[center][img]http://vignette3.wikia.nocookie.net/marvel_dc/images/c/c6/Hellblazer_Logo.png/revision/latest?cb=20130221012543[/img][/center]
[b]March 23[sup]rd[/sup], 2005
?, 5:15 AM[/b]
[hr]
When John awoke in the early hours of dawn in the field of wild grasses, his breath was ragged and cold sweat had formed on his brow. His clothes were damp and clutched to him like an unrelenting lover - a combination of morning dew and the rains that had came pouring down atop of him with a righteous fury. A less knowledgeable man might of thought that God was angry with him or something. John of course knew that God was too busy dealing with every other problem under the sun than to bother with the affairs of one Constantine. Or that was the deal at least. 

In the dream or more accurately the nightmare that he had awoken from, he had been suspended in a dark void stretching infinitely outwards. The chill alone felt like enough to kill a man as if it could seep through the skin and freeze his damn innards. He stayed like that for awhile, until a translucent blue the color of a winter’s ice appeared on the horizon. Unable to move he was fixed into place as the glow began to spread watching it with vague curiosity until it washed upon him. Upon contact the blue was no longer blue, but something akin to clear glass. He found himself like a bird suspended above London but all was not right, thick smoke filled the skies and festered about him like maggots in an open wound, the harsh red glow of raging fires below. The screaming was probably the worst of it, terrible inhuman yells of pain and suffering all rushing for open occupancies inside of his head. Then the scene pulled back as he continued rushing upwards and he saw the rest of Europe was ablaze with the same fire and destruction. Further still he went and the earth itself was ablaze and across the way beyond the edge of the vast sphere, a form sat inhuman in its proportions. One of its large continent sized eyes fell upon John and seemed to ripped his very soul from its foundation and then nothing. It was all gone and he was left back in the void, nothing more and nothing less.

With the grey lights of the early dawn he rose to his feet brushing the strands of grass and flecks of dirt that clung to his jacket. He sagged his shoulder feeling bones pop as they realigned. Another reminder that he wasn’t as young as he used to be. He fished inside of his jacket pocket and pulled out a crumpled and bent white cylinder held close to the body like some sort of precious gem to protect it from the rain. Popping it between his teeth he looked around momentarily before snapping his fingers, causing a small flame to appear and light the edge. He took a deep breath filling the smoke fill his lungs as he observed the countryside. The rolling countryside stretched out before him, void of life except for the occasional cawing of some bird out to find the morning catch. He pulled his jacket closer to his body to fend against the early spring frost as he made his way away from the scraggly old tree with long winding branches that he had taken shelter under as he moved back towards the road. He then began to head east.

Amsterdam, had nothing left for him. After ransacking its libraries and dark corners for any information pertaining to any resurgence or kindling of mention of the old Völkisch movement. The closest thing he had gotten to information was from a disturbed old man yelling about how HYRDA was just the start of it all and that more was coming. So he had two options left really either continue digging around loose leads and drying to hope something bit or do what he did best and get to the heart of it. He figured that if there would be any semblance of clues left for him, that they would be in the Führer’s deutschland proper. If these occulist were anything like their forebears it wasn't going to be that hard to find them, you just had to keep your ears open in the right channels. So he set out about two days ago with the vague direction of east, knowing sooner or later he would stumble across the border. He could of taken a train, but he hated trains too much noise and too many idiots - besides he didn't have a euro to his name at the moment to even afford such thing. Walking was okay though, it let him think and besides he had legs for a reason didn’t he?

[i][center]~~[/center][/i]
[b]7:16 AM[/b]

He had been walking for sometime when he stumbled across the residence of Mary and Patrick Ó Braonáin. They were a middle aged  couple who had hitched tail during the Troubles and had never looked back running away from the prospects of getting shot when heading to market  or blown up by some bomb on either side. Mary was an English teacher in the local town about five miles down the road and Patrick was a writer and aspiring socialist revolutionary writing  pamphlets for the CPN.  They lived a humble existence in a small abode with a saint bernard named Sam and a garden out back that Mary attended to in her free time. These generally good people upon seeing John walking down the road is his haggard and worn state, generally could not stand idly by and invited the stranger into their home to at least have something to eat and maybe have a wash. 

After feeling the strange sensation of taking an actual shower again and washing the dirt and the grim off of his body, he stepped  outwards freshly dressed and Patrick ushered him into the kitchen where Mary had already finished up breakfast. It was a simple thing some potatoes and meat of some sort but to John’s malnourished body running on alcohol and little bits of food that he could acquire it smelled great and tasted better. They eat in silence for a little bit but soon the sounds of moving cutlery and teeth tearing at meat faded away to conversation.

