"Ah yes, other way."

Malachi swiveled on the heels of his shoes in an all-too-fluid swish of black robes. Graceful and swift when he wanted to be -- or when he faced the threat of whatever the fuck the man in this church was doing.

"No soap..." he answered, disappointed.

What kind of church had he been sent to? A dirty one filled with thieves, apparently, which was painfully in line with what he should have expected, given the bishop's fondness for him. Maybe if he let them steal enough, he'd be sent somewhere else... there couldn't be that many churches with dirty, sticky hands like this one.

"...I'm starting to think I should have stayed on the boat."