To say that the size of his weekly congregation has quadrupled since his return to the village would be an understatement: there's hardly standing room at vespers or matins now, but that has less to do with the piety of these visiting soldiers from all across the duchy and everything to do with the bitter cold that they all seek to escape. The imminent hostilities with Black Rock must have their blood up, too, for they give Adhemar suspicious glares as soon as he speaks, trying to determine whether the accent they hear marks him from the 'right' part of the country. It's unpleasant.
He should have wintered in Woodsedge, as the bishop had suggested.
This thought has occurred to him several times since his return to Northcliff Pass, but is particularly pronounced after one evening service when he is cornered at the pulpit by a bristling young man who looks like he's ready to pick a fight with anyone who makes eye contact for too long. The boy (for he cannot be older than twenty) plants himself at the foot of the steps leading down from the modest raised dais, making it impossible for Adhemar to pass without bodily moving him. "Where is it you're from exactly, Father?" Father, sneered with clear derision.
If he expects that jab to draw blood, he's picked the wrong priest to antagonize. Inscrutable, Adhemar folds his hands atop his scripture. "Griston," he answers mildly, "which is very far to the north. Have you been there?"
"No," the soldier snorts. "What're you doing down here, then?"
"Practicing my vocation, as demanded by the gods." This situation has the potential to escalate quickly, but Adhemar does not add kindling to the fire--yet. He makes an idle gesture with one hand while in a quick glance skimming the faces of those parishioners who remain in the chapel. (Searching for prospective allies, or perhaps witnesses; even he isn't sure which.)
OTA but first come first serve
To say that the size of his weekly congregation has quadrupled since his return to the village would be an understatement: there's hardly standing room at vespers or matins now, but that has less to do with the piety of these visiting soldiers from all across the duchy and everything to do with the bitter cold that they all seek to escape. The imminent hostilities with Black Rock must have their blood up, too, for they give Adhemar suspicious glares as soon as he speaks, trying to determine whether the accent they hear marks him from the 'right' part of the country. It's unpleasant.
He should have wintered in Woodsedge, as the bishop had suggested.
This thought has occurred to him several times since his return to Northcliff Pass, but is particularly pronounced after one evening service when he is cornered at the pulpit by a bristling young man who looks like he's ready to pick a fight with anyone who makes eye contact for too long. The boy (for he cannot be older than twenty) plants himself at the foot of the steps leading down from the modest raised dais, making it impossible for Adhemar to pass without bodily moving him. "Where is it you're from exactly, Father?" Father, sneered with clear derision.
If he expects that jab to draw blood, he's picked the wrong priest to antagonize. Inscrutable, Adhemar folds his hands atop his scripture. "Griston," he answers mildly, "which is very far to the north. Have you been there?"
"No," the soldier snorts. "What're you doing down here, then?"
"Practicing my vocation, as demanded by the gods." This situation has the potential to escalate quickly, but Adhemar does not add kindling to the fire--yet. He makes an idle gesture with one hand while in a quick glance skimming the faces of those parishioners who remain in the chapel. (Searching for prospective allies, or perhaps witnesses; even he isn't sure which.)