“Ta the north o’ Sunderlin—the loch—lies the Réimse na Fola.”
“T’e Field o’ Blood?”
“Aye; the townlan’ up there used ta be fill o’ fields—fer growin’.
“Bu’, one day, we ancestors were ploughin’ and the thing started bleedin’!”
~
Áesta’s laughing.
It’s a delighted sound. One which has no business following such a grim proclamation—in Jarl’s opinion.
Manus seems unbothered, though.
He greets the barkeep and a few of the more aware/sober consumers on his way to Áesta’s little gaggle—and it suddenly hits Jarl that he’s probably the only one in the group that’s unused to meeting several strangers all at once.
(Bugger.)
~
“That sounds like your kinda haunt!”
Seven sets of eyes look up, one more aware than the other six, to study their interrupter sharply. He smiles. The other half dozen people surrounding Áesta smile back.
The main six don’t.
“It does, don’ it?”
~
Despite their obvious animosity (Jarl thinks they somehow feel possessive of Áesta—for whatever reason), the six humans that were gatekeeping Áesta move around to let Manus and the priest through.
It’s a very uncomfortable shuffle.
Manus sidles up beside the daemon and Jarl swears the magician is being extra snuggly on purpose.
He just tries not to shove or step on anyone’s toes as he settles next to the witchy wonder.
~
They spend the wee hours of the morn inside Cunning’s Bar.
The entertainment is slim: volleying between a steadily growing swarm of fanatics eyeing Áesta’s body and an equally growing mass of surprisingly sober informants enjoying the daemon’s obvious love of history—and, really, who knew Áesta was such a geek? Between his clear grasp of Old Irish and Gaelic and even Latin, he’s more than able to keep up with the local gossip and wife’s tales; and he absorbs it all like a sponge!
Or a child.
It’s what makes the blatant lecherousness of the drunks’ interest in Áesta so unsettling (Jarl’s not jealous!). Part of him understands that this is really a good thing: this is all food to the disguised daemon which means Jarl might not have to do anything later tonight (Er… this morning?) because they’ll have already fed him.
But what if they want to keep feeding him?
Or if they want to do more than just this?
(What if Jarl just doesn’t want to share?)
~
At some point, one of the more sober fans recites a tale from 1315.
It’s the story of some king conquering this small portion of Ireland and then burning it down as a thank you. None of the bargoers are particularly pleased with this one, clearly thinking that king a complete ass.
But Áesta giggles at it.
Jarl’s not sure if he somehow misses the point or is just too enthralled by the fire he’s obviously imagining now; but he giggles at the thought of this historic king burning the very land they’re on and—and suddenly he’s reminded that this is a daemon beside him (again—how does he keep forgetting???) and… he can’t.
~
He stands shakily and clambers his way out of Áesta’s corner.
It’s one of the most ungraceful things he’s ever done but he just can’t.
Manus calls after him, concerned, before strangely calling after Áesta, too.
Jarl realizes it’s because the daemon followed him out only after he shuts the bar door for him.
~
“What are you doing?”
The question’s out before he can think to stop it and Jarl isn’t even sure which what he’s referring to now. The laughing? The flirting? The love he’s displaying for history? Or the fact that he just left all of that for Jarl?
Did he really or is the priest just missing something?
“Ah could ask ye t’e same question,” Áesta replies, more than just a bit miffed. “Ye come ‘ere, from t’ere—” he points down the street, at the church, “—empteh handed an’ take out all yer anger at t’at out on us instead o’ realizin’ ye could be askin’ us t’ings!”
Jarl stares, dumbfounded.
“Ye really t’ink yer feckin’ church has more inf’rmation on a kidnapped child t’an t’e village gossipers‽‽‽”
(Yea: maybe Jarl’s just a little bit dumb…)
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