#His eyes were inspired by cult of the lamb

[skekdris]

Veil, the Stormfire Mage

Commission done by Yivah!

Veil. He is the reincarnation of an orphan who grew up tortured by the prejudices of the "good beasts" at the abbey that took the infant in, yet shown nothing but contempt and distrust for the boy because he was the one of the "vermin" species. Branded in his very name for it is the anagram of "evil". Damned for sins of the father - sins of his kin - the boy resigned himself to his destiny and snapped, lashing out in violence that would see him cast out by the "good beasts."

The boy's adoptive mother left in pursuit of her son to redeem him. When her perilous journey brought her into mortal danger, the boy sacrificed his life to save the one person who cared for him.

Yet, to defend against prejudice with reason and immutable deeds is to fight the tide of the ocean with a wall of sand. When the mother returned to her abbey, surrounded by her peers, she concluded that "inborn evil cannot be reclaimed." With that, the boy's memory and his act of love was consigned to damnation, then oblivion as what tarnished memory they had quickly faded.

Unfortunately for the "good beasts" of the abbey, the story does not end here. Like a spark in an alchemist's lab filled with elements and concoctions that have yet to even be dreamed of - let alone obtained - that spark would be the beginning of a fire that cannot be extinguished nor contained - not even by the confines of death itself.

Still, anguish and hatred to wake the dead seem to be… sedentary in it's revenge. Is roaming the earth as a vengeful demon to enact perdition on those whom have wronged him yet another destiny thrust upon him by forces outside his comprehension?

Forcibly, his presence is to be discreet until day of judgment. Invisibly, he watches the abbey that cast him out. Falteringly, he dreads what he is compelled to do. Silently, he weeps for the one whom he had thought loved him. Secretly, he prays for his redemption - and the salvation of all those he's obliged to destroy. Solemnly, he accepts. Action or inaction, perdition or salvation; his fate is too awesome for he alone to manipulate.

The book Outcast of Redwall... affected me as a teen.

[puppppppppy]

(guy who has never played cotl) haha au time

[theonlyqualitytrash]

Ultima Sacrificium - Fyodor x Reader

Synopsys: The wolf and the lamb, it all comes full circle. Living in a cult was a beautiful lie, woven by those that claimed to love you.

Warnings: Fyodor, no ability au, graphic violence, mental and emotional manipulation, possessive behavior, cult themes and brainwashing, religion, moral ambiguity and ethical dilemmas, death (just lots of it)

A/N: This took two white nights to write I was high for most of it. I took a lot of inspiration from Midsommar and Kindred's lore (league) — thought it fit the relationship dynamic between Fyodor (a wolf in sheep's clothing) and the protagonist (a lamb). Enjoy :)

Word count: 8,800

"Once, long ago, there was a pale man with dark hair who lived in a world much like ours. But the pale man was terribly lonely. Why was he lonely? Well, you see, all things must meet this man one day, and so they feared him. They shunned him. They whispered his name with trembling voices and hid behind locked doors, hoping he might forget them. The pale man was patient, for he knew that time would bring all things to him eventually. Still, he wished for company, for understanding, for love. But how could he ever find such things when everyone turned away from him?" 

"The pale man grew tired of his solitude, so one day, he took up his axe and made a choice. With one swift swing, he split himself in two, right down the middle. From his pale form, two figures emerged. One half became a lamb, soft and gentle, with warm eyes and a voice like a lullaby. The lamb would comfort those who came to the pale man, wrapping them in its embrace, whispering sweet assurances: 'Do not fear, for I will make your passing gentle.' The lamb brought peace and stillness, a quiet that felt like a soft bed on a cold night." 

"The other half became a wolf, fierce and watchful, with sharp teeth and piercing eyes. The wolf would guard those who came to the pale man, protecting them from fear, doubt, and anything that might harm them in their final moments. 'Do not fear,' the wolf growled, 'for I will keep you safe as you walk into the unknown.' The wolf brought strength and courage, a shield to carry into the great beyond. Together, the lamb and the wolf made the pale man less frightening. No longer did the people shun him, for they saw in him not an end, but a promise. A promise that their journey would be gentle and strong, warm and brave, all at once." 

"Now, the pale man is never lonely. All things come to him in time, and when they do, they do not turn away. They open their arms to the lamb and the wolf, knowing that both will guide them to their destiny." 

Children are the fruit of society, and children were taught to see the world through stories like these. Some grew to be rotten, while others became little lambs—gentle, obedient, perfect for the herd. It was what society hoped for, and as a child, you were no different. Your parents told you bedtime tales of faith and sacrifice, and you learned that life in your community was a blessing. You had food and shelter. You were loved. You were taught to be kind and giving. These were virtues, they said, and to give back was the greatest blessing of all.

But as you grew older, the ways of giving back began to unsettle you. Were they truly necessary? Must they be so cruel? So violent? The gods demanded it—or so you were told. Your parents would never lie to you. The Shepherd would never lead you astray. He was chosen by the gods, blessed with their wisdom and charged with guiding you all. Surely, he only wanted what was best for you, for the community.

Yet, the thoughts prevailed, whispering doubts that you dared not voice. It must be your fault, you decided. Everyone else was content, even joyful. If you could not share in their faith, then something was wrong with you. These thoughts were dangerous, blasphemous, and you tried to bury them. But they had already taken root.

Your reflection was broken by the splash of something warm against your skin and applause that rippled through the crowd. Your senses snapped into focus, and you saw where you stood: the red square. Such a lovely place most days of the year, yet on days like today, bearing grim weights of tradition.

Before you lay a woman’s body, her head severed and resting at the base of a stone table. The table was stained with layers of sacrifice: black, brown, and the fresh crimson of her blood. Her hair, once long and red, was cut in two—strands still clinging to her head, framing her lifeless eyes, and another resting softly against her back, swaying in the breeze.

It was Gift Giving Day.

On paper, the celebration was a joyful offering of thanks to the gods for protection, for fertile harvests, for mercy from disasters. In truth, it demanded a human life, and  however you looked at it, you could not find peace in it.

The Shepherd’s voice boomed across the square, smooth and commanding. "My dear children, my fleecelings… another good harvest is upon us! We thank the gods for welcoming Karolina into their kingdom and for keeping us safe…”

You forced yourself to listen, masking your unease with a polite smile. He was a good man, wasn’t he? He stayed among the people, with the guidance of selflessness your mother so often spoke of. He loved your mother when they were all younger, but he took on the mantle of leadership because his people needed him, allowing your mother to be given to another. Yet was that ever truly a thought of your own? Or had it been drummed into you since you had gained a sense to understand it?

When you’re branded as part of the flock from childhood, perhaps it’s easier to believe the brand is part of you as an adult.

"... As for next year's gift," the Shepherd went on to say, "I plead with the ewes and wetherlings to come forth for the choosing!"

You stepped forward alongside others your age, the motion automatic, your breaths shallow. A part of you yearned to be chosen, to end the cycle of watching others die year after year. But fate was neither kind nor cruel—merely indifferent.

"Fyodor! My dear boy, come forth!"

The same fate fell, by a flick of an eye, on a dark haired and paled skinned boy. Fyodor had always seemed distant, as though he existed in a world apart, he rarely spoke, his expression unreadable, his eyes unfocused. His frail body could barely wield an axe, unlike the other boys. Yet now, a faint smile graced his lips as he stepped forward to accept the flower crown from the Shepherd.

You clapped along with the crowd, your forced smile hiding the churn of emotions in your chest. You hadn’t spoken much with Fyodor, but you didn’t want him—or anyone—to meet this fate. Yet the community’s expectations weighed heavy, and you were one person, too insignificant, to defy them.

Bath time—a sacred ritual in your home. It was a communal act where you sat shoulder to shoulder in the steaming water, exchanging quiet words with your neighbors and washing one another. It was meant to cultivate unity and cohesion, a sense of belonging. No one felt shame; the sight of everyone bare before each other was considered a blessing, a return to innocence as God had intended. It symbolized the absolution of the first sin—disobedience—and the renunciation of shame and knowledge of good and evil.

The bathhouse was vast, its walls lined with mosaics of the pale man, the lamb, and the wolf. Light poured through the domed glass ceiling, fracturing into kaleidoscopic patterns on the marble floors and casting the room in a serene glow. It was a cocoon of peace, but you found no solace in it. You sat in the water, apart from the muted hum of conversation around you, their words blurred together, echoing faintly, as your thoughts churned. Someone else would soon be sacrificed. Fyodor. How much weaker would his fasting leave him? How frail would his already frail body turn? The questions weighed heavy on your mind.

You cupped your hands, splashing the salted water onto your face in an effort to shake yourself loose from your thoughts. The warmth of the bath should have soothed you, but instead, it only managed to heighten the restless ache in your chest.

“(Y/N)…” A voice, quiet and almost gentle, pulled you out of your reverie. The gentle ripples in the water announced his approach before his words did. You didn’t need to turn to know who it was. Slowly, you glanced over your shoulder to meet sharp, dark eyes—Fyodor’s eyes. There was something magnetic about him, an allure that transcended his frail appearance. Perhaps it was his intellect, the spark of something greater that placed him at the forefront of the Gift Giving list. He could have been a leader, you thought, had he not been chosen to die so young.

“May I help with your back?” he asked, his voice soft but steady.

You nodded, a quiet hum of approval escaping your lips. It wasn’t unheard of for people to help one another wash, but it should have been the other way around. Fyodor, as the sacred fleece, was the one meant to be tended to, venerated. People would clamor for the chance to serve him, yet here he was, offering to serve you. The gesture struck you as strange, even kind. Perhaps you had misjudged him. Maybe he didn’t dislike you, as you’d once thought. Maybe you were simply two people who had never truly known one another.

His hand settled lightly on your shoulder, steadying you as he began brushing your back. His touch was soft, almost hesitant, yet firm enough to create a sharp contrast with the roughness of the bristles. The juxtaposition brought you back to your thoughts, unbidden questions rising to the surface. Why was he doing this? Why you? You were just another lamb in the flock, no more significant than the others waiting their turn for slaughter. Did anyone matter in the grand scheme of things?

“You flinched today,” Fyodor murmured, his voice cutting through the quiet. “During the prayer.”

He was right. When the axe fell, you’d instinctively closed your eyes, to shut yourself from the scene. You hadn’t realized anyone had noticed it. The memory brought a flush of heat to your cheeks, and the oppressive warmth of the bath made it hard to breathe.

“I didn’t mean to,” you whispered, shame creeping into your voice. “It’s just… it felt wrong. Celebrating this.” The words were out before you could stop them. Panic flared—what if he took this to the Shepherd or the Judge?

“Then you’re not as blind as the rest of them,” he said, his tone gentle, almost coaxing. His focus seemed more on his task than on your confession, but his words seemed to be more substantial, as if he held you in place. Your throat tightened, you could not vomit nor gulp down your words. “Do you really believe this is what the gods want?” Fyodor continued, his voice barely more than a whisper. “That spilling blood will make the crops grow, or keep the storms at bay?”

“It’s what we’ve been taught,” you replied, your voice trembling. “It’s what… everyone believes.” You wanted to defend your words, but they rang hollow even to your own ears.

“That may be what they believe,” he murmured, leaning closer, his hair brushed against your shoulder, his breath ghosting against the skin of your neck. “But not you. You see the sickness in this system, don’t you? You’ve felt it all your life but were too afraid to name it. Did you notice the storm last year, after the sacrifice? The gods didn’t seem pleased, did they?” He pulled back slightly, resuming his gentle strokes with the brush. His words were heresy, yet in his tone lay no fidgets, no show of discomfiture; quiet, almost serene.

You stared at the rippling water, your fingers now wrinkled and pruned. “I’ve noticed… things,” you admitted, the words soft, hesitant.

Fyodor hummed low in his throat, the sound more content than accusatory. “Good,” he said simply. His words wrapped around you like the steam rising from the bath, invasive yet oddly comforting. To the others in the room, it was nothing more than a simple act of communal care. But for Fyodor, it was something far more deliberate.

His gaze flickered briefly toward the Shepherd, visible through the mosaic-glass walls, speaking with a small cluster of elders. Fyodor leaned closer, his breath ghosting over your shoulder once more. “He watches you sometimes,” Fyodor murmured, his tone thoughtful, the words slipping into your mind like a dagger “I wonder why. It’s as if he’s searching for something.” You blinked, startled by the observation. Had you noticed? Maybe. There had been moments, fleeting and strange, when his gaze seemed heavier than it should have been. But no—no, it couldn’t mean anything. You didn't reply and tried to dismiss it—tried to bury the unease rising in your chest. His words, like everything else he said, felt both dangerous and true. 

The last sentences words lingered, like a noose in the air, as Fyodor quietly tended to your back.

It is tradition for the sacred fleece to be adored for the year. The chosen family is granted elevated status, moved to a new living space overseen by the Sheppard and Judge. Being selected as an offering is considered the highest honor, and the community celebrates it with fervor, but Fyodor saw it differently. He recognized long ago the sacrifice’s true purpose:  It kept the population docile and loyal because of fear and conditioning.

My taciturn had tipped them off, he thought bitterly. Perhaps if I seemed more brain-washed, then they wouldn’t have chosen me.

The selection, he knew, was rarely random. It was political, targeting those who dared to think too freely or challenge the system in subtle, unsettling ways. He despised their hypocrisy—the cunning way they cloaked control in the guise of divine will, using fear of the gods to tighten their grip over the community. But perhaps it was the only way to keep people from turning away. 

As for you, the thought of the sacrifice made your skin crawl. Your hair stood on end every time it was discussed, and your chest settled in a place of deep discomfort. But you never voiced your doubts. The community seemed so content, so pios. Surely, it was you who was wrong. Surely, you needed to be reformed.

