Sunder Inn is lively when Jarl returns to it.
The famous chef of Bailemore is serving Manus a heaping of stew, several more batches cooling beside her, while her apparent twin helps arrange half a dozen thermoses in one of Jarl and co.’s half empty travel bags. Adjacent to them is Áesta and Bobby, yet again chatting pleasantly with each other about art and artists. Sheryl, the owner, stands in the corner speaking with her receptionist whom, for once, isn’t on the phone. Beside the cook’s twin is the florist from before, each hand holding a thermos.
When he enters, Rosa’s the first to notice.
“Father George loved the flowers,” Jarl greets quickly, smiling as her whole face lights up with joy. She claps, excited, and Shantown’s priest decides he should thank his own parish’s florist for all her hard work, too. Fiona’s her name; and while he’s fairly certain she only does his church’s floral arrangements for Sophie (whom Jarl’s sure is the object of Fiona’s fancy), her bouquets are beautiful and worthy of great praise.
(I should really tell her this more often…)
As he considers this, Dory (he remembers her name from Father George and his notes) hands him a bowl; “Don’t think I’ve forgotten you! You’ve hardly eaten a thing during your stay, so I’m quite cross with you!”
“Ah…” Jarl chuckles sheepishly as he accepts the bowl of stew. The smell of it wafts up with the steam and tickles his nose with sheep, starch, and spices galore. “Apologies. Been too worried, I suppose…”
“About your brot’er?” Bobby asks, kicking open the chair next to her so Jarl can easily sit in it.
The out-of-town priest sighs at the roguishness but accepts the seat, sliding into it silently. He then nods, “Yes. Thank you.” The holy man scoops a spoonful of Dory’s stew into his mouth, noting that it’s a bit thinner than his own, and chews the meat and potatoes he finds in there. The seasoning is a bit spicier, too—perhaps due to the distance between parishes and differences between florists (as Jarl gets most of his herbs and spices from Fiona—since she grows more than just pretty flowers for the town—as well as Hagen).
It’s still exceptionally delicious, though.
“This is wonderful, Dory; thank you.” If anyone is surprized by the fact that he already knows her name, nobody shows it. Dory simply smiles and thanks him, saying she’ll consider forgiving him because of it.
Sheryl isn’t so lenient: “I understand your worry, Father—Bobby and Genna explained it to me last night—but it’s 9 PM! You can’t seriously be thinkin’ ‘bout travellin’ in the middle of the night!”
Jarl frowns. “Had I really been talking to Father George that long?”
Áesta nods, “Some’ow.”
“We were gonna grab you,” Manus pips up, appearing to be finally full. “But Dory was brewing some stew and…” He shrugs, sheepish grin explaining how he let his love of food get the better of him.
Jarl rolls his eyes, not at all surprised. (Áesta wouldn’t have gotten him either because CHURCH.)
Then, he pauses. The sun’s already set and as far as the locals know they’re travelling the road on foot. Clearly, they don’t mind the presence of their bizarre group and, if the free meals are anything to go by, they’re clearly not just tolerating them for the income. Since staying until them leaving doesn’t look odd and he and Manus already used magic with Father George they can’t very well tell any of them that they’re using magic to go anywhere…
But they also can’t really afford to lose another night: they’re already behind.
And, anyway, Jarl really doesn’t want to succumb to temptation twice.
~
“Given the distance, I think it will be wiser—though perhaps not smarter—for us to travel through the night: the crime rate here is low, so we’ll be safe, and we’ll be in the neighboring town by dawn’s light.”
It’s rare for Jarl to lie outright, especially when it should be unnecessary (he and Manus already used magic with Father George and the people here have already been since exposed to it thanks to Red), but, somehow, telling the commonfolk about the Axis Mundi or the daemon they were just with seems a bit unwise.
Perhaps even dangerous.
“But I won’t lie and say rescuing Jasey is a slothful affair.”
~
By the time their hosts have finished packing their bags, Manus is full of and bursting with unbridled energy.
He carries the bag full of thermoses, on top of the pack he already had full of accessories he won’t let go of and all the magical items their journey absolutely requires (like the Axis Mundi, Lay Tablet, and Letter Glitter), like it’s nothing: appearing unbothered by the significant addition simply because his meal won’t allow it; neither will his satisfaction, Jarl suspects. As his lifts the bag full of at least a dozen containers of Dory’s stew, it occurs to Jarl how odd this all is: people running an inn going so as to ensure a few strangers are well fed after they leave? Is this normal? (It couldn't be...)
Because it doesn’t seem the most logical.
“You’re sure this is ok?” the out-of-town priest asks at last, finally uncomfortable with all they’ve been given. The weight of the food doesn’t even equal the weight of his original luggage (toiletries, money, and clothes). Surely, he shouldn’t take this…
Across the room, Áesta rolls his (orange) green eyes, seemingly exasperated by the holy man’s fretting—or, perhaps, at how long it took for him to finally pop the question.
Whichever it is, Sheryl rolls her eyes too, “Yes, we’re sure. You’re comin’ back anyway, right~?”
~
“Ye really suck at readin’ people, don’cha?”
Jarl frowns as Áesta looks amusedly up at him, sharp grin nestled under equally sharp (orange) green eyes. The daemon walks between the holy man and the magician, unincumbered (there was no third bag of food), as they make their way down the regional road (the same one Red and Jasey took—toward Mullingh) while waiting for the best time to turn off it and head back up to Sunderlin for the teleportation.
“T’ey liked us, dummy; an’ hwen people like ye t’at much, t’ey trick ya inta comin’ back!”
“Trick?” Jarl shakes his head, feeling like that isn’t right or fair. The weight of the food far outweighs a prank. “I still feel like I’m stealing from them…” Jarl fingers the strap of the stew bag, discomfort clear.
Áesta huffs, “T’at’s ta point!”
The holy man blinks at the little Irish daemon, taken aback. Manus, however, laughs: “It is.”
“Huh?”
“T’ey know ye’r a good person—t’at ye won’t jus’ keep t’eir shit; eejit! Hwy else do ya t’ing she asked ya t’at? Ye’re comin’ back anyway, right???” Áesta’s tone would be harsh if he weren’t being so earnest about it—and if he hadn’t opened with a compliment. It’s like he wants Jarl to see that there’s good in the world—there’s good people—and not just the pit of despair and darkness he’s been staring at since loosing Jasey.
“O-oh…”
Perhaps that IS what the tiny devil is up to.
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