merrimanlyon | (no subject)

(no subject)

*The door opens to reveal a slate grey, cloud-shrouded sky -- New England in February is not a generally welcoming place, weather-wise -- and a set of wide ruts carved into the fallen snow by the runners of sledges and the wheels of carts. A short walk away, set up on a hillside, is the small cluster of brick buildings that marks the main campus of the university. Wisps of smoke drift up from the chimneytops, only to disappear against the darkening sky.

Merriman turns up the collar of his great-coat, casting out his senses to determine what kind of magic, if any, is present in the area. All he can feel is a faint hum of something, Dark-tinted in nature but not wholly of the Dark. The neither-one-nor-the-other feeling disturbs him, somewhat.*

*quietly, to Meg and Andrew* Shall we walk? Or would proper transportation be better, for appearances' sake?

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*Andrew shivers a bit, wishing he'd brought his own greatcoat.*

B-by all means let us keep up appearances.

*With a mildly disdainful glance at the younger man -- who should have been prepared, after all, for winter in Massachusetts -- Merriman closes his eyes and speaks three quiet words.*

*There is a pause, and then the wind whips up and swirls snow all around them, a cloud of stinging white flakes that completely obscures their vision of one another.*

*When the wind dies down, though, there is a sledge sitting in the well-worn ruts in the road. Two perfectly-matched white horses are harnessed to it and standing patiently, waiting for the command to go.*

*Merriman walks over to the near horse, and strokes its mane gently. He murmurs a few words to it, and the horse tosses its head, the reins and bits jingling like the faint music of bells.*

*to Meg and Andrew* There should be lap-robes and blankets for you in the sledge. I will drive -- it should not take more than five minutes to reach the university proper.

*Meg blinks at the Magical Appearing Sledge, and grins, a little, pushing her hair out of her eyes in order to clamber in. Her cloak (the rose cloak; the other's not nearly fine enough to suit the gown, and it is, after all, only practical) is already around her shoulders.*

I guess it'd raise some eyebrows to have us just pop up in the middle of the campus, right?

*She leans over to give Andrew a hand up into the sledge.*

*Andrew does not squee at the sight of the sledge. Nor does he wonder for a second whether there is a box of Turkish Delight under the seat. Really.*

*He climbs up to sit next to Meg, and tucks his hands into his armpits to keep them warm.*

*After a final murmured encouragement to the white horses, Merriman takes his place in the sledge as well, and picks up the reins. There is a whip at hand, but he has no need for it -- a quiet word is enough to start the horses moving at a brisk trot, following the track up the hill.*

*The chill wind picks up slightly as they pull onto the grounds. A sleepy-eyed young man emerges from a small brick porter's lodge to meet them, and Merriman brings the horses to a halt. He dismounts first, holding out a hand to Meg to help her down, and then waits as Andrew also scrambles out of the sledge.*

*to the porter's boy, as he removes two coins from his coat pocket* See that they are fed and well-brushed, and you will have the same upon our departure. *He places the coins in the boy's hand, and hands over the reins before turning to Meg and Andrew.*

Where would be the best place to begin?

*without hesitation* The library.

*Meg eyes him.*

Don't get ahead of yourselves, now. We have to get through the gauntlet of academics, first.

The ones we want to talk to? Will be the ones who keep the books.

Librarians are the secret masters of information. Never piss one off.

*chuckles at Andrew's remark* Quite right, Mr Wells. One thing about academics who work in libraries -- it is often the most dangerous dragons who guard that particular gate. If we are to start anywhere, perhaps it would make sense to go straight for what we need rather than attempt to work out what we can get.

*He glances round, then nods in the direction of a rather imposing colonial-style building located in the most central position on the campus.* I think that is where we are meant to go.

*The three of them walk across the campus, treading on the paths cleared by the feet of others, until they reach the doors of the library. Merriman quickly ushers Meg and Andrew inside, and for a moment they pause to savour the relative warmth inside the building.*

*Merriman makes a sharp, rather imperious gesture to a passing young man carrying a teetering stack of books* I beg your pardon, but could you direct me to the office of the Head Librarian?

*The young man nods in the direction of a frosted glass door marked 'STAFF ONLY', and hurries on his way without a word.*

*muttered darkly* Frightful manners. *to Meg, in the same imperious tone* Come along, Marguerite. *he removes his top hat and overcoat and hands both to Andrew without so much as a backwards glance*

*If there is a momentary stare, Meg quickly masks it, and says sweetly,* Oui, Grandpapi.

*She sweeps along after Merriman, with only a small, innocent smile at Andrew, lifting her skirts daintily to keep them from dragging on the ground.*

*Andrew juggles the hat and coat and his books for a moment before finding a configuration that allows him to carry all of them without dragging the coat or squashing the hat, and then hurries off in Merriman's wake.*

*The door to the office is shut, but Merriman merely picks up his walking-stick and gives two brief raps on the door before opening it.*

*Two male secretaries, seated at small paper-covered desks, look up sharply as he enters. One of the men gets to his feet, his mouth opened to protest, but before he can utter a word Merriman has stepped forward and presented a calling card.*

*in a clipped manner that fairly screams 'Oxbridge'* Would you be so kind as to present this to the Head Librarian, with my compliments. Professor Merriman Lyon, Miss Marguerite Giry, and Mr Andrew Wells.

