Stone walls, dismal people, and resonating tenors singing in the main building- this place was eerily similar to the prison Fenrir had just escaped. One merely had to replace the singing with cries of unseen terror and it was practically the same. Snapping back to his reality, the youth continued searching through the many male heads in the crowd when-
He found it.
The old man was right, this priest's hair was blue. How odd.
Fenrir stepped through the bustling crowd, gingerly breathing as to not inhale the rancid scent of so many unbathed bodies. The priest was bent in prayer, rosary squeezed tightly in his palms. Dare he disturb him?
'Would that old man know if I didn't deliver his message?'
'No, but you would.' His inner voice reprimanded.
Damn inner voices.
"Erm. Aurelien Baptiste?"
The blue haired priest raised his head at his name and looked at the youth before him. Gangly frame, five foot six, messy brown spikes, and innocent green eyes. Scruffy clothes... An ex-convict or vagabond perhaps?
'How curious.' He thought lazily.
"That is me..."
"I have a message for you." Replied Fenrir.
Aurelien Baptiste sighed and stood. Well, at least he didn't have to pretend to pray anymore. (Which was nice for the nonreligious such as he.) He waved his hand for the gangly boy to continue.
"Corbeau told me to-
"Corbeau?" The priest interrupted, looking around lazily to ease his sudden fear of eavesdroppers.
"Yes.... Corbeau." Fenrir answered suspiciously. Was he supposed to know this Corbeau person? Was he the only person not in the 'know'?
"Come with me, then we'll continue."
The priest beckoned for Fenrir to follow him, looking over his shoulder in his nonchalant manner. If this was about Corbeau Baptiste, this was not something that should fall on any other ears but his own. Aurelien had a hunch as to what the old man wanted anyhow. It was time that he repay the old man for his initial kindness. Damn promises- they were always getting him in trouble it seemed.
Fenrir was ushered into a well lit library. It was completely desolate- the ideal place to speak to someone in private. They sat at a corner table, in plain view of both exits should someone decide to open the doors.
"Now," drawled Aurelien, "What was it that Corbeau wanted you to tell me, boy?"
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