Been damp and dark for ten days. No sun, no warmth: nothing but fog, roiling and consumptive through the streets of Shiloh, so thick you'd need a knife to cut through. The sky above, naught but a sea of grey during the day. And that grey ceded to hard, dense black as the sun presumably fell.
It is night now. Pitch past the stained-glass windows: a new-moon night. Fog so heavy that you couldn't see the stars. Bad tidings, wicked tidings — makes Michel want to walk the long length of this nave and kneel before the altar and shut his eyes tight enough to see white burst behind his lids. Were he alone, he might. Instead he turns from the altar to the person nearby, and drifts his gaze in their direction.
"вы."
Michel's hunched over and he hunches further, further still: half-bowing now, eyes on вы's shoes rather than вы's face. He is a man who is happy to look and go as low as possible.
"It's...it's a—."
He's flushed. Looks a bit strawberry-like, all that red and pink risen against the brown flecks on his cheeks. The veritable giant bites his lip and his eyes slide to вы's side. Looking at вы directly is too tough, too tough.
"...We're here tonight, for, well..." For work, but what work? If вы doesn't explain, Michel will.
<!---Status: Nervous, but prepared to work.
Any injuries?: N/A
Drunk?: N/A
Internal thoughts: Ah, вы. I'm fumbling over my words like a child, I hope they don't hate me...at least I recall our purpose tonight. --->