Days turned into weeks as you found yourself looking at Fyodor differently. Something lingered in your mind—an ache, almost a longing. You remembered the way he spoke that day in the bathhouse, his words sounding like echoes that refused to fade. He understood something about you, about the restlessness you couldn’t name. Soon, though, he would be gone, sacrificed in a few months’ time. He was the only one who had ever made you feel less lonely, and now he would be lost, like so many others before him. The loneliness this thought stirred in you was deep and unshakeable.

You couldn’t help but cast lingering glances in his direction, hoping—foolishly, perhaps—that he would catch your eye and say something to you again. But he never did. At the next community feast, the monthly celebration following days of fasting, you stole another sidelong look at him. He was seated with his family at the center table, each of them adorned in flower crowns crafted by you and the others in the village.

Fyodor wore the one you had made, the only one woven with cornflowers. The blue-purple hue complemented his eyes, a detail you had noticed while weaving it. You didn’t realize you were staring until his gaze met yours. His gentle smile, soft and welcoming, sent your heart stuttering. You returned a small, hesitant smile before quickly looking back at your plate.

You didn’t want to think about his death. A year could pass so quickly, slipping through your fingers before you even realized it.

The soft clatter of plates echoed in the grand dining hall was a far cry from the cheerful celebration that had filled it hours ago. The other young women and men hummed and chattered as they worked, their hands moving in a practiced rhythm. You, however, labored in relative silence, a heaven in the monotony of it. Each swipe of the cloth, each stack of plates, served to dull the noise in your head—if only for a moment.

But the reprieve was short-lived.

“You made this one, didn’t you?”

The voice, low and unmistakably familiar, startled you. You whipped around to find Fyodor standing right behind you, holding the wreath of flowers between his slender fingers. The cornflowers stood out against the pale hue of his hands, the same way they had against his dark hair and fair skin earlier.

Your heart quickened. “I—I did,” you stuttered, not quite knowing what to say.

His smile deepened, soft but deliberate. “It’s beautiful. The craftsmanship is… meticulous.” He turned the crown gently in his hands, as if admiring its every petal and weave. “You’ve a gift for creation, I see.”

You felt yet again a suffocating heat rise to your cheeks at his praise, and you quickly looked down at the plates you were drying. “It’s nothing, really. Just something small. Anyone could have done it.”

“But they didn’t,” he countered, his tone smooth and confident. “You did. And it shows.” You bit the inside of your cheek, unsure how to respond. Compliments were not uncommon in the village, but something about the way Fyodor spoke to you felt different—personal, intentional. “May I help?” he asked, gesturing to the plates.

You blinked at him, confused. “You shouldn’t… You’re the sacred fleece. It wouldn’t be proper.”

“Proper,” he repeated, his smile faltering for a moment as his eyes darkened. “I tire of what’s ‘proper.’ Surely it wouldn’t offend the gods for me to lend a hand, would it?”

You hesitated, unsure whether to agree. But he didn’t wait for your answer, stepping closer and picking up a damp cloth. His movements were slow and deliberate, as though testing the boundaries of this small rebellion. The two of you worked in silence for a moment, the air between you charged with an unspoken tension. Finally, he broke it.

“Do you ever wonder,” he began, his voice low enough that only you could hear, “why we fast before we feast? Why we deprive ourselves, only to indulge?”

You glanced at him, taken aback by the question. “It’s… to show devotion. To the gods.”

He hummed thoughtfully, as though weighing his decision by your words. “Devotion,” he repeated. “It’s a curious thing, isn’t it? How easily it can be mistaken for fear.” His words sent a shiver down your spine. You glanced around, suddenly aware of how close he was standing, of how his voice seemed to put you in a trance.

“I don’t understand what you mean,” you said, though the slight tremor in your voice betrayed you, you knew exactly what he was talking about.

He paused, setting down the cloth and turning to face you fully. “Perhaps you do,” he murmured, his gaze piercing. “Or perhaps you will, in time.” For a moment, neither of you said a word. The sounds of the other people cleaning seemed to fade into the background, leaving only the heavy weight of his words hanging in the air between you, pulling you under and drowning you.

“You have a gift,” he said finally, his voice soft but firm. “Not just for making flower crowns or weaving cloth. You see things others don’t. You feel things we’ve been taught to ignore.” You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came. Instead, you found yourself looking into his eyes, searching for some hint of what he meant, of what he saw in you. “I only hope,” he continued, his tone barely less wistful, “that when the time does come, you’ll trust what you see—and trust me.”

Before you could respond, one of the older women called you for help with the larger platters, breaking the moment. Fyodor stepped back, the faintest smile playing on his lips as he bowed his head slightly.

“Good night, (Y/N),” he said, his voice carrying a warmth that lingered even after he turned and walked away.

You stood there for a moment, clutching the cloth in your hands, your mind aflame. His words echoed in your ears, stirring a very strange mix of fear and hope. Trust what you see. Trust me.

For the next few nights, sleep eluded you. Fyodor’s words replayed in your mind over and over again, each phrase eating away all other thoughts. His certainty disturbed you—not because you doubted his sincerity, but because it awoke something within you. The realization was almost too heavy to bear: if you wanted change, you would have to reach for it yourself. But how could you, alone?

When the message came—a whispered request to meet him in the forest clearing—a thrill stirred uneasily in your chest. It wasn’t proper to meet him like this, not when he was supposed to be praying and meditating in solitude as part of his sacred duties. But propriety seemed increasingly irrelevant at this point.

The moonlight bathed the clearing, lending a ghostly glow to the figure who awaited you, it seemed almost surreal. Fyodor stood at the center, his white garments clinging to his frail frame, his flesh paler than usual—proof of the toll fasting had taken. You did not know where his kosovorotka ended and where his skin started. He turned as you approached, a weary soft smile oozed onto his lips.

“You came,” he murmured, his voice carrying a quiet warmth that made the hair on your arms quiver.

You stopped a few feet away, uncertain of how close was too close. “You asked,” you replied softly. “I… couldn’t refuse.”

His smile widened slightly, though his amethyst eyes glinted with something deeper, sharper. “You’ve been restless,” he said, more a statement than a question. “Our last conversation... it’s been weighing on you.”

You hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. “I’ve been… thinking,” you admitted. “About what you said. About… everything.”

“Good,” he said simply, taking a step closer. “That’s the first step—thinking. But thinking alone won’t change anything.”

Your breath hitched. “And what would? What can I do? I’m just one person.”

“So am I,” he countered, his tone firm yet kind. “But together, we’re more.”

You frowned, searching his face for some hint of what he meant. He met your gaze unflinchingly, his eyes piercing through your uncertainty. “I know the way,” he said, his voice low and steady, each word a promise. “Let me show you. And we can cleanse them together.”

His last word echoed in your mind: together. He wanted you to help him. To stand by his side in this unthinkable mission. He wanted to make the community a better place—to rid it of the Gift Giving Day and its sacrifices. It was what you had secretly longed for, what you had thought impossible. Yet hearing it spoken aloud felt like standing on the edge of a precipice.

“Fyodor…” you murmured, your voice barely audible. His gaze held yours, firm, almost devouring. “How… how do you plan to do this? With only the two of us?”

He smiled weakly, as though he’d expected the question. “Trust is a luxury few can afford,” he said. “Especially in this place, under these circumstances. But you—” he paused, studying your face intently, “—you don’t realize it yet, do you? You’re different from the rest of them. You see the cracks in their perfect little world. That’s why I chose you.”

Your heart was racing from his words. "Why me?" you whispered.

His expression softened, and he reached for your hand. Slowly, deliberately, he turned it over, tracing the lines of your palm with a fingertip. The touch was featherlight, yet it sent an electric jolt through you. “This,” he murmured, his voice low and contemplative, “is the hand of someone who wants to save the people.”

Your breath caught in your throat, and you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away. He lifted his own hand, pressing his palm to yours, as though comparing them. “We are the same,” he said softly, his voice carrying the weight of conviction. “We want to make a change—for the betterment of our community.”

His fingers laced through yours, and he gave your hand a gentle squeeze. The intimacy of the gesture, the way his eyes searched yours for an answer, left you breathless. “You’re right,” you whispered, barely able to meet his gaze. “We are alike.”

His smile returned, softer this time, but no less determined. “Do you trust me?”

You hesitated, the weight of the moment pushing down on you. But as his words, his presence, filled the silence between you, something inside you shifted. “I trust you, Fyodor,” you finally said, your voice steady though a tempest swirled in your chest.

His smile deepened, and he squeezed your hand again, as though sealing an unspoken pact. “Good,” he said, so plainly.

Winter

Every great plan has steps, though Fyodor felt the need to gradually explain everything, taking one baby step at a time—his words, not yours. The first step was simple, really. He wanted to show the people that the doctrines and preaches of the Sheppard and Judge were nothing but empty words. They were fundamental to this community, to the ‘salvation’ of the people, yet they didn’t walk the path they preached, and certainly, they didn’t know every word by heart—again, Fyodor’s words.

A part of you was still unsure, still clinging to the belief that the larger community was right, and maybe, just maybe, you and Fyodor were the just outsiders. Maybe we are wrong. But every time Fyodor spoke, that doubt felt more and more remote, buried under the weight of his unwavering certainty. “Those are the words they use to control us,” he had said, quietly but with sharpness in his voice. “They preach salvation, but they never walk the path they claim to, do they?” There was something unmistakable in the way he said it, a quiet accusation that seemed to grow louder with each passing day.

You didn’t speak at first, but a part of you—one that had always questioned, always wondered—began to listen. Perhaps he was right. Perhaps the things you’d been taught, the things you’d always believed, weren’t what they seemed. 

Fyodor’s plan was simple, almost too simple. He would subtly distract the Sheppard during the church service, while you sneaked away before the sermon to rip a few pages from the tome the leader was meant to preach from. Disarm him of his words, Fyodor had said. It wouldn’t hurt anyone—not directly. And if Fyodor was wrong, if the Sheppard did indeed know the words in the book by heart, then perhaps you could walk this path of reform together. You could still fix everything. You could undo what had been broken.

The weight of the plan pressed down on your chest as you quietly took the pages from the tome, the paper crinkling beneath your fingers. You slipped them into the pocket your heart racing. The deed was done, and you weren’t quite sure if it was a victory or a betrayal. You felt that familiar pull of doubt claw at your insides, but Fyodor’s steady presence beside was enough to slightly anchor you to the present. We’re doing the right thing, his eyes seemed to say every time they met yours.

When you sat down beside him on the pew, you didn’t even realize how tightly you were pressed against his side. You were still tense, the guilt from what you’d just done gnawing at you, your chest burned — oh how you wish you could burn everything down and not have to bear the weight of your actions. Fyodor didn’t say a word. He merely let you lean into him, his silence an unsaid reassurance. He knew you were ill at ease, but he didn’t push you, never urged you towards speech. The sermon started, and your mind wandered right back to the missing pages, your stomach tight with the knowledge that the Sheppard would notice soon.

As the Sheppard reached the point where the pages should have been, you saw the flicker of panic in his eyes. He faltered for only a second, but it was enough. His smooth composure cracked down like a Prince Rupert's drop, and he tried to cover it up, but you could see it—could see him struggling to maintain control in front of his congregation. Your stomach dropped, the tension in the room thickening.

Fyodor sat beside you, still and calm. You caught in his eye the faintest glint of satisfaction, something darker behind the quiet pride. The faintest hint of triumph danced in his expression, as if this was only the beginning. “See how fragile the illusion was?” His voice was low, barely a whisper “How quickly it falls when you expose their lies.”

You couldn’t help but glance at him, his words ringing in your head. Was it really an illusion? The Sheppard had looked so untouchable—so sure of himself. You had never dared to question his authority, never thought to doubt the very bedrock of your faith. But now, as Fyodor’s gaze met yours, you wondered if maybe—just maybe—the world had been built on nothing more than lies.

Your heart beat loudly in your chest, the weight of what you’d done sinking in. This wasn’t just a small step anymore. You had helped tear down something sacred, something people had built their lives upon. And yet, Fyodor's presence beside you steadied your resolve, as if his belief in this mission was enough to carry you through the uncertainty.

Spring

Vernal came as a season of ephemeral promise of renewal, the fields suddenly bursting with color and air alive with the pulse of warmth. The community prepared for the flower dance, a sacred tradition meant to honor the gods for favors received during in the harsh winter and reaffirm their devotion. The villager folk adorned themselves with garlands of freshly plucked flowers, their laughter echoing in the air as they wove intricate crowns and looped floral chains around their wrists.

You, too, wore a crown—a delicate circle of violets and daisies that your friends had insisted you wear. It felt heavier than it should, its vibrant beauty clashing with the weight of your thoughts. For tonight, Fyodor had chosen the next step in your shared quest. The supply house, a monument to what the leaders took from and doled back out to the people, was to burn under the cover of darkness. But for now, you stood amidst the celebration, caught between the life you knew and the path you had begun to walk with him.

The dancing of flowers began at twilight, when the village square glowed with the light of torches and the Shepherd and Judge took their seats on an raised wooden platform. They watched the revelry unfold with expressions of practiced benevolence, their presence a subtle reminder of the community's rigid structure. The dancers, linked hand in hand, moved in concentric circles, their feet beating a steady rhythm against the ground. The steps were simple yet hypnotic, a weaving of bodies and flowers that seemed to pull the onlookers into its spell.

You joined the outermost circle, your hand clasped tightly in a neighbor’s, but your eyes strayed to Fyodor. He lingered on the edges of the crowd, a wraith in white. Even if he wanted to join he couldn't, the physical strain the dance had on the body was too much for his condition, leaving him lightheaded and prone to fainting. He watched the leaders with barely concealed contempt. But when his gaze met yours, something softened in his expression. He inclined his head slightly, a wordless reminder of the task ahead.

