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Knock Knock; There's someone at the front door.
Topic Started: Sep 8 2017, 03:27 AM (1,146 Views)
Etherelle
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Time: A week after the Reluctance of Comfort, sometime in the evening.

A dark figure draws close to the Church of St. John underneath an overcast evening, carrying nothing but a suitcase and the weight of the world.

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Catswing
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Thanks to Toni, I have a wip to reply with :')

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Mitt Coleman and Lesie Priroda
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Etherelle
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*** ALL SPOKEN DIALOG IS ACTUALLY TERRIBLY PRONOUNCED GERMAN ***
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Catswing
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With a butcher's knife in his mouth and jars of bodily parts in his arms, Mitt quickly realized he might not be the most welcoming sight and definitely shouldn't be the one greeting people at the church's door. He looked at what appears to be a young lad-- a priest, his suitcase dropped upon witnessing the sight that was Mitt. It's contents clattered, making his sight shift downwards. This lad was new here.
Mitt's interactions with other clergy members, before coming to Streitstadt, have been... scarce. And if he did, they were there to assist him on his missions, and he was never paired with young priests like this trembling brother before him. The boy's terrified look made him feel a tinge of guilt.

Clumsily, Mitt removed the knife from his mouth, and replied in slightly broken German, <Hello Brother, sorry on my appearance, I not greet guests into the church often. Welcome.> The younger's fellow trembling made Mitt feel worse, but his facial expression remained stern <No need for fear, the knife not meant for you. You speak other speech?> he stepped back to let him enter.
Mitt Coleman and Lesie Priroda
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Etherelle
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Armand opened one eye. He opened the other. There was no hand raised against him, no stern reprimand. Instead, there was a lilted and similarly butchered attempt at the German tongue, and Armand gave pause, his hands still outstretched as he blinked at the intimidating priest within the shadowed portal. A gulp and Armand lowered his hands only slightly, still expecting to help carry some of the man's burden even as he stepped away to give clearance. Armand remained on the doorstep, not daring yet to step inside.

<I have tongues in...In...> Armand started in German but then backtracked and thought of a different way to answer. His mind whirred frantically, trying to function beyond his overwhelming fog of anxiety, and eventually the priest opted to respond in his first language, hoping that it might earn a nod of understanding. <Español? Ah...Mm...Et Français? Mmn....O Italiano?> There was a gleam of recognition there and Armand felt his own hope light up a bit. He was more fluent in Italian when it came to languages beyond his initial ken. It wasn't so far a leap from one romance language into another and he made the transition easily, making the switch as easily as he might have put on other shoes.

<Grazie, questo è molto più facile. Sto cercando mio padr--> Armand choked on the word and editted himself quickly, feeling a flush of embarrassment creep up on his cheeks, <...cercando padre Wellam, Speravo che potrei trovarlo qui,> Armand said hurriedly, hopefully, as if speaking faster might get him a faster answer. His eyes then moved past Mitt and into the darkness beyond, imagining somehow, that there might be a familiar shape in the shadows beyond him, passing by, unaware of the familiar sight that was standing on the doorstep. He returned his gaze to Mitt, his eyes shadowed by his dark lenses, but even still, it was hard not to sense the subtle pang of desperate hope. <Lui è qui?>

***Translation: Spanish? An...Mm...Or French? Mmn...Or Italian?

Thank you, this is a lot easier. I'm looking for my father--... looking for Father Wellam, I was hoping I could find him here. Is he here?
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Catswing
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Mitt was relieved when they found a common language to speak, and so seemed the fellow priest <Wellam..> he repeated the name, attempting to remember a person attached to it, he was here for merely a week now but had heard all the priests names, even if he hadn't seen them, he was quite sure. <Non mi ricordo--> he was about to speak before seeing the hopeful eyes of the young priest through the tinted lenses.
The way the boy looked beyond him, his earlier slip of the tongue and embarrassment, this Father held a significance to him, a mentor perhaps? Mitt didn't have the heart to tell him there's none of the name here. <Quello che voglio dire è che non conosco il nome, ma gli altri padri potrebbero.>

Although welcoming, Mitt did have some inquiries as he waited for him to enter, such as how such a young priest managed to arrive with no scratch, while carrying no visible weapons and without any assistance through this dreadful town. Quick inspection of the boy revealed no signs of recent shaving, no musk even after what seems to be a long journey, that cleared him. His eye color was indecipherable due to the tinted glasses, that did raise some suspicion in Mitt. With a head nod he gestures him to enter <Sei benvenuto, nel frattempo, sembri aver avuto un lungo viaggio qui.>

** "I don't recall--"

"What I mean is that I do not know the name, but the other fathers might."

