The main ingredient turns out to be a wooden board.

It’s circular with simple but elegant curving designs spiralling from the edge to the center. Each curve intersects with another and overlaps a second before the center, creating an almost Celtic knotting pattern.

Jarl finds it strangely reassuring.

Each line of curving wood is rounded—appearing almost like a root—and a different color than the others. The sections carved out of the twining curves are deep and shaped like [Áesta’s pupils] curved diamonds—which Manus promptly fills with water. Plain ol’, regular water. The priest watches him incredulously.

“It’s fer us ta turn inta,” Áesta explains, noticing the holy man’s grimacing face.

But the ugly expression only gets worse. “That’s ridiculous.”

“T’at’s magic.”

Jarl rolls his eyes, scuffing at the idea in annoyance.

~

“Alright, pick a tree!”

“What?” The priest scowls irritably at the grinning magician, sour at the fact that he doesn’t understand what’s happening. Why on earth do they need to pick a tree??? Are they chopping one down‽‽‽

“Pick a tree!” the mage repeats, pointing at the wooden array.

“Ye can pick frem Iroko, Oak, Ashwattha, Antler, and Yggdrasill,” Áesta explains again, appearing more than just accustomed to ill informed humans. “Jus' go wit’ yer heart; it’s hwat’s bein’ transferred—technically.”

“That makes no sense.”

Manus huffs, tired of Jarl’s attitude. “That’s only because you don’t want to bother understanding it!”

“Then explain it properly!!!”

“T’e magician’s version o’ teleportation is reliant on t’e interpretation t’at t’e world as ye know it is a tree,” Áesta begins, lounging back into the comfortable couch Jarl and Manus fought on top of just last night. “Commonly called t’e World Tree, it ‘as been interpreted in diff’rent cultures as diff’rent woods because it appears diff’rent dependin’ on where ye are in t’e world. T’ese interpretations are t’e physical manifestations o’ points o’ super imposition t’at t’e World Tree and mages can use as pat’ways frem one point ta t’e next.”

Jarl makes a face, still clearly not really getting it; then, very stiffly, he nods, “That’s a start.”

From the far side of the room, Hagen cants his head. “Does z’at mean z’is… board? Is part of z’is tree?”

Áesta glances at him and then shakes his head, “No; it’s just made up o’ slivers o’ t’ose trees.”

“Ah…,” Jarl quietly speaks, nodding to himself, “That’s why they are all different colors.”

~

“And this?” Jarl asks, lifting the primer suspiciously “What’s in it?”

Manus sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose as Jarl stares critiquingly at the tiny vial of opaque, orange liquid.

It legitimately seems to glare back.

“It’s basic’lly wather, salt, an’ apple cider vinegar,” Áesta says while motioning for him to down it.

(Surprisingly, he does this without question.)

~

“Alright, final steps.”

“Finally…” Jarl clears his throat when Manus glares at him and ignores how cute Áesta is when he giggles. Hagen frowns down at the wooden array, perhaps still disliking the taste of the primer while the daemon floats calmly between the mage and priest.

“I just need to speak the incantation after we all put a hand in.”

“Put a hand in—what is this lunacy‽” Jarl throws his hands up and backs away from them, perturbed. He’s frustrated and angry and unable to hide it anymore. Even with the threat of a worldwide plague and Jasey being held accountable for it (no, he’s not counting using Áesta as bait a threat—it’s not), there’s still a part of him (the part of him that still believes Manus’ magic is just trickery and illusion; the part of him that still believes in God and God alone) that’s arrogantly holding onto the idea that he could have just run there.

Or flown.

Luckily (because Manus, at this point, probably would have flung him into a wall again), Áesta answers him, “Ye need a connection to travel t’rough t’e tree.”

~

Everyone puts a hand in.

Manus readily chooses Yggdrasill of the Norse, claiming it’s the most virile to him. Hagen nods, appearing to already know this (perhaps because Witch Doctor has many conversations that Jarl prefers not to be part of), and calmly takes the Antler of the Hungarians, saying it’s because he heard the German folktales as a child. Áesta, apparently, doesn’t need to use the tree to teleport (“Ah’m not really here, anyway.”), but picks the Ashwattha of the Hindus because, apparently, those gods actually like him.

Jarl decides not to ask; he really doesn’t want to know, anyway.

Instead, he focuses on his own two options: Iroko and Oak. He has no idea what the former is (Although… it does sort of sound Japanese???). The latter, however, he’s worked with numerous times as an adolescent carpenter (Like Jesus, his mother used to say.) and spent most of his life in: as both his cabin and his church utilize oak wood in the walls and beams and pews.

Oak could easily be considered his whole world.

And this is why he chooses it.