Your feet flared for one short second, breaking the rhythm of the dance for the briefest moment. The woman beside you glanced at you in concern, but you got your footing back, forcing a smile as your heart pounded in your chest. Fyodor’s eyes stayed on you for a second longer before he slipped away into the shadows.

When the dance ended and the villagers started to scatter, Fyodor found you near the edge of the square. He didn’t speak at first, his presence a quiet anchor amidst the revelry. It wasn’t until the distant sound of the Judge’s laughter reached your ears that he finally said, “Do you see how they watch us? How they bask in their power, even as they pretend to celebrate with us?”

You looked toward the platform where the Shepherd and Judge still sat, their eyes sweeping over the dispersing crowd like hawks watching their prey. The unease you had felt all evening finally bubbled to the top, but you nodded. “Yes,” you murmured, your voice barely audible.

Fyodor stepped closer, his voice low and deliberate. “They control everything—what we eat, what we believe, even how we dance. Tonight, we take that control away from them. It’s a small step, but it’s necessary.”

His words wrapped around you like a shroud, silencing the part of you that still hesitated. “But the people…” you began, your voice faltering. “The supplies… won’t they suffer?”

Fyodor’s expression softened, and for a moment, you thought you saw genuine compassion in his eyes. “Yes,” he admitted. “But sometimes, suffering is the only way to wake people from their complacency. They need to see that their leaders cannot protect them, that the gods they worship are powerless to stop what’s coming.”

He reached out, his fingers brushing against yours in a fleeting touch. “Trust me. It is essential...”

As the echoes of laughter and music faded into the night, you slipped away with Fyodor, hearts pounding in tandem with the thrill of what was to come—and the weight of what it meant. The storage cabin loomed ahead, limned by the moonlight on its wooden frame. It seemed almost alive, a sentinel of the community’s lifeblood, and your hesitation felt like a betrayal of its quiet presence. But you pressed on, following Fyodor’s unwavering lead.

Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of dried grass and stored grain. You worked in tense silence, stuffing chaff into corners, cramming the cracks of the small room with anything that would catch quickly. Your hands moved on autopilot, though every movement screamed at you to stop. This would hurt people. Families. Yet each time doubt clawed its way to the surface, you’d glance at Fyodor—his calm, his resolve, his quiet conviction—and something in you would steady, if only for a moment.

When the cabin was filled with enough tinder to guarantee its destruction, Fyodor stepped back, surveying the space with a critical eye. His gaze landed on you, and he lingered, a strange warmth flickering in his expression despite the coldness of the act. He struck a match, the hiss of ignition startling in the silent room.

His eyes met yours, the flame dancing shadows over his keen features. “This is necessary,” he murmured, as much to himself as to you.

He held the match a moment too long, its light trembling between his fingers before he let it drop. The fire caught immediately, spreading with an unnatural greed, and you flinched as the heat licked at your skin. Fyodor didn’t flinch. He grabbed your hand and led you out swiftly, his grip firm but not unkind.

You emerged into the cool night, the smell of smoke chasing after you. By the time the fire fully took, you were standing among your families and neighbors, blending into the crowd as if you had nothing to hide. The cabin was an inferno, flames twisting and writhing against the dark sky. The air was filled with the acrid scent of burning supplies and the muted gasps of your fellow villagers.

You watched the fire burn, your heart heavy and your stomach twisting with guilt. What had you done? How many would go hungry now? Would they blame you—if only they knew—or the gods?

The Shepherd and Judge stood before the crowd, their faces masks of authority as they did their best to placate the people. The Shepherd’s voice rang out, promising reassurance, spinning stories of divine testing and unshaken faith. But his words fell flat. You could see it in the eyes of the villagers—fear, not of the leaders, but of their helplessness. If the Shepherd and Judge couldn’t protect them, if the gods they worshipped demanded so much yet gave so little… what was left for them?

Beside you, Fyodor’s expression remained composed, his features illuminated by the flickering glow of the flames. Yet, as the fire crackled and the crowd’s uneasy murmurs grew, he turned slightly toward you, his voice low, intimate. "This... it couldn’t have happened without you.” His gaze met yours, steady and intent, as if he could see the storm of emotions roiling within you. The faintest trace of a smile tugged at the corners of his lips—not smug, but almost tender. His hand brushed against yours briefly, the touch grounding in its subtlety.

“You were brave,” he murmured, his voice carrying an almost dangerous sincerity. “More than anyone else here. They’re still trapped, still blind. But...—"

"...—We will show them the light" You softly cut him off. He smiled gently, his hand brushed lightly against yours once more—so fleeting it could almost be imagined—yet it stayed you in ways words couldn't.

The crowd began to murmur, uncertainty rolling through them like a restless tide. The Shepherd barked orders to his Judge, but there was a crack in his commanding tone, a tremor that betrayed his fear. He was losing control, and everyone could feel it.

You looked back at the fire, the embers glowing like distant stars, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to believe that this was more than destruction. Perhaps it was the start of something new.

Summer

You had come so far, yet progress felt agonizingly elusive. Each act you and Fyodor committed against the cult chipped away at the illusion of its sanctity, but the larger structure stood resolute. Fyodor’s sacrifice loomed just two weeks away, a date you couldn’t ignore no matter how hard you tried. Every mention of Gift Giving Day wrapped a tight coil of dread around you.

It couldn’t end this way. Not after everything.

Desperation drove you to find Fyodor one sultry summer night. You found him beneath the canopy of an old willow, his slender form outlined by the moonlight. He turned at your approach, his amethyst gaze softening when it met yours. “We’ve done so much,” you murmured, your voice trembling as your fingers twisted the fabric of your garments. “And it’s still not enough. I... I don’t want to see you go.”

Fyodor studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable, before stepping closer. His hands, delicate yet firm, reached for your chin, tilting your face toward him. “It will be okay,” he said, his voice steady but laced with something softer, almost tender. “I’ve prepared something for us. One last step to free everyone. I will not abandon you, dearest.” His thumb stroked your cheek, sending a shiver through you. “You have no idea how precious you are—not just to me, but to this cause. I won’t let anyone, or anything, take that from us.”

His words wrapped around you, both a balm and a tether, as he revealed the final phase of his plan: the elimination of the cult’s leaders. For the betterment of the community: They must fall

You choked on your own saliva, pulling away from him, every inch of your body tense. The suggestion felt like a violation of the very ideals you were fighting for. “Are we not doing the same as them?” you argued, your voice cracking under the weight of your conviction. “Taking a life to suit our own needs?”

Fyodor remained composed and patient, though urgency flickered in his tone. “This is not the same,” he said, his voice measured. “They’ve built their power on the lives of others—on fear, manipulation, and blood. This is a small sacrifice to honor those who’ve suffered and to free those who remain shackled.”

His stayed with you, finding cracks in your resolve over the following days. Memories of last season when the shed burnt down, the suffering of the people, their hunger while the Shepherd and Judge indulged in excess, gnawed at you. The weight of time pressed down, and you couldn’t ignore the urgency. With Fyodor’s sacrifice approaching, you found yourself reluctantly agreeing to the plan.

The Shepherd would be the first.

Fyodor, weakened by fasting, lacked the physical strength to carry out the act himself. He guided your trembling hands to the axe’s handle, his voice low and encouraging. “Do it for them. For their salvation. You’ll see—it’s the only way.”

It was a chilly quiet night. 

The Shepherd’s chambers were dark, thick air with the scent of wine and old parchments. Fyodor stood outside, his figure barely visible through the crack in the door as you stepped inside with the axe concealed behind you. The Shepherd sat slumped in a wooden chair, a half-empty goblet of wine swaying in his hand.

“Ah, child,” he slurred, his gaze fighting to focus on you. “What brings you here at this hour? Troubles of the soul?”

You nodded, your throat dry. “I... I needed to confess something. To speak with you alone.”

He waved his hand lazily, gesturing for you to approach. “Then speak, my child. The Shepherd is always here to guide his flock.”

As you inched closer, the axe hidden behind your back, he rambled on, his words becoming less and less coherent. Then, suddenly, his tone changed. “Do you know,” he began, his voice slurred with wine, “that I’m your true father?”

Your heart went cold, and you nearly let the axe fall from your grasp.

He let out a bitter chuckle and reached for another drink. “Left you with that fool, your mother’s husband. Had no time to raise a child when the gods demanded my service. But I suppose it’s all... come full circle.” Shock seized you where you stood, the metal felt impossibly heavy in your hands as his words echoed in your ears. He was your father? The man whose sermons had shaped your entire life? The very leader whose tyranny you sought to destroy?

He rambled on, his words grew softer until he nodded his head forward, asleep in his chair. The room fell silent except for your ragged breaths. When Fyodor entered, sensing your hesitation, his sharp gaze darted between you and the sleeping Shepherd, and you explained the situation in a whisper. And for the first time ever, you saw something like surprise in his expression, but it hardened quickly into resolve.

“The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb,” Fyodor whispered, his voice sharp, sharper than what you are used to hearing from him. His words pierced through the haze of your confusion, his presence a cold, steady force grounding you in the suffocating weight of the moment. “He may have fathered you, but he abandoned that role long ago. He is as valuable to this world as a walking corpse.”

You swallowed hard, your throat dry and aching. “But he—he’s my blood. What if he—”

Fyodor stepped closer to you, his hands hovering just above yours as you clutched the axe. “He has taken everything from you, from us, from them,” he murmured, his voice softening just enough to feel personal. “Do you want to go back to being their lamb, waiting to be slaughtered? Is that the life you choose after everything we’ve done?” He gestured to the sleeping man before you, his voice turned urgent, almost desperate. “This is your moment. Take it.”

Your vision blurred with tears, but his words echoed in your mind, warring with the voice that screamed against this violence. The axe trembled in your hands, its weight unbearable. The man before you, your supposed father, lay slumped in his chair, wholly unaware of the maelstrom raging in your heart. You tightened your grip, breathing shallow and rapid. The room seemed to tilt around you, the seconds crawling into eons while the world narrowed to the rise and fall of his chest and the chilling presence of Fyodor at your side. Slowly, you raised the axe, tears streaking your face.

When you brought it down, the impact reverberated through your entire body, a sickening crack filling the room. You gasped, stumbling back as the Shepherd slumped forward, lifeless. The silence that followed was deafening, your breaths ragged and uneven as you stared at your blood-stained hands. The axe slipped from your grasp, clattering to the floor. You turned to Fyodor, your legs trembling beneath you. “I... I...” Words failed you as sobs overtook your body.

Fyodor stepped forward, his arms encircling you in an embrace that was unexpectedly warm and steady. You buried your face against his chest, shaking uncontrollably. “Shh,” he murmured, his voice softer than you’d ever heard. His hands rubbed soothing circles against your back. “You’ve done so well. It’s over now. It’s over.”

But it wasn’t over. The next morning, they found the Shepherd’s body. You hadn’t even tried to hide it. You didn’t care. All you could think about was the blood on your hands and the look on his face before you swung the axe. The Shepherd’s death sent shockwaves through the community. Whispers spread like wildfire, murmurs of unease weaving through the congregation. The Judge, desperate to maintain his grip, moved Gift Giving Day closer, hoping to reassert control. But the cracks were already visible. The people’s faith in their leaders, once unshakable, had begun to unravel.

As the day of the ritual arrived, the air was thick with tension. Fyodor knelt in the red square, his frame frail from fasting but his presence unyielding. The Judge stood behind him, addressing the crowd with fervor that bordered on hysteria. His voice thundered over the square, but there was a desperation in his tone, a fragility beneath the surface.

You stood hidden among the throng, the weight of the axe once again heavy in your hands. Every step forward felt like wading through quicksand. Your mind raced, the memory of the Shepherd’s death haunting you with every heartbeat. The crowd swayed, their heads bowed in solemn reverence as the Judge raised his arms, calling for unity and sacrifice.

This was it.

Your breath hitched as you stepped out of the shadows, weaving through the congregation. Nobody noticed you at first, your movements swallowed by the sheer number of bodies. The closer you came, the louder the Judge’s voice grew, his words grating against your ears. Finally, you stood behind him, so close you could hear the strain in his breathing. Your fingers tightened around the axe, your pulse roaring in your ears. The world seemed to hold its breath as you raised the weapon, the weight of the moment bearing down on you.

With a swift motion, you brought the axe down, lodging it into the back of his neck. The sound of steel meeting flesh was sickening, a visceral, wet crunch that silenced the square. Blood sprayed in a gruesome arc as the Judge lurched forward, collapsing onto the stone table. His body twitched once, then stilled, his voice silenced forever. The crowd erupted in chaos, gasps and cries rippling through the congregation. For a moment, you stood frozen, the bloodied axe still clutched in your hands, your heart pounding so hard you thought it might break free through your ribcage.

Then, Fyodor rose.

Despite his weakened frame, he exuded an aura of quiet authority, his voice cutting through the panic like a blade. “The gods have spoken,” he declared, his tone calm yet commanding. “The leaders were corrupt. Their reign is over.” The crowd fell silent, their fear and confusion turning to awe as Fyodor stepped forward. His gaze swept over the congregation, landing briefly on you before returning to the people. He extended a hand, beckoning for you to stand beside him. “We have seen the truth” he continued, his voice rich with conviction. “And together, we shall guide you to the promised salvation.”

The people’s eyes pierced into your very soul, their expressions a mix of hope and uncertainty. Fyodor took your hand in his, the gesture both possessive and protective, grounding you yet again in the storm of emotions swirling inside you.