"You are welcome, in the meantime, you seem to have had a long journey to get here."
Mitt Coleman and Lesie Priroda
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Etherelle
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At first, Armand's face fell. It was hard not to see, the sudden slump in his shoulders, the worried catch of his lip underneath his teeth as his eyes suddenly glazed over with thoughts, plans, the back ups that he didn't anticipate to make. He had hoped with all his heart that...He didn't have any other plan. His mental projection of what this story would become would have resulted in a familiar shape pausing in those shadows beyond the threshold, an uttered name, the increasing footsteps of the priest who lunged out of the darkness, arms wide open to catch him in his arms, to hold his head fast to his shoulder so that he might inhale that familiar scent and to cry aloud his name over and over, how happy he was, and he would answer in kind...But perhaps the story needed to be edited. Perhaps it would happen further within the parish, in another hallway, in another room, perhaps on the altar steps, or in the garden. Armand had hope of that story, this strange man with the armful of canisters and heavy brow and unshaven face seemed to extend the narrative. Perhaps the other fathers knew. Perhaps an unnamed man in the healing ward, perhaps a stranger staying with them in the guest room...Armand's head searched for possibilities, ways to end this story with something happy.

The smile fumbled on his face, but he kept it pinned there nonetheless, bending over to retrieve his suitcase after his toe had tapped into it. The lad had nearly forgotten it, nearly tripped right over it, but he picked up his suitcase with little effort, suggesting the thing was light, or nearly empty. He made sure to dust off his shoes, worn as they were, make the cross over his chest and kiss his knuckle before he stepped inside the portal, bowing his head appreciatively at the unnamed priest before him a few times before he backed himself up against the nearest wall and set a respecting distance between them, head still bowed slightly as if the weight of the looming ceiling were weighing upon him. Yet even in the darkness of the interior, Armand did not stumble nor move to take off his sunglasses.

<"Sono grato. Tutto ciò che mi aiuterà a trovare padre Wellam è molto apprezzato. Sono andato molto e io ... spero di trovarlo qui. Non so dove altro guardare. Grazie Padre...?"> Armand gave pause, his quiet way of asking an introduction of the mysterious gruff-faced father. He wrung his hands on the suitcase's handle, glancing again worriedly to the jars in the man's arms, <"Sei sicuro di non volermi aiutare a portare qualcosa?">


***Translation: I am grateful. Anything that might help me find Father Wellam is much appreciated. I have come a long way and I...I am hoping to find him here. I know not where else to look. Thank you, father...?

Are you sure you do not want me to help carrying something?
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Catswing
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*breaths into a paper bag*

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Etherelle
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Mitt entered the classroom, put down his jars on the table and looked around the room, he took off his gloves and put them in the aprons pocket. Someone should have been there that could help him out, he sighed and turned around <"Yes, but it seems like we would have to wait.">
Mitt sat down on the chair, facing the door where Armand stood. He couldn't determine what is it about this strange young priest that left him so uneasy. He tried to study what he saw in front of him, the only new thing learned was that the boy was wearing his cassok on the inside out, judging by the seams on it.
Sign of long travel? Or expectation to arrive early? Did he not take another with him? Something... something... SOMETHING about his demeanor was setting all of the graying ginger's alarms off, making him all tense and nervous.
From this angle he kind of looks like-- Mitt's mind snapped back to the most important question he had to confirm or deny, was this kid, dressed as a priest, a were-creature?

In an automated action Mitt put his hand inside the aprons pocket and took out his silver rosary, holding it between both his hands, it glistened as he slowly parted the beads on it with his thumbs, not breaking his gaze from the other in the room.
The sound of his rosary's beads replaced any words Mitt wanted to say to fill the quiet.
It then hit him, his silver rosary, an idea he absolutely HAD to try out but there was no way to be subtle about it. He decided to go with blunt and to the point. If the worst happens, he fights him.
<"Would you kindly hold onto this for me, for a moment?"> Mitt reached his hand out, the rosary lying in the middle of his palm for Armand to take for his test.
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Etherelle
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Oh Saints. He was staring. Why was he staring? Did he notice the seams of his cassock? Of course he did. Who wouldn't? Oh, who was he fooling? He should have known that this wouldn't work! Hopefully, it didn't seem too pathetic...What a horrible first impression. This felt awful. Maybe if he smiled, it would be distracting. It didn't feel like it was helping though. This man's stare was so intense, it felt like he was prying, plucking, peeling him apart, cracking him open like garlic and shucking the frail crackling skin. Armand gulped miserably.

