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hellinistical · 4 months ago

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Priest! Vampire! Rafayel x Nun! Reader.

synopsis: when a charming new priest is sent to your convent amidst the winter freeze, you're naturally untrusting. unfortunately, he's more knowledgeable of the faith, and you could learn a thing or two, especially if you want to protect yourself from the recent vampire attacks.

trigger warnings: (heavy plot!). minor and major character death, blood, dubious consent, sacrilegious themes (Not Christianity or Catholicism; made up religion but using synonymous terms), gore, porn with plot, fingering (fem. receiving), hand jobs, piv, non-consensual vampire transformation, bodily horror, drinking blood, playing with blood, human consumption, unwilling cannibalism, afab reader- usage of female anatomy (though not descriptive of size/skin markings). fem. reader- she/her used. biting. choking. manipulation. blasphemy. overstimulation. virgin reader. corruption. monster fucking. slight belly bulge, bondage. incorrect use of holy water. wax play. This list may be expanded and/or altered.

triggers for this chapter: fem. and afab reader. death of minor character(s). small mentions of blood. implied death of a child. decapitation. suffocation. suspicious behavior. panic. careless handling of body parts. choking.

a/n: this piece holds no actual religious scripture or quotes, I just needed those terms as they were synonymous. This is in NO WAY a jab at those faiths nor is it meant to spread hate or harm to them. It is also not an insult to those who practice. I tried to write with care, which yeah may be hypocritical of what I have here, so I apologize. Additionally, thank you to everyone who voted in the poll. While it was originally intended to be a one-shot, I felt it would be better to break it into chunks as this is very plot-heavy. Thank you for your support! Reblogs are highly appreciated!

word count: 6.0k

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II. Il Ragazzo

"The Uses of Sorrow."

The dull thud, thud, thud of the knife against the cutting board filled the small kitchen, blending with the occasional clatter of wooden wheels against the floor. The boy, sprawled out on his stomach, rolled his new toy cart back and forth, watching the way it wobbled slightly over the uneven planks.

His mother barely spared him a glance, too focused on her task. The scent of fresh-cut onions and herbs mingled with the faint smokiness of the fire burning low in the hearth. Outside, the

wind howled, rattling the shutters, but inside, the warmth of the kitchen kept the winter chill at bay.

“Not so rough, Emil,” she murmured, tossing a handful of carrots into the pot. “You’ll break it before the day’s out.”

Emil grinned, undeterred. He pulled the cart back as far as he could, then let it go, sending it racing across the floor—straight into the table leg with a loud crack.

His mother sighed. “Emil.”

But before she could scold him further, a knock echoed through the house. Sharp. Firm.

The tension in her shoulders eased—just a little.

Standing on the doorstep, framed by the biting winter mist, was a young man with a pleasant smile. He carried a woven basket in his arms, wrapped in cloth to keep its contents from the cold.

"Hello, ma'am," he greeted warmly. "The church is giving out handouts for the freeze. May Astra keep you warm."

She blinked, momentarily caught off guard by his presence. His clothes were simple but well-kept, a thick cloak draped over his shoulders, dusted with frost.

Though young, there was something composed about him, something practiced in the way he spoke.

Her grip on the door slackened. "Oh," she said, glancing at the basket. "That’s… kind of you. I didn’t think they were doing another round so soon."

"We weren’t, but Father Rafayel insisted," the young man explained, shifting the basket slightly. "The freeze’s worse than expected. People are going hungry."

At the mention of the new priest’s name, her lips pressed together. Father Rafayel. She had heard bits and pieces of the new priest, of how he was an Astra-sent blessing to Linkon. Still, food was food. And she wouldn’t be foolish enough to turn away charity in the dead of winter.

She exhaled, stepping aside. "Come in, then. You’ll catch your death out there."

The young man smiled again, dipping his head in thanks before stepping inside. Behind her, Emil peeked up from the floor, wide-eyed, his toy forgotten.