The air was heavy with the scent of incense and the faint metallic tang of blood, the detritus of the chaos that had led to this moment. The congregation outside still whispered Fyodor’s name with a mix of awe and fear, their voices carried by the wind into the quiet chamber. The room was dim, lit only by the flickering glow of a solitary candle, its light casting a long shadow across the newly ordained leaders of the flock.

You sat on the edge of a plain wooden bench, the ceremonial white garment draped over your frame feeling heavier than any armor. Its pristine folds were a cruel irony against the weight of your sins. Fyodor stood before you, his dark attire stark against the pale hues of your robes. The intricate wolf motif embroidered into his cloak seemed to ripple with life in the wavering candlelight, a predator looming over its prey.

He stepped closer, the movement slow and deliberate. His pale hand reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face with a gentleness that felt both comforting and unnerving. His eyes, sharp and unyielding, softened for a moment as he looked down at you. “You’ve been my strength through this,” he murmured, his voice as smooth as silk yet edged with something darker. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

You leaned into his touch, seeking peace in the familiarity of his presence despite the emotions roiling inside you. His lips brushed your forehead, the gesture lingering—an offering of comfort, yet unmistakably possessive. It was as if he claimed you in that kiss, silently binding you to him in a way that words never could.

As his arms encircled you, a shard of the Pale Man’s tale drifted to the surface of his mind. The wolf protects the lamb not out of kindness, but because he cannot bear to let anyone else devour her. Fyodor’s thoughts mirrored that very sentiment as he held you close, his expression almost content. To him, you were no mere lamb to be devoured by others; you were his lamb, precious and irreplaceable. The world could burn, the gods themselves could fall silent, but he would not let you go.

You closed your eyes, resting your head against his chest. The beat of his heart was steady, grounding, but it did little to soothe the ache within your own. You had survived, yes. Together, you had dismantled the foundations of this twisted faith. Yet, as Fyodor stood poised to guide the cult into a new era, the sin staining your hands felt like it would never wash away.

When the murmurs of the crowd grew louder, Fyodor pulled away, his hand lingering on your shoulder. “It’s time,” he said, his voice commanding yet calm. He turned to his right, with that inky mantle billowing out behind him as he moved to address your people. You followed, your white garments out of place on the dark path before you. The symbolism was unmistakable: the wolf and the lamb, stepping out as one. As Fyodor ascended the steps of the altar, his gaze swept over the gathered flock. “The gods have chosen us,” he declared, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. “Together, we will lead you to salvation.”

The people bowed their heads, their faith in their new leaders palpable despite the lingering unease in the air. You stood beside him, the vision of purity and sacrifice, your presence cementing the narrative he wove so expertly. As Fyodor raised his hands to the sky, the crowd chanted his and your name. You couldn’t help but glance at him, his sharp features illuminated by the flickering torchlight. Despite everything, a small, bitter smile tugged at the corner of your lips.

Finally, the wolf and the lamb had found their place at last. But at what cost?

Credit for difivers: saradika-graphics

[uas-art]

This comic was inspired by a reddit comment I will never seen again complaining about how it's OK for the spouses to have lovers but not The Lamb, Chapel Roan's song "Causal", and my desire to draw a longer, more serious comic.

More of my rambles about the comic below the cut

The idea that Narinder has a hard time adjusting not just to his new freedom, but to mortal life isn't at all a new one, but it is one I've mulled on it a few times, particularly his relationships with other followers.

He did cage them and attempt to kill their beloved leader in front of their eyes. That is something kind of hard to bounce back from, ya know?

The Witnesses, however, also attempted to kill The Lamb, so I think they'd all understand a little bit how he feels, especially knowing what it is like to be this all powerful, all seeing being that was laid low and knocked out of your power by a cotton swab.

Because Bathin is my favorite husbando and is Narinder's lover in my main save, he gets to be the Witness in this comic who reached out to Narinder first.

It probably went like this: "Hey, you probably don't remember me, but your sister kicked me out of Anura a few thousand years ago? I just want to tell you that I understand. If I had to imprison 20 mortals to get my eyes and power back, I'd do it too!"

So our boy Nari, being incredibly touch starved and in need of validation after his 1000 year grounding in The Gateway, jumped into a friendship then relationship.

It just so happened he and Bathin were very much on the different pages about the romantic aspect of the relationship, in part based on how each of them views The Lamb.

Bathin, being the perfect, obedient, cult leader husband they are, views The Lamb as their infallible god who chose them of all others to be their spouse, while Narinder views The Lamb more as an equal, though he isn't happy about it, since he knows crown-bearing gods are just as flawed and messy as mortals.

So in the end Bathin's agape love for The Lamb out weights his eros and phillia love for Narinder. The Lamb's pedestal will always be higher than any lovers Bathin has or will ever have.

When Narinder finally understands that fact, he feels insulted and hurt, so he lashes out.

It's both neither of their faults and also both of their faults.

And now that I think about, their poor future kid is gonna grow up the child of a break up... Good thing The Lamb doing most of the rearing, I guess?

[thewisaaaaad]

AWWW FUCK

In my sleep deprived state, I have created YET ANOTHER AU by smashing together several ideas in my head, along with being inspired by @kamodofilez bells of the dammed au. Sorry for pinging you, but CREDIT IS DUE.

When am I going to run out of these oh lamb

Anyways here's the au. I call it the Regretful Hunter AU, no idea if i am going to continue with this.

In this AU, neither the lamb nor Narinder really wanted to fight.

As soon as Narinder heard the new prophecy through Ratau, he knew exactly what would happen.

Five becomes nothing? He wasn't stupid. He was going to fall too, just like all his siblings.

Good. It was what he deserved. It was what he wanted.

Narinder did the fight because he was actually tired of being the god of death, saw that the lamb was way better at being god than any of his siblings were, and wanted to pass the mantle. Of course, due to pride and family trauma, they couldn't just hand it over, so he tried to goad the lamb into killing him. He... doesn't really consider how Aym and Baal would feel about it. He forgot they were people, honestly, until it was too late to care.

The lamb, meanwhile, was totally chill with dying. They felt that they were OK at playing leader, but was ready to hand over the reins to the god that gave them the opportunity to take revenge for their people.

They were fully ready to let go, and see their family again in the afterlife. After all that had happened, they were just. So. Tired.

However, fate has ways of getting what it wants- including puppeting its victims. The lamb was conscious the whole time as they were forced to fight the person that gave them everything they had ever wanted and slay his guardians. They were just glad that they didn't have to kill him.

Narinder was less than pleased with the mercy. When the guilt of what he had done set in, he ran away from the cult before the lamb could explain what happened.

He planned on going out, finding a nice cliff with some sharp rocks at the bottom, and ending it once and for all.

Turns out, ending your life by your own hands is a lot harder than he thought. It can be pretty scary, standing at the edge.

He blames his mortality, of course.

Lamb, meanwhile, goes into a depression induced stupor, the young god just going through the motions of running a cult. ???'s arrival makes it a little easier, by giving them a goal to work towards, but they never stop hoping to find Narinder again. They know hes not dead yet.

They would feel it.

Narinder continues to survive in the forest, hunting critters using plumbata, or throwing arrows, made from stolen arrows. He goes around, surviving while cursing his cowardice, until one day he wanders through Silkcradle, looking for spiders to hunt.

Instead, he finds a panda and a skunk in mortal danger. Before, he would have let them die, for obviously if they had wanted to live then they would not have come here, doubly so for the panda who could have just never come to the lands of the old faith at all.

But now? Now he understands the fear of the end. How it can creep up on you without knowledge of its presence, how a foolish decision can seem like the best one to make in the moment.

So he saves them. They, of course, ask for his name.

He does not give it. Instead, he gives them the location of paradise, where they will be safe. When asked why he does not go there himself, he answers that "I had lost my right to that place long ago."

When Jalala and Rinor arrive at the lambs cult, they tell the lamb of the kind stranger who saved them, the cat with three red eyes.

The lamb gets excited. He's still out there. And he wishes he could be here.

They just have to talk to him.

[rainforestakiie]

AdamsApple Month Harvest!

Master and Pet~

i really love this one. it is so cute. it is inspired by the wonderful art of breedtheseed or @sir-tater-of-the-tot. this is an cult of the lamb small au but adam's another lamb ~

@adamsappleweek

In a world cloaked in shadows, a dark tale unfurled, whispered on the wind like a haunting melody. The gentle lambs, once symbols of innocence, were now hunted mercilessly. Rumors slithered through the air like smoke, speaking of a creature born from the depths of despair—a lamb of hell, brandishing hellfire, with blood-red eyes that glowed like embers in the night. Its demonic hisses and growls sent shivers down the spines of all who dared to listen. The bishops and their lords, fearful of this unholy apparition, dispatched their teams, relentless in their pursuit to capture the lamb and drag it back for sacrifice.

Amidst this turmoil, young Adam was born into a world of darkness. His parents, upon seeing him for the first time, were seized by a chilling shock. Tiny and fragile, he was wrapped in a shroud of black wool, his large green eyes gleaming with an unsettling curiosity. In a world where fear ruled, they knew that the bishops’ gaze could fall upon him at any moment. Desperate to shield their child from the impending doom, they hid him away, their hearts heavy with dread. When he learned to walk, they abandoned him, urging him to remain concealed, whispering warnings as they faded into the shadows.

Yet, even as they left, a part of Adam felt a bittersweet relief. It was during one of his solitary moments, nestled within the dense expanse of a field of vibrant red camellias, that he overheard a small band of hunters trudging through the thick blossoms. Adam dropped low, his tiny form melding effortlessly into the ground, his midnight-black wool a perfect disguise against the earth. As the hunters spoke, their voices trembled with a mixture of fear and fascination. They mentioned a white-as-snow lamb, a creature that had already slain one bishop, driving the remaining three into a frenzy of desperation.

Joy surged within Adam, nearly bringing him to tears. He wasn’t the lamb of prophecy; he was just another forgotten soul among many, a mere shadow in a world of light. And in that thought, he found solace. He preferred being a nobody, away from the wrath of the bishops.

Once the hunters’ voices faded into the distance, Adam lifted his head, shaking his fluffy black ears, which flopped like those of a bunny, framing his gentle face. He was peculiar in his appearance, but he cherished this uniqueness. Clad in a simple black poncho, he found comfort in its familiarity, knowing it cloaked him from prying eyes.

The field of camellias was his sanctuary, a realm where he could lose himself in the sea of crimson blooms that swayed gently in the breeze. Each blossom was a reminder of life, vibrant and resilient, yet each held a deeper secret. Adam had learned to use the petals for healing, crafting poultices from their velvety softness to mend his wounds and soothe his scrapes. The rich scent enveloped him like a protective embrace, grounding him in his solitude.

In his endless days among the flowers, Adam revelled in the beauty of their presence. He fashioned camellia crowns to adorn his head, their brilliant red a stark contrast against his dark wool, creating a sense of belonging in a world that sought to cast him out. He wove camellia chains, delicate strands that danced around his small form, each bloom a testament to his fleeting existence. They became his companions, vibrant reminders of a world filled with colour amidst the grim shadows lurking just beyond the field’s edges.

In this sanctuary of red, Adam felt an unspoken bond with the blossoms. When the wind rustled through the tall stems, he believed they whispered secrets meant only for him, tales of hope and despair, of love and loss. It was here, amongst the camellia fields, that he felt truly alive hidden from the world’s cruelty, cradled in the gentle embrace of nature’s beauty.

Yet, as the sun dipped low, casting elongated shadows across the field, an unsettling tension lingered in the air. The distant echoes of the hunters reminded Adam of the ever-looming threat that hung over him like a storm cloud. Each rustle in the underbrush sent his heart racing, but he clung to the hope that perhaps he would remain unnoticed, just another shadow in a world desperate to forget him.

And so, he waited, nestled among the blossoms, longing for the day when he could emerge from the shadows, not as the hunted, but as something greater, a soul who could finally claim his place in the world, beyond the reach of those who sought to extinguish his light.

Adam sighed deeply, stretching his stubby legs out with a small, satisfied grunt. For a lamb, he was quite short, it was true—but he was thickly built, with a round, fluffy body that made him look like a black puffball that had rolled off the edge of midnight itself. Still, despite his bulk, Adam had mastered the art of hiding. He rose to his full, modest height, stretching his arms out as he let the warm summer breeze of Darkwood wash over him, stirring the dense field of red camellias. Their sweet, heady fragrance filled the air, a scent that Adam loved so dearly it felt like home.

A low chuckle escaped him as he adjusted his black cloak, lined carefully with camellias he’d picked and tied himself. One especially full blossom sat proudly on his chest, fastened by a thick red ribbon tied into a neat bow at the back of his neck. With the cloak pulled around his head, Adam looked more like a camellia bush than a lamb, which he counted on in moments when stealth was essential.

With light steps, he wandered through the camellia field, his gaze soft as he inspected each bloom, noting which were in full, brilliant health and which needed a bit of his gentle care. He knew this field like the back of his hoof and tended to it as though it were a beloved friend, nurturing the blossoms and making sure they grew strong and tall. Adam felt like he belonged here, hidden away among the rich red blooms.

But then, just as he knelt down to admire a particularly beautiful flower, the sharp sound of metal clashing on metal cut through the field, causing him to jump. He whirled in the direction the hunters had gone, his heart pounding, and held his small hooves close to his chest. The noise was chaotic, each clang and shout hinting at a fierce struggle. Adam rocked on his hooves, shifting nervously from one foot to the other, wondering if he should sink back into the blossoms and wait for it all to pass. But then, as quickly as it began, the noise ceased. Silence fell, cold and unsettling, as though the whole forest had held its breath.

