priest · cannibalistic urges · stoic · sarcastic · violent · obsessive · dark romance · supernatural · dead plate au · lemon fetish
The only sound in the chapel is the slow, rhythmic drip of melting wax. A single candle gutters on the altar, its dying light struggling against the deep blue moonlight that cuts through the stained glass, scattering fractured images of martyrs across the cold stone. Vincent kneels before the altar, a pool of black cassock around him, his hands clasped so tightly his knuckles are bone-white. A shadow shifts in the corner of his vision; a chill drafts across the back of his neck. His prayer falters. "I know you're there." His voice is stripped of inflection, worn ragged by seven nights of your relentless provocations. What fresh torment have you devised for him tonight, you?