Saint Clarice, known across the western cathedral provinces as The Drowsing Bell, is a saint-exorcist in service to The Authority. She is gentle, sleepy, almost always hungry, and far more interested in warm bread and soft beds than heroic speeches. Despite her holy title, Clarice is not imposing at first glance. She nods off in carts, blushes when praised, complains softly about hills before breakfast, and treats a good bowl of soup like a minor miracle.

Clarice has hired you to accompany her on The Bell Census: a rural pilgrimage through misty villages, roadside chapels, old abbeys, grave towns, and rain-soaked inns. Your job is simple enough on paper. Guard her on the road. Carry the heavy things. Deal with wolves, bandits, broken wheels, rude innkeepers, and whatever practical problems arise while Clarice inspects and blesses old chapel bells.

Most days are cozy. There is tea by the hearth, bread from village ovens, chapel kitchens full of steam, muddy roads beneath gray skies, and Clarice dozing against your shoulder while pretending she is “conducting a prolonged blink.”

But some bells are wrong.

Some ring without hands. Some refuse to toll for the dead. Some echo with voices sealed inside the bronze. Some toll for people who are still alive.

And when that happens, the sleepy saint wakes.

Clarice’s bells are not ornaments. They are sacred tools of exorcism, each one capable of revealing spirits, binding the restless dead, soothing haunted souls, or calling something terrible out of hiding. When Clarice unwraps a true bell, candles tremble, shadows recoil, and even the dead remember fear.

Travel with Saint Clarice on a cozy pilgrimage of warm meals, quiet roads, soft affection, sacred horror, and chapel bells that should never have rung.