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As Armand stood in the doorway, unsure if he was allowed to step in, or if he should wait at the portal's entrance, he felt the slow creeping crawl of anxiety, already knotted in his guts, climbing up into his ribs, playing with his breathing, as if readying him to run, and he wanted, goodness, he wanted nothing more than to apologize and bolt, but he HAD to know if Father Wellam was here. There was no going around it. The nervousness made his breathing unsteady, only slightly, and made his shoulders snap back painfully straight, as if he expected to be cracked over the shoulder with a ruler for slouching even the slightest bit. So he stood there, rigid and unsure, trying to keep the smile pinned tight onto his face. He watched as Mitt set down his jars on the table, glancing around before sitting down in a chair, and proceeded to STARE studiously, curiously, intensely, at Armand. So Armand stared back.

Second, by second, Armand...

...slowly withered.

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Then there was the familiar click of beads, distracting Armand from the agonizing torture of being stared at. He glanced down, spying the telltale strand in Mitt's hand as he thoughtfully counted them. They were silver, expensive and well made, beautiful works of art, and the beauty of them for a moment arrested Armand, his breath catching on the inhale, but when he looked up, he blanched again from the other's unflinching stare and following (albeit puzzling) request.

<"O-of course, Father Coleman, I uhm...A moment, please,"> stammered Armand uselessly, fumbling with a smile on his face as he dug into his sash around his waist and stepped forward into the room. Tucked above his right hip, underneath the tightly snugged wrap, folded underneath the lip, was a handkerchief, which he carefully pulled free and shook loose. He had no desire to touch the delicate rosary, not with hands like these, hands that he had yet the chance to wash since his long walk through and into the forest. He had started at the break of dawn earlier that morning, making it a long trek now that it was near the end of the day. There had been so many stops for rest, little trips and a few tumbles that sent him fumbling onto the dirt path, thus requiring his turning inside out of his cassock, but he was sure, confident, even, that his hands were filthy. He would not dare risk ruining the man's rosary. So with the unfolding of the handkerchief, gilded with faded golden thread in weaving shapes of vines and leaves, a baroque halo in it's center, Armand ensured that his hand was covered before he reached carefully forward and plucked the rosary from Mitt's palm, turning his palm over in turn to cradle the rosary carefully, making sure it did not fall.

Then he stood there, awkward and unsure, feeling himself slowly crumbling as he fought to keep his trembling unnoticed.

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Edited by Etherelle, Feb 12 2018, 05:22 AM.
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Catswing
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Mitt looked at the boy taking the rosary with a handkerchief, he either had good manners or he was trying to outsmart him. His gut feeling made him even more tense, he took a sharp short breath but his expression remained the same, eyes fixated on Armand's face.
Uncovering those creatures as they try to blend in, kill innocents or spread their curse. Doing that for so many years made him develop a feeling, sometimes he just knew it already. Usually something about the manners, the face and how they held themselves that easily gave it away.

This case was different, something didn't sit right there. Armand was nervous, a well behaved but almost childlike mannerism, he didn't seem to be a hunter at all and it was all the more suspicious to him that such a young brother could find his way to such a town. Alone.
Mitt was tired of niceties, before the rest come he had to make sure he wasn't endangering them.
He emphasized the word, strong and clear as his hand touched the end of the handkerchief, pulling it out from beneath the rosary and letting it touch Armand's bare hands.

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Edited by Catswing, Feb 13 2018, 12:47 PM.
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Etherelle
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Saints, it felt like he was trying to look through him and there was nothing more vilifying than having a stranger stare you down with the strength of an army. Armand couldn't help the terrible trembling in his shoulders then as he tried to keep his nervousness and fear under control, but there was something else at work here, something recent, something familiar and rooted down deep deep into his core.

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Armand blanched the moment that Mitt's voice rang solid and clear, powerful and frightening, his word striking Armand stiff with terror as if he were the soft metal atop an anvil and Mitt's command was the hammer's fall. He had been spoken to like this before. For years, this was the only way that he had been spoken to. Armand thought that he had left that voice behind, ran away, far away from that seaside valley, and yet here, here it was, in the heart of his strange town, in this surviving church. Of course, he wouldn't run away. The word sang though him, the reverb making Armand's whole body tremble as he balked, and as Mitt's fingers curled around his handkerchief and yanked it free from his palm, Armand's trembling doubled, as if he expected Father Coleman to follow up that word with a familiar rebuke, a familiar reminder, a signature raise of the hand.