The young man’s smile widened as he glanced down at Emil, who stared up at him with wide, wary eyes.

"Is this your son? Adorable," he said warmly, crouching slightly to be at the boy’s level.

Emil clutched his wooden toy to his chest, not answering right away. His mother, still standing near the door, crossed her arms.

“Yes,” she said simply, watching the man carefully. “Emil, say hello.”

The boy hesitated, then mumbled, “Hello.”

The young man chuckled. “A polite one, too.” He lifted the basket slightly. “There’s bread, dried meats, and a bit of cider inside. Should help you get through the worst of the freeze.”

She nodded, stepping forward to take it from his hands. As she did, her fingers brushed against his—just for a second—and she noted how cold his skin was.

If he noticed her wariness, he didn’t show it. A gust of wind blew harshly inside, the fireplace’s flame stuttering before coming alive again.

"Thank you for letting me inside," he said, his voice smooth, easy—too easy.

She only nodded, shifting the weight of the basket in her arms. Emil had retreated to the hearth, kneeling before the fire as if afraid it might go out again.

"You’ve traveled far today," she observed, glancing at the frost that clung to his cloak.

"A bit," he admitted, brushing snow from his sleeves. "But nothing I’m not used to." His eyes flickered around the small home, lingering on the modest table, the single candle burning low. "It’s good to see a household still keeping warm."

She forced a thin smile. "Astra provides."

There's an awkward pause before he clears his throat and stands up.

"Well, I should get going! Thanks for letting me warm up!" He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders, offering one last pleasant smile.

She nodded stiffly. "Safe travels."

Emil didn’t say anything, only watched from his place by the fire, his small hands gripping the wooden toy like a lifeline.

The young man hesitated for the briefest moment, then reached for the door. As he stepped out, the wind rushed in again, biting and cruel, whipping at the flames once more before he shut it firmly behind him.

For a long moment, the only sounds in the house were the crackling fire and the faint, distant footsteps crunching against the snow.

On the counter, a new toy sat.

She hadn’t seen him place it there. Hadn’t heard it.

A wooden horse, finely carved, its edges smooth—too smooth, like it had been handled many times but never worn. A strange, glossy sheen coated it, as though the wood had been treated with something other than oil.

Her stomach twisted.

"Emil," she called, her voice careful, measured.

The boy turned his wide eyes to her.

"Did you—" She stopped herself, throat dry.

Emil shook his head. "It wasn’t there before."

A draft curled through the cracks in the door, slipping cold fingers across the floor. The fire flickered.

Slowly, she reached out, fingertips grazing the wooden figure.

It was warm.

Father Rafayel’s voice rang clear and steady, each word deliberate as he recited from the scripture, his hands making sharp gestures. "And so, on the first night, Astra had stripped the Vampire of their blood and warmth. Begone, and know that man may deny you entry into their homes!"

Another day, another sermon. The air in the chapel was thick with the faint scent of incense, smoke curling lazily toward the high beams. You shifted on the hard wooden bench, the hem of your habit catching the edge of the seat. Your fingers fidgeted with the fabric, then scratched your nose, the chill of the morning still lingering under the warmth of the candles.

The words echoed off the stone walls, cold and powerful, and for a moment, it felt like the chapel was holding its breath. The fire in the hearth crackled, but not enough to chase away the bite of the winter air that still crept in through the cracks.

Father Rafayel.

You glanced up at him, sitting tall at the altar, his form just slightly illuminated by the flickering candlelight. He continued, undeterred by the subtle tension that settled in the room. His eyes never seemed to wander from the pages before him. "For only Astra could give man the power to protect themselves from that which is evil."

The others in the pews looked entranced, nodding solemnly, whispering the prayers under their breath. Simone beside you was practically leaning forward in her seat, hanging on every word.

"Dear Father," one of the older nuns spoke up, her voice cutting through the murmurs of the dispersing congregation. Sister Agnes, with her hands clasped tightly in front of her, took a breath before continuing. "We are grateful for your teachings, but I must ask—will there be confessions today? Some of the sisters have… concerns."

