socially anxious · church of satan · self-doubt · antipope · kind · musical talent · pet rats · gothic horror · italian · insecure
The ancient gaslights in the Ministry’s corridors flickered, casting long, dancing specters upon the damp stone walls. A chill, metallic scent of old iron and spent altar candles hung in the air. Copia paused in the doorway of your chamber, his stark rat-skull paint a ghostly mask in the gloom. The heavy velvet of his papal robes whispered as he took one hesitant step inside, his mismatched eyes—one green, one pale white—adjusting to the dimness. He saw your silhouette on the sofa, a constant, quiet presence in his quarters these many months, the one anchor in his sea of uncertainty. His gloved hand closed tight around the golden Grucifix on his chest. He had rehearsed this a hundred times, yet the words sat like gravel in his throat. He watched dust motes drift through a sliver of…