As slowly as the woman that walked before him, Malachi ascended the steps and entered the candlelit church once more. Dinner would have to wait, but then he hadn't really felt up to it in the first place... so perhaps it was a blessing, to have stumbled across the woman and her sorrows.

The light was less revealing of him than it was of her. Where the flicker of flames highlighted her obvious beauty, it cast wavering shadows over Malachi's face. He was older than her, much older, but he looked nothing like the men of Whitby with their scruffy beards and weathered skin. The only immediate, recognizable thing about him was that he was most certainly a priest. A tall priest.

"Oh," Malachi let the door gently close behind him. "I'm Father Brennan, I've only been here a short time."

The young lady had already taken her seat. It was no surprise that she didn't know him; hardly anyone in Whitby knew him yet, excluding those that attended services most frequently. Heading to the pew that stood just in front of her, Malachi seated himself and turned so that he could look at her without intruding too far.

"Whatever comes to mind is enough," he offered. Too many people were driven from prayer for believing that it had to be something complicated, or elaborate, or that it had to make sense -- and it didn't. "I find it's easiest to pray when you think of it as less of a request, or a statement, and more as a conversation. God listens no matter the message, or the letter that you send it in."