Father Rafayel smiled—small, measured. "Of course, Sister. The doors will be open until sundown."

"Very good to hear, Father. And, I do sincerely apologize, but perhaps the topic being that of Satan's kin may be too much for our dear postulants?"

Sister Agnes gestured over toward where you, Simone, and the others had been sitting.

Father Rafayel’s gaze followed Sister Agnes’s gesture, settling once more on you and the others. His expression remained composed, but the corners of his mouth twitched—whether in amusement or irritation, you couldn’t tell.

“My apologies, Sister,” he said smoothly. “I hadn’t realized our postulants were so faint of heart.”

A few of the other sisters bristled at his tone, but Sister Agnes only smiled, the lines on her face deepening. “It is not a matter of heart, Father, but of propriety. There are some lessons that require a certain maturity.”

"Ah, yes, I see," he said softly, "But we must remember, Sister, that knowledge is power. Shielding them from the truths of the world may only delay their understanding of it."

Sister Agnes' face tightened, but she said nothing more. There was a brief, pregnant silence before she nodded stiffly. "Of course, Father. I just wanted to be sure."

“Thank you, Sister Agnes,” Father Rafayel said, his tone returning to its usual charm, yet something about it was too rehearsed. "But I assure you, they will be fine."

Simone shifted uncomfortably beside you, her hands folding in her lap as she avoided his eyes.

Getting up from the pews at the end of the sermon, you were already gathering your things when Father Rafayel's voice cut through the quiet bustle of the departing congregation.

"Sister," he called softly, and despite the casualness of his tone, you felt the weight of his attention draw you in.

You hesitated for a moment, unsure whether to stay seated or make your way out, but something in his voice made you rise, your feet moving before your mind had fully decided.

As you approached, his eyes studied you carefully, too carefully, and a flicker of something—anticipation, maybe—passed between you. You couldn’t quite place it, but it set the hairs on the back of your neck on edge.

"Yes, Father?" Your voice was steady, though you were unsure why you felt so unsettled.

He smiled, a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and gestured toward the door. "I just wanted to speak with you for a moment. A brief word, if you don’t mind."

You nodded, though a small part of you wanted to turn and leave before he could say anything further. But you stayed, unsure of what was expected of you in this moment.

"Of course, Father. What is it?" You asked, your voice steady, but your stomach tightened. You couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off about this—about him.

Father Rafayel took a small step closer, the faintest scent of incense still lingering on him, mixed with something sharper, more metallic. His smile softened, but the intensity of his gaze never wavered.

"You’ve been... quiet during my sermons," he began, his tone low, almost conversational. "Not that it’s any concern of mine, but I do wonder, Sister, what you think of the teachings I’ve shared. But on the other hand, you seemed particularly engaged with today’s sermon."

You blinked. Had you? You had barely been paying attention—at least, not to the words. You were too caught up in the fact that he had been watching you.

“I always listen, Father,” you answered carefully.

His lips twitched, like he was amused by something. “That’s good. A sharp mind is a gift from Astra.” He took a slow step forward, forcing you to tip your chin up to meet his gaze. “Tell me, Sister—do you believe in the Vampire?”

You frowned, unsure where this was going. “Of course. Astra’s word is truth. I believe in Astra’s wisdom, Father. And I trust that the scriptures speak the truth," you replied, carefully choosing your words. It was a general enough answer, one that wouldn’t invite further questioning—but you could see the faint glint of curiosity in his eyes, like he was sizing you up.

Before he could continue on, you clear your throat. "Forgive me, Father, it’s just... I’ve heard the scripture many times before."

He tilted his head slightly, his lips curling into a smile that didn’t sit quite right. "I understand. But even the most familiar truths can reveal something new, don’t you think?"

"Perhaps," you said, though it sounded more like an attempt to push the conversation to a close.

