“D-Don’t do that again!”
He tries to sound firm and authoritative but his fear bleeds through his tight throat and strained voice. There’s a part of him that knows, logically, Áesta can’t obey him because all he did was use his Thrall—something that’s pretty much mandatory for the daemon to eat—but the rest of him isn’t listening; it can’t: too caught up in the fact that he almost ravaged the creature before him and almost gave into temptation.
Jarl almost sinned.
Shaken, the holy man grabs the blankets above them and pulls them down between them, forming a wall. Áesta raises a brow at him from over the stuffing, (orange) green eyes sated, amused, and knowing; but, ultimately, he says nothing—sinking into the soft plushness of his claimed bedding.
He’s already feasted so he won’t complain.
But hadn’t he eaten already???
~
Jarl brings the question up, again, hours later when they’re getting ready to leave.
“You never answered me,” he points out to the daemon as their magician friend preens in the bathroom. They’re waiting to do a group chat with Hagen—to inform him on their findings and ask if he saw Red—before saying their goodbyes/thank yous and moving on to the next rest stop. “About already eating.”
“Yer still on about t’at?”
“Yes.” The holy man fears he might be pouting, “I thought you were getting your fill at the bar.”
Áesta only snorts.
“T’ere jus’ snacks, Priesty Boy~” the daemon purrs, smirking something sharp, snide, and almost nasty. Perhaps vindictive would be the right word as there’s a tone to Áesta’s voice that speaks of insult.
Over what, Jarl isn’t quite sure.
“Yer t’e reason I’m ‘ere,” Áesta continues, voice curling cutely but also cruelly and cuttingly. He’s quite angry. “Yer t’e only full course meal fer me~”
Ah, that’s what: they’re contracted to each other; Áesta was insulted that Jarl assumed he could supplement his payments with other people; in retrospect, that is pretty flaky and he’d probably be insulted, too.
“S-sorry, I…” The priest wonders if there even is a good way to excuse this. Sure, allowing someone else to feed a personal guest would be fine under normal circumstances (you wouldn’t, after all, expect a customer to cook in a restaurant just because that customer had a guest); but these aren’t normal.
The daemon sighs.
“T’e terms of our deal were t’at ye feed me fer helpin’ ya find yer brot’er, yea?” After Jarl nods, Áesta does, too, “T’e important t’ing is t’at ye feed me. T’is ain’t like a restaurant hwere ye pay fer me and t’at counts: cookin’ also don’ ‘appen ‘ere; ye feed me by feelin’ fer me, not getting’ or lettin’ ot’ers ta feel. Got it?”
Jarl nods again, feeling like he fully understands their relationship now.
Or, at least, he understands more of it.
(And, no, he’s not wondering at them both using restaurant metaphors. It’s just a coincidence. Surely.)
~
“How do I look~?”
Jarl and Áesta both look up as Manus glides into the room, finally finished grooming himself for the day. Glitter seems to follow in his wake as his usual pink robe has been replaced with a white, pink-glittered cloak with matching hair ribbon and [surprisingly low] heels (Then again, if they have to trek for hours again…). White bellbottoms compliment the slight change in Manus’ get up while a bright pink shirt, belt, and nails harken back to the replaced robe Jarl’d almost grown used to—until the mage waves and reveals that robe hiding in the new cloak’s shadow as the inside of the cloak itself.
The truth is: the robe had never actually left.
While the daemon looks approving as well as amused, the priest can’t seem to grasp the point in dressing up: they’re really just talking to a friend, saying their byes to everyone they met, and then using the Axis Mundi. Bailenac’ringy probably won’t care too much, either. Or maybe they would? Who really knows?
Jarl, at least, is certain they’ll care more about the fact that Manus’ first trick would be passing out on them.
“Flamboyant,” is all Jarl says (Áesta purrs “Doable” with a suggestive wink.) before pressing: “Now, call him.”
~
Smoke billows out of the Lay Tablet, produced by the flaming herbs and potions scattered throughout it, and blue light shines high to the ceiling and into the keen green eyes of the witch’s doctor half, Hagen.
The lighting makes the apothecary’s irises look something similar to teal, giving him a haunted quality that only exacerbates the tired bags under his eyes and wary downturn of his usually stiff lips. He looks haggard—a haggard Hagen, as Manus would love to joke—and worried: for them, their safety, and the news coming.
And he probably should be.
Only some of it is good. And what isn’t…
Well, it won’t be pleasant to hear.
“Jarl, Manus, Áesta—it is good to see you.” Hagen greets them with a small smile, his out-of-view hands moving to set down and aside what sounds like a pen and paper. He briefly moves something else, glass (probably a bottle as it seems he is doing inventory or filling an order), before giving them his full attention. “You vere not at z’e church vhen ve last connected.”
The daemon’s lip curls as his nose crinkles with scorn (And, no: Jarl doesn’t find it at all cute this time.).
Hagen seems to realize his error: “Ah, right… I vould not vant to be in such a place if I vere you, neither.”
~
“How is the parish?”
Jarl knows it hasn’t even been a day, but he needs to know everything about his home—his responsibility. Thankfully, Hagen and Manus both seem to understand this and don’t question or protest covering the topic. In fact, Hagen seems eager to pull his trusty notebook from his breast pocket and provide Jarl some answers.
Áesta’s probably the only one bored with the conversation (And perhaps even annoyed as It fails to see how the parish can be more important than the priest’s brother being sighted, the kidnapper being a daemon, and the possibility that Hagen might have glimpsed either without realizing it as he came and they left.).
“It is vell,” Hagen sooths, small smile widening slightly. “Morning mass vent vell, as yesterday. Sophie is good; she is managing very vell and z’e people are beholden to her—she is much loved, Jarl; be careful of her.” They both chuckle, amused at such an ancient thought being proven right: Jarl always said she was priestly.
If only she wanted such a position for herself; if only he wanted to give his priesthood up.
“Your list of confessionors seems to be growing; I suppose you vill not have to vorry about loosing too many to Sophie—you are still z’e talk of z’e town! Z’at writer I told you about—z’e one writing a book of you two—came today viz’ a first chapter. It vas just a draft, but z’ey write vell and I z’nk z’ey have captured you: stubbornness, soul, stupidity, and all!”
Jarl scuffs and tries to hide his blush.
It’s still nuts that he’ll be in a book!
~
“And vhat of you? Vhere are you now?”
“Now?” Jarl blinks, blush receding as confused befalls him. “We’re at Sunder Inn—about to leave, actually.”
“Only now?”
Manus steps up here, perhaps because he is the only one of the Trio of Treaties to know that there had been a schedule, of all things, placed upon this journey by the studious and rather strict Hagen, “There was a delay: we learned many things while in Cunning’s Bar which delayed our rest and leave.” The mage pauses here, mouth working but saying nothing, before finally blurting out: “Hagen, they saw Jasey and the kidnapper.”
The apothecary’s eyes widen—so much it’s almost comical (Áesta, at least, does giggle.).
“They didn’t know anything was amiss, so they didn’t say anything to you when you came,” Jarl explains, quickly taking over as he sees self-blame flash in his friend’s eyes. “But they remembered much of them—particularly the one responsible.”
“Vhat… vhat do z’ey know?”
Hagen seems shaken, straight to his core, and even Áesta can tell he’s upset with himself for missing the two. But he recovers quickly, pulling out a fresher looking notebook from his drawer and opening it to a new page.
He poises to write whatever Jarl or Manus or even Áesta says and Jasey’s family can’t help but be grateful.
They can always rely on Hagen.
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