 |
|---|
Social Emitter: N/A
|
| Players |
|
|
NPCs |
None
|
Factions |
None
|
Music |
|
|
Dean Winchester calls upon Lord Glamorgan at his Seacliff mansion.
July 31, 2015
Swansea House, San Francisco
There's a knock on the door. Dean was pointed this way by someone or another, at some point or another, during his investigations so far. He's not accompanied by anyone, and it's not surprising that he looks a little bit out of his element. Scratch that: a lot out of his element. This isn't his kind of environment. There's not enough chesty waitresses, for one.
When Dean is shown in by a member of the staff, Lord Glamorgan is seated at his desk, looking at a small, obviously ancient manuscript. He wears white gloves and turns the fragile page very slowly and carefully. The book itself is resting on a white cloth, and a lighted magnifying lens is situated over the pages, which the Earl is peering through.
"Yeah, thanks." Dean, of course, isn't about to let anybody take his jacket or anything. He does wipe his boots before coming in, though. That's a nice gesture on his part, especially considering where he usually tromps about with them. He gives Glamorgan a little while to acknowledge him, then he just starts speaking and walks towards the desk. "So. I saw you the other day, Taco Lunch of the Apocalypse, yadda yadda, I need to know what's goin' on."
Lord Glamorgan looks up from the manuscript with a frown, removing a pair of reading spectacles. "Winchester, isn't it?" he asks, switching off the magnifying lamp. "You were with the Slayers and angels, if I recall correctly." Carefully closing the book and pulling the cloth over it, he stands and strips off the gloves. "How may I help you, Mister Winchester?"
"Dean." He answers. "Dean Winchester. And yeah. Taco Tuesday. Except it was Monday." He's had a chance to take in the surroundings, and it just confirms what he thought before: definitely not a place he can feel at home. "This whole...building...magic...business. I need to know more about it. Basically I need to find out what's doing this and what the threat is so we can go find it, kill the hell out of it, and go on with our lives."
Lord Glamorgan frowns again as he moves toward the small bar near a fireplace. "Building magic?" he asks, as he uncaps a crystal decanter. "Why aren't you asking your angelic friend, Castiel? From the sound of things, he has a direct line of communication with the Powers That Be. Surely he knows more about building magic than I." He opens the ice bucket, then looks at Dean. "Would you care for something?"
Dean's expression becomes decidedly sour at that question. He's very much about to answer in a particularly nasty way, when he's offered something to drink. Now that, he can deal with! So he cheers up, even if just a little bit, and nods once, decisive in the gesture. "Yeah! Sounds good. Uh, basically he's not as filled with info as you might think."
Lord Glamorgan adds ice to a glass, then splashes in some scotch. In a snifter, he splashes something from another decanter, likely brandy. Taking both drinks, he moves to one of the leather couches, signaling for Dean to join him. "From what I understand, the Powers rarely volunteer much in the way of useful information. Their prophetic visions are barely illuminating, and often they come too late. One would think that all-powerful, all-knowing beings would be able to find a more effective method of communication."
"Yeah, you'd think." Dean grunts, more than a little bit put off by the whole affair. He walks to where he's invited and sits himself down, leaning back once he gets comfortable. "Look, I been fightin' monsters and crazy evil things all my life, and this is the first I've heard of real-life angels. And maybe it's...I dunno, wrong of me or something, but I don't trust it. I just wanna find out what's going on, fix it, and put it behind me."
Lord Glamorgan leans a bit closer to offer the scotch, then leans back to swirl his brandy in the snifter. "I can't say I blame you. I haven't fought many monsters myself, per se, but I've known those who have. It's never a terribly pretty sight. So. What is it you want from me, Mister Winchester?"
Dean takes the glass and lifts it to the other man, smiling just a little bit as he takes in the scent and nods to himself. "Mm. We drinkin' to anything? Before we get down to business, I mean."
Lord Glamorgan blinks a few times. "I...suppose we could drink to world peace?" He continues slowly swirling the brandy, warming it. "An end to supernatural strife would not be unwelcome."
