The matter-of-fact quality to the Englishman's answer isn't meant to rub the wrong way. It just might though. "Messy work. Quite frankly I'm surprised it worked at all, but then I suppose sometimes it's up to fate." His hands go back into his pockets, the newspaper disgraced in its folded state on the bench. To Kurt, he adds, "You know he'll be able to keep doing this until stopped, I hope. What's done once can be done again, bloody nuisance that it is."
He takes no offense to Gwen's statement, simply tolerant. Though it might be better not to meet those intensely cornflower blue eyes. For there is little a stained soul can hold from their measure, and secrets almost beg their lord to acknowledge them. Not at the moment. "Good day to you both." And he resumes upon his walk.

Now there's a frown as yet another calls him a devil, "I am not a devil. I may not look like you, but I am not evil." Because devils are evil. The frown deepens when he's told that the man could potentially do it again. "I will have to stop him from doing this then." But the other man is already on his way and Gwen is also moving on. "You can do this!" he calls out to the girl before he glances to the bench and crude summoning circle once again. A hand goes to touch the cross at his neck before he 'bamfs' away in a puff of dark brimstone.

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