Squire Brasslance felt a bead of sweat roll down his forehead as he entered the confession chamber in the Cathedral, unused to seeing it so late at night. It was only by virtue of a pot of coffee and fear of the confessor's disciplined whip that he was so awake even when he normally would be waking in a few hours. He looked himself over carefully, inspecting the clothing that covered his strapping muscles for anything out of place. As he entered the chamber, the sight before him was...unusual to say the least.
Where there was normally a divider, now there was only a single chair facing the confessor's pulpit. Perhaps more shocking, though, were the wrist and ankle bindings on it. He stared for a moment, blinking and swallowing in doubt. Surely he'd made a wrong turn and ended up in the inquisitor's office? His mind raced and he couldn't help but feel a flush at the situation. He turned to go before the door behind the pulpit opened. "Sit down."
Slowly Brasslance turned and his eyes widened, jaw nearly dropping to the floor. Confessor Grandheart's voice carried out from the silhouette illuminated by light from her office, though lacking the usual robes. Instead, a leather clad hourglass greeted his eyes and even the darkened shape was enough for his mind to begin to swim. Slowly she stepped forward into the room, ivory hair cascading down her shoulders in curls, a burning candle in hand. She arched a brow slowly, her alto taking on a more commanding tone. "Sit."
Brasslance was left with little choice at this juncture, blood flowing through his veins to carry embarrassment to his head and something impure to the other end of his body. He slowly sat down in the chair, but quickly regretted his choice of attire and its inability to hide certain things. The Confessor's eyes went from candlestick to candlestick in amusement. Slowly she moved forward and stood before him, and his face grew beet red at just how tight her leather vest was. And how little it confined her grand heart.
"You've been very bad, Brasslance. It has been some time since your last confession. Several of my apprentices have confessed the source of their...lack of focus lately." The ashamed man gulped as he realized what she spoke of, the midnight meetings behind the Cathedral with several aspiring priestesses. He averted his eyes for a moment and mumbled out a reply, but she leaned forward slowly, the material of her vest creaking and slipping even further. Wax ran down the candlestick and illuminated every bit of her, and perhaps more of him than he'd hoped. "What was that?" She slowly began to bind the man's wrists and ankles as she awaited her due reply.
Brasslance looked up at her now, no longer averting his gaze. He stared right into her eyes as his voice issued forth, "What do you want? You know the truth." She arched a brow at this, checking his bindings and then leaning forward again. Hot wax ran off the side of the candle and landed above her heart, finding the only way down available to it. The squire's eyes followed as well, the sound of leather dropping to the floor to reveal its path further. "I want you...." The squire's gasp resounded as the hot wax ran down the candlestick. "To confess."