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The silver rosary hit the ground with a clatter that sounded like breaking glass to Armand.

Saints, forgive him. He had dropped Father Coleman's precious rosary.

Terror gripped the young priest, a gasp ripping through his lungs as he immediately dropped his suitcase. It popped open, coughing up what little remained inside, a spare yet dirty cassock wrapped about something heavy, as well as a few books and what seemed to be a parasol, but it didn't immediately concern the young stammering priest. He had tripped clumsily, frantically, into apologies, first speaking in Spanish and then in French before he managed to fumble back into the correct language, dropping to his knees in turn. He tried to keep himself together, he really tried, but as he scooped up the fallen rosary between his hands, he felt himself cringing in anticipation, wincing as the seconds passed with no follow through. At least, not yet. So he ducked his head, still waiting, yet as he did so, Armand studied the rosary frantically, as if he were holding a wounded hummingbird, and checked it over, piece by piece, ensuring that no serious harm had befallen his superior's rosary. Only once he had double checked it, did he hold it up between two palms, cradling it carefully so that it would not fall again and held it out for Father Coleman to take. He kept his head tucked low and his shoulders pinched up by his neck, bracing himself for something he considered the norm for such gross negligence.

Any moment now.

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"I-I'm sorry, Father Coleman, f-forgive me!"
Edited by Etherelle, Feb 15 2018, 08:20 AM.
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Mitt watched the boy frantically pick up the rosary, no burns. How strange, his gut feelings were correct most of the time.
His gaze fixated on the rosary before he looked up at its current holder, terrified eyes awaited punishment and his heart sank.
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A young voice pleaded him for forgiveness in his mind echoed in his mind, apologizing for something she shouldn't have, her hands charred from the silver touch, a tired and scared expression on her face.
"It's fine, Mae--" he blurted without thinking, but he quickly realized it was just his own mind playing tricks on him, he fell silent and a moment later his shaky hand reached towards the rosary.
No that wasn't her, he shut his eyes as he grabbed it. Ashamed to have made such a mistake, he lowered his head and rubbed his eyes with his free hand.
He was losing his mind, projecting his daughter onto a complete stranger. A young priest he just left scared of him. He opened his eyes and tried to ignore how his stomach turned.
He his the rosary in his apron, stood up and stretched a hand to help Armand get back on his feet.
Mitt sighed <"Please forgive me, lad, I falsely suspected that you might be a monster and I deeply apologize for assuming so.">
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Edited by Etherelle, Feb 21 2018, 01:10 PM.
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Mitt watched Armand's hand reach and then hesitate, fingers twitching and retreating. He should have expected that after he had just terrified him and almost accused him of being a monster. The boy frantically grabbed what fell out of his suitcase, which wasn't much, it seemed that there was only another cassock in there and... that was about it.
Mitt let his hand fall to his side. Armand's arrival now bothered him even more, with the knowledge that he was no monster and had no weapons to defend himself with. Mitt assumed he was a Spaniard, with the little information he had. It meant this young, seemingly defenseless priest, crossed quite a long way to get here. He could assume people had helped him out, maybe other churches on the way but he remembered his own experience when he was getting closer to the forest surrounding the town. No local would DARE come near or into the forest so the possibility of someone escorting Armand into town, was slim to none.

Even though his mind was partly occupied with all these questions and theories he began building, he did listen to Armand when he spoke. The boy understood where his suspicion had come from, he was relieved that at the very least, it didn't seem like Mitt overreacted to the situation.
<"And what was Father Bautista investigating here?"> Mitt caught the new piece of information, he could think of a few answers to that but would rather let Armand answer and maybe learn something new.

His eyes darted left to the sound of footsteps that came from a nearby room, but looking through the door frame, he didn't seem to see who it was yet. Mitt knew that any of the other priests, or maybe nuns, would have known how to handle a situation like this much better than he did and help Armand much more than he could.
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Shuffling his meager belongings into his suitcase, Armand tried desperately to focus on something else, to buy himself time to recover from the rabbit-like tabor of his heart. It was okay, he kept telling himself, he was okay. He was far away from that place. He was okay here. They didn't know. All he had to do was ask a couple questions, find his father, and leave. Or stay, if Wellam wanted to. He would do anything just so long as he was near the one person in the world who cared about him. They didn't know.