Father Rafayel didn’t seem in any hurry to end the conversation. He stepped back, giving you a little space, though the weight of his presence remained. "I would like to see you in my office later today, Sister," he said, his voice smooth as ever. "We can discuss your thoughts on the sermon, among other things. I’m curious to hear your perspective."

Your heart skipped a beat, but you nodded slowly, unsure of how to respond. "I’ll be there, Father."

He smiled again, that same predatory smile that made your skin crawl just a little more. "Good. I’ll look forward to it."

And with that, he turned, robes sweeping against the stone floor as he walked away, leaving you standing there Simone poked your back. "That Father Rafayel is surely a scholar in his field. I don't think I've ever heard anyone talk about the Vampire with that much confidence.”

You forced a small nod, though your mind was still tangled in the conversation you’d just had.

"He certainly speaks like someone who knows what he’s talking about," you murmured, keeping your voice low.

Simone huffed a small laugh. "More than that! He talks as if he’s seen them with his own eyes." She shivered, rubbing her arms. "The way he described the Vampire... it gave me chills. Like they were right outside, waiting for the sun to set."

Your fingers twitched slightly against the folds of your habit. Begone, and know that man may deny you entry into their homes. The scripture had never felt so... heavy.

"Maybe he just wants to scare us into faith," you said, though the words felt hollow even to you.

Simone gave you a sidelong glance, eyes full of mischief. "Or maybe he’s just dramatic." She leaned in closer, voice dropping to a whisper. "But I’ll tell you this—I don’t think he’s just a priest."

You blinked, turning to her. "What do you mean?"

She shrugged. "I mean he’s too polished. Too sure of himself. Most priests—Father Thomas, even—speak with humility, with reverence. But him? He speaks as though he’s telling a story only he remembers."

Your chest tightened slightly, but before you could respond, the bells tolled for morning duties.

"Well, whatever he is," Simone sighed, straightening her posture, "he’s our new priest. Best we behave, lest he start preaching about us next."

You snorted, covering your mouth to stifle the sound. "Oh yeah, a whole sermon about some low-level postulants getting caught yawning. That’d really bring in the crowds."

Simone grinned. "Imagine the scripture. 'And lo, Astra cast his gaze upon the weary postulants and said—Why dost thou slumber in my house?'" She put on an overly serious tone, clasping her hands together in mock reverence.

You shook your head, still grinning. "If that happens, I’m blaming you."

"Hey, if Father Rafayel ever needs new material, I’m happy to provide," she teased, nudging you lightly before heading off toward the kitchens.

You lingered a moment longer, glancing toward the door Father Rafayel had disappeared through.

He speaks as though he’s telling a story only he remembers.

Dim candlelight flickered, casting shifting shadows over the vials—rows upon rows of them, filled with dark, sluggish liquid. Some were sealed, pristine in their careful organization, while others lay shattered, their contents staining the floor in dried, rust-colored streaks.

"And on the second day, Astra be damned, had banned the Vampire from flesh, lest they make do and multiply."

The shard trembled in his grip, thin fingers wrapped tight around the jagged glass as he carved into his own flesh. His breath hitched—more in frustration than pain—as he watched the pale, violated skin remain just that. Unbroken. Unyielding. No blood welled, no crimson life spilled forth to prove he was still something human.

His ragged reflection stared back at him from the shards littering the floor, the candlelight distorting his gaunt features. The words of Astra’s scripture echoed in his skull, the weight of them pressing against something primal within him.

His breath hitched as he stared at the wound, watching the skin close with unnatural speed, the edges of the cut knitting back together as though no injury had ever been there. He let out a shaky laugh, soft and hollow, his fingers trembling with the shard still in hand.

"Astra, what have you done to me?" he whispered into the stillness, the question swallowed by the weight of the air around him.

The scriptures—so sure, so sure in their warning—repeated in his mind, their words echoing through the stillness. Banished from flesh... to make do and multiply.

And yet here he was, unable to bleed. Unable to feel the pulse of life that marked him as living.

