Their landing this time is much more conspicuous than the last.
It takes place in a small forest of practically dead trees right on the rim of their target town, Olecastle. Surrounded by old, derelict buildings—including what appears to be a broken down shed of some sort—and an equally aged concrete fence with a literal green door, their landing was shielded more by abandonment and desertion than any stealth (if one can even call popping into a space out of nowhere that) or distance.
The weather might have had something to do with it too.
Whatever storm had been entering Castlegodry as they were leaving it had clearly come from Olecastle (or, at least, been through here first). There’s a fresh and thick layer of fluffy and trackless snow on the ground, indicating that most of the townsfolk have been shuttered in and waiting out the storm.
It also means that they’re covered in the delicate white flakes from toes to hair tips.
Manus whines about this while pouting at Áesta who’s laughing at his childishness. Jarl, however, ignores it, still a little too shook up from what he just learned.
Red has a NAME.
(Kane…)
It’s still weird for him to think about. Giving him the name Red was like putting a collar on a rabid dog: sure, it’s not going to actually let you control the creature, but it certainly makes you feel like you’re in control.
Knowing that this (person?) Red is really Kane is like realizing that dog has a family or pack or owner.
That Red dog has a LIFE and its name is KANE and now Jarl is just a lost priest clutching a collar…
~
Getting the old green door open would have been impossible without Áesta.
The unkept thing was swollen with cold and ice and snow. Its hinges were overrun with vines and foliage that had long since died and stiffened and frozen into a tangled mess that only Mother Nature could unravel.
And God; and summer…
… and Áesta.
~
The sidewalk under the calf-deep snow was probably some kind of cobblestone.
Jarl can tell because it dips and curves as he walks, indicating it’s not a paved flat surface like concrete, and because it’s rough under foot. Literally: it’s a bunch of cut-up, unsealed, natural stone set in mortar.
It’s just like home.
The streets of Shantown are much the same way: paved roads bracketed by paths of cobblestone in town and then dirt roads paved by centuries of traffic bracketed by the very same cut-up, unsealed, natural stone. The only real difference between them, Jarl had found (as he learned landscaping basics while a carpenter), was the stone used (materials change with sourcing, his boss had explained) and the mortar holding them.
Some mortars hold up better to plant life.
Some to ice and snow.
(Some to both.)
(Or none…)
~
The road the cobblestone sidewalk is on ends up being the town’s main road.
Across from their landing point, a strange halfway house sits. Two stories of freshly painted (white) concrete stands on cracked foundation legs (that have also been slapped with a pointless coat of paint—this one blue) with a decaying staircase that looks like it’s breaking multiple safety regulations and building codes.
Jarl shivers at it.
The hybridization of current and centurial is something that, in his experience/opinion, should be admired: it’s the rejuvenation and preservation of something old and beautiful and MEANINGFUL. But this?
It’s…
Awful.
(Why paint your walls and foundation if your floor is still cracked to oblivion and your roof’s still rusting?)
~
Luckily, that place is not their destination.
Jarl learns this (with great relief: if he had to step foot in that demolition zone—for any reason but especially to SLEEP—he’d probably just run to the church after telling Áesta he can go to whatever bar they picked out) when Manus sees his face and probably the horror in his eyes.
And then laughs (the jerk).
And pulls out a brochure.
~
“The place we’re going to is called Ye Ole Castle House.”
“So, it’s not that?” Jarl points at the painted building, needing to be sure. His sanity’s on the line, here.
Manus laughs while Áesta looks genuinely confused, “No, no; not that.”
“hWy?” The mage chortles as Jarl bursts and rabidly explains all the problems he sees with the building, listing off codes and regulations and laws he knows are being violated just be looking at the place.
Áesta ends up looking overwhelmed.
But also kind of impressed.
~
“So, t’at place’s a death trap.”
“YES.” Jarl grumbles under his breath as he trudges through the snow, Manus and pamphlet ahead of him, amused and inquisitive daemon beside him. “They should have fixed the stairs with the foundation—which wasn’t entirely fixed to begin with—before painting the place like AESTHETICS will hold the house together.” He huffs, more worried about the people living there than angry at them, “Which it WON’T.”
Áesta giggles.
“It’s not funny!” The holy man frowns at that daemon, “They could get seriously hurt.”
“I know; you’re just really cute when you care.”
Jarl… wasn’t sure what to say to that.
(Other than blush bright red.)
(Manus, of course, laughed.)
(And then Áesta COOED.)
(Dear God…)
~
It turns out that the hotel was actually 80 meters from their drop off point.
Along those 80 meters were more century old houses in various states of currentness. One had new fixtures, like windows and doors, set in newish or freshly painted stucco walls. Another bore only a new layer of paint, meaning the foundation was still cracked under a layer of older, peeling paint. An outlier (as in the only one—thankfully: Jarl almost had a heart attack when he looked at it) wasn’t even trying: its old stone mason body was covered in water stains and moss and rusted gutters without even new paint in sight!
And all of them had old, dilapidated rooftops.
ALL of them. This is the thing that made Jarl pause and hold up the group. “Manus… we’re sure…”
The mage huffs, clearly tired (the Axis Mundi still takes a lot out of him so, even though he recently recovered and ate his fill, he should really go rest—and probably eat something again) and a little bit frustrated, “YES.”
“Says ‘ere t’ey recently refurbished t’e place.” Manus relaxes and sighs in relief as Áesta takes the brochure from him and saddles up to the priest, clearly intending to handle Jarl’s freak out so Manus gets a breather.
The magician mouths a thank you to the daemon.
Áesta grins as aforementioned holy man takes the pamphlet and reads through it completely, front to back, using it as a distraction from all the houses and shops (because they’re quickly in the heart of the town) around them. He loops his arm around the priest’s elbow with mild caution before relaxing into Jarl’s side and pointing out all the parts of the leaflet toting new.
If the holy human has a problem with a literal daemon hanging off his arm like date night, he doesn’t say it.
And Manus, either to his credit or as proof of how tired he really is, doesn’t comment on it either.
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