“So Fergus what do you do exactly?” Patrick asked John inquisitively. Of course to them he wasn’t John Constantine but Fergus Thirlwell, a well to do intellectual from Northumberland born in a little village outside of Morpeth. It was a lie but it was a little one that was easy enough to pass off as the truth, he’d met enough folks from up north to at least be able to convincingly mock their mannerisms. Besides it was safer this way. The name John Constantine only brought sorrow to those that knew of it.

“Ah well I’m a historian of sorts, a study old cultures looking for secrets and the likes.” The lies came easily enough to him after a lifetime of doing it. He could talk bullshit to the Queen and probably get her to knight him if he wanted to. The trick wasn’t convincing others that was easy, it was convincing yourself because once your mind was willing to believe whatever you said it was easy for the others to follow. 

“Ah, A man of the histories! How interesting! I imagine you're traveling for work then right?” Mary asked her face kind and warm as she did. Inwardly John smiled, they were almost making it too easy for him at this point but that was key playing on others expectations. 

“Why yes actually! I’ve been traveling through the Low Countries following the old routes and paths as part of my current infatuation on trade and travel during the Carolingian Empire. So no cars for me only my own two feet and sleeping underneath the stars.” Constantine explained with a smile and a brightness to his eyes, you had to look the part and get them invested.

The conversation continued for some time and with John’s carefully prodding moving away from the life and times of Fergus Thirlwel and his escapades and into things like current events and just day to day occurrences. Once they had gotten into Politics, John almost didn't have to talk at all with Patrick falling into a huge speech that almost felt like he had it prepared in advance on the folly and corruption of big government. And down with the agenda of the rich in their proxy wars and oil schemes. Only to be interrupted by his wife  butting in to play the devil’s advocate and voice her own more moderate opinions. Eventually things came to a close and John was ushered to the bathroom to use their spare toothbrush, do his business, and  wash his hands while the pair continued to debate amongst themselves. As he finished up washing his hands, John’s ears picked up on something a strange lack of noise. He could no longer here the pair talking, or the dog outside slowly plodding about only the dim sound of the radio in the kitchen. Something was wrong.

He pushed the bathroom door open with a gentle care to go as slow as possible to keep the sound minimal. He moved through the small hallway into the kitchen where the food was still left on the table growing cold, the faucet still running over the sink water slowly dripping into the basin. The radio was playing on the same station that it had before now playing Liszt’s  Hungarian Rhapsody No.6. He looked out the window to the outside and saw a few feet away from the house, the shape of Sam laying completely still in the grass. Then a noise coming from the front of the house and a crash. He moved slowly out of the kitchen and into the small living area that connected to the front door, consisting of a couch, a leather armchair and a small television set. As he rounded the corner, he stopped dead in his tracks frozen by the sight in front of him.

On the ground a few feet ahead of him was Mary and Patrick looking much worse for wear. Mary was on her back on the carpeted floor, her face was grey and her mouth agape frozen in a mask of horror looking like all the life had been drained from her body in an instant. Patrick was next to her and wasn’t much better lying face first in the carpet and with his back blown open almost as if a baseball had went through the front of his chest and came out the otherside, staining the carpet around him red with blood. Standing in front of them by the now kicked in door were three men - two of these wore black combat suits that hung to their muscular frames and wore thick black balaclavas over their faces in their hands they carried what appeared to be assault rifles of some sort, they did not concern him. The third man was the one John could not take his eyes off of. He was dressed in a form fitting, black velvet suit making strong angles all the way down, and a pair of meticulously white gloves something beyond spotless almost to the point they were uncomfortable to look at. His skin was unnaturally pale, a harsh alabaster framed by neatly kept black hair with not a single strand undone. Finally John’s eyes fell upon his chest where an amulet lay with the same symbol of Yggdrasil and Níðhöggr upon it. He seemed very out of place with the carnage in front of him. Upon seeing John, the pair locked eyes blue eyes meeting with those a devilishly red in color. The man then give John a  predatory grin as he spoke.

“You have thirty seconds John Constantine. I suggest running.” Not one to look a gifted horse in the mouth, John was turning around before the man even finished. He moved through the kitchen, knocking a chair over as he went and shoulder his way through the backdoor. He moved into the fields and not looking behind him moved as quickly as he legs would take him. It was cowardly, but John was more concerned about survival at the moment and he definitely wasn't going to win 3 against one while being unprepared. At exactly the thirty second mark he felt a release of energy and a moment later an arcane force slammed into his back sending him face first into the dirt and into darkness.