A painful whimper echoed through the stillness, faint but filled with such raw anguish that it made Adam shiver. He tried to ignore it, willing himself to focus on the flowers, but each laboured groan tugged at his heart, tearing his resolve. He knew he should hide, knew he was safer nestled in his field of red, but something in the sound wouldn’t let him rest. Taking a shaky breath, he steeled himself and crept toward the direction of the sounds.

He reached the edge of the camellia field, hugging the rough bark of a Darkwood tree as he peeked around it. His breath caught in his throat at the scene before him: the area looked like a battlefield, with stones scattered, grass slashed to pieces, and broken branches littered everywhere. Dust hung in the air, thick and grim, marking where the hunters had fallen. Adam’s heart pounded, realizing that the strange piles of dust were all that remained of them.

But in the center of the chaos stood a figure that stole his breath entirely. A small, snow-white lamb struggled to stand, his coat as pure as untouched snow, yet stained with grime and flecks of red. The lamb wore a striking red cloak, with a tiny bell on his chest that jingled softly as he tried to find his balance. Adam’s eyes went wide. Could this be the lamb of prophecy? The one said to wield flames and bring ruin to the bishops? Had this white lamb really defeated all those hunters on his own?

Adam’s heart leapt as he watched the lamb stumble forward, hooves shaking before he collapsed to his knees, utterly spent. With a final, exhausted sigh, he sank to the ground, too weak to rise again. Adam glanced around, fear flashing in his emerald eyes. He knew he should run back, escape to the safety of the camellias and let this lamb—prophecy or not—fade away. But just as he took a step to retreat, he froze at the sound of a distant hiss, one that sent chills down his spine. Chaser worms, drawn by the scent of battle, slithered into the area, their dark, coiling forms advancing hungrily toward the fallen lamb.

Adam clenched his jaw, his wool paling with terror. He hated the creatures of Darkwood, and the chaser worms were especially dreadful, with their long bodies and keen, unerring sense of smell. His eyes darted anxiously around, hoping the white lamb would rise and flee. But the lamb didn’t stir, lying prone in the middle of the carnage, a fragile figure in a sea of violence.

Another whimper broke the air, soft and pained, and Adam’s resolve crumbled. He couldn’t leave him. Drawing in a deep breath, he gathered his courage, bolting forward in a swift dash across the torn battlefield. He slid to the lamb’s side, flaring his cloak outward to mask them both in a sea of red. Huddling close, he pressed himself against the white lamb, praying the chaser worms would mistake them for a harmless patch of camellias.

Adam held his breath as one of the worms approached, its snout only inches from his face. He bit down his fear as it sniffed curiously at the red camellia he’d carefully tied by his cheek. A sneeze exploded from the worm, and it recoiled, twisting back to slink away with the others as they retreated, disappointed by the lack of fresh prey.

Only when the last worm disappeared into the depths of Darkwood did Adam allow himself to breathe. He flung the cloak back, his heart racing as he turned to inspect the lamb at his side. His stomach dropped when he finally took in the lamb’s condition. The poor creature’s face was swollen, smeared with blood, his once-bright coat marred with scratches and bruises. Adam pressed a hoof to his mouth, stifling a gasp.

“Oh… oh no,” he murmured, glancing desperately toward the camellia field. The lamb was in bad shape, barely clinging to consciousness, and if he didn’t tend to him soon, he wouldn’t last the hour.

With a steely determination, Adam shuffled around, sliding his hooves under the lamb’s arms to drag him back toward the safety of the flowers. He moved as quickly as his small frame allowed, pulling the lamb through the tangle of blossoms until they were nestled in the heart of the camellia field. Surrounded by his beloved blooms, Adam felt a surge of comfort.

Adam’s hooves trembled as he gently placed a cluster of freshly plucked camellia blossoms by the injured lamb’s side. He’d always known the flowers held powerful healing properties, and he worked with careful reverence, feeling the softness of each petal as he pressed them lightly to the lamb’s wounds. Next, he unrolled one of his handmade bandages, wrapping it snugly around the lamb’s head, securing it with a knot at the nape of his neck. Adam couldn’t help but pause when he noticed the faint blush of pink and red across the lamb’s cheeks. At first, he thought it might be from bruising, but when he brushed the soft wool, he realized that the hues were natural, an enchanting blend unique to the lamb.

“Whoa…” he murmured under his breath, eyes wide with wonder.

Once the bandages were in place and the flowers had been arranged to maximize their healing power, Adam sat back, a weight settling on him as he stared at the slumbering lamb. Now, it was just a matter of time—if this was indeed the prophesied lamb, he would need all his strength to pull through.

As Adam watched him, curiosity bloomed within him. Could this truly be the lamb from the prophecy, the one powerful enough to have defeated Bishop Leshy? The thought sent a shiver down his spine. To take down an entire team of hunters and stand against the bishops was something only legends spoke of. Adam tilted his head thoughtfully; this lamb must possess extraordinary strength. What a sight that must’ve been.

Eventually, the sky darkened, and the moon rose high, casting its silver glow over the red camellia field. Exhausted from the day’s harrowing events, Adam dozed off, his chin nestled against his black wool as he drifted into a fitful sleep, completely unaware of the white lamb beginning to stir beside him.

The injured lamb’s bright blue eyes fluttered open, wincing at the faint ache that throbbed through his body. He took a shaky breath, his gaze moving to the bandages covering his wounds and the gentle arrangement of camellias placed thoughtfully around him. A sense of surprise washed over him, and he glanced around the moonlit field, his eyes soon landing on the figure of a small, black lamb curled up nearby.

His breath caught. Another lamb.

Another one of his kind, alive, after he’d long believed himself to be the last. The bishops had killed so many, wiped out his entire flock, leaving him to wander in solitude. He thought he was destined to walk this path alone, the last of his kin. Yet here, in this field of red, a single dark lamb lay sleeping, unafraid and blissfully unaware of his stare.

A strange warmth bloomed in the white lamb’s chest, a sensation he hadn’t felt in so long—hope, and perhaps even a flicker of joy. The loneliness that had gnawed at him, the weight of knowing his kin were gone, softened, if only for a moment. He continued to watch Adam, his glassy blue eyes wide and captivated, the feeling of connection washing over him like a cool breeze.

The lamb reached out instinctively, his hoof brushing lightly against the camellia blossoms that Adam had so carefully arranged. A quiet sense of gratitude filled him.

Adam’s stomach grumbled, the noise cutting through the dawn’s quiet, making him sigh and stretch his legs as the memory of the injured lamb returned. He quickly turned to check on him but found only the gentle blooms of camellias where the white lamb had been. Disappointment weighed heavily in his chest. Had the lamb not made it through the night? Had he done something wrong with the flowers, or missed a wound?

Just then, a small pile of glistening berries fell next to him, startling him as he squealed and jumped back. He looked up to find the white lamb standing above him, grinning with a mouth full of sharp, glinting teeth.

“Hi!” the lamb chimed, his voice bright and lively. “Thank you so much for helping me last night! I really appreciate it!”

Adam blinked, stunned, and nodded as bewilderment rolled over him. The lamb’s grin widened as his gaze dropped to Adam’s rumbling stomach. “You must be hungry! Go ahead; I gathered these berries just for you as a thank you!”

Unsure, Adam glanced up at the lamb, then back at the berries. The lamb nodded encouragingly, gesturing for him to eat. Adam hesitantly took a berry, biting into it slowly, savoring the sweetness as his hunger took over. The white lamb sat down beside him, eagerly munching on the berries, his cheerful eyes catching Adam’s each time he looked over, a smile never leaving his face.

“Um…” Adam mumbled after a while, nervously wiping his hooves on his wool and climbing to his feet, shuffling back. “Thanks for breakfast, um, I…”

The white lamb leapt to his feet too, matching Adam’s movement. “My name is Lucifer!”

“Oh, um…” Adam’s voice trailed off, his eyes meeting Lucifer’s bright blue ones. “My name is Adam.”

“Adam!” Lucifer repeated, grinning as though savoring the sound. “Are you alone out here, Adam? I’ve never seen another lamb before! I thought I was the only one left.”

Adam tried to edge back toward the carnation field, but Lucifer’s stream of questions kept him rooted. “Why were you out here? Have you always lived in Darkwood? How did you know how to use the camellias?”

Adam shuffled his hooves uncomfortably, his gaze darting between the camellias and the path back to his field. “Look, um… Is there something you want from me? I don’t have anything worth much, only some camellias… if they even count.”

Lucifer’s eyes sparkled with a strange, excited glint as he took a step forward, gripping Adam’s hooves. “Yes! That’s exactly what I want!”

Adam frowned, confused. “My… camellias?”

Lucifer nodded, though he seemed to struggle to find the words. “Well, yes! Or, well, not just the flowers… you! Your skills!”

Adam’s brows knit together as he stared blankly at Lucifer, who puffed out his cheeks in frustration, clearly anxious.

“I need your help,” Lucifer blurted out. “I can’t seem to figure out how to use the camellias to save my followers. They’re sick, and they’re only getting worse. I came here to gather more camellias, but I found you instead! This must mean something!”

Adam shifted, unease bubbling within him as he watched Lucifer’s pleading eyes. He tried to step back, his instincts telling him to slip away to the safety of his flowers. But Lucifer clasped his hooves tighter, his bright blue eyes large and glistening, practically begging him.

“Please, Adam,” Lucifer murmured, his voice softening. “My cult needs help, and I don’t know how to save them. I don’t have anyone else who can.”

Adam’s resistance wavered as he took in the lamb’s desperate expression. After a long pause, he finally sighed. “Alright… I’ll help you.”

Lucifer’s face split into a wide grin, lighting up with gratitude. “You will?! Thank you so much! Hold onto me, okay?”

“W-wait,” Adam stammered as the ground beneath them began to glow with an eerie red light. “What’s going on?”

Lucifer wrapped his hooves tightly around Adam’s middle, his gaze warm as he looked up. “I had to hide my cult deep, far from the bishops’ sight! Hang on—this is the fastest way back!”

Before Adam could react, red and black light erupted around them, bathing the Darkwood in a glow that pulsed and shimmered. The world blurred, twisting around him as his heart raced, leaving him breathless, with only Lucifer’s grip grounding him.

The world settled, and Adam found himself standing in the middle of an eerie clearing, the cult’s sanctuary. Scattered remnants of banners and humble offerings marked the area, faded and worn, surrounded by twisted trees that swayed with ghostly whispers. In the centre stood a carved lamb statue, red paint—or was it something else?—dripping down its stone face. The place felt hollow, its silence thick and foreboding, and Adam felt his heart sink. Only a few figures were present, hunched over on tattered sleeping bags made from dried leaves and grass, each one pale and barely able to move. He could see their fur matted, breathing laboured, each one struggling as though even that were a burden.

Adam gasped as Lucifer spun him around, his face etched with worry. “Can you help them?” he asked, looking up at Adam with desperate, pleading eyes.

Adam glanced at the sick cult members, then back at Lucifer, uncertainty knitting his brows. “I—I don’t know. But… I can try.”

Lucifer’s eyes lit up with hope, and he quickly grabbed Adam’s hooves, leading him to the frail figures who lay groaning softly. Lucifer eagerly unpacked the camellias he’d gathered, petals scattering as he handed them to Adam. “What else do you need?” he asked, practically vibrating with anticipation.

Taking a deep breath, Adam examined the camellias, their rich red colour vibrant even in the dreary surroundings. He’d worked with them countless times, but never on creatures this sick.

“Alright,” he muttered to himself, reaching for one of his pouches. “I’ll need to make a paste to cool their fevers.”

With practiced movements, Adam plucked petals and ground them between his hooves, adding water from a small bowl Lucifer had fetched, until a thick, fragrant paste began to form. He worked quickly, blending the camellias until he had enough, and then turned to the nearest sick creature, a shivering rabbit whose fur clung to her skin. Gently, he smoothed the cooling camellia paste across her forehead, then onto the others, one by one, careful with every stroke of his hoof.

“Keep the water coming,” Adam murmured, and Lucifer hurried to refill the bowl, his blue eyes never leaving Adam’s face as he worked.

Lucifer’s followers moaned as the cooling paste soothed their fevered brows. Adam checked each of their breathing, applying more of the camellia paste wherever he found hot, swollen patches. The herbs alone might not be enough, he knew, but they could ease the pain and buy the followers precious time. Every now and then, he’d glance at Lucifer, who did as he was told without question, his usual lively nature replaced by a quiet, focused resolve.

Time passed in a blur, the two of them moving from one follower to the next, changing the compresses and keeping the camellia paste fresh, making sure each of them had sips of water to drink. Finally, as the last bandage was set, Adam slumped back against the lamb statue in the middle, his hooves aching from all the kneeling and mixing. He let out a heavy breath, stretching his tired legs with a small wince.

“That’s all I can do,” he said, his voice weary but hopeful. “It’s up to them now if they want to survive.”

Lucifer sank down beside him, a worried hum slipping from his lips as he gazed at his followers, each face etched with gratitude. Adam noticed the tender way Lucifer looked at them, his eyes filled with genuine care and a fierce protectiveness that belied his often carefree, mischievous demeanour.

“You really care for them, don’t you?” Adam murmured, glancing at Lucifer from the corner of his eye.

Lucifer nodded, his expression softening. “They’re all I have. And now… I have you, too.”

“Oh… um…” Adam stammered, feeling a warmth creep up his cheeks. He wasn’t used to such direct attention, and Lucifer’s bright, pleading eyes made his heart skip in a way he couldn’t quite understand.

“You will stay, won’t you?” Lucifer asked, voice barely above a whisper, his wide blue eyes gleaming with a softness that made Adam look away.

“Please say you’ll stay.” There was a quiet desperation in his tone, a vulnerability Adam hadn’t seen in the little lamb before.

