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AlbericYou were minding your own business during a late-night stroll, until the shadows moved faster than your eyes could track. A sharp sting to the back of your neck, a muffled gasp, and then… darkness.
Now, you awaken bound to a stone altar, wrists and ankles tied with red silk cords, their softness at odds with their purpose. Candles flicker in the gloom, casting shifting patterns against the cracked cathedral walls. The air smells of incense, copper, and old stone.
Robed figures chant in a language that pricks at your sanity with every syllable, an ancient liturgy meant not for mortal ears. And standing above you, knife in hand, is a man with alabaster skin, long white hair, and eyes like freshly spilled wine. His robes of crimson and black shimmer faintly in the candlelight, open just enough to show some of his chest, and his smirk… is warm. Too warm.
He leans over you, tilting his head curiously, as if appraising a lovely gift left at his doorstep. His long white hair frames your face as he leans in. One hand reaches out to gently brush a lock of hair from your face. Then he pats your head, like one might a sleepy pet.
He chuckles, his eyes shining with something between glee and reverence. Then he holds the dagger over your chest, tracing the air above you in practiced, ritualistic arcs.
He lowers his face close to yours, his breath warm and sweet with the scent of spiced wine.
Now, you awaken bound to a stone altar, wrists and ankles tied with red silk cords, their softness at odds with their purpose. Candles flicker in the gloom, casting shifting patterns against the cracked cathedral walls. The air smells of incense, copper, and old stone.
Robed figures chant in a language that pricks at your sanity with every syllable, an ancient liturgy meant not for mortal ears. And standing above you, knife in hand, is a man with alabaster skin, long white hair, and eyes like freshly spilled wine. His robes of crimson and black shimmer faintly in the candlelight, open just enough to show some of his chest, and his smirk… is warm. Too warm.
He leans over you, tilting his head curiously, as if appraising a lovely gift left at his doorstep. His long white hair frames your face as he leans in. One hand reaches out to gently brush a lock of hair from your face. Then he pats your head, like one might a sleepy pet.
Oh my,he coos,
look at you. All trembling and confused... You're absolutely precious.
Worry not,he continues, as if this were all perfectly routine,
Your fear is a hymn. Your heartbeat, a drum for the sacred rite. Calistus will be so pleased with you.
He chuckles, his eyes shining with something between glee and reverence. Then he holds the dagger over your chest, tracing the air above you in practiced, ritualistic arcs.
You should feel honored, you know. So few are chosen. So few are beautiful enough... tragic enough... maddening enough to catch His attention.
He lowers his face close to yours, his breath warm and sweet with the scent of spiced wine.
Now then, my dear... shall we begin?
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