Ropati looked skeptical, but he said nothing of it.

“Fa’afli, sir,” he rattled off, not particularly concerned if this man caught it.

It had become something of a game to hear all the different ways it could be butchered.

“This way,” he waved him.

A few steps in, and Ropati slowed his pace with another glance toward … Fading Tulip.

“And … your name?” he asked, even more hesitant.

Too many men his junior had beseeched him to call him Father, but thus far Fading Tulip seemed harmless. His thoughts felt rude.

Malachi leaned forward out of habit to catch the man's name. Fa'af... Fa'afili?

"Mister Fa'afili," he acknowledged with a nod. Whether he said it correctly or not, he was pleased to have a name regardless.

He fell into step beside Mister Fa'afili, looking only slightly apologetic when he realized his own omission.

"Ah -- my apologies. I'm Father Malachi Brennan, I've been sent to take over for Father Kemble here in Whitby."

At least, that was what he had been told. He was yet to meet a Father Kemble, and he knew even less about why he was replacing him, but it was not his place to question where the Lord sent him. Even if... he had some troubles finding it.

For a moment, Ropati was touched. It wasn’t often someone made the effort.

“Yes,” he said, even though it was the wrong vowel and it dragged out awkwardly.

And then came the nails on the chalkboard.

“Another father,” Ropati casually misinterpreted. “You’re Irish, then?” he said, hands in his pockets as he strolled.

Another father -- Malachi had to wonder just how often Mister Fa'afili ran into them. After several years of being transferred from church to church, he no longer expected the same kind of reverence or respect from those outside of them. Especially when even the people he served looked at him strangely, differently, as something not of but other than them.

Malachi did not dispel Mister Fa'afili's assumption, saying only, "I believe my father's father was, yes."

Nevermind the fact that Malachi himself had not a drop of Irish blood in him. It was a subject he shifted away from as naturally as he could, and he adjusted his grip on the bag as he walked.

"Are you a merchant, Mister Fa'afili, or are you only passing through?"

There was a quick but distinct glance at Brennan’s face again. Ah. That sounded complicated.

“Both,” he answered. “Once the season changes, I’m generally back in London for the most part. I stock a few of the hotels, restaurants, taverns, and churches along this part of the coast one last time in October.”

He took a right from the wide road to an even wider road.

"Oh?" At that, Malachi's gaze darted back to Mister Fa'afili's face.

Well, it was no real surprise that he did not know him from London either. There were far more people scrambling around those streets than these.

"I spent a while in London," he offered casually, if only to maintain his own belief that he knew how to interact with others. "If you stock churches along with those... what is it you sell, candles? Wine?"

London seemed to be a hard place to avoid, much as it all but repelled anyone with other options.

He glanced over at the second guess and nodded.

“Whiskey too, sometimes. It’s been a while, come to think of it: I’m not sure that priest’s still around here.”

Just as well. He’d long lost contact with the shippers up north.

The shops and taverns were noisy, and Ropati gave some clearance to a couple of men passing the same pipe to and fro.

That was one way to phrase it. Malachi tried not to think about the order of his words; the way it sounded like he'd sold plenty of whiskey to a priest. A frown tugged at the edges of his mouth, but he did not let it fully form.

"I see. I suppose it's a blessing to have found you, then; did Father Kemble ever buy from you?"

Now that he was to be leading the church, it would be good to know these things as soon as possible, lest the chalice run dry.

Malachi avoided the people around them as best as he could, and only somewhat succeeded.

Ropati’s mouth pushed to the side as he maneuvered through the crowd like a fish in its school. A large fish, but a fish nonetheless.

It was quite noisy here. The sound of Ropati’s voice was distinct, on the lower side of medium, but the words were not quite sharp enough to carry consistently over the louder drinking crowds.

“Kemble? What’s his first name?”

Actually, unless he was the posh fellow with the cross whose beverage preferences were ‘drunk, fast’ with the occasional cheap wine chaser, he was almost certain he did not sell to a Kemble of religious nature. Nevertheless, he did not offer that.

The church’s peaked tower was coming into view some blocks down.

First name?

Ah. That was... well. Malachi lifted his brows as if he hadn't heard the question, as if he hoped that it'd just pass if he made Mister Fa'afili voice it again.

"George," he said suddenly. A little too forceful for it to have been clear in his mind even moments before.

"My apologies -- I tend to get rather disoriented when I travel. His name is Father George Kemble."