“‘Ello, welcome to Sunder! Lookin’ for a room?”
“Ah, yes!” Jarl nods as he moves forward, rough hands (from his carpenter days) swapping out the decorated map for an almost equally decorated wallet. The worn hide feels wonderfully and securingly familiar in his palm, wafting up the smell of old sheep leather and ancient hard-earned bills. “One room, please.”
Áesta raises an eyebrow behind him (he can feel it) as the kind innkeeper blinks, “For all o’ you?”
“Even I am skeptical of this…” Manus mutters. The 5 other workers pause to watch as Áesta nods.
Jarl ignores them, “I’d very much appreciate multiple beds, but we are strapped for cash.”
“Ah…” Manus tiredly palms his eye as the reality of the situation hits him along with the strain of the teleport and the trek here. He had spent so much time dealing with the logistics of the magical half of their journey, he actually forgot about the more tactile demands of it.
Thank Fate for Jarl.
“I… I see…” The woman behind the counter then smiles, “Alright. We do ‘ave a double, if you’d like.”
The priest smiles, “That’d be lovely, thank you.”
The innkeeper nods gently as she pries open a large tome on the counter before her. She uses an emerald ribbon to find her last place before writing in the date and time along with the identifiers 2B, 3, and R102.
She then looks up at the group with warm hazel eyes, “‘Ow would you kids like to be remembered?”
The holy man ponders this, for a moment, before replying, “Jarl and co.”
~
The room is very much like the whole establishment: warm, cozy, and quaint.
The floor is made of a dark wood and littered with cream-colored fur rugs. They match the frame and sheets of the beds, respectively, and only clash with the shocking neon green color on the outside of their door (strangely, the inside of the door isn’t painted over). The walls are a plain gray stone, similar to outside, and only decorated by a long chest of drawers, the 2 beds, 3 nightstands, and several floating shelves.
A small door at the entrance reveals a closet and the normal sized door a little after it reveals a bathroom.
As soon as their new surroundings are taken in, Áesta bolts into the room and dives onto the farthest bed, hugging the emerald green quilt with his whole body like a child with their favorite teddy bear. Manus laughs, amused by his long-time friend’s antics, while Jarl stares at him bemusedly.
Sometimes, he really struggles to believe that this little brown bean is really a daemon.
Shaking that thought off, Jarl helps his tired friend inside before closing and locking the bi-colored door. Afterwards, he guides the magician to the other bed and helps him lay down, “Here, get some rest.”
The tired mage hums, closing his eyes, before snapping them back open: “Hagen!”
“I’ll let him know we’ve arrived,” the brunette soothes, making sure the older man stays laying down. “Sleep.”
Jarl and Áesta both watch as the stubborn magic user actually obeys and closes his eyes.
He’s asleep a few seconds later.
~
Dear Hagen,
Thank you again for your hard work. We’ve made it to Bailemore and have booked a room at Sunder Inn. There was a small hiccup in our plans that led to us landing by the loch, but it was nothing serious.
How is the parish?
And you? Did you rest well?
—Jarl
~
Áesta stares curiously at the shimmering cloud of glitter that lies in the wake of the now sent letter.
Jarl seems to ignore him as he quietly scoops the mess into a garbage pale he found beside the dresser. While washing his hands in the bathroom, he privately hopes the woman running the inn won’t ask about it.
“So, ye can use magic?”
The priest frowns while drying his hands. He stares reproachfully at the asking daemon before denying it, “No. I just let Manus’ letters work as they’re intended.”
“But t’e intent is what makes t’e magic work.”
Jarl scowls. He leaves the bathroom clouded in irritation, resentful—somehow—for the accusation, and breezes passed Áesta on his way to the door. He grabs back his bright red jacket from the closet before storming out the door—unbelievably insulted and unsure exactly why, “I’m not a bloody magician!”
Áesta can only stare after him, confused.
Why does Jarl hate magic so much?
~
Back in the lobby, Jarl reruns into the kind innkeeper from earlier.
She smiles at him when he enters, and he does his best to return it. He’s not sure if he succeeded.
“Did you and your partner have a fight?”
Frowning once again, Jarl wonders what she means by that. Technically, he has 2 as he came with 2 people; but it sounds like she’s referring to only one of them—which begs the question: which of the 2 is his partner?
And then: in what context, exactly, is she asking?
Brushing off the thought (before he has an aneurysm), Jarl decides to give her as much of the truth as he can: “Something like that.”
Chuckling warmly, the kind keeper nods and hands him a piece of paper. “There’s a bar jus’ down the road.”
“Thank you, but I don’t drink.”
Jarl accepts the paper, anyway, figuring the increased detail of it could be helpful. The lake they landed by is labelled as Sunderlin, indicating that the inn he’s in was probably named after it. The aforementioned bar and church are also on the paper, along with a post office, convenience store, school, and community center.
All wonderful places to get some information.
“O, I’m sorry!” The kind woman looks apologetic, as though she’s somehow slighted the younger man.
Jarl simply smiles and shakes his head, “It’s alright. I don’t condemn it or anything; I’m just a priest.”
Now, she seems highly surprised and raises her brows in curiosity: “Priest? Like Ol’ George?”
Ol’ George… Shantown’s Father almost laughs at the nickname. “Is that who I’ll find at your church?”
The brunette woman nods, hazel eyes warm, “O yes; ‘e’s just about a block before the bar.”
Jarl does laugh then: of course, leave it to the Irish to put a church and a bar basically side-by-side, “Thanks.”
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