After they had renounced their antique gods, the Basque people became staunchly christian and their deep faith has been a strong identity element ever since.

While they had been stripped of most of their own culture by necessity and other men’s greed, Chéri still saw the Church as the ultimate deliverance place. Wherever they went, if they found a church they knew God would be there for them, not only to save and forgive them, but also to comfort them.
Chéri knew nothing of religious differences, here they probably would not have guessed the difference between a catholic and an Anglican church, but somehow they got lucky and could rely on a place where concepts like dear to them their saint protector, the Virgin Mary and repentance passing purely through their heart were accepted.

Chéri wasn’t here for repentance though, not today. They were here for assistance. As they approached the Church’s door, they bumped into the last attendees of the morning mass and into an exceedingly tall priest, sighing to their backs.
Confused, they turned back, turned again to the priest, and then crossed their arms, trying to sign “is the church now closed?”, potentially having given up on bumping into someone who understood them.
They were definitely an oddity to see: average height, Chéri looked light and delicate, even ephebic. They could be twenty yet, fast and light in their movement as they were, blessed with all the energy of the youth and an angelic face that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a sacred painting. Their clothes were splendidly cut but too flamboyant in colour, which easily identified them as a foreigner, no matter how determined they looked as they walk towards anything. They were clutching a bag in their hand, the international sign of the traveler and a pleading look painted on their face that demanded at least a few minutes inside the sacred place.