“GET OUT!!!”

A glowing green rhombus imbeds itself in the doorframe adjacent to Jarl’s face. Stormy sky blue eyes widen in alarm as the acid colored weapon (Is it actually a weapon? Or is it a part of Áesta? Like the shadows.) appears to literally melt away some of his cabin home’s wood.

That was almost Jarl’s face.

“GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT!!!” More daemonic shapes of various kinds—all geometric and pointy—fly Jarl’s way. There’s one for each word and all of them are aimed at the same place. There’s probably a chance his crucifix can save him—if only by him using it to knock the threats out of the air—but he’s not chancing it.

Even with Áesta’s super strength and super speed: that’s too risky.

As a glowing crescent races for his eye, Jarl scrambles back and out of the room, slamming the door shut. He’s a second away from locking and warding the slab of wood when it suddenly glows an eerie toxic green, much like Áesta’s shapes and runes. There’s a sound, like a high pitch whine, as the door appears to darken and decay; but, at the same time, it looks like it’s hardening, thickening, and strengthening from within.

It’s like Áesta just bestowed an unholy amount of superpowers to this wooden block.

“My God…” Unable to even be repulsed by the fact that he just spoke his lord’s name in vain (Unforgivable.), Jarl hastily makes his way down the hall and to his study. Throwing open the door, he grabs a random paper and writes a disjointed message to the one person he knows can get him out of this.

He ignores the fact that it feels like he’s writing a prayer.

Just as he ignores the ancient tongue cursing at him.

~

When Manus finally arrives, Jarl is still ignorant and shaken.

His crucifix has long since worn an amalgamation of dents into his palms and wrists from him clutching it. He’s lucky his black-polished, wooden cross is smooth and bares no Jesus or his afflictions would be worse.

As it stands, the condition of his hands is just mildly alarming.

Until, of course, Manus finds out why.

~

“You… you… IMBECILE!”

Jarl jolts as the usually poised witch from his boyhood slaps his shoulder violently. It’s a pathetic hit, really, as Manus is a magic user and not any kind of heavy hitter (or a hitter at all, really), but it still gets the job done: cowering the taller man where he stands in his own home. “I… I’m sorry… but how could I have known—?”

“Sorry‽”

The livid magician shoves Jarl next, decorated nails suddenly appearing too sharp for the priest’s comfort. “Yes! I’m sorry!”

“Sorry doesn’t fix the fact that you just brandished a holy relic on your own daemon! The one YOU summoned!”

“Upon YOUR suggestion!” Frustrated, and done being licked, the younger man shoves the witch harshly back.

This, of course, incites the elder: “Don’t you paint me black! I was helping you! After you BEGGED me to!”

Another push is had by the witch, this one much rougher due to the magic held within it. Jarl stumbles back, almost falling over his own couch, and has to grip tightly onto the furniture’s fabric before launching himself with a roar at the conniving magician’s face. THIS is the exact reason he NEVER wanted Jasey hanging with—

Jarl’s fist connects with Manus’ cheek.

The elegant bone bruises something ugly under the priest’s knuckles and Manus stumbles back, moaning. Apparently, he can dish out way more than he can take. Unsurprising really. He always seemed as frail as…

Jasey; they’re supposed to be saving Jasey.

Jarl runs his hands through his hair tiredly, all anger leaving him. He’s being ridiculous; and callous. Utterly. Manus didn’t have to help him: not then and certainly not now. And the reality is: he’d never even know about The Devil’s Cavern or that Jasey isn’t even in the parish if it weren’t for his Witchy Wonder.

The priest stares hopelessly at the now wary mage, “… I’m sorry, Manus…”

Manus. Not witch, or even magician, but Manus: his name.

The older man sighs, “… Let me talk to him.”