Was today the day that the next shipment came in? It usually ran late, but he showed up anyway. Half the time it was well past late, and on a truly abominable day it came in a day early and left.

This day did not seem to be another early day. Already, he had been sitting for hours. The afternoon sun was glaring down on him, humidity under his hat in the foggy sea air. He was airing his top hat out when a passenger ship threw a shadow over the dock.

He stood from the crate he’d taken refuge on, and made way for the influx of passengers whose escorts weren’t yet there. Ladies didn’t like to stand in heels, after all – and gentlemen got rather offended if he didn’t offer it, too.

One could argue that the Church, as a whole, made a mistake in her decision to clothe her priests in black. The cheapest of dyes, the most stern and severe in appearance, and perhaps worst of all, the most suffocatingly hot color under the sun. Malachi could argue, as he often did, that it was precisely these discomforts that made the black cassocks suitable for humble servants of the Lord. He could; yet the humid harbor air clung to his hair, and the sun warmed his skin through his clothes, and he could not help but feel...

What was it? Annoyed? Malachi took care not to dwell on the feeling, well aware that travel had simply exhausted him. The ship steadied, and he placed his saturno atop his head to block the afternoon sun. No one could say that Whitby's welcome was not a warm one, he supposed. He followed leisurely behind the other passengers, carrying only a black bag at his side, albeit quite a heavy one -- he set it down as soon as he spied an unoccupied crate.

"Ah," Malachi lifted it again just as quickly. How inconsiderate to block the space for someone else; he had not even noticed the man standing near it, so distracted was he with his own concerns. Yet this fellow had clearly had the same idea, otherwise he would have been sitting on it himself, surely. It mattered little: he meant to find St. Hilda's before the sun got any lower, and sitting around would not accomplish that.

Stifling a frown, he looked back to the man by the crate. "Pardon me -- do you live here?"

There were a lot of things that stood out about the man who sat in the newly vacated space. He saw over heads in a crowd like Ropati, for instance. His hair, too, jet black like his own in a sea of mostly brown. His face was obscured under the angle of his hat by the time Ropati looked directly at him.

None of those were what he noticed first. There was a brief moment where his eyes locked on the priest’s collar, as if the thing had personally choked him once. It was chased off by a wooden smile.

Ropati hoped he might be spared another lecture on the wonders of God if he stared dutifully out at the passengers disembarking, like ten times his own weight in wine was just going to magically part past all these strangers from the wrong boat.

Was he talking to him? Ropati’s glance skittered back, then away again. Ah, shit. He was talking to him.

“I do not,” Ropati answered, happy to omit that most of the time this year it was a Whitby inn he stayed at. “Do you?”

As soon as he heard the man's quick response, Malachi breathed out a sigh. No, this was what he should have expected. He had not even left the docks yet, it was no surprise that the very first person he turned to was not a resident of Whitby.

It took a moment longer for him to register that the question was returned, and he dipped his head.

"I suppose I do now," though he did not sound all that pleased with it. Surely he would find, soon enough, what there was to love about Whitby; there was a reason why he had been called here, after all, and he had only to find it. He just had to find the church first.

Clearing his throat, Malachi tried something else instead. "You wouldn't happen to know where I might find the church?"

He was not sure what to think when he finally saw the man’s face. He’d seen men beaten half to death mistake luck for divine intervention. One of his older sisters, even, had married off the island to a Christian man before he’d been lured off.

The woodenness shifted to something gentler, though not by much.

Considering this was likely not the last time he saw this man, Ropati opted not to comment on his reluctance. Whether he was better or worse than the men he currently sold to remained to be seen. At least it sounded as though he would be free of him soon.

… Then, he asked directions.

“Saint Hilda’s, or the Methodist one?”

Some part of him wanted to venture further in his questioning, wanted to ask this stranger more about this place that he apparently did not live in. Did he at least frequent Whitby often? Did he know what the people were like? If they were any different from anywhere else he'd been? But such questions were unnecessary: the truth would find him whether he asked for it or not, and the people were likely just as unkind as they were everywhere else.

The stranger's voice cut through his concerns, dragging Malachi's attention back to him.

Malachi almost appeared hopeful, eyebrows raised in the shade beneath his hat. "Saint Hilda's. You know where it is?"

Ropati frowned, realizing for the first time just how little attention he paid getting to his destinations and back. Once upon a time, he knew the turns. Now, he barely saw the houses from Point A to Point B.

“Yeah. It’s a right from here.”

Everything was a right from there, and the embarrassed look on his face said he knew that.

“You know where the Prospect is?”

A right from here... Malachi turned his head to the right, peering over the crowd. A right from here, the man said, as if that gave him anything.

Still, Malachi looked as if he was prepared to accept the vague answer as it was, had the stranger not said more.

"The what?" He could not help his frown then, dark eyes fixed on the man's face. "I was only told Saint Hilda's."

Did he want to leave the sea breeze? It was just going to get hotter inland … but the docks also stank with a vengeance.

That ship would not make port just to set straight to sail again, so at least there was that much.

He glanced to the bag. It looked heavy, and he was going to be hauling wine some time in the near future (hopefully). But young Priest here looked like a rapidly deteriorating tulip in all his black.

“I’ve got a moment,” he said, reluctantly. “Need help with that?”

Bless this man, who witnessed his directional confusion and took it upon himself to assist. There was no shame in needing help, or at least that was what Malachi attempted to remind himself of.

He had almost forgotten about the weight of his bag when the stranger mentioned it. It was quite uncomfortable now, after carrying it for so long, but he was still hesitant to force it on another.

"If you lead the way, I have it," he assured. In spite of his exhaustion, Malachi was not one to waver in strength, and his grip remained firm.

"Thank you, Mister...?"