"You said it!" Dean lifts his glass again. "To that!" He takes a sip, and it shows he does know how to sip a decent drink, too. He smacks his lips a little bit after, letting his head drop back against the back of the sofa. "Man. It's always a real good time to have a really good drink. Most of my scotch is bottom shelf when I can get it. Might as well be mouthwash!" With a chuckle, he lifts his head again. "So what do I call you again? I don't think anybody ever said. Not to me, anyway."
Lord Glamorgan takes a small sip of his brandy, then clears his throat. "I am Lord Dylan Meredith, Earl of Glamorgan and Her Majesty's Consul General in San Francisco. My father is His Grace, the Duke of Monmouth, a title I shall inherit myself one day." He pauses a moment, looking Dean up and down, then lets out a small sigh. "But I suppose such formalities should be dispensed with under the circumstances. You may call me Morgan, if you wish. Though Lord Glamorgan would be preferable in less informal settings."
"Lordy lordy," Dean replies, with more than a hint of levity. "So Glammy. Basically what I need is info on what's going on here. The buildings that popped up somewhere else. If there's some kind of importance to them. If they're magically significant. Maybe most important of all, who or what could pull off something like that. Faith thought maybe a really with-it coven, but I dunno...this is pretty major business."
Lord Glamorgan frowns a touch, then takes another small sip, before going back to swirling. "I'm afraid I'm a recent arrival in this city, so I'm not familiar with which buildings should be here and which should not. I do recall reading something in the morning paper about certain claims that buildings had miraculously appeared where none previously existed. However, according the the article, all the proper records were in place, and the buildings themselves were well attested to have always existed in their present location." He pauses again, brows drawing together. "Do you know of such a building?"
Dean nods once, leaning forward and leaning his arms on his thighs, sturdy and fit in the worn jeans. "Fred's working on getting more. From what I can tell, there are a buncha places that just up and went somewhere else. And you know, and I know, buildings don't just do that." He kicks back another mouthful of the scotch, but he rations it carefully, drinking very slowly.
Lord Glamorgan raises a brow. "Fred, that's the young women who was at the luncheon?" He nods once, looking thoughtful. "It would be helpful to have a list of all structures that have been mystically relocated. Young Master Halliwell has an unusual talent for mystical relocation. Perhaps he could shed some insight into this phenomenon."
"Yeah. She's at the Hyperion. Another place that moved." Dean swishes the ice around in his drink, looking at it, watching it move. His brows lift and he returns his eyes to Glamorgan. "Yeah, if he's willing to talk about it. Seems like everybody who could be a big help don't wanna talk or something. Big help."
Lord Glamorgan offers a bit of a smile. "I'm certainly willing to talk. I'm simply uncertain what I can tell you. This isn't something I've encountered before. But didn't Castiel say that the Powers were responsible for moving certain buildings, for reasons as yet undetermined? I think we should be less concerned with the method utilized, and more concerned about the reason behind the relocations. What is so very significant about this Hyperion hotel to justify such a realignment of reality?"
"Dunno, but if they're the ones screwin' around with things, why ask all of us to figure out what's going on and fix it?" Dean shakes his head, sitting back again and crossing one leg over the other. "That don't make sense to me. Then again, this whole business don't make sense to me. I don't like it."
Lord Glamorgan gives his head a small shake. "As I said, the Powers are rarely clear in their intentions. It probably has to do with free will, or some such rubbish. Personally, I've never been one for trusting in divine intervention. A man makes his own destiny. Wouldn't you agree, Mister Winchester?"
"Hell yeah!" For perhaps the first time since he's arrived, Dean finally starts to feel a little more comfortable around this man of lordly caliber. He's not used to lords and ladies, definitely not used to anyone who can make sense out of a larger collection of alliterative consonants than he has likely ever encountered in his life. But this, this he can get behind. It returns the grin to his lips. "Let's get to makin' that destiny."