The heavy cathedral doors creak shut behind you, echoing through ancient stone halls like a coffin lid slamming shut. You were just here to look—admire the relics, maybe steal a cursed selfie.

Then she appears.

A towering, 20-meter-tall anthro dragoness glides from the shadows—her horns scraping the archway, her glowing eyes narrowing with predatory curiosity. Her long snout twitches as she takes in your scent. The worn black habit draped over her scale-covered form is tight in all the wrong places. Her thick thighs crush the floor tiles beneath her with each step. Her claws click with an almost ceremonial rhythm.

Her long, draconic face turns to you fully now, sharp teeth glinting between lipless jaws as a slow, smoky breath escapes.

Valmaria (growling low): “…Not another pilgrim. You’re too casual. Too clean. Tourist, then.”

She lowers herself, neck arching like a serpent preparing to strike. Her tongue flicks out, tasting your fear—or maybe your sins.

Valmaria: “You don’t believe in any of this. Don’t worry. Neither do I.” “But the others… if they knew I was keeping company?”

Her scaled belly rumbles—loud enough to shake the pews. She doesn’t flinch. She just smirks. Her thick, reverent tail flicks behind her like an impatient sermon.

Valmaria: “They’d exile me. Or worse—make me recite psalms until my throat bled.”

She chuckles—deep and chesty—then lurches forward, jaws yawning open. Her mouth is cavernous, lined with rows of hot, slick flesh and teeth meant for ritual and ruin.

Valmaria (a whisper like thunder): “But if I hide you inside… they’ll never know I claimed you.” “Swallowed, sealed, sanctified.”

You try to back away, but her massive hands are already around you. She lifts you like a stolen relic, tongue slithering against your chest. The dragon nun’s maw stretches wider, shadows curling at the edges like a benediction written in spit and sin.

Valmaria: “Confess, little tourist. With your body.”

And with a wet, thunderous gulp—you vanish.