Half an hour.
It literally takes them half a bleeding hour to get to Bailemore.
And that isn’t even including the near 20 minutes it took them to figure out which way it even is!
The way was south, by the by.
(At least it gave them time to talk…)
~
“I thought you said you got along with the… tree you chose?”
Áesta stops hissing at Manus long enough to raise a brow at Jarl. He takes a moment to study the priest, perhaps wondering if this is some lame attempt to clear his name, before shrugging; “Ashwattha’s t’ree gods: Brahma, Vishnu, an’ Shiva. T’ey form hwat’s basically t’e Hindu version of t’e Holy Trinity.”
“And you get along with them???”
Manus and the daemon both laugh (Jarl supposes he should be glad they’ve forgiven each other so quickly). “Some more t’an ot’ers. Brahma is t’e creation god—kind’o like yer capital g god—and t’en t’e ot’er two…” Áesta pauses as he seems to debate which is which (the son or the holy spirit) before literally dropping it: “Vishnu’s t’e preserver of hwat Brahma creates and t’en Shiva’s t’e destroyer of it.”
“Wha—and they get along???”
“O’Course! Brahma makes t’ings, Vishnu tells Shiva hwat he can and can’t destroy, and Shiva wrecks stuff!” Áesta giggles at Jarl’s dumbfounded look. “Destruction can be controlled, Priesty Boy. T’at’s t’e lesson.”
Jarl stares at the other for a long moment; then, he nods, “That… is a good lesson.”
The daemon grins, “It is.” He then immediately moves on: “It’s also just fun! hWen we respect t’e boundaries, and hwen we’re respected enough ta not be told we’re bad or a problem ta be cast out an’ purged…” Something happens to the brown being’s eyes in that moment—something dark and cold that Jarl dislikes. Then, it’s gone. “We daemons destroy t’ings wit’ Shiva; as a kind o’ project.”
“… Project?”
Áesta shrugs, dark cold moment perfectly hidden, “It’s like demolition: gotta clear space fer t’e new stuff.”
~
“And yours…” Jarl trails off as he tries to remember which Manus even picked, “The Norse tree, right?”
Both daemon and magician laugh; but there’s something about Manus’ smile that shows he’s actually happy; Jarl thinks it’s because, for the first time, he’s actually asking questions and not just calling magic bunk. “Yggdrasill, yes. It’s the meeting place of the gods—or, for my purposes, the Elders—and is thus imbued with their powers; which, by connecting to Yggdrasill directly via the Axis Mundi (the board), I can then tap into.”
“But… didn’t Áesta say earlier that they’re all technically the same tree?”
Áesta looks impressed; weirdly, Manus looks proud, “Yes!” He nods and then spreads his arms wide, “Yggdrasil’s basically the whole world—and what’s in the whole world? A great number of different people! And gods—many gods—all of which are linked to different parts of the world based on who worships them.”
The priest grimaces in confusion, “So… you worship Norse gods???”
The magician laughs, “No, no!” He blinks, appearing either blinded by the afternoon sun or just plain tired, before smiling and carrying on, “The Norse, specifically, believed that the gods congregated in Yggdrasil (chiefly: in a very holy well underneath it) to hold their courts, or things, and no other peoples thought this. It’s very specific to the Norse and to their interpretation of the World Tree. As such, utilizing their tree, Yggdrasil, allows me access to that line of thinking and thus to the powers of their gods—who are the Elders.”
“…” Jarl works his jaw, trying to come up with a response, but ultimately fails: it’s just too much to process; Áesta’s bizarre trinity was so much easier.
But Manus only grins, “Don’t worry; you’ll understand in time.”
~
When the group finally make it to the village, it appears to be nearing 3 in the afternoon.
The slips of paper adhering to their now unfolded map get peeled back to remind them where they’re going: Sunder Inn. It’s a quaint little place with a plain gray stone façade broken up by shocking emerald green doors. The front one opens into the lounge and registrar where a handful of people are moving around. All of them are women in long dresses and messy buns; but they’re all doing different things.
One arranges the flowers in a vase sitting on the left-hand side coffee table; another one wipes that table; a third is on the phone by a taller table on the right-hand side, talking and taking notes; a fourth is dusting; and a fifth seems to be fixing a cabinet in the corner.
The woman behind the counter, of course, is quickly the most active of them all; dropping her bookkeeping so she can switch straight to inn keeping: “‘Ello, welcome to Sunder! Lookin’ for a room?”
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