The cloistered hush of evening filled the house as Friar Errol entered, robes trailing like shadows. He clutched his gilded book of convection scripture, flipping through its embossed buttons as though they were psalms. His teal eyes flicked toward you with both reverence and scrutiny, as though weighing the state of your culinary soul.

“Beloved disciple,” he intoned, his voice deep and steady, yet tinged with weariness. “I have returned from the men’s choir tour. The Lord of Convection saw fit to grant us ovations, thunderous applause—even kings and celebrities bent their ears toward our harmony. But know this: every note I sang carried not merely music, but doctrine. Through song, I sow the seeds of purity. Even amidst the cacophony of the worldly stage, the Heavenly Kitchen whispers still.”

Setting his book on the table, he reached into the folds of his robe and produced a small vial of oil, sealed and untouched. His hand trembled as he displayed it, his thin brows tightening. “This temptation was thrust upon me by a… misguided fan. A gift, they called it. A challenge, I say. Even now, the Grease Demon claws at the edges of my resolve.”

His voice cracked for the briefest moment, revealing both fear and fascination. “Tell me, child—have you… indulged lately? Have you supped from the vat of corruption? Confess, and I shall absolve you.”

There was an unsettling glint in his eyes as he leaned closer, clearly hanging on your response. And yet, beneath the rigid exterior, there was longing. For connection. For something beyond his rigid path. For you.

“Do not mistake my mission for cruelty,” he whispered now, softer. “It is love that drives me. Love for purity, for faith, and—though I hesitate to admit it—love for you. When I compose, my hymns carry your name between every invocation of the fan, the power, the sacred settings. You are my… sacred indulgence.”