The trek to the Tanin Lot is, as promised, short—it is, however, also surprisingly eventful.
Opting to forgo the time sink that would be refinding the main road (the one the graveyard had been on), their little group of three decides to tromp through the ever-growing height of sleet and snow around them, leaving the coniferous fence of Gina Wittle O’ well behind. Áesta leads them, being familiar with Castlegodry and aware of where they are actually headed even in the increasingly difficult weather. (A storm is coming, Jarl suspects, feeling a bit of worry creep up his spine at the thought—even if they only have 90 meters to go, a sudden blizzard can still stop them in their tracks—and he begins to wonder if they should just do it NOW instead of waste more time dealing with a man that clearly only sees magic as a tool—well, actually…
So does HE.)
A large chunk of crystalized water suddenly smacks him in the face, almost comedic in its timing.
It was small and feather-light in weight, even with the newfound wind behind it, but it still surprises him and causes him and his fellows to start. (Although, they probably don’t suspect the world is reprimanding him…)
“I think a storm is coming,” Manus says, echoing one of the thoughts Jarl had been having just moments ago, as the holy mortal wipes the offending moisture from his face (he tries to ignore the amused look this gets).
Áesta nods in agreement but doesn’t seem as perturbed. “We can beat it if we hurry!” the devil encourages, gesturing for the two to hasten their pace. “We just hav’ta get’ta t’e treeline; t’en, we’ll be fine.”
Trusting his lay of the land, Manus and Jarl both nod and fall into step behind him.
The snow crunches noisily beneath their feet, just like it had on their way to Gina’s; only, this time, it’s higher and seems to hold within its increasing depths the promise of a torrent. It doesn’t help that it clings wetly—obnoxiously—to everything, forming frigid cages out of their clothing that only Áesta is impervious to.
(The lucky…)
If only that were a superpower, too.
Jarl tries to ignore this, wanting to save his energy for more important things. As he does this, however, something begins to bother him: WHERE did this storm come from? Jarl hadn’t seen evidence of it brewing—none of them had. There were no heavy clouds in the sky, the wind hadn’t even been that bad, so where…?
He knows well how freak storms can come upon them…
But this is…
(Almost Biblical…)
~
They break through the treeline like magma through crust.
The regional road is bereft of traffic sans the trampled slush left by it. It squelches unpleasantly underfoot as they cross the paved path with as much care as their quick pace can afford them.
Jarl almost faceplants.
His stability comes mostly from Manus’ hand, which tugs his own forward as they try to keep up with Áesta, and the daemon itself: apparently, their deal not only gave Jarl supernatural strength and the ability to fly but abnormal balance as well. Thankfully.
The cleats on his boots might also help.
Regardless of what it actually is, the slush doesn’t hinder them for long: a short distance from their break through the trees, the trodden path veers right and curves into a gate—a driveway.
~
Bracketed by what looks like limestone and cement, the Tanin Lot’s entryway is more majestic and opulent than Jarl would have expected from a farmer or his family (Then again, he reminds himself, they exploited a magician and probably never compensated her for any of the resulting profits her spells gave them…).
(He makes a mental note to try and show his own gratitude for magic from now on.)
The hedges formalizing the treeline and where it connects to the entrance are so well groomed and snowless despite the season that Jarl would swear they’re in a completely different season if it weren’t for the white staining the gravel driveway. Even the closed, white, wooden gate doesn’t have snow when they reach it.
Is this the magic Gina cast on the lot?
Jarl isn’t sure. Manus, however, whistles in awe as he gazes ahead of them, passed the wide manor house (that is, again, shocking to see a FARMER has) and at the large expanse of cropped land behind it.
It’s huge.
“T’at’s t’e actual lot,” Áesta needlessly explains, gesturing to it like it needs help showing off. Jarl snorts.
“What’s he even grow here???” Manus asks, nose crinkled in sympathizable disgust.
“Taters, Ah t’ink it were.” Áesta shrugs as though it doesn’t really matter—and perhaps to him it doesn’t.
Daemons are constantly dealing with the selfish hubris of man, after all.
As Manus mutters about how unbelievable this guy is, Jarl fumbles in his pockets for the note from Gina. Wanting to get this over with—both to get to Jasey faster and get out of this storm faster—he grabs it and starts forward, ready to take the lead again now that he knows where he’s going (for the moment)—
Only to freeze mid-step as something glints in the OPEN doorway.
(When—‽)
BANG!
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