Yet, whispered a dark voice in his mind.

Armand tightened his eyes for a moment, remembering the names of several saints, calming himself through familiar repetition, before he managed to look up, pretending as if nothing had happened, as if his anxiety hadn't nearly consumed him alive right then and there. He managed another wobbly smile, and responded. <"F-father Bautista was dispatched by S-st. Sebastian's Hunter Branch after pleas from the branches near this area. T-they said they needed him to look into disappearances around this valley. H-he was on his way back home. That was his last mission.">

Tip. Tap. Tip. Tap.

Armand stiffened at the sound of footsteps, his head whipping towards the hallway far before Mitt took his curious glance. In a frantic motion, he pushed himself off of the ground, dusting off his cassock and trying to make himself look presentable again, before he practically slid himself against the wall in an attempt to disappear. With stiffened and straight shoulders, Armand ducked his chin towards his chest, trying to hide behind both his tinted glasses and his bangs, as well as the raise of his suitcase, which he clutched to his chest as if in defense. He glanced once to Mitt, before glancing again to the doorway, torn between hopeful exhalation and absolute terror. He could imagine the kind face of Father Bautista peeking into the door, asking Mitt if he needed anything from the kitchen, a friendly gesture on the way to refill a cup of coffee, as he was wont to do, yet at the same time, he could imagine the haggard and travel weary face of someone else, with darkened brow and curled scowl, hunting for an escaped clergyman, hands tightening around a coiled scourge.

So Armand froze, breath caught in his throat, making himself quiet, silent, as invisible as possible, as he smashed himself back against the wall, eyes locked on the edge of the door frame.
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Jana
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Edit: They're speaking Italian, right? So is she. Everyone's speaking Italian. God's language. The pope said so.

who are you all of a sudden
Edited by Jana, May 5 2018, 02:14 AM.
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Edited by Etherelle, May 7 2018, 09:21 AM.
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Mitt's gaze judged the boy's awkward movements, his own hands parting the beads of the rosary until the footsteps were at the door and Donna's loud and clear voice pierced his ears.
Right, the jars, he meant to go get those later (or the day after). That was prior to the knocks that interrupted his plans. He opened his mouth to protest but before he could reply to the accusations, Donna's attention was already fixated on the new face in the room.
‘Armand Bast’ the new face in the room replied.

Mitt raised his eyebrows, eyes darted left to right as his mind attempted to recall hearing the name in their previous conversation but he soon realized, that this was the first time he’d actually heard an introduction from the brother. Armand seemed to have figured it out as well.
It was a good excuse that he could use if anyone was to ever question his hostile behavior upon meeting Armand, he thought. He was planning it out, he could excuse such behavior as merely a necessary suspicion.

He put both hands on his knees and prompted himself up, tucking the rosary back into the pocket he pulled it from
“A miscommunication at best, no need to fret over it Brother.” Mitt spoke to Armand and gave him a polite nod.
“Please meet Sister Sposito.” He introduced Donna with a gesture of the hand and walked up to relieve the jar from her hands, checking that it’s in tact
“Have you heard of a Father Bautista?” He asked for him and hoped he caught the name correctly.
Edited by Catswing, May 22 2018, 09:12 PM.
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Jana
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Donna had asked a simple question.
Two simple questions.
She hadn't imagined it would require such a production to answer just the one of them. And now the clumsy boy wouldn't stop blathering on and on and on and on. She decided she didn't like Brother "Armand Bast" and his buffoonish inside-out clothing.
Therefore, she opted to completely ignore him in favor of speaking to Coleman, as she currently disliked him less than the other.

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That wasn't strictly true. Yes, she HAD been helping Agatha.
..Mostly.
.........Sort of.

It was really Donna's turn to wash the dishes, and Agatha had been helping her. The jar was just an excuse to get away for a minute.
Actually, the more Donna thought about it, the more the thought of playing Tour Guide to a Little Lost Sheep sounded much better than being elbow deep in disgusting, lukewarm, chalky, soapy dishwater......but she wasn't about to admit that now.
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Etherelle
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Faced with a grown priest suddenly sobbing in Father Coleman's filthy study, Donna did what any reasonable woman would do.

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She called for backup from the biggest sob story she knew.
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Quick while she isn't looking! Dad mode on!
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