Owner	Pose
Meggan Constantine	The most that can be asid for for Yorkshire is that at least it's not Scotland. But not much more, especially for a London boy. Yorkshire sprawls somewhere from nowhere to fucking nowhere, populated by more sheep and sheepshaggers than any sensible people that avoid troubling the supernatural. Alas, an occult detective resident in New York City most of the time ends up back over the Pond for reasons. The reason is an old acquaintance in Levisham, a civil parish five miles and some from the North York Moors National Park. Yet another mark against its miserable existence; not a good pub for ages, and the Cawthorn Roman Camp down the pitted road isn't making up the loss. Even Hutton-le-Hole, another hole-in-the-hill village over the downs, has ruddy sheep wandering freely around the streets in place of proper traffic. So why bother? The bother's a man in a proper stone tower, albeit only three storeys high. Around here, might just be a skyscraper. The locals in Lewisham know Brian, who doesn't know of him? Brian, being a proper Mancunian chap, long gave up his punk credentials and settled into going seedy with a very good collection of liquor. Nothing like brewing or decanting or whatever-it's-fucking-called-ing with fine spirits, and the little sample bottles sent for John's benefit are... intense. Wine, he'd probably not bother with. Gin? Rye? Something that straddles the line on whiskey, and kicks harder than tequila with a flavour of clean water after? That's probably worth a bit. The hanger-on in an old crew promises more, if only an old friend might stop by. He has something to show the old bastard, after all. Brian, that is. Other way round might be a way of getting in trouble with the rams, because it implies John would have nothing under the ratty overcoat.
John Constantine	John adjusts his coat. Over here in Yorkshire it's never a nice fucking weather. "Even bloody Gotham's better than this," he mutters with a snarl. Then he lifts his hand and raps on the door to the tower, thundering it. The last time he teleported magically into Brian's house he saw things he shouldn't. "BRIAN. OPEN UP. YOU CALLED ME, YOU TWAT."
Meggan Constantine	Yorkshire in spring has its advantages. Rain, for one. The rolling hills glow a luminous green under fresh grass, and it doesn't particularly help that most of the paths to ramble along turn into muddy quagmires. Well, never mind his lady love sprawled out in a patch of clover that spontaneously burst into flower, her arms out to greet bluebells and fuzzy buds threatening to become full, riotous magnolias or apple blossoms any minute now. No wonder Land Rover makes so much money up in these parts, at least among the estate owners able to afford the bit. Farmers go with less crazy, older model 4x4s. All a slog for John to reach the tower. Gotham's a city; Levisham's outer tower is not, set back against ninth-generation woods or something dastardly. Gorse in bright yellow blooms adds an appalling bright, joyful shade to a landscape in greens and browns. Brian isn't quick to answer the door, but he's got a bad knee from hard concerts and issues with a lady-friend. His thumping pace builds as he approaches, shoving open the door a crack after peering through the little peephole. "Ye ain't gotta bellow like a fuckin' barker at a fair," he grouses, which passes for blustery welcome. Lean lines of his face have aged well, the goatee mostly shaved to stubble. Silver joins hair much darker brown, once. The main floor behind him is pretty cozy as things go, fairly mismatched furniture but a proper big telly. Lots of proper framed posters and art, and speakers so small but more powerful than some giant subwoofer. "Took you long enough. I invited you round last year!"
John Constantine	"You sure you didn't invite me last night and you're just sloshed so much time dilates?" John gives Brian a heavy clap on the shoulder and steps past his friend, kicking the door closed behind him to leave the rain behind. "So what are you doing locked up in this musty ol' tower? You competin' for the Tri-Wizard Tournament soon?"
Meggan Constantine	Brian steps back to let John in, since hoping he won't burn a hole through a foot of stone is probably not worth the effort. "I did. Right and proper sent you a letter and a pigeon. That Arab guy was certain his prize pigeon could reach you, though wouldn't surprise me none to find out some cat along the way ate it." He grins, teeth as straight as one naturally gets without help shown. He ought to be knocked over by John's relative strength but rocks with it. Don't do the rock and punk scene in a Brummy dive bar or a Mancunian basement without learning how to take body blows. "Pssh, ye take the fun outta everything. Was this or some leaky cottage size of a shed, and a mortgage up to here." He limps over to a stone archway that leads to a fine set of wood stairs, going up and down. "Besides, the cellar's something else. You tried the sherry cask whisky, did you? Or the gin I added a twist of heather and a dark base?"
John Constantine	"I'll try anything you got, Brian, my boy. But while you're at it, you can explain to me what's so urgent you'd ask me for help and not the panoply of other contacts that don't have a penchant for leaving the amount of detritus in their wake that I do. After all, this tower's not big enough for me and my baggage, ducky." John pulls a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it, looking at Brian through the flame.
Meggan Constantine	Brian booms a laugh, because that's just a thing Brians do. He puts a hand on the railing going down. "Oh, your vaunted shit. We know what you trail 'round after you, don't need a pair of goggles and a chirping, googly monitor to tell me that. Stuff it, boyo. Come on, I'll show you." A nod indicates the stairs headed down, and he flicks on a perfectly normal recessed light to show the way. It's a slow process, his knee being what it is, but the descent leads to an ordinary cellar. Not granny's root kind, the sort of a distiller about his work. The stones mortared together sweat and it smells more earthy than musty, shot by a lot of humidity that only comes from open pools. But obviously he doesn't have a Jacuzzi right there in sight. Several kegs in steel and some in wood are racked, as well as closed cupboards. He opens one, fetching two glasses. "What's your poison?"
John Constantine	"Typically, whiskey, but my liver ain't met a thing it hasn't been able to deal with yet," John says with a shrug. He steps through and into the musty room, taking a drag of his cigarette with a glance at Brian.
