so if this is daylight [ambrose, hermes?, open]
By now, the most recent resurrected arrivals - a pair, hailing from the late 17th century, who apparently incurred some starvation before their deaths - have adapted a little to their new surroundings, but they still carry with them a good deal of trauma and worry, so now they must go and find whatever assistance they can. Sanchari has thoughts of ( Read more... )
"Where does anyone find a god in any place?" ...that's rhetorical, as Ambrose considers the street ahead of them. "He has a presence here; a temple, perhaps?"
He's still wary of Xanadu, of their vulnerability; he tells himself he'd be less tense if he had a knife to hold, and he's...wrong, actually, but he does his best not to rile Sanchari with his own anxieties.
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"Pardon my intrusion though I cannot help but notice the period of your dress. I shall like to say that I am by no means a religious man though it does serve to know where a church would be." He looked nearly uncomfortable with his statement. "I woke up in one just outside of town."
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She looks carefully at Ichabod, and then up at Ambrose; the discomfort on the stranger's face doesn't escape her, and she wonders at it.
"We don't seek the Christian God," Sanchari says, plainly, "and if He's here He'd damn me twice if He could, I'm sure."
She says it in this tone like she'd like to see Him try.
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At this interruption, Ambrose turns a flat and cold look on Ichabod- but Sanchari speaks before he can, and it gives him enough time to catch the same discomfort that she sees. (For the best; if he'd spoken first, he might've done so without thinking and what he said wouldn't have been pleasant for anyone.)
"His church-" Ambrose quite literally spits on the ground, "-is not a place I have any desire to spend more of my time. Do you know where we may find a temple to Hermes?"
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He kept his hands behind his back, his pistol was at his side and holstered along with his truncheon and his badge number emblazoned on his shoulder in highly polished silver that was hidden by a frock coat that was not only heavy but made him appear a lot shorter than he really is. "I will take you to the library where we can find a map."
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Sanchari folds her arms over her chest - she's a fiery thing, but less seething than her male counterpart, here - and regards Ichabod with raised eyebrows.
"You're in for a surprise," she doesn't quite laugh, "I'll say as much. Proper fellow, aren't you?"
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Proper and stiff and being eyed very suspiciously by the gaunt man at Sanchari's side; Ambrose is far less amused than she is and tangling with the warring instincts of 'do not trust strangers, or in fact anyone ever' and 'but we don't have time to screw around if help will get us there faster'.
"A true son of the church," he mutters, sardonic- presumably he means 'someone who has learned not to trust it', which is not an opinion he'd have voiced mere months ago. Not where anyone but Sanchari could hear, at least. Now he may hate it as freely as he pleases, and so he does. "Very well, then."
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It was more like he was more in a hurry than the latter. He hated being judged and the sooner he could get out of the way, the better.
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Sanchari follows along, obliging, but now she's decided to learn things about their tour guide. He doesn't seem to be reacting much to her - but maybe where he's from nobody minds gypsies, she can't say. He's got an accent which perplexes her, so perhaps.
"Might we have a name for you, sir? So as to thank you; we've not all forgot our manners." Right, Ambrose?
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How pointed of you, Sanchari; Ambrose sets his jaw and looks not a bit chastened. (They are in something of a hurry, albeit carefully so for the sake of their depleted strength - nagging at him is the worry for what became of their children and he feels as if he can hardly breathe for it.)
"Yes, we're obliged to you. Mr...?"
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He looked to Sanchari with a raised brow. He's seen gypsies before but never conversed with them. "And your names, if I am permitted? And perhaps we shall get you something to eat before heading to the library."
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"Sanchari," she says, and she'll let Ambrose decide from there - no surname, but the Roma don't use them in her time. 'Badi' is the name of her clan, nothing more, nothing less. She thinks Ichabod seems awfully uncomfortable, but she's said what she wanted to Ambrose and from there...well, she can only soothe her ex-priest's sharp edges so much.
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"Fath-"
Ambrose stops, and in place of the irritable distrust that has marked his expression there's now a distance - the remoteness of someone carefully removing themselves from something that hurts so much more than any of the scars on his body. When he continues, his voice is softer and steadier and it aches. "Ambrose Roy. We won't forget your kindnesses."
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Even he wasn't without sympathy. Even he has learned that giving a little bit of kindness to strangers often had wonderful benefits. His distance was out of habit than the lack of social decorum. "And you are most welcome. Come."
He lead them to an inn that he knew offered a warm meal from his learning of the town. "This place has the most delicious pot roast that I have ever tasted," he said as he opened the door.
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Sanchari, it should be noted, stays always a pace away, with Ambrose between her and the rest of the world - whether she does this deliberately or without realizing isn't as obvious, but she has the bruises and weariness of recent violence, though with a day or two between to recover.
"This place seems to have no shortage of wealth," she notes, with some wryness.
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Pot roast sounds really appealing, and Ambrose knows he needs to build up his strength and weight again more than he needs to distrust the source on principle. He swallows his objections to following a relative stranger for this reason - and besides, besides some stiffness on either side, Ichabod has been nothing but courteous and thoughtful.
Food for thought, as well as the food for eating that they're going towards; the warmth of the inn and the smell of cooking meat is more comforting than he really expected it to be once they're inside.
"I never cared for cities," he says, "but this one may be tolerable."
...it's not quite the faint praise it sounds, considering the source. Ambrose was never one for effusiveness.
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