Horizon Ridge if she ever, ever knew

looking for @Bartholomew; tags for reference! <3

the morning is covered in a thick layer of mist; made worse by the fog that lingers on the sea, bleeding along the land as ingram cuts his way through the ridge. there is no real reason for him to venture to the coast anymore; though there is a part of him that hungers for the islands. but his future is not there, he knows. it lay in the plateau he and those he has garnered to follow him have begun to lay claim to.

he does try to make himself and this trip useful by collecting strips of seaweed to take back to @Ash Paw for her garden.

steps slow as he untangles seaweed from a piece of driftwood washed ashore, bleached by the seasalt; ears alert.

the scents of sacrarium felt far and few from the river to here.

he did not feel bad walking across the land, for he did not take. he examined. he watched. pleased that things seemed nice here still.

even as the mornings and nights became colder and colder. he looked for things to bring back to the small makeshift garden and cache he had began to cultivate. he had not imagined himself as a gardener, among his missionary work.

but here was a man, dark and large. seeming to do much the same work bartholomew had come for.

blessed day, he greeted warmly with a smile. collecting the local flora?

it is hard for ingram to stay focused upon his task here: if simply because horitculture is not his niche — so very far from it, in fact — but also because his thoughts keep straying to the plateau. he knows the wolves he has thus far garnered to follow him could hold down the fort while he was away but still. he does not like being so far away. he has always been this way though, for as long as he could remember.

longer still, perhaps.

the sound of footfalls is swallowed by the soft sands, but the scent that drifts in his direction holds something akin to familiarity for him though he cannot place it. for my herbalists' garden. he replies, seaglass eyes taking in the other male. i do not know what it does. an attempt at humor, foretold by the wirly, almost boyish grin tugging at his scarred lips.

they are friendly with one another.

he warmed further for this! delighted to meet a kind face always, especially one who may have knowledge for him. even if he did not have a herbalists' knowledge.

and although the man before him is younger, he seemed gentlemanly. grown in some way.

is your herbalist of the sea? i still struggle to learn the plants alongside it.

he laughed now, warm and delighted. humor.

though the question asked by the stranger was not illogical, it draws ingram up short. though his ...relationship with ash paw was slowly becoming more friendly — a surprise! given how violently it had started — there is still much of her he does not know. because he has not asked, perhaps, though the dreadfather is of the mind that if she wanted to tell him: she would.

a flaw in his thoughts; but to be expected of one who was the iron guardian, who was used to holding his cards so very close to his chest.

she might be, ingram speaks, hedging that he is not really sure. some pasts do not wish to be pried into. to ingram, this sounds better than saying he hadn't been arsed enough to ask.

at any rate, she knows much. perhaps now he was simply embellishing ...but he remembers her cub-like excitement when she showed him the garden she'd discovered. part of the seaweed is for her. the rest will go on the alters of our gods. those wearing mortal flesh ( such as himself ) and those who remained in their own realms.

he understood. perhaps more than he could convey.

how many creatures did he tend to who wished not to whisper of a life left behind? or those who still healed from those lives? he nodded his head softly, respectful. mindful of the other man's words.

although the whole thing felt upside down at the mention of gods.

plural.

he had become a more understanding man the last few months, but every now and then he felt caught off guard. surprised. swept away. all of this concealed beneath a warm smile.

so you are of a congregation?

of sorts, ingram replies to the other man's question; again the scent of the stranger tickling some part of ingram's memories that he had locked away. the visions he has for basilica is not entirely a congregation, admittedly. there are those of us who are deeply religious and those that are not at all.

a pause is taken, letting the salty sea breeze whip along his scarred muzzle for a moment; the tang of it lingering upon his tongue.

religion is a choice. and not one that everyone could understandably get behind. he noses another small tangle of seaweed, carefully detangling it from a shell.

they were alike.

they were different.

some traditional part of bartholomew remained stuck on the differences. yet he hid it all beneath his usual warmth. such was a hard default now that he could hardly be anything else if he wanted to!

i have a church. he informed softly. but i, too, do not enforce the religion. it operates as a...safe haven.

he watched to see what the man might do with this knowledge.

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.

they seemed polar opposites.

yet they remained cordial with each other. willing to discuss their differences. a young bartholomew would have been horrified. such was the way of life though. especially if he wished for —

peace, i suppose. he offered a laugh. low and warm. a soft roll of his narrow shoulders. i would welcome you and your healer to it. if you ever need something from the sea...

peace.

ingram could never.

his nature is too chaotic; too unpredictable and mercurial.

his peace came at a steep price that could be called upon at the most inconvenient of times.

still, he supposes it is ...ridiculously idyllic; too high of a hope as far as he's concerned but to each their own.

i see, drawls the dreadfather in a contemplative hum, for in truth he has nothing useful to add. peace was a lie but speaking that felt like inviting ruin to what was, otherwise, a rather serene meeting.

he tugs another strip of seaweed free.

i shall keep that in mind, ingram replies briskly. and if you are ever in need of magick ...you can come to basilica. though he is not so sure that this stranger or his church might appreciate it much. all the same, it is a offer presented all the same, with an inside giddiness at the thought of having favors owed gnawing at him.

fading <3

he would never subject himself or sweetharbor to the horrors of magick.

but he kept warm and steadfast. it was better to be on agreeable terms. after all, he did not force everyone to be under his religion. only that they respected it. and he hoped none would disrespect it by bringing such things into their home.

i will tell mine this, he assured the other. a lie, of sorts. one that the preacher was not so hard pressed to say! i wish you and yours well in basilica.

a polite dip of his head, before he moved to carry on.

the familiar itch to return home.