Horizon Ridge if she ever, ever knew

church.

it is a strange word. church, ingram repeats, testing it upon his tongue. it curls strangely, feels too heavy, too rigid. too good. and thus the word has no use nor place in his personal vernacular. the combined practices of those in basilica was less organized and more spirituality, now that ingram was forced to think about it in a more complex way than simply a label.

a soft shift of his facial features is the only inclination that could be taken that ingram was thinking of several many things at once and not all of them necessarily present dealings.

another shift, a small movement of his scarred muzzle and his seaglass gaze refocuses.

a strange word, he remarks, though it was not asked for. not one that fits my basilica, though. and that was that. what attributes does your safehaven have? he inquires next, unsure if there was any foundation for anything here beyond mere conversation and trading of information tidbits.