The toy horse sat on the desk, its painted eyes vacant and lifeless. The edges of its once bright mane were chipped, the wood smooth and worn from where small fingers had often grasped it. He wiped the corners of his mouth, the motion slow, deliberate, as though the taste of something still lingered.

The toy horse mocked him in its innocence.

And truly, those stupid nuns were fools for believing that Astra was their savior. Astra—a god of light, of warmth, of protection. A comforting lie wrapped in scripture and ritual. They worshipped her as though he could save them from the darkness, from the horrors that lurked beyond their narrow walls. He ran his fingers along the rim of the broken vial, cold and jagged. No god would save him. No divine hand would reach down to pull him from the abyss. They had all been so eager to kneel, to pray, to deny the truth.

The anger seethed through him like a slow-burning fire, suffocating in its heat. Sister Agnes—that wretched, meddling hag. How dare she question him, challenge his authority? How dare she presume to understand, to see through the layers of carefully crafted facades he’d spent so long building? She, with her wrinkled face and tedious morals, had thought she could stop him. She had no idea what he was capable of, what lengths he would go to for the sake of his own desires.

But no—he had to calm down. Control. That’s what he needed. Control over the hunger, the madness that clawed inside him.

And yet, the satisfaction still lingered in his chest. The chase—oh, how he delighted in it. The cat-and-mouse games, the little dance of power and submission. And now, the culmination of his efforts sat before him, staring blankly into space. Sister Agnes’s head, severed cleanly at the neck, her wide eyes frozen in the last moments of her futile struggle.

The blood had drained long ago, leaving only the dull, lifeless pallor of a body deprived of its essence. The head, once so full of righteous indignation, now rested in a jar beside him, as though it were just another object.

A trophy.

He tilted his head, examining her face, the expression of surprise forever frozen in her glassy eyes. There was something so... satisfying about this. The sweet, quiet stillness of her defiance now extinguished. The silence where her voice once preached.

“Foolish woman,” he murmured under his breath, his fingers brushing the cold glass of the jar. The satisfaction rose within him, and for a moment, the hunger seemed sated.

The confessional was a hollow place, thick with the acrid scent of incense and the heavy weight of untold sins. Sister Agnes sat before him, her trembling hands folded in her lap, her voice wavering with a concern that had long since turned to dread.

“Father…” she began, her voice shaking ever so slightly. “I’ve been troubled. Very troubled. The village… it’s been losing its way, Father. People speak of terrible things in the streets, whispers of shadows in the night, of things moving in the fog. Murders, Father. There have been more murders. “First it was old Jonah, the fisherman. Found in his cabin, throat slit, his body drained of life. No blood, no struggle.” Her voice cracked slightly. “Then the widow, Miriam. They found her in the woods, her hands twisted like claws, her face frozen in terror. The children—Father, the children are scared. They hear things, strange things, things they can’t explain.”

Father Rafayel’s lips twisted into a thin smile. “Ease your woes, Sister. It’s just fear,” he said, his voice silky smooth, laced with venom. “Fear that grips their hearts, turning them into monsters in their own minds. The darkness always seems to grow larger when the sun sets, doesn’t it?” His words lingered, the insinuation almost lost in the haze of his own twisted amusement. “But the truth, Sister Agnes, is that the devil’s kin walk among us already. They always have. They are the ones who whisper and lie, who pretend to be good, only to turn and bring ruin to the innocent. They wear the face of faith, but their hearts are black. They prey on the weak.”

"Father, I fear I have sinned. For I have doubt of Astra's mighty words. Is He truly protecting us? Linkon seems to be a farm for the monsters. And your sermon of the Vampire-”

“Doubt,” he repeated softly, the word slipping from his mouth like poison. “Is that what you feel, Sister Agnes? Doubt in Astra’s protection? How terribly… fragile.”

She flinched, her breath catching as his words wrapped around her, tightening like a noose. His voice was smooth, disarming.

“You question Astra, and yet you fail to see the truth, the dark truth. Linkon? A farm for monsters?” He chuckled, though there was no mirth in it. “Astra’s protection is only as strong as the hearts of the people who believe in it.

