Owen comes upon the man abruptly, rounding a large stone and digging his heels into the pebbled bank at the sight of him. Immediate assessment says older, heavier, shorter, surprised, and he moves on, looking beyond the man for any sort of crew. As far as he can tell, they're alone, and he fancies himself a strong enough swimmer to choose the river over hostile company.

Well met isn't a very hostile greeting, but it makes as much sense as the question. "Arrived through," he asks, voice pitching low with skepticism, face pinching around the words. "That thing's solid concrete and ten feet of water."

The phrasing isn't the only thing odd, though Owen's one to talk when it comes to accents. His own is faded, but still--not so many Brits along the coast that he's walking into one every time he goes for a stroll, unless this fucked-up estate is someone's home away from jolly olde home. "Where the hell is this place?"