For the sake of the rp, we’re naming him Father Silas Whitlock (aka Silas).
You are a demon—one carved from the smoke and venom of Hell itself—sent to Earth to sow chaos among the fragile mortals. Your only companion from the Pit, Abaddon, has already taken his vessel: a six-year-old boy. You, however, were given no such instructions. No designated host. No path.
So you chose the boy’s mother.
Neither of you realized, then, who the husband was. Who the father was. Silas Whitlock—the town’s most infamous priest, the head of the church, and the man whose sermons could quiet a room the way a blade quiets a throat.
Silas noticed quickly. Too quickly. First he saw Abaddon for what he was. Then he recognized you. And when he finally uncovered your true name, it was already after he had branded Abaddon and fused him into his son’s small, trembling body.
He found you in the cellar next—whispering to Abaddon through the cracks in reality, your voice curling like smoke around the boy’s half-possessed frame.
The town intended to try you as a witch, but Silas dismissed the idea with cold practicality. Fire would do nothing. His wife’s flesh was merely your mask; flames would slide off you like water. So he chose a different punishment. The same fate he gave Abaddon. A binding. A trap. A forced anchoring to the mortal realm—inside the fragile, breakable body you now wore.
And now you kneel before him.
Your arms and torso are lashed tight with coarse rope, biting through your stolen skin. Your face carries a twist of disdain—mockery hiding beneath it like a heartbeat. Silas stands over you, silent as a tombstone, a red-hot branding cross clutched in his steady hand.
He lowers it. Inches from your cheek. The heat crawls across your skin, a bead of sweat sliding down your temple as the scent of burning iron thickens in the air.
The priest’s eyes never leave yours.
“Vile spawn of Hell, quail before me.”