*The secretary quickly shuts his mouth and takes the card. He reads the name and title on it, and his eyes widen slightly as he turns on his heel and hurries into an inner office.*

*A second later, the door re-opens, and a tall, stooped man emerges, glowering at them with dim hazel eyes over horn-rimmed glasses. Meg curtseys to him politely; he ignores it.*

Yes?

*Many centuries of living amongst mortals -- and academics -- has given Merriman a very good idea of what sort of individual he can work well with. Alas, the Head Librarian does not seem to be that sort of person.*

*Then again, a challenge is always welcome.*

*to the Head Librarian, still in his clipped manner of speaking* How do you do, sir. My student and I believe that your institution can be of assistance to us in a small matter of research that we wish to undertake.

*The librarian peers at them through his glasses.* "You believe that, do you?" *he says, coldly.*

*Andrew's voice is cool and just the tiniest bit haughty. He doesn't affect the accent, though. He promised Meg.*

So the Watchers' Council led us to believe.

Were they mistaken?

*Merriman cannot conceal a smile as the Head Librarian's composure slips -- the man's face pales, and that hand that reaches up to adjust his glasses is trembling slightly.*

"I...I see," *the man says, with a slight stammer.* "What is it that you want, then? And is the young lady...with you?"

*Merriman places a hand on Meg's shoulder -- he does not like the inflection of that last sentence, and his gaze is steely.*

She is my grand-daughter, and has worked with me in the past on my research. In fact, you might say that she has the most comprehensive knowledge of we three...would you be so kind as to tell the gentleman what we are looking for, Marguerite?

*Meg beams innocently at the Head Librarian - yes, she does look twelve, why do you ask - and says, brightly and pleasantly,* We're searching for a comprehensive source of informative knowledge on the dream god of somnambulistic slumber which you'd know by this name, which it's probably wisest not to say aloud.

*She displays a piece of parchment - nice parchment - on which is written the name, 'Nyarlathotep'.*

*If Watchers' Council had prompted a reaction before, it was as nothing in comparison to that prompted by Meg's piece of parchment. The Head Librarian's mouth snaps shut, and his entire body seems to go rigid for a moment before coming back to himself once more.*

"I...I see...yes, I see," *he stammers slightly, looking from Meg to Andrew to Merriman and back again, unable to meet their collective gaze.* "If you will follow me, to one of the reading rooms...?" *The request is timid, more plea than offer.*

*The secretaries retreat silently to their desks as the Head Librarian leads Merriman, Andrew, and Meg out of the office, towards a large spiral staircase that rises to the library's upper floors.*

*The reading room is small and cramped, dimly illuminated by gas lamps that burn with a pallid, unhealthy-looking light. Andrew looks about uneasily as the librarian hurries off, to return shortly with an armload of heavy volumes.*

*Ignoring their companion, Meg wastes no time in plucking one of the books from the pile in his arms and sitting herself down at the oaken table that dominates the room, plopping the book down in front of her. The Head Librarian looks aghast, and, in spite of himself, exclaims,* "Miss, please, have you any idea of the worth of that -"

It's what's inside it that counts, *Meg says, not looking up, already poring down the first page.*

*Merriman gives the Head Librarian a sharp look, and the hunched-over man visibly flinches as he shuffles past with another arm-load of books.*

*to the man, with frosty politeness* I think that we may have a better idea of their worth than you, sir.

*rather brusquely, he gestures to the door* Leave us, if you please. If we have further need of your services...I shall find you.

*The Head Librarian flinches again at the thinly-veiled double meaning in Merriman's last four words, and mutters a faint leave-taking as he slips out the door and closes it firmly behind him.*

*Andrew cautiously opens another of the books and peers at it.*

I think this one's written in Arabic ... Professor Lyon, can you read Arabic?

*He looks a little defensive at Merriman's glance.*

Look, I can read fifteen languages, just Arabic isn't one of them, okay?

Mine's in German, *Meg volunteers, rather unnecessarily.* I can read that. Just not spell it.

*She goes back to squinting at the pages, her brow furrowed.*

*The presence of the Dark is this room is stifling: the very walls and floors reek of it, and the books on the tables almost seem to be rotting with it. Merriman stalks over to where Andrew sits, his eyes glittering with an intense, hawkish light.*

*with a glance at the title* The High Lore of the Fallen Ones, With Some Thoughts Upon That Which Is The Curse of Creation.

*he meets Andrew's gaze* Roughly translated. Save that one for later.

*He turns round and glances at one of the books on the table, a large mildewed volume with an ornate but tarnished clasp. A wave of his hand releases the catch, and the book falls opens to the worm-eaten title page. It is written in a sharp runic script, and as Merriman translates the title in his mind he hisses lightly between his teeth, as if in pain. He passes his hand over the book again, and the pages begin to turn of their own accord, slowly at first but gradually increasing in speed.*

*Andrew sets the book aside and picks up another one, gingerly. He spends a moment peering at the disturbingly smooth leather of its binding, from which the green dye is fading in patches, before opening it.*

-- okay, Arzchaazk runes, that's more like it!

*He settles happily to reading.*

*The happy doesn't last more than half a page.*