Staring into the Mirror, a dreary and sleep deprived face stared back at the rugged looking blonde. HE grimaced, as if trying to chear the mirror version of him up. He wondered idly if he had been slipped something at the Station. But no, hardly any such luck he was sure. This was some sort of psychological mumbo jumbo. Johnny didn't have a Patron per say. He payed his respects to the Norse Pantheon in different ways from time to time. He wore a Thors hammer next to his old ring around ihs neck. He wrote runes, but he never communed directly to his gods. He had met elves, feries and unfortunately, a Troll. He knew about his world being something of a intersection. But this was new. This was unrelated to his connection to the Arcane Puritas; The Stream. 

The Stream, a living, pulsing form of raw power. It leaked from its world to this and his stupid carcass picked it up like a siphon. He was a beacon for nasties of all kinds, and every night his dreams were tinged by surreal things from the edge of his own sanity. This night though, the dream had been not his own, but ALIEN. It had not belonged to his mind, or the stream. He groaned before he cracked his neck a little and then almost slipped on a whiskey bottle in his living room. The mans home was much like himself, a mess. It also smelled like he did by the end of most days, of whiskey. He looked around, picked up the bottle and went to put along the others in the kitchen. His very own little altar to his life of self pity. 


 Grumbling, he pulled on a pair of clean, black pants, slipped on a white and blue striped shirt, some suspenders and a pair of rugged looking worker boots. As he all but kicked his own door open, he grabbed his blue trenchcoat and wrapped it around himself. The inside lit up briefly as his arcane riddled body activated the runes he had painstakingly sewed into its inside. 

”Lets see.” He mumbled as he flipped trough his phone. ”17 messages? Odins eye. That is a lot” He flipped trough them and his face paled. They were all from a friend of his, A seer. A talented one. Madamme Jones was New Yorks oldest seer. Her husband, Dr N'gabi Jones was a respected voodoo practitioner who legend had it, battled the Ku Klux Klan affiliated magicians back in the day. The woman herself was the most regal, most  dignified person Johnny had ever met, and her visions were something you rarely asked for, because their accuracy was unnerving and tended to have people in a mild states of panic.

”Come to Station 7, Now. Your life may be in danger.” Read the last message. She had never let him down before. And if she was this frank, he wasn't taking any chances. He went right back up his apartment, rummaged for a bit and found a old snub nosed revolver he had hidden underneath some tiles in his bathroom. He slipped it into his inner pocket and headed right back out. He was having a creeping feeling of paranoia as he walked the streets, Worst then any he ever had before.

He made it to the club without incident however, giving the massive woman of a bouncer a nod before he shuffled down the stairs, trough the maintance door that led down further stairs and then into the main bar. The music was low and subdued, the lightning only slightly dimmed. IT was in the middle of the day and only a few had visited so far. One old man, who looked like he may be homeless, sat in one corner, reading his fortune trough a rats entrails. Johnny nodded to him. The man, who some people knew simply as The Rat, nooded back.

Johnny slowed his steps as to not look to much in a hurry and headed right for the backrooms. He found The Madamme sitting at a small table, looking regal as ever. But beneath that exterior he saw tense, on the edge nerves. Johnny sat down infront of her. 

”What's all this then Madamme. I am paranoid as it is.” Johnny complained as he fixed the woman with a business like, if a bit nervous look.

”Hush child. You do not know what is coming.” Madamme spoke, and Johnnys blood felt like it had frozen in his veins. He felt a shiver up his spine from the sheer intensity of her words

”What is coming..:” He asked, blinking as if blinded by a sudden light.

 ”I do not know it true nature. I have called some others aswell. Some people you may have met. They to have seen it. Seen him.” Madamme spoke in her unmistakenly haiti grown accent. Her mannerism was relaxing somewhat, now that she had Johnny there. But the edge never went from her voice or her eyes. 

”Oh..” Johnny spoke quietly. There had been others who seen him? Seen the same dream. ”Oh fuck me.” This was something else. He was being dragged down into something nasty, he could feel it.

”Language.” Admonished the old lady, and Johnny scratched the back of his head. ”Sorry Madamme.” They sat in silence, awaiting the other arrivals.




GM NOTICE:

 You all have received a note, a message on your cellphone or a messenger of some kind, calling you to the club. Madamme Jones is one of the heaviest hitters in the NY magic underground.  Being called by her tells you exactly how important it is for you to meet with her. If you need to interact with her in your post, hit me up and we'll collab the exchange.