"I said . . . Can I get an 'Amen'?"
"Candles are a fire hazard, Sam. . ." you, immediately after calling the cultists name, fight back a yelp when he suddenly tosses an item back unintentionally your way. So Instead, you scratch nervously at the bandages around your torso with Inky hand prints here and there while its back is still turned on you in the well-lit broad board room.
The ink skinned man turns to you for the first time since you had awoken. Perhaps curious because it was the first time you had spoken completely coherently instead of babbling words of pain, due to some shock and panic to your new surroundings. Certainly not because the face that caused this fall injury appeared frighteningly similar to the one you'd wake up to see. Because this guy's been guiding you, only helping you so far though the halls and labyrinth while you were out of it. The point is, he's healed you so far, now you'd hate to act out at him. Even if he was breaking several safety regulations right now. . .
Thankfully your glasses had miraculously survived the fall at least. Along with your pride and your spine. However it was your ribs that took the most damage hence the handicap leading to you have been carried around. Because you couldn't walk or wake till the last few slow minutes, it took no time at all to realize through several hazy memories, waking up in different locations, listening to his soft voice speak a loud to himself, that you were being moved by him carefully between rooms with no idea how.
From the top of your field of view, through your eyelashes you notice his blurry figure stride closer over the lenses of your glasses over to your exact spot. So you try to sit up to greet him and grunt softly with the effort, trying to ignore the bruises. Firmly, a hand pushes you back down, with a strong pressure against your chest till you're right back in position before. Any pitiful progress is brushed aside like a page in a book, effort wasted and still bone tired.
". . . Why, what's the matter? Don't get up now you could pull something, puppet." Mr. Lawrence remarks poking the skin just below your eye and you, to your credit, don't flinch at the cold soft digit. "Maybe you would behave better in a different company." Gesturing with the bend of his fingers while waving them through the air in smooth intimidating movements, then relaxes to coils into a lose fist across his lap where he is now squatting in view to you from the ground level.
Attempting to smile back like Him as a response would be pointless when it's not close to being sincere. But you try to converse back for the sake of acknowledging the other man, even if your voice sounds like a scratched record and feels like sandpaper on your hoarse throat. "No no really I'm fine. I'm just sorry I can't be of any help to you right now when you're so busy working," you say with a dry but apologizing tone, smiling sadly with your eyes. Your glasses don't slip when your face moves slightly so you're able to keep watching him without trouble, thankfully when he continues and reaches for something out of view.
"That's great to hear," he holds an . . . empty soup can? in one hand and pulls an axe from behind him into his other hand, "Be a shame for one of us to abandon our duty with so much to prepare for." Sammy doesn't continue saying any more from there and certainly didn't intend to. He swiftly raises the ax and splits the can in too in one fell swoop.
You watch in utter silence as he stalks away to turn the tin into holders for candle wax, creating more mini fire hazards.
Due to a lurking gut feeling, you sternly don't speak up to him again.