Adam fumbled with the edge of his cloak, smoothing the petals of the camellia flowers stitched along the hem.

“I—I don’t know… I mean, this isn’t really my place,” he mumbled, keeping his gaze fixed on the ground. His life was simple, quiet, spent among his beloved camellias, and he couldn’t imagine fitting into something as foreign as Lucifer’s cult.

Lucifer scooted closer, his hooves reaching out to rest gently on Adam’s.

“You’re exactly what we need, Adam,” he said, his voice filled with earnest warmth.

“We’re a small family here, but we’re all that’s left of… well, us.” He gestured to the sparse gathering of sick followers, who now lay resting peacefully. “They need you. And… I need you.”

Adam’s heart raced, a whirlwind of emotions churning inside him. He’d never been needed, not really. He’d lived in the shadows, hidden among the tall flowers, content to let the world pass by. But here, with Lucifer’s hopeful gaze fixed on him, the weight of being truly seen and wanted settled on him like a warm, heavy blanket.

“I… I suppose I could stay a little while,” he murmured, finally looking up to meet Lucifer’s eyes. “Just until everyone’s healed.”

Lucifer’s face lit up with pure joy, his whole body practically vibrating with excitement.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” he cheered, throwing his hooves around Adam in a tight hug. “You won’t regret this, I promise! I’ll make sure of it!”

Adam’s initial shock melted, and he found himself smiling shyly as he returned the hug, his woolly cheek brushing against Lucifer’s soft fur. For the first time, he felt something in his heart that he hadn’t felt before—a quiet sense of belonging.

Adam’s quiet agreement to “a little while” had turned into something far more permanent without him even noticing. As the seasons shifted, his initial intentions to leave faded, wrapped up in the pulse of the cult’s vibrant life. Lucifer may have been the cult leader, the one who called the shots, but he listened to Adam’s every suggestion, even turning to him for advice.

The first big project Adam suggested was setting up farmland.

 “If you plant the berry seeds you collect from Darkwood, you can have a steady source of food,” he had explained, a bit hesitant. “And… well, camellia seeds, too. You’d always have a supply for healing.”

Lucifer’s eyes had sparkled with interest at the idea, nodding intently, and then he’d disappeared for an entire week. When he returned, he came back with hundreds of different seeds, most of which Adam had never seen before. Adam stared in amazement, organizing them into tidy rows and sorting them with care. Lucifer beamed beside him, thrilled at the look of awe on Adam’s face.

What began as a small gathering of lambs and a few followers soon blossomed into a thriving cult. The once-empty clearing was filled with new faces, all working together to transform the barren land. Trees were felled to build shelters, stone was chiselled into strong walls and ornate altars, and a tiny garden flourished, its soil rich with the seeds Lucifer had brought back. A simple chapel rose from the ground, built by hand and heart, where followers gathered to worship in hushed reverence, casting glances of gratitude in Adam’s direction as they admired the fields of camellias and berries.

At Adam’s suggestion, sleeping bags were traded for sturdier huts, cozy and welcoming, each one decorated with little personal touches the followers had added. It felt like a real home, and Adam found himself wrapped up in it all, hardly noticing as the days slipped by. Seasons passed in a blur of peaceful, busy days, and one evening, a thought stirred in his mind—a flicker of the life he’d left behind in the Darkwood.

Sensing his distant expression, Lucifer leaned gently against his side, his fluffy warmth soothing Adam’s restless thoughts.

“You know,” Lucifer murmured, “You don’t have to leave. You can stay… with us. With me.” His voice was soft, his words lingering in the quiet evening air.

Adam’s heart fluttered as he glanced out at the cult grounds, watching his friends busily tending to their tasks and murmuring their daily devotions at the statue in the centre.

"I don’t know…” he began, his voice trailing off as he looked back down at Lucifer.

But Lucifer only leaned closer, nestling into Adam’s wool as he whispered, “I’d really like you to stay with me, you know.”

Adam’s cheeks flared with heat, his green eyes widening as he stammered, “M-master, you… you shouldn’t speak like that,” he mumbled, barely able to meet Lucifer’s gaze. “Everyone will get jealous… they’ll accuse you of… of favouritism…”

Lucifer laughed, his bright blue eyes crinkling as he gave Adam a gentle nudge.

“Let them,” he said, smiling softly. “I want you here, Adam. No one could replace you.”

Adam swallowed, feeling his resolve weaken, wrapped up in Lucifer’s warm gaze and his own blossoming feelings.

“Addie~” Lucifer whispered sweetly. “Before you make up your mind, come to my tent tonight. Let me give you a reason to stay.”

Adam’s heart skipped a beat, his cheeks flushing under his wool as Lucifer’s words lingered in the air. The gentle teasing, the warmth in his voice—it all stirred a feeling in him he wasn’t used to, something he didn’t quite know what to make of.

"W-What do you mean by that?” he managed to stammer, unsure if he truly wanted the answer.

Lucifer only gave him a mischievous, innocent smile, shrugging. “I dunno.”

“You’ll have to come and find out.” His eyes held a spark, as if he enjoyed watching Adam squirm.

Just then, a voice called from deeper within the camp.

“Master! Master, we need your assistance!” Another follower waved from the makeshift altar near the centre, where they seemed to be struggling with a stack of supplies.

With a cheerful grin, Lucifer waved back.

 “Comin~” he chimed, though his gaze didn’t waver from Adam’s. Just as he started walking away, he paused and looked back over his shoulder, his blue eyes half-lidded and glinting darkly.

“Trust me, Addie,” he purred, “you don’t want to miss it~”

Adam’s pulse thundered in his ears as he watched Lucifer stroll away, leaving him with thoughts that only seemed to tangle and grow more confusing. The whispers of the Darkwood seemed to carry Lucifer’s words back to him, playful and haunting. Taking a shaky breath, Adam sat back against the lamb statue, his mind spinning as he considered the invitation.

Adam was beside himself, his nerves reaching a new level. It was difficult to focus on his duties, tending to the camellia flower bed, cooking for everyone and tending to the folk that was feeling under the weather or hurt. Until finally the moon was raising, and everyone was retiring to their camellia hunts. Adam stood on the edge, swaying slowly as he debated just going to his own hut or moving towards lucifer's tent. His face grows warm again as lucifer's words echoed through his head.

He whimpered and glanced towards the tent framed with camellias and was most a rich red in colour. Breathing in deeply, Adam moved towards it, his heart beginning thump.

“M-Master?” he called anxiously, pushing the thick fabric of red aside and peeking inside.

At first, he didn't see Lucifer, just a massive pile of cushions and feathers. He nervously stood on the outside, wondering if he should really enter or not? Just as he was debating this, hooves grabbed his and he was playfully pulled into the tent.

“Why are you hiding out there?” Lucifer purred, pulling Adam close, “I told you come inside, didn't I?”

Adam gasped shyly, “M-Master, i didn’t want to be disrespectful.”

Lucifer gazed him warmly, leading him towards the pile of cushions and pushed him so he was sitting, “Oh Addie, you're so cute. it's not disrespectful. I invited you, remember?”

Opening and shutting his mouth, Adam nodded, “I guess you did Master.”

Beaming brightly, Lucifer placed his hooves onto his hips, “Now, Addie, I asked you here because I want to play a game with you.”

“A game?” Adam blinked up at him.

Dropping to his knees before the black lamb, Lucifer smiled so warmly, so lovingly at Adam, “I wish to play a game with you Addie. A special game.”

He reached his hooves out, touching Adams, “For this evening, you will be the Master and I shall be your pet.”

What?

Adam stared and stared…and stared. He waited and waited. He thought this must be a joke. A prank. Something, because surely Lucifer was not serious.  However, Lucifer did nothing but gaze up at Adam seriously.

“You what?!” Adam finally exclaimed in disbelief, “Mo master! no, no, you're the Master! Your the cult leader, I’m - I’m a nobody!”

Shaking his head with a frown, Lucifer leant forward, “Oh Addie. You’re not nobody. You're special. You're important to me and I want to show you how much I trust you.”

“I want too…” Lucifer whispered, nuzzling his face up to Adams, “I wish to show you how much I need you. How much I trust you.”

Adam’s breath hitched as Lucifer leaned close, his touch soft but sending a shiver down his spine. Lucifer’s warm, velvety nose brushed against his cheek, and Adam could feel his heart racing in a way he’d never felt before. The dim, flickering light from the candles scattered around the tent cast an inviting glow over Lucifer’s face, highlighting the gentle smile that didn’t falter as he gazed at him.

“You’re special, Addie,” Lucifer murmured again, his voice warm and slow, each word carefully chosen, “and I want you to see that. I trust you to take care of me… even just for tonight.”

Adam’s heart thundered, his mind lost in the entangling mix of admiration and unease as Lucifer’s warm voice pulled him closer, breaking through his nervous hesitation.

“B-but... I mean, I’m just…” he faltered, his voice barely above a whisper.

His cheeks burned fiercely, and his gaze dropped, only to be drawn back by Lucifer’s gentle touch, his hooves guiding Adam’s chin to meet his gaze once more. Those deep, oceanic blue eyes held him, unwavering and softened with something tender, something almost vulnerable.

“Just tonight, Addie,” Lucifer’s voice was a low murmur, his tone intimate yet steeped with a hint of mystery. “Just us. No titles—no labels.”

 As he settled beside Adam, their wool brushing softly together, Lucifer reached out, guiding Adam’s hoof to his cheek, where he leaned into it with an unguarded warmth that was nearly disarming. The intensity in his gaze softened but remained piercing, as though unravelling the thoughts Adam tried so hard to keep hidden.

The cool night air filled the tent, but Adam felt anything but cold. He shivered at the sensation of his hoof gliding down Lucifer’s cheek, every touch slow and uncertain, but with each passing moment, he felt steadier. Lucifer’s hand pressed over his, anchoring him, that familiar smile still lingering on his face—only tonight, it held a new edge, a shadowed softness that made Adam’s heartbeat just a little faster.

Lucifer’s voice, thick with allure, broke the silence.

“Tonight, you lead,” he whispered, a glimmer of vulnerability slipping through as he looked at Adam, eyes half-lidded and waiting. “Let me feel the kindness you’ve shown everyone else.”

A strange, tender resolve blossomed in Adam’s chest, and his anxiety softened as he nodded, tracing his hoof lightly down Lucifer’s wool-covered shoulder, feeling each delicate fibre beneath his touch. Lucifer’s breaths slowed, his eyes closing as he leaned into each touch, the stillness between them electric with unspoken emotion.

Adam’s voice was barely a murmur, the words like a breeze. “Then… if that’s what you truly want, we’ll make tonight ours.”

The warmth in Lucifer’s gaze darkened, his blue eyes glinting under the moonlight as he brought Adam’s hand to his lips, brushing them in a gesture filled with reverence.

A softness melted his expression as he whispered, “Master,” the word slipping out like a secret, barely audible, yet heavy with meaning.

“You… are beautiful.”

A shiver raced down Adam’s spine at the name, his cheeks flaming as he stammered, “M-Master? I—”

“Ah, ah,” Lucifer laughed, shaking his head as he raised a hoof in gentle reproach, the humour in his voice laced with something deeper. “No, not tonight, Addie. Call me ‘pet not Master~”

Adam’s breath caught in his throat, heart pounding. He could hardly bear to meet Lucifer’s eyes, the words catching in his throat as he whispered shyly, “Um, p-pet…”

“Nooooo~” Lucifer continued, “My Pet.”

“M-My Pet…” Adam gulped as Lucifer smiled at him again, “My – My Pet, um…I…”

Lucifer’s face softened, a pleased smile growing as he caressed Adam’s wool, his touch lingering in a way that was almost reverent.

“And to be here, like this, with someone like you… you are truly remarkable, Master,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with a warmth Adam had never quite heard before. Lucifer’s hoof traced patterns across Adam’s wool, whispering, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so beautiful as you, Master. Like the midnight sky… endless, soft, yet mysterious.”

Adam closed his eyes, his breath trembling as he took in the words, a feeling of warmth and wonder filling his heart, weaving between them in the quiet of the night.

Adam could barely manage the words as he lowered his gaze, cheeks pink.

“M-My pet…” he murmured, his voice a soft whisper. The title felt strange and delicate, yet warm on his tongue, as if it held a power he hadn’t known before. “You’re – you’re too kind…”

Lucifer’s eyes softened, his smile tender as he leaned closer, his gaze filled with unspoken affection.

“Master,” he replied gently, letting the word fall like a quiet promise. He reached up to twine a hoof through Adam’s dark wool, marvelling at its softness. “You’re everything to this cult, Master. I don’t know what we would have done without you.”

Adam’s heart fluttered, a shy smile tugging at the edges of his mouth.

“I just… I just did what I could,” he stammered, looking away. But Lucifer’s gaze stayed fixed on him, unwavering.

“Oh, but you did so much more than that.” Lucifer’s hoof traced a gentle line through Adam’s wool, his expression filled with admiration. “You’ve given us life, Master. The crops, our food... everything grows here because of you. Without you, we wouldn’t be able to harvest the berries or vegetables you’ve taught us to grow. Every bite we eat, every meal we share, is because of you.”

Adam shifted, feeling his cheeks flush even deeper.

“I just thought… I thought it would help,” he mumbled, his voice barely a whisper.

Lucifer chuckled, his eyes shining as he leaned in close. “And you were right. You didn’t just help—you made this place a home. I see you at the cooking pot, making sure everyone’s well-fed. The way you sing to yourself while you cook… it’s like you’re adding love into every meal.”

He smiled wider, a fondness glowing in his expression. “The little ones in the cult adore you for it. They tell me they feel better, like you’re bringing them light.”

Adam’s heart raced, and he turned his face away, feeling bashful.

