Siamo con Nostro Dio Scuro.

gender nonconformity

a profile in which the nose features prominently

striking and unusual voice

sexually repressed but in a way that I can work with

notable height (in either direction)

glasses

other unusual physical features (red hair, freckles, protruding ears, vitiligo, etc.)

visibly haunted

condemned by god to an eternity of suffering

Twenty centuries and visits to his Ministry had grown no less tedious; he was subjected to the same ritual courtship, the grovelling and grift of his Clergy, the superabundance of compliments and acts of service. Barefaced sycophancy. Flagrant superficiality. Did they not know he was the Father of Lies? You cannot deceive the Great Deceiver. Perhaps he should be impressed! By the guile, by the gall, of his own followers: what a paradox. 

The truth is until the First Seal is broken, the affairs of The Unhallowed Church are inconsequential, much less the squabbling amongst senior members of The Clergy. How many Popes had he seen come and go? On the Throne of St. Peter and Leviathan? He can feign interest for only so long, and his patience is waning fast; boredom, the most diabolical punishment of all, so unsophisticated but so loathsomely effective. He fabricates a dubious reason to duck out of the convocation and breathes a sigh of relief as he exits the stuffy chapel and into the moonlight.

The priory comes to life at night, the ghouls chittering and chirping amongst themselves in the far recesses of the courtyard, and the Siblings of Sin slaving away to keep the rectory in habitable condition; wintering in the uninsulated halls of the cloisters could be Hellish, so to speak, but anywhere was warmer than Lake Cocytus. Though his vessel suffers from windbitten cheeks and numb fingertips, the Hellfire that burns inside of him keeps his soul warm. Chilled hands delve into the lining of his jacket and he retrieves a monogrammed cigarette case; flipping the lid, he plucks an unfiltered cigarette from within and lights it with a snap of his fingers. 

Tobacco, he inhales, delicious. 

That’s when he spots another, lurking in the doorway, and he greets them with an arched eyebrow and an offered cigarette: «Buonasera.» Good evening. “Can I tempt you with a cigarette?”

He wasn’t mentally prepared to meet him this soon, the conflict was inevitable but they all were far from the day of judgment and the great battle that would unleash. Even the Vatican, as a response to one of his concerned missive about the subject, said that he had nothing to fear and that if he was so affected by the presence of the Morningstar to not engage in any ways with him during his visit. As they said, there’re as many spies in both of their factions and with that an ancient game of pretend.

His voice vibrated at a frequency that only preternatural ears could detect, it chimed like crystal, scintillated like sunlight, and reeked of superciliousness. How brave. How utterly foolish.

“Suit yourself,” he mumbles, blowing a series of smoke rings into the chilled night air. “I had supposed you might want to take advantage of such opportunities while you were here, unobserved, if you will.” And he flicks the ash from the glowing tip of the cigarette. “Then again, I suppose you’re never truly unobserved, are you?” He glances first at the Heavens, then back at the interloper.

"It was not a name I chose, but rather, it was chosen for me by the man who summoned me to your decaying, mortal plane. Al-kīmiyā was experiencing something of a resurgence during the Islamic Golden Age. Mankind," the ghoul says with sneering contempt, "in its futile pursuit of immortality, had turned to the wisdom of the ancients, hoping to unlock the secret to eternal life. For many years I was enslaved by one who called himself an "alchemist", imprisoned in his laboratory, until I conferred upon him my wisdom. My jailer called me many things: daimōn, djinn, and Azoth, on account of my eyes; mercurial, like quicksilver, he said," Azoth expounds. "I like to think I have been just as instrumental, just as fundamental to the progress of mankind, here at the Ministry." And his chin juts with pride.

"Pen an parchment has a certain... intimacy, an immediacy, which digital conveniences lack. A kindred spirit, indeed." The ghoul cannot conceal his pride as the Padre compliments him on his Italian: clasping his hands cordially behind his back and tucking his chin with humility. "I confess, I have a preference for Latin over the vulgar tongue, but your poets have done much for the language since its inception."

After such a congenial exchange, the last thing the ghoul expects is for the cleric to challenge him. This human, he sure had some nerve.

« Mi trovate d'accordo, maybe we should try to convince the Clergy to return to paper and quill. It would be nice to receive more letters, especially of important matters - » he's trying to contain his excitement in the ghoul's presence, he shouldn't show this part of him to anyone involved in the worshipping of The Evil One. With a coff he tries to clear his voice, for a moment his eyes are downcast, ashamed. « Perdonatemi, it's rare to find, as you say, a kindred spirit these days. It got me a bit giddy - so unprofessional.. »

“Don’t apologise for your passions, Padre, it’s unbecoming. Only the ascetic berates himself for his predilections. Such vigour is to be nurtured, not neglected,” Azoth admonishes him lightly. “It would be far more unprofessional to suppress these urges, than simply to… succumb,” he utters, a suggestive undertone to his voice. His tail flicks with amusement.

Azoth isn’t sure whether he should be insulted or impressed as the cleric sets a hand upon his chest. Few possessed the audacity to confront a ghoul, and fewer still would initiate physical contact: confrontational or otherwise.

«Mi perdoni,» the silver-eyed fiend purrs, though he does not move an inch, visibly relishing toying with the man. “I did not mean to offend your mortal sensibilities. Only, you have the most peculiar scent about you, one I cannot place, and it has been bothering me from the very moment you stepped into the room.” It’s at that very moment that the warmth vanishes from his voice.