The Bailemore’s church is a gothic-style castle: truly beautiful and fit for a god.
It sits behind an iron gate, two stories at the height of three, with tapering arched windows of white stone set into grey stoned walls touched with earth and thin gold-capped towers at each corner for old ventilation; all arranged in an awe inspiring perfect symmetry but for the flights of stairs visible through the center window.
There’s a Celtic Knot of Three, probably meant to represent the Holy Trinity (and, no, not Áesta’s Hindu one), fixed in the center of the bell tower’s gable and center arched window; and inside a decorated circle that, from his position in the dimly lit street outside, looks eerily like a pentagram or the bull itself.
But Jarl blinks and the effect is gone.
~
The interior of the church is just as grand as any other.
Five large and tall casement windows line the walls on Jarl’s left and right as he walks down the center isle. Ahead of him lies the altar: clean and pristine and appealingly extravagant for a tiny town such as Bailemore. All traces of the morning’s (and perhaps the afternoon’s, as well) mass has been cleaned and organized away, suggesting a very punctual and high-minded staff—or a Sophie-like head nun lurking somewhere about.
Jarl smiles.
“Well! I take it ya aren’t here ta confess yar sins? Not wit’a smile like that!” A boisterous laugh follows that, startling the out-of-town priest from his own mind. Jarl blinks at his right, spotting a tall and slightly heavy man in his late forties with sparing hair and a silver tooth that glimmers in the church light like a star—and the man’s smile.
Jarl smiles back, “You must be Ol’ George; a pleasure.”
They shake hands after Bailemore’s priest looks pleasantly surprised, “Not ev’ryday we get ot’er Fathers ‘ere! Welcome! What brings ya?” The two make their way to the hidden door on the right of the church’s altar. There, behind the curtains and décor, is the right sacristy—one of Father George’s preparation rooms.
The whole room is lined with various habits, all for different seasons or events, and looks much more akin to a dressing room than anything else; but Jarl knows well that this is all the room’s really needed for.
He wonders if George also lives in a cabin a short distance away, like he does.
~
“I’m actually looking for someone; my brother.”
“O?” Bailemore’s Father frowns sympathetically as he passes his out-of-town priest friend a cuppa. “Runaway?” He sips his coffee, probably figuring he’ll need the pick-me-up for this conversation.
“Kidnapped.”
George almost drops his cup. Jarl thinks he’d have been amused by the beats of comedy in another situation. Shame he can’t truly enjoy this lovely cross-country trip… “That’s awful…” The shock visibly wears off George until he looks somberly at Jarl, “How can I help?”
Relieved at the quick offer, Jarl digs into his pocket for several photographs he made sure to bring with him.
They’re all of Jasey. “Have you seen him?” The photos pass hands and George looks hopefully them all.
They both seem to deflate at the same time.
Sadly, the Father of Bailemore returns the images of Jarl’s little brother, “I’m sorry, lad; I hav’n’t seen ‘im.”
~
“Have you heard anything, then; anything at all?”
“Hm…” They’re on their third cup of coffee now, having needed a quick top-up and then second hit after the horrible realization that poor George might not be able to help Jarl after all. The older priest was still hopeful, however, and insisted on wracking his brain for more.
Jarl, of course, will take all the help he can get.
“We did have another foreigner come through recently.” George stands and makes his way to a filing cabinet in the corner. It’s clearly labelled for events and logging staff hours with a calendar on top to stay in time.
That one’s more of a day planner, really, with the much larger calendar on the back of the door being the more traditional day marker; Jarl should know as he does something much similar.
“Ah!” George pulls out a small book that looks much closer to a diary than anything and flips through it.
Turns out it’s a logbook.
“Here.” Bailemore’s Father shows the page he found to Jarl somewhat triumphantly, “And the follow up, too.”
Shantown’s priest nods to show he understands while reading what he hopes isn’t anything too private.
Dec 17th
The German didn’t come today, as he normally does. Shame, too; Clara and Dory from the Inn both made him a lovely shepherd's pie; hopefully he’s alright.
Dec 22nd
The German finally came today; says he got caught up in a skirmish with those not welcoming of his breed on his way up here; glad he’s alright after all; he enjoyed Clara and Dory’s second shepherd's pie.
“Clara is our church’s cook and Dory is the inn’s; lovely lasses. I think the German’s name is Han?”
“Hagen,” Jarl corrects, recognizing the dates as nearing the day his friend usually sets out to personally gather the harder to come by ingredients for his shop. He tries not to get angry at the insinuation of racists jumping the quiet doctor just because he’s German; it’d be better to simply make sure he’s ok later tonight. “He’s our parish’ apothecary.”
“Truly‽ Small world!”
“Indeed…” But this means that the only possible lead George had was simply a friend running his routine.
Bailemore’s Father sighs sadly, “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help, Father.”
Jarl smiles back at the older holy man, “It’s alright; retracing his or his kidnapper’s steps wasn’t the goal here; we know where he’s being kept and are travelling there to rescue him; I just… thought I’d ask… I suppose… Thank you for trying, Father.”
(They spend a few more hours just… talking about Jasey; it feels… unbelievably good to remember him well.)
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