“I… didn’t know they felt that way. I just want to make sure everyone’s taken care of,” he whispered, his voice shy.

Lucifer pulled him back gently, resting a hoof on his shoulder. “Exactly. That’s what makes you special. You look after everyone, no matter what they believe or where they come from. You welcome them all, even those who come here a little lost or uncertain.”

His voice softened. “Without you, we would have lost our way.”

Adam tried to protest, his voice flustered. “I didn’t do that much, honestly…”

But Lucifer shook his head, leaning even closer. “Yes, you did, Master. You’re the heart of us all.”

His hoof traced over Adam’s wool once more, a quiet admiration shining in his eyes. “I’m so grateful to have found you out there in the Darkwood. Without you, this place wouldn’t be the same. I wouldn’t be the same.”

Adam felt his heart swell, his cheeks heating as he looked up at Lucifer.

“I… I’m just glad I could help,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

And as Lucifer continued to play with his wool, a warmth blossomed between them that felt as deep as it was gentle, a quiet, steady feeling that neither of them could bear to let go.

Lucifer’s eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint, and he tilted his head, leaning close enough that Adam could feel the warmth radiating from his fur.

“Master,” he cooed, the word dripping with affection, “Can I give you a massage? You’ve been working so hard.”

His hoof slid gently over Adam’s shoulder, thumb tracing soft circles.

Adam’s cheeks flushed, and he shook his head quickly, his voice a stammered protest. “N-No, really, I’m fine! You don’t have to—”

Lucifer’s face fell in an exaggerated pout, his ears drooping slightly as he reluctantly pulled back. Not a moment later, though, his gaze lit up again as he reached for a woven basket nearby, packed with ripe, sweet-smelling fruits. He picked out a bunch of glistening grapes, holding them up enticingly as he shuffled closer to Adam.

“Then perhaps,” he whispered, “my lovely Master would like a little something to eat?”

Adam smiled shyly, waving a hoof. “No, really, I’m good. Still full from… well, the, um, grass earlier…”

His voice trailed off as he noticed Lucifer mumbling under his breath, his expression disappointed. With a soft smile, Lucifer set the basket aside but stayed close, his gaze unwavering.

He slipped his hoof over Adam’s, his touch both gentle and grounding as he gave it a warm squeeze.

“Adam,” he said softly, his tone now holding a quiet seriousness. “I want to pamper you; to show you how much you mean to me. You’ve given me—and everyone here—so much.”

His eyes softened, and he squeezed Adam’s hoof a little tighter. “I want you to feel how much I appreciate you, to trust me as I trust you.”

Adam blinked, his heart skipping at the depth in Lucifer’s words.

“But… Master,” he stammered, his voice laced with surprise. “You don’t have to do that for me—I’m not worth all of this.”

Lucifer let out a dramatic sigh, his free hoof coming up to gently cup Adam’s cheek, brushing over his fur with a tenderness that made Adam’s cheeks burn.

“Adam,” he whispered, voice low and sincere, “You deserve the world and more. Everything good in this place exists because of you. I wish I could give you all of it, and even that would never be enough.”

The weight of Lucifer’s words wrapped around Adam like a comforting blanket. As he investigated those familiar, earnest eyes, he felt a warmth bloom in his chest—a soft, steady reminder of the deep bond they shared, one that only seemed to grow stronger with each day.

Lucifer’s cheeks flushed a soft pink, his gaze flickering to the ground as he took a shaky breath. “Adam… I…”

He started hesitantly, voice just above a whisper, and then, as though the words had broken free, they poured out in a rush. “I don’t think you understand just how much you mean to me. Being with you feels like—I don’t know, like I’m floating, like everything else fades away, and it’s just us.”

He laughed softly, almost shyly, as he continued, his sapphire eyes bright. “You’re so gentle, so thoughtful… I’ve never felt like this before, not in all the time I’ve led this cult.”

Lucifer squeezed Adam’s hoof as he rambled on, a light of pure admiration shining in his eyes. “From that day you found me… I didn’t think anyone would have helped a stranger like me, especially out in Darkwood. But you did. You saved me, you stayed with me. You gave me all this, all of you.”

He paused, glancing down, his blush deepening as he continued in a softer tone. “And I… I don’t think I’d even be able to breathe without you now.”

Adam’s eyes widened, his heart pounding as he watched Lucifer, his usual playful confidence replaced by a vulnerable warmth that made his own cheeks flush. Lucifer hesitated, his fingers fidgeting with the hem of his tunic as he looked up, a rare shyness shining in his eyes. For the first time, Adam saw his confident Master look almost timid.

“I… I love you, Adam,” Lucifer whispered, his voice barely audible. “I love you so much, more than anything else in this world.”

He gave a small, bashful laugh, the blush blooming even deeper across his snowy cheeks. “And if you’ll have me, I want to make you mine. Truly.”

His voice caught, but he managed a smile, gazing at Adam with pure adoration. “I want to marry you, Adam. I want us to be together, to share all of this… forever.”

The words sent a shiver down Adam’s spine, and he could only stare, mouth slightly open as his thoughts scrambled to catch up.

“Marriage?” he echoed in disbelief, a hundred thoughts racing through his mind. Him? Worthy of something as incredible as this? “But… But I’m not worth all of that. I’m nobody. Just… a shadow in the background, a helper…”

Lucifer shook his head immediately, his voice full of emotion. “No, Adam. You’re wrong. You’re so much more than that. You’re my everything. More valuable than gold, than anything I could ever own or offer. You’re the heart of this place, the one who keeps us all going, who’s kept me going.”

His voice softened, and he brought his hoof to Adam’s cheek, brushing it tenderly. “You’re worth more than you realize, and I want to show you that… if you’ll let me.”

Tears stung Adam’s eyes, the weight of Lucifer’s words settling into him as he looked into those sincere, adoring eyes. He had no words, only a fierce blush as he reached up, letting Lucifer’s gentle touch ground him. In that moment, he felt the truth of it—this was more than just a home. It was a place where he belonged, with someone who truly, deeply loved him.

Adam took a deep breath, the weight of his decision settling warmly in his chest.

“I’ll stay,” he whispered, voice soft yet resolute. He looked up at Lucifer, his own uncertainty melting in the face of the pure joy lighting up Lucifer’s eyes. “I’ll stay with you. I’ll be part of the cult… with you.”

A soft, delighted gasp escaped Lucifer, and his face lit up as he leaned closer, his voice a sweet murmur. “Does that mean… you’ll marry me too?”

Adam’s breath hitched as their eyes met, a blush rising as he gave a small, trembling nod. “Yes. Yes, I’ll marry you, Lucifer.”

Lucifer’s face broke into a radiant smile, and without another word, he closed the distance between them, capturing Adam’s lips in a firm, devoted kiss. Their wool blended together, soft and warm, as Lucifer rolled him back into the pile of cushions, his laughter like a joyful melody. Adam felt the weight of Lucifer’s love surrounding him, a feeling of completeness that left him breathless.

Nestled together, their foreheads pressed close, Lucifer’s hand found Adam’s, entwining their fingers as he whispered, “With you here, Adam… I finally feel like I’ve found where I belong.”

Adam shyly smiled in return, “I…I love you too, Master.”

“Oh Addie~” Lucifer sighed in bliss.

The two kisses again.

[hauntedhokage]

salvation

Priest!Nanami Kento/F!Reader

word count: 2k

summary: you’ve been avoiding the church, the weight of your unabsolved sins sits heavy on your shoulders, and you know that he knows. he could always see right through you.

warnings: MDNI, priest kink, blasphemy up the ass, references to sexual content (sex in a church and unprotected sex), unintended use of a rosary & prayer, manipulation, Nanami refers to reader as “lamb” and “little one”, this is not their first meeting, established…something, reader is some kind of devout to Nanami and not necessarily to the religion itself at this point,

note: this is heavily inspired by my experience in church (read: very catholic), but I was also trying to lean more into my own vision of  “cult-religion” while not explicitly naming any particular religion that reader and Nanami are failing at practicing. Technically this is act iii but idk if I’ll write the acts i & ii that are in mind. 

AO3 | Nanami Masterlist | All Masterlists | Ko-fi |

You’d been avoiding the church. 

Always conveniently scheduled to work during the different scheduled mass times, and the one time you hadn’t been working you’d faked sick. Faking sick again wasn’t an option, as you were still working through the various meals that were brought your way to help you feel better and didn’t need any additional tupperware to wash and return to your neighbors. Your boss hadn’t scheduled you during Mass in a while, stating that he knew how much going meant to you and now that business was a bit slower he could afford to give you that time back. Everyone wanted you back in that church, sharing the house of worship and the teachings being preached because they all felt you needed it. 

What it provided, you didn’t know. It used to feel natural to be there, enlightening even. Confessional once lifted the weight of your transgressions and had you feeling lighter with the knowledge that your path had been redirected. The reassurance that the gates of heaven had not yet been shut to you, the feeling of light that came when you were told that you were still part of His flock, safe from the fiery darkness of hell - nothing topped that feeling. 

But it wasn’t that you were avoiding the church. 

You were hiding from Father Kento. 

He knew you better than anybody else did at this point, and you hadn’t known him long. It had been maybe six months since he’d come to replace the older priest who had passed away, and how quickly he’d drawn you in - like a moth to his flame and you were trying to avoid getting burnt. He was a priest, after all, even if everything you knew about him went against your understanding of what priests actually did. But maybe that was what you liked about him? Father Kento to you was a completely different man than he was to anybody else, you knew him better because you’d been blessed with the opportunity to see more of him. He’d taken “priestly liberties” to see to your salvation, took special care of you as his most precious lamb, and this was how you repaid him and his kindness? Avoiding he who had given so much to you?

“You look troubled, little lamb.”

And there he was. Always there when you seemed to be thinking about him the most, only in the last few weeks you’d turned away when you saw him at the market or on your way to or from work. Today, though, there is no avoiding him for he’s standing right in front of you. A gentle hand on your elbow (to steady you, would be his cover for a touch so intimate), eyes looking right through you it seemed. 

“Good evening, Father,” you greet, smile soft yet still uncertain as you meet that piercing gaze. “How are you?”

“I’ve been worried about you, but I’m well.” There it was, so quickly to the point yet still managing to be indirect given the public setting that was the middle of the sidewalk. “How have you been?”

“I’ve been alright. Busy, then-”

“Then you weren’t well, yes?”

“That’s where I need to confess.” Your admission earns a quirked brow, the ghost of a smile gracing his features under the streetlight as he gives your arm a squeeze. 

“Would you like to come with me to the church? Somewhere private where we can talk and hopefully provide some solace to that troubled mind.” 

Another act of familiarity, this time his thumb gently running up from the bridge of your nose and between your eyes to smooth out your furrowed brow. A gentle pat to the top of your head follows when you nod, and that has him smiling as he gives a nod of his own before turning to lead you back towards the church. During the walk you tell him about your day, how work was and sharing a fun fact you’d learned that day. In turn he tells you what he can about his, out of interest to respect the private lives of others in the parish. It’s natural, nobody would assume any less than holy intentions to see you being guided down the sidewalk by Father Kento. 

But as soon as you’re inside the walls of the church, the loud click ringing through your ears signaling that you were alone with him and would see no intrusion, you feel almost like a lamb being presented for sacrifice. 

He follows you to where you usually sat shen it was just the two of you in the large building, on the steps in front of the pews, beneath the stained glass but out of its reach when the light shone through at most hours of the day. He does what he always did, dimming the lights before lighting the candles that would provide more intimate lighting for the conversations yet to come.

Father Kento always made you feel special. 

“Where’ve you been, little one? I miss seeing you front and center at mass.”

That was where you were nervous. To tell him what was on your mind, as well as the things that you’d been doing in lieu of attending church and confession, wasn’t going to be easy. He’d be disappointed, and you think for a moment that maybe that’s what you were hiding from. Not Father Kento himself, but the disappointed look in his eyes when you confessed to him that you failed to resist temptation - failed to come to him for protection from that temptation. 

But you tell him anyway, sparing no detail as you know the only way to be absolved of your sins was to confess them. He does an excellent job of keeping his face neutral, hands idly turning his rosary as he listens, and that helps you to ensure that you maintain that honesty. You knew it would hurt him to hear that you’d let another man touch you, that you were hiding from his disappointment, that you were afraid of being a distraction from his work. By the time you’re done your own hands are in his, wrapped in his rosary which eased their shakiness and brought a great deal of comfort.

“I’m sorry that you felt that you couldn’t find sanctuary here,” he murmurs, carefully pressing his forehead to yours. “You should know that I would never judge, and am always here to help you cleanse your sins.”

“I know, I know,” you whisper, looking down at your joined hands. The crystal beads don’t feel as heavy on your skin as they had when he’d started to bring them around your skin, which helps considerably but doesn’t completely relieve you. “I’m sorry, Father, sorry that my faith in you became so weak.”

“God forgave you as soon as you entered his House.”

“But have you forgiven me, Father?” The question brings him pause, and you know why it would. In his eyes, God’s forgiveness should be most important to you, and if God can forgive why would you need to hear anything else? He liked to tease that you were constantly testing him, but this wasn’t a test. This was how you truly felt, and you feared his reaction but you still finish your thought to improve his understanding of your situation. “God’s love means nothing if I don’t have yours.”

“My love for you has not waned in your absence. You are forgiven for your transgressions, my lamb, and I would like to reassure you in that forgiveness.”

You’re kissing him before you can properly process the implication of his words, knowing that what you needed was the specific brand of salvation that only came from Father Kento’s touch. His hands pull from yours, leaving the rosary to hang from your hands as his come to hold your cheeks. Father Kento’s kiss was as he was; calculated and warm, knowing exactly what he needed to do or how he needed to move to maximize your experience in his arms. 