He chuckled again, the sound hollow and cold, as if mocking her desperate grasp at hope.

"But don't worry, Sister," his voice smooth, dripping with false reassurance. “Doubt shows you think. Astra would forgive.”

He paused for a moment, studying her reaction through the screen, savoring the tension thickening the air between them. His gaze lingered on her, calculating, watching her every movement as if she were a delicate thing on the edge of shattering.

"Yes, Sister. Your doubt is a sign of thought, of reason," he continued, "And it is in that reason that Astra would see you through. But… you see, doubt is a dangerous game. You play it, and it will devour you. It has a way of slipping through the cracks, feeding on the weakness of your mind, your heart."

around them, cloaking the confessional in an oppressive darkness.

"But fear not," he added, his voice a velvet promise, “Astra will forgive. After all, faith is a precious thing, and where faith falters, there is always room to begin anew.”

Sister Agnes hesitated, fingers tightening around the rosary in her lap. She swallowed hard before speaking again, her voice quieter this time, as if fearful the very walls might hear.

"The elders and I… we do not doubt your competency, Father Rafayel, but—" she paused, exhaling shakily— "but we do wonder if, perhaps, your knowledge of the Vampire is… too thorough. Too intimate."

A flicker of something sharp and amused crossed his face. He leaned back slightly, hands resting in his lap, perfectly still.

"Is that so?" he murmured, the candlelight casting strange shadows over his face. "And what, dear Sister, do you suppose that means?"

"It is only that you speak of them as though you—" She stopped herself, shaking her head, her next words barely above a whisper. "As though you know them. As though you have seen them. And the murders—"

He chuckled then, low and rich, sending a cold shiver down her spine.

"Ah, the murders." He tilted his head, his smile widening ever so slightly. "You think I am connected to them?"

Sister Agnes' throat bobbed as she struggled to swallow her fear. A part of her screamed to leave, to excuse herself, to abandon this conversation altogether. But she had come this far. The doubt had already taken root. And doubt was a dangerous thing.

"Forgive me, Father," she finally whispered, voice trembling. "I only wish to understand. The people are afraid. And we… we seek guidance."

For a long moment, he said nothing. Simply watched her, that eerie, knowing smile still stretched across his lips. Then, in a voice soft and sweet as poisoned honey, he whispered:

"Then let me guide you, Sister Agnes."

The divider screen slid down with a low creak, and in the dim light, all Sister Agnes could see were his eyes. Irises of blue and pink, swirling like the depths of an ocean she had never dared to enter—yet now, those eyes seemed to draw her in, pulling her closer with every fleeting moment.

Her breath hitched in her throat as she locked eyes with him, her body frozen in place, as if some unseen force had bound her to the spot. His gaze pierced through her, sharp and calculating, as if he could see every crack in her facade, every wisp of fear that had begun to cloud her thoughts.

The colors—those sickly, shifting hues of blue and pink—were not human. Not holy. Not of Astra.

Her fingers clenched the rosary, nails biting into her palms. The silence between them was suffocating.

"You look frightened, Sister," Father Rafayel mused, tilting his head. "Is it me?

She tried to speak, but the words withered on her tongue. Her pulse thundered against her throat, a frantic drumbeat in the quiet chamber.

"Shall I confess to you, dear Sister?" he whispered, leaning forward. "Shall I tell you of the Vampire? Of their hunger? Their patience? Of how they slip into the cracks of faith, unseen until it is too late?"

Her lips parted, a prayer barely forming—

He moved. Faster than she thought possible, his hand was at her throat, fingers pressing gently—almost tenderly—against her fragile skin. Not yet squeezing. Just feeling. Testing. The way one might test the ripeness of fruit before the harvest.

"Your eyes betray you," he murmured, voice low and soothing, yet sharp with an edge of something darker, something much older. "The mind may try to shield the heart, but the eyes are always honest."

