The rest of the evening is spent discussing how they will actually do, well, anything.

“I should be able to port us all there,” Manus declares as he carefully examines the map in front of him. Teleporting is no joke—requiring a very strong understanding of anatomy and astronomy—but it is basic: most magic users learn it within their first year (it just tends to take several more to perfect).

For Manus, it should be easy.

And anything to get this done quickly.

~

Pinpointing the location is relatively easy: Jarl still has the coordinates from the mage’s earlier scrying.

Equally (relatively) easy is the gathering of required items such as water and primer—a potion used to ready the body before a teleportation spell: literally preparing it to be ripped apart and then put back together—because Manus had already planned to do this from the beginning and came prepared.

What’s significantly more difficult is figuring out how the teleporting will even work.

Because that requires math.

~

Jarl watches as Hagen helps Manus through the difficult calculations.

As someone who’s constantly dealing with complex chemical mixtures and the ideal ratios of them, the doctor half of Witch Doctor seems more than capable of working out the disassembly an entire human body (Never mind three and a daemon’s—or will Áesta be able to teleport himself???) as well as the reassembly. Much to Manus’ relief.

It’s one of the many reasons they go so well together. (Another would probably be how insightful Manus is: often, he knows things about herbs and metals that Hagen doesn’t, helping him make things for his store.)

It’s also why half the parish started calling them Witch Doctor to begin with.

~

“T’is is gonna take a lot outta ‘im.”

Jarl looks away from the calculating pair to glance cautiously over at Áesta as the green creature joins him, folding elegantly into the far side of the couch. Lime ringed orange eyes stare unerringly back, challenging.

But what’s the challenge?

“You mean Manus?” the priest asks, trying to answer his own question. What could Áesta be testing him for? “He’s done this before; he’ll be fine.”

“‘E might of done it befer, but t’at don’t mean ‘e’s done it like t’is.”

Frowning, the holy man studies the sharp eyes on the daemon beside him, wondering where this is going. “… Are you… worried about Manus?”

“Does t’at su’prise ye?”

Ah! This is the challenge! Of course! All that talk earlier about daemons having feelings and being people too: it’s so obvious now! “Yes!” Jarl isn’t quite sure if he should be slapping himself or proud of his honesty.

“hWy?”

Sky blue eyes widen as the daemon they’re locked onto suddenly moves, crawling across the couch like some sort of hungry devil cat. Jarl retreats farther into the couch’s arm, alarmed, and grips his beloved crucifix.

“‘E’s t’e only reason Ah’m even ‘ere, priest,” he says it like it’s a curse, “and ye t’ink Ah don’t care?”

Diamonds. Áesta has slit pupils—midnight blue and very reminiscent to a cat (Which is not cute, ok; stop.)—and they’re shaped like diamonds. You know: the kind you find on playing cards. Rhombuses.

Like his favored shape to kill with.

Jarl whimpers as he stares into those dark shapes—so different from the deadly ones he was just dodging—and clutches even tighter at the cross in his pocket. His safety net. His protection.

But he doesn’t draw it.

It stays in his pocket, hidden and tucked away, even as the tense seconds tick by. Literally. Manus and Hagen are silent, now, both frozen in their own seats across the room: allowing the clock to be heard perfectly. Everyone’s holding their breathes.

Except Áesta who’s humming.

Then he pulls back, settles into the couch’s other arm again, and relaxes; it seems Jarl’s passed.