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?"