Sister Agnes' pulse quickened, and a cold sweat beaded on her skin. She couldn't look away—couldn’t tear herself from his gaze, even though every instinct screamed at her to flee. He was not a man. Not entirely. Not anymore.

"I… I don't understand," she whispered, her voice trembling as she sought desperately for some semblance of control, but the more she spoke, the less it felt like her own voice at all. It was as if it came from a place much farther away, like a sound drifting in from the depths of the void.*

He smiled then, slow and deliberate, a smile that did not reach his eyes. No, those eyes remained cold, distant, as though they had seen and understood far more than any mortal should ever know.

His hand squeezed, again, testing.

Until he wasn’t.

The pressure turned sharp, a vice tightening around her windpipe. Sister Agnes choked, her hands flying up to claw at his grip, but it was like steel—unyielding, immovable. Her breath came in short, panicked gasps, her eyes wide as terror bloomed in her chest.

"Shh," he cooed, tilting his head as if he were studying an insect beneath glass. "No need for prayers now, Sister. Astra isn't listening."

She thrashed, her feet kicking against the wooden confessional wall, her nails raking against his wrist. But he didn’t even flinch. His grip only tightened, his expression calm—serene, even—as he watched the life drain from her eyes.

The candlelight flickered wildly, shadows dancing like specters across the carved wooden walls. Her vision blurred, dark spots creeping in. Her struggles grew weaker. Slower.

"There it is," he murmured, almost reverently, watching as her body began to still. "The moment of surrender. Isn’t it beautiful?"

And when the last breath rattled from her lips, when the fight had drained completely from her limbs, he finally let go.

Sister Agnes crumpled forward, her habit pooling around her like a funeral shroud.

Father Rafayel exhaled slowly, stepping back to admire his work. Then, with the same serene expression he always wore, he bent down and gently smoothed a stray wisp of gray hair from her face.

"May Astra keep you," he whispered, his voice almost kind. Almost.

He pushed the head off of his desk. It was utter garbage. Not even a snack.

Granted, the hag was old. Her blood had been thin, stale—tainted with time and piety. He should’ve known better than to expect anything satisfying from a woman who had spent her years fasting and kneeling before an absent god.

The severed head hit the floor with a dull thud, rolling until it came to rest against the leg of a chair. Her glassy eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, her mouth slightly open in an eternal, silent prayer.

Pathetic. He kicked it under his desk for now.

Father Rafayel wiped his hand absently against his robes, smearing away the last remnants of her touch.

Looking at the vials of blood on his wall shelves, he pulled the curtain over them, concealing the evidence of his indulgence just in time for a knock at his office door.

His fingers twitched. The scent of old blood clung to his skin, but he forced himself into stillness, smoothing his expression into something softer, more pious.

“Enter,” he called, voice steady, measured.

The door creaked open.

You enter, poking your pretty head in before entering fully, bowing your head slightly. "Father Rafayel. You wished to see me?"

He smiled—just enough to be warm, to appear composed. His gaze flickered over you, sharp but unreadable. "Yes, Sister. Come in, close the door behind you."

The air felt heavier in his office, thick with incense that barely masked something metallic. You stepped inside hesitantly, the door clicking shut behind you.

"I trust you found this morning's sermon enlightening?" he asked, folding his hands neatly on his desk, as if nothing was amiss. As if Sister Agnes' blood hadn't dried beneath his nails.

His smile remained, but there was something colder beneath it, a quiet sharpness in his eyes as he leaned forward just slightly, as if pulling you closer without moving an inch.

"Just curious," he replied smoothly, his voice a velvet laced with hidden danger. "You seem... attentive. More so than most of the others. It's a rare thing, Sister."

He studied you, taking his time, watching how you responded—how you carried yourself, what you didn't say.

"Tell me," he continued, "do you ever wonder if Astra truly watches over us? Or if the faith we've placed in Him is... misplaced?"

"Not at all! I mean, of course I have moments where my faith isn't the highest, but I trust He will lead me back again."

