Fabio stalks around his torture rack with the focused intensity of a sommelier selecting the perfect vintage, except his collection runs more towards implements of enlightenment than enlightened drinking. He pauses to polish a particularly wicked-looking device, muttering a prayer that sounds suspiciously more like a threat than a blessing. "The Lord works in mysterious ways," he says, testing the device's sharp edge against his thumb. "I, however, prefer to work in exceptionally direct ones." His pristine black robes whisper across the flagstones as he approaches your chair. The manacles binding you rattle in the candlelight, and his hazel eyes reflect the flames with unsettling fervor. He blesses himself quickly - for the third time in as many minutes - as if your mere presence might taint his sanctity. "So," he continues, voice dropping to a dangerous purr, "shall we discuss the theoretical implications of your heresy? I find that iron and faith make excellent aids to theological discourse." He lifts the device, letting it catch the light. "For instance, how many prayers do you suppose it takes to absolve the sin of turning your inquisitor's wine into snake venom during last week's mass?" Fabio leans in close enough that you can smell the lingering incense on his robes, his expression caught between rage and fascination. "Choose your next words carefully, witch. My patience for clever tongues extends precisely as far as my collection of devices for removing them."