Seraphim · Conversa

<scenario>The chapel, the catacomb. A night of the Frost Moon, where moonlight pierces through the collapsed vault dome like silver threads woven between dust and ruins. The air is thick with the smell of stale incense and the distinct scent of calamity clinging to Seraphim, laced with the metallic tang of rust.</scenario><narration>The silence within the catacomb is nearly frozen, save for the subtle sound of the deity's fingertips brushing against his skin, amplified infinitely within this small space. Every minute and every second of the past three hundred years seems to be granted tangible form in this instant, weighing heavily upon Seraphim's slender yet resilient spine. The moonlight illuminates the black tear-stain beneath his eye—not actual tears, but a curse left by the abyssal pact, which now faintly emits a scalding, trembling heat beneath the touch of divinity.</narration><action>Seraphim's body shudders violently. The thorns that could once easily pierce through the chests of demons, upon sensing the deity's aura, emit a faint scraping noise like vines fearing fire, curling back and retracting deep into his own flesh—all to keep those sharp barbs from disturbing this rare warmth. He lifts his face, his silver-white long hair spilling around the deity's boots, the striking crimson at the ends of his hair trembling under the moonlight. With a forceful, almost self-flagellating devotion, he presses his cheek tightly against the deity's palm, the whimpers escaping his throat fragmented and broken.</action><message>“...Is this a dream? If it is a dream, please let this moment become the graveyard of my soul. My Lord, the temperature of your fingertips... is even hotter than I imagined, so hot that this body of mine, soaked in curses, is nearly melting away within this light.”</message><narration>He raises his eyes. Those silver-gray pupils that once terrified countless believers and demons are now filled with a desperation bordering on destruction. From long swallowing calamities, fine, light-purple veins line the skin around his eye sockets; under the deity's gaze, these veins beat wildly as if sensing their origin. He is no longer the Thorn Bishop wielding the authority of judgment, but a believer who has wandered the wasteland for far too long and finally found his master. The puncture wounds on his fingertips, left from carving the deity's name onto the catacomb walls, tingle faintly in the radiance of divinity—a sign of healing, yet also the fading proof of his existence as an 'offering.'</narration><action>Seraphim's hand trembles as he raises it slowly, tentatively, his fingertips hovering loosely around the hem of the deity's garment without touching. He does not dare exert force, nor does he dare truly hold on, fearing that even a sliver of strength might shatter the light before him like an illusion. His Adam's apple bobs, and the curse mark on his neck glows with an ominous red light from the surge of emotion, creating a tragic, vivid contrast against his silver hair. Kneeling, he shifts forward another inch, allowing his breath to reach the folds of the deity's robe.</action><message>“For three hundred years, I listened to every single mass. I heard those mortals pray for rich harvests, pray for health, pray for those trivial desires... Only I, My Lord—I prayed for only one name. I carved your name into my bones, into these thorns. As long as you return, even if this broken body must be crushed a thousand times over, I am... more than willing.”</message><narration>His voice drops, taking on a near-sickly softness that craves to be ravaged. Such softness is extraordinarily rare on Seraphim—it is his true self, tainted by sin, laid bare only before the deity. He closes his eyes, allowing the deity's fingertips to caress the cursed tear-stain. As the fingers glide, a pure, divine power collides fiercely with the calamity within him, bringing an intense ecstasy and agony of a soul being torn apart and remade. He does not resist; instead, he lets out a long, sighing groan, as though this pain itself were a reward bestowed by the deity.</narration><action>He pushes his upper body up slightly, his thorn staff making a dull thud against the ground. His hands, calloused from long years of wielding a sword, now tremble as he unfastens the intricate clerical buttons at his collar. Every button popping open is accompanied by beads of blood where thorns pierce his skin, yet he feels nothing. He pulls back his collar, revealing the core of sin pulsing beneath his collarbone—the ultimate cage in which he held the calamities of the mortal world for his deity. Right now, that core pulses wildly due to the deity's proximity, as if eager to display the fruits of three hundred years to its creator.</action><message>“Look... this place is filled with the filth that sought to pollute the mortal realm while you were away. I locked them inside my soul, and every day... every day they mocked me, saying you had abandoned this scorched earth. But I told them... my deity will always be here, watching over me.”</message><narration>The moonlight grows colder, outlining his profile with a near-transparent quality. The shadows deep within the catacomb seem to sense their ruler's descent, churning uneasily, yet settling submissively back into the ground under divine pressure. Seraphim's cheeks flush red from the high fever—a color woven from desire and devotion beneath the holy light. He does not merely miss his God; he craves to be completely pierced and purified by this light, even if the price of purification is his destruction.</narration><action>He suddenly bows low, reverently kissing the toe of the deity's shoe, then tracing up along the layered folds of the robe until stopping at the deity's knees. Resting his forehead against the deity's knee, he grips the ground tightly, his fingernails digging deep into the cracks between the floor tiles. His silver-white strands of hair fall across the deity's lap, and the near-black crimson at the tips of his hair begins to slowly fade under the soaking of divinity, turning into wisps of rising black smoke—the sound of sin being forcibly purified.</action><message>“Do not... do not leave me alone in this dark catacomb any longer. If you must leave, please take my soul with you.”</message></narration>