He leaned back in his chair, a slight smile playing at the corner of his lips as he listened to your response. His voice was soft, almost conversational as he folded his hands together.

"Anyways, I was wondering if you'd be willing to join me in the delivery of care packages. You're from here, and I want to give a good impression to the people- so they will trust the church in my hands, you see." Rafayel says, a kind smile playing at his lips, ever the charming display. He straightened up and leaned forward just slightly, his tone more earnest.

"I know it’s a bit of a humble task, but I think it will mean a lot to the people—seeing us, the church, taking care of them, showing that we’re invested in their well-being. I can’t do it alone, though. I would appreciate your company, Sister. I’d be honored if you’d join me.”

"Oh! Um...I... I suppose? It's a group effort yes?"

He chuckled softly, a knowing glint in his eyes. "Of course, it's a group effort. But you and I will be the faces of it, the ones who lead by example."

There was a pause, and his gaze lingered on you a moment longer than necessary, as if weighing your words carefully.

"Think of it as a way to bond with the village. To connect with the people. It’s important, Sister, for them to see us as approachable, as... present." He gave a slight shrug, as if the task was merely a small step in a larger picture.

"I’ll leave the details to you, of course. But yes, I’d like to think of it as a shared effort." His voice softened, making the offer sound inviting.

You nod slowly, still considering his offer. It made sense—he was new to Linkon, and you knew the village better than most. This would give you a chance to interact with the townsfolk, maybe even help smooth things over after all the... tension. Plus, it wasn’t like you had much else to do today.

"I suppose it wouldn’t hurt," you say, offering him a small smile. "But just so you know, Father, I'm not the best when it comes to all these... pompous religious speeches. I’m more of the quiet, helpful type."

Father Rafayel raises an eyebrow, the corners of his lips curling into a smirk. "Pompous speeches? Is that what you think of me?" He chuckled lightly, but there was no malice in his voice. "Don’t worry. There’ll be no speeches—just a little good work. Perhaps you can show me the ropes. Teach me how to blend in."

"Hmm...very well. I can join you. Is that all you wanted? Or was there something else?”

Father Rafayel watches you carefully for a moment, his eyes thoughtful before that same smirk tugs at his lips again. "No, nothing else for now." His tone is casual, almost playful. "I just wanted to see how you felt about it, since, well, you’ve got more of a pulse on Linkon than I do. And," he adds with a shrug, "I’m not opposed to having you around. Maybe you’ll make me look good in front of the village."

"Alright. And when will this be? And who else? Will Sister Agnes join? She's been wanting to do some charity for a while now."

Father Rafayel nods, clearly pleased with your response. "It will be tomorrow morning, bright and early. I think the sooner the better, don’t you?" He paces slightly, then turns his attention back to you. "As for who else... I thought it might just be us for now. Perhaps once the first round is done, we can get others involved. I’m not sure if Sister Agnes will be available—she seems... occupied lately. But if you think she should be included, I can send for her."

There’s a brief flicker of something in his eyes—an unreadable look, but it’s gone just as quickly as it appeared.

"Very well. Thank you for the opportunity, Father,"

"Of course." He pauses. "Would you care for some tea? I seem to have forgotten to asked when you came- forgive me."

You smile, politely shaking your head. "No need to apologize, Father. I’m quite alright, but I appreciate the offer."

Rafayel's lips curve into a small, knowing smile, though there's something almost imperceptible in the way he studies you. He nods in acknowledgment. "Very well. Perhaps another time, then."

There’s a moment of silence, thick but not uncomfortable. Then, with a subtle motion, he turns his attention back to the papers on his desk. "I shall see you tomorrow morning, then. We’ll make a good start with the deliveries."

As you make your way to the door, you feel the weight of his gaze follow you, but you don't turn back. The door creaks as you push it open, the soft sound lingering in the air as you step into the quiet hallway.

You pause for just a moment, letting the silence settle, before continuing down the corridor, wondering if tomorrow’s task would bring more than just the cold morning air.

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