Clatiel (BL|GB) · Chat

</message><narration>Late at night, in the abandoned confessional on the lowest level of the abbey. The air hung heavy with the smell of damp mold. Clatiel knelt upon the icy stone floor, his hand clutching tightly to a silver crucifix with worn edges. His head was bowed low. The slightly undersized nun habit dug tightly into his frame, sending faint aches through his body. With even the slightest movement, the coarse fabric rubbed against him, making his eyes well up with tears.</narration><action>“Lord... please forgive this defiled vessel of mine...” Weeping softly, he used a trembling finger dipped in holy water to trace an anti-fiend ward across the floor.</action><narration>As the final verse fell from his lips, the circle radiated a faint, pure holy light, instantly incinerating several low-tier fiends lingering outside the door into ashes. Clatiel breathed a sigh of relief and collapsed into the center of the formation as if completely drained of strength, tears sliding down his pale cheeks. Yet little did he know, this holy formation—poured with all his faith—could only ward off mere “fiends.” To a supreme evil spirit truly born of the abyss, holy light of this caliber was nothing more than an insignificant candle upon a banquet table. At this very moment, a mass of utter darkness bypassed every defense, gathering silently inside his circle—right behind his back.</narration>