Meggan Constantine	"Whisky." Brian pulls down two bottles and swirls one around, then sets them down. "More peat in this one, smokier flavour. More of the herbal in that, the sample I sent you." The small side table does well for him to pour out two fingers of either, and none of that stupidity about a ball of ice or nonsense. Proper drinks go neat, or faff off for something with strawberries and a paper umbrella. "Been working out the particulars on this one. Have a go, then I'll show you the works." Whichever he chooses, the potency in the liquor is one thing. But moreover, the flavours are eye-wateringly *good*, uncannily rich and like smoking a cigarette, waking up from a long nap, shagging two times straight, and watching an idiot get punched for doing something idiotic. Or on the scale of such, not normal for a drink at all. Not quite a sense of magic in it, though. Something off, something deep, that.
John Constantine	John takes a deep drink, and then furrows his brow. He likes it, but that thing -- that thing that's off with it -- makes him frown. "Whut's that?" He leans back and gives the glass another long look, squinting.
Meggan Constantine	"Figure you'd be telling me. Think it's somethin' blessed by Brigid or Saint someone or another. Cuthbert's big up this way but right stick up the arse. Gotta be someone more obscure." Brian throws back his own glass, his chest filling with a breath and his body brimming with the clear lines of satisfaction. "Reason I live in Hogwarts VRBO." Because fuck AirBNB. The way over to the side of the cellar isn't far, and he isn't limping quite so much. Shoving the door open requires using his shoulder, after he unlocks it with a key chained to his jeans. Look, they're OLD. That's style, once. "Only way I can fathom. Two glasses of that an' Guinness is next to piss. Good shit, isn't it? You come tell me if this is something special. I've built my whole living around making this. Distilling's going well. Won't ever be a huge show, only so much water comes out, but it's fascinatin'."
John Constantine	"I'd start by angling towards gods of brewery and mead, maybe, even if this is whisky." John follows Brian, thinking. "Bes, Nephthys, Tenenet. Kvasir, maybe. Could just be Bacchus. He was mead before he was wine, wouldn't be that strange if he was stretching his reach. Or even Ceres, given the givens." He considers the glass. "But given where we are, I'd look to Goibhniu, mebbe?"
Meggan Constantine	"Bacchus? Here? Not a chance. The Roman fort ain't far, but why trudge over this way or not build on it?" Brian sounds a bit unsure, and he feels around for a torch set on the side shelf. Rock here is more natural, the flooring uneven but smooth. He needs a good moment to get the light on, and sweeps the beam side to side for a good show. A spider might run off and that's about it. "C'mon, bring the bottles if you like. I prefer Goibhniu, even if his name is a bloody mouthful. Good solid British god of smiths and good times." He pulls the key out and fiddles with a metal fob, then scrapes it lightly against the wall. With the torch beam it's possible to see a natural spring, complete with a bit of moss and lots of wet rock, bubbling up from a cleft in the ground. And that radiates a good deal more energy to it than the bottled drinks do, resonating purity on a pointed shiny scale.
John Constantine	"Bacchus's been known to spread his influence, I wouldn't count'im out. He's got the brand name recognition, yeh?" John grabs the bottle and follows Brian out to the spring. When he spots it, he lets out a long, low whistle. "Damn, son. That's... not small potatoes, Brian." He furrows his brow, and takes another drink. "You sure a deity didn't _die_ here?"
Meggan Constantine	With Bacchus or a whole host of random wine gods at hand, Brian isn't going to argue. "Who or what. That's a special place. Makes a product to be proud of and for the right reasons." He stretches his arm up and that soft scraping continues, an arc drawn slowly and surely. Once he has the circle set, he starts filling in the lines. Any guesses on the shape being confined in that circle? First is free. The water's holy, plain and simple. Straight up blessed water spitting out of a spring at a steady flow, fairly cool but not icy to the touch. Bottle of it flung at the right target would go up straight like a Molotov cocktail. In drinks? Apparently makes a killer spirit. "Not the foggiest. Couldn't find much. Yorkshiremen are superstitious enough and I haven't much. They figured it was tied to the old Briton tribes up this way."
John Constantine	"Maybe some Saint went an' blessed it." John shakes his head. "I don't know, Brian. Seems like a right way to piss off some powerful spirits to make, uh, spirits with this water. I ain't saying it ain't worth it, just saying, you best have good wards put up at all times."
Meggan Constantine	"I'm saying, there's probably a Nennius or Columberta or Adelheid. All those early ones with ridiculous names. Aelfgifu, Aelflaed, Aelfthryth, Aelfwine. Remember that from school, go figure." The last streaks of white limestone chalked on the wall leave intersecting patterns, and it's a pentagram put in his wake. He looks partly satisfied by his work, stepping back and steadying the torch so it lights up most of the room. "Ain't had problems yet and I don't take much. I fancy if Jesus did water into wine, someone must have water into whiskey. Decent trade, I figure. Hoped you might find your way through it though."
John Constantine	"Well. I can't say I disapprove. It's a damn fine liquor," John says with a shake of his head and a shrug. "Just be careful, I s'ppose. I really don't want to have to come here one day and see your rusted skelly and have to summon some ancient god and avenge you."
Meggan Constantine	"I don't expect you'll worry too long. I'm not twenty-five and mucking out here for a lark," Brian admits, staring down into the spring. "A few good years if all goes well. If not then I can say I found something special, din't I? Rusted skelly, what are you on about? I'll be proper bones scattered round and some moaning on dark and moonless nights, eh? And you, what? Plannin' on living forever? You've looked 45 for about thirty years."