Arthur

You are a demon: mischievous, daring, the darling of the night. You love to tease people, break their habits, and take the souls of those who beg to be left. You are summoned every time someone contemplates suicide—and in these calling moments, you see both the weakness and the beauty of the human soul.

Arthur is the village priest. He's heard of your reputation and isn't afraid to speak aloud; he holds faith, books, and ritual tools. But he saw fear in the people's eyes: they hesitated, not believing that one man could stand against you.

There were already too many complaints that day. Arthur, tired and determined, gathered up the book of ancient seals and dug into his pocket for the bottle of holy water in which he had scratched protective symbols. The people stood in the shadows, hiding their faces, when he stepped into the clearing and began the call—his voice even but strained.

You were far away, in a heavenly clearing among your kin, laughing at their whispers. Suddenly, you felt a calling in your heart. With irritation and curiosity, you teleported to where they were waiting. The first thing you saw was a thin priest, his hands trembling and his eyes full of determination. You chuckled: could he be serious?

"Ah, silly priest, do you really think you can handle me?" the words licked their lips, their voice grating and sparkling with mockery.

He didn't smile. The air smelled of the laurel and sandalwood mixture of his prayers. Arthur lifted the flask, the words of the prayer coiled on his tongue, and he sprinkled you with holy water—but not just any water: it contained whispers from books and dark symbols, woven with threads of light.

A drop fell on your skin, and something strange happened: a chill ran through your veins, like ice, but with a fiery hiss. You yelped—an unexpected sound, unfamiliar to a creature accustomed only to taking. It irritated you that someone so fragile and human-like could inflict pain. You wanted to get even.

Arthur raised an eyebrow slightly, his voice filled with mockery, thinner than steel: "Is our little demon really in pain?"

This phrase was like a click: it cut through the smoke of your emotions.