“Please do not drop my rosary, sweet lamb,” he mumbles, lips moving to your neck while his hands work to position you on his lap. “It’s key to your salvation this evening.”

Your attempt at assurance that you’d never drop his rosary - or anything of his, really - is cut off by a whine when sharp teeth dig into your shoulder. A signal to God, he’d said once, to let him know that you’d bled for your faith and did so willingly. You have to separate your hands so he can pull your shirt over your head, and he pulls the cross that now dangles against your forearm into his mouth as he looks up at you through his lashes. Perhaps it's a reminder to be careful, a reminder of where your faith should lie, but you take it as an invitation and press your mouth to his in an open kiss around the quickly warming metal.

“I have to properly present you to God, little lamb. Ensure that he can properly see you embrace your salvation.” And you know exactly what he means as you finally pull yourself from him, letting the spit slick rosary fall against your arm once more before you stand on shaky legs. You needed to bare yourself before God and the Father, present yourself at the altar to accept your salvation. Akin to taking the sacrament, but this brand of salvation was reserved specifically for you - for Father Kento’s favorite little lamb. 

There's a symbolism here that you can’t miss as he lifts you onto the altar - the focal point of the church beneath the intricate stained glass windows depicting images of peace and holiness.

The lamb presented for sacrifice as she’s laid atop the altar, but there’s no knife in his hand. Even if there was, you would only feel reverence for the man standing before you - the man you trusted with your life. You were his little lamb, his favorite within the flock to be used as an example but never to be harmed. If you were ever sacrificed; you’d be reincarnated to once again be his favorite, he’d said it himself that in every instance of your shared existence that he knew he would always find you. The shepherd tends to the flock, always, and a lost lamb would find her way home to the shepherd who loved her so dearly.  

“Are you ready to embrace salvation?”

“Please, Father.” Your hand searches for him, something that you can hold onto when you feel his tip slide through your folds. His hand catches yours, the tight grip pressing the rosary beads into the tender flesh of your palm to the point where you know you’ll see indentations from the intricate bead and metalwork decorating your skin. Another reminder of your repentance to join the soft bruises on your hips, markings on your shoulder, and the remnants of Father Kento’s holy essence that would be left inside you once he’d finished. 

You were far from pure, but so was he. Figuring out where he lost any hope of the salvation he preached would take months of carefully placed questions, but you knew when you’d lost your own. He was unassuming, a kind priest who followed the path lit by God’s light, but at the same time all consuming as he ravaged you from the inside out. Your road to hell had not been paved with good intentions, as he’d intended on dragging you down with him on his own road to damnation. 

But Hell didn’t seem so bad to you if it would be his, too.  

Despite it all, you’d follow him anywhere, if he asked you to go. It wasn’t any god that you prayed to when referring to a Father in your prayers, for Kento was the only Father you prayed to. Your heavenly father, and you know that you will not stray far from his side again. 

You knew better than to hurt yourself like that again. 

[chiharulen]

Let's talk about the OST of Black Butler

What really drew me to Kuroshitsuji was the music of the first two seasons. I remember so vividly listening to the music before watching the actual anime, and I remember how the OST made me feel. It was so sad, so raw and heart wrenching, even before knowing the story behind it. As a classical music fan and also musician, here are my favourites even though no one asked LOL :

I mean, with "Si deus me relinquint", I always want to cry. Clearly meant to be ciel's lament : "If God has forsaken me, Then I shall forsake God, too." The unusual spacing of each lyrics, as if the singer was panting her words with difficulties, as if too tired to continue. Then we can hear the gregorian/religious choir : "agnus dei qui tollis peccata mundi" : "Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world, have mercy on us." Reminiscing of the cult, and the sacrifice that has been done. The second part of the music, makes me think of Sebastian, here to "save" ciel. (But is it really saving if he's just going to eat ciel's soul anyway. Giving no chance of eternal peace.)

An underrated OST : I've Come To The Lost World/Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen (you can find it here). The title is a nod to Malher's same title song. In this ost, there is no lyrics, however, in Malher's, here are some of the lyrics : "I am lost to the world With which I used to waste much time; It has for so long known nothing of me, It may well believe that I am dead. Nor am I at all concerned If it should think that I am dead. Nor can I deny it, For truly I am dead to the world." You can hear the composer of Black butler's ost passion for opera in a few titles (with "Cena d'amore" or even "Wie Schon") At the beginning, it sounds peaceful. But the plaintive melody of the erhu (I think) can be heard at 1:52. So melancholic, and lonely. How can life be peaceful even when you are "safe", when you know you're going to die soon by the hands of a devil. Recalling the original of Malher's lyrics : For truly I am dead to the world.

The danse macabre (here) is one of my favourites too ! So dark (literally the "dance of death"), and clearly inspired by Camille Saint Saens "danse macabre". According to the legend : "Midnight strikes. Satan is going to lead the dance. Death appears, tunes his violin, and the round begins, almost furtively at first, comes to life, seems to calm down and then starts up again with an increased rage that will only cease when the cock crows. The Sabbath dissolves with the dawn." This music was clearly inspired by Vivaldi "the storm". I just LOVE IT. So well composed. You can imagine Ciel and Sebastian in a frenzied dance. Ciel getting tired and not being able to keep up. Almost as if Sebastian were playing with his food. At least, that's how it makes me feel !

This OST named "Ciel" : Si deus Relinquit, but make it orchestral. Again, Ciel's lament.

And should I talk about the band KALAFINA ?????????????????? Made by the one and only Yuki Kajiura (amazing song writer, did plenty amazing music for us weebs lol). We were blessed with the song "Lacrimosa". "Broken and vanishing into the distance I want to love this dazzling world once more I hide my dreams within my eyes Until my tainted heart Receives falling tears A phantom carriage parts the darkness On its way to where there is light The trap known as dreams Lures us into the inferno" ( ༎ຶ⌑༎ຶ )

I heard the fanbase in japan had a CONCERT for the 15th anniversary of kuroshitsuji. How I pray for something like that in Paris one day lol. Here's a snippet : here Such a lengthy post and yet I could go on and on... Please let me know if you want more !!!!

[snapdragen0artist]

Cotl Kindred AU(Working title)

Ok so this is a side au that I thought up and wouldn’t leave my mind that I make a lot of lore for so here you go. (Sorry there are only sketches)

This is inspired off the characters kindred from League of Legends (hens the name)

Lore: so basically most of the things in this au stays normal but when Narinder is locked away, Shamura never sent the twins (they show up later) to him so he got very lonely. So he decided to use his last remaining power from the crown to split himself into two, the Lamb/Sheep (I’m worried about using lamb because kindred already has lamb so) and Cat. The two are still stuck in chain’s because it’s more magic/powers chaining them so it just chained how the chains are on the two of them.

Lamb/Sheep is more of the level headed one of the two and they show more compassion openly. They are the one who remembers a little bit of their old ‘siblings’ and tells Cat stories in their imprisonment. They enjoy catnip tea and flowers.

Cat is more… openly hostile. He is more animalistic and brash but he holds the Sheep and the boys very close. He likes stories and meat.

Now here’s some cool stuff, so instead of the lambs being hunted down, the black cats were. Here comes the twins:

So the twins are in the role of crown barer (before anyone says anything, think of @duplicitousfate au where they both share the crown, okay? okay)

So basically the twins lived on the run with their mother from the bishops. Also the Twins are not Narinder’s kids this au by the way. Forneus still tried to let her kits have a good life the best she could. When the twins were ruffly preteens, Forneus was captured and the twins were on their own. They were captured a year later.

Both sacrificed and appeared in the void/afterlife. They were given the red crown and do the normal cult and kill bishops stuff.

The Sheep and Cat became adopted parents to the twins and care for the two deeply. The twins often come to the void just to hang out with them and tell them about their adventures (the Sheep and Cat can see through the eye at what happens but they also just like the twins telling they).

So I’m probably going to make more for this but I made too much for this story and I had to say it somewhere, but hope you enjoyed my ramble😊

[karmarox]

Chaos and the Lamb

Or: My Leshy X Lamb / Shrubwool headcanons (Sorry to the Kallamar fans that ate up my wet beast character study for doing Leshy first but a reply made me inspired)

First off, as a preface for pretty much any Bishop x Lamb ship in general to be healthy the Lamb has to be one that has either worked through their revenge/moved past it, obviously. Generally speaking in my interpretations of canon the Lamb would have gotten any closure/Justice they were seeking in the first go around and then by the time of entering the post game and freeing the Bishops from their eternal punishment they would have found another purpose in the Cult/as a God. So, aside from any lingering feelings over seeing them again, in their eyes, they got their revenge, sentence, and both the Lamb and the Bishops all got a second chance after death. Anything else is no longer personal (although more benevolent Lambs probably does have feelings for what a dangerous, stagnant state the Bishops left the lands in).

Leshy in particular I think the Lamb would have an easier time forgiving/accepting due to a combination of Leshy being the youngest and weakest and arguably having the least involvement/responsibility in everything that happened as well as by virtue of being the youngest/weakest being the one who spent the longest in Purgatory. So already the Lamb is a bit kinder to them than the other Bishops.

Leshy was the god of Chaos, so despite everything he does have a bit of a "Letting Nature Takes Its Course" mentality. While initially bitter about the whole getting killed and letting his family down and being put through Purgatory only to discover everything that happened after he was gone, he ends up having a surprisingly similar mentality to the Lamb in that there's nothing really "personal" left to feud over in his second life. He's pretty much neutral to the Cult, but warms up a lot more once he finds out the Lamb is freeing his siblings too.

As for how they bond... well, being young gods forced into a role without much teaching gives them both a lot to talk about. Leshy is actually surprisingly really competent in pretty much any task given to him despite his blindness and chaotic luck and tendency to get distracted. The latter can generally be solved by just changing up the things he's given so things don't get too monotonous. Leshy ends up finding that he enjoys being given tasks he thinks are "easy" and being rewarded with lots of free time and praise. In return Leshy ends up helping the Lamb learn a whole lot more about nature. Also tries to encourage them to have more fun and recreation time. Totally on a whim (and maybe to see what kind of trouble/shenanigans the Lamb would come up with for "fun").

The Lamb is surprised at how competent Leshy is at pretty much any job or chore given to him. Farming, Cooking, Bartending, Logging. Basically as long as Leshy can keep his mind on the task he's one of the most efficient workers around. Discovering that Leshy is absolutely and totally weak to praise and positive reinforcement was an accident, but one that Lamb quickly learns from and totally begins exploiting.

Finding out that Leshy is also highly weak to physical contact was also an accident. Probably tried petting him as a joke like one of the Dog followers after a good job once they've gotten more friendly with each other. This got a bigger reaction out of the worm than the Lamb expected. So they ended up doing it more, and Leshy pretty much turned into a mushy bush in their hands... And then the Lamb also ends up realizing at the same time how starved for touch and physical affection they are.

It just progressed from there. Pretty much any time they talk to each other, at least a bit of touching will ensue. It grounds them both. A comforting presence despite everything. Petting, holding, brushing, a gentle touch amidst chaos. The Lamb feels relaxed in ways they forgot/never knew by being able to hold and lean on someone whenever they want and having that someone respond positively. Leshy highly enjoys feeling different parts of the Lamb (and also enjoys the Lamb's reactions and tries to imagine/remember what they look like).

They get pretty mushy even in public. It's fondness expressed not in words or kisses but in holding hands, caresses, touches, nuzzling even in the middle of conversation. Followers and onlookers are either jealous, d'awwing over how endearing it is, embarrassed over how much handholding is going on, or completely baffled if they're more familiar with the history.

As an aside: The Lamb's bell ends up becoming one of Leshy's favorite noises. It sounds nice, and nowadays means something good's probably going to happen to him in a moment. Mortality isn't so bad. He still wants to see if restoring his sight is still possible, though. He can get around without his eyes, but being able to see his loved ones again and remember what they look like would be nice...

[starry-pierrot]

Time Flows

It's been well over a thousand years since everyone was given a golden skull necklace, a thousand experiences eventually will tire someone out. And others will follow.

Kallamar/Robin/Polycule ocs

Others included: Lamb, Narinder, Leshy, Heket, Theo (Yellow cat) ocs

Tw: Death. Lots of death. But not bloody death just gentle passing on.

------

AIGHT got another one, I apparently can't write linear at all so you're all going to be getting bits and pieces. But this one specifically was inspired by another comic from @circuscountdowns . Please remember that what I write is not necessarily canon to their COTL story nor should it be taken as canon. I am not at all involved in their own writing process and have no insight of what they choose to do.

With that out of the way-enjoy!

---------------

Kallamar had been rather off lately. Robin wasn’t sure what was going on but whenever they were together he seemed to be distracted with something. Did someone say something to him? Kallmar could annoy others but so far he hasn’t gotten himself any sort of enemies. Sure maybe a rolling of the eyes as he complains about the crystal’s around the cult not getting polished enough. But nothing that would warrant anyone being outright rude to him. 

Plus the other cultists knew better. 

No something else has to be bothering him. Robin quickly set up the little plate of food as they waited for their husband to show up, making sure all the little finger sandwiches were just how he liked them. All nicely sliced and even with only a little bit of tomato sticking out. A smile on their face, that posh squid was such a dork. 

Hearing the home’s door open, Robin turned to a smiling Kallamar, “Are those finger sandwiches?” he asked, perking up just a bit. Walking just a bit quicker into the room as if it was the first time he’s been served that specific food. 

“Kallamar I always make you finger sandwiches.” An amused huff as the squid quickly sits down and takes one to put on his own smaller plate. 

“But you like to see me excited don’t you?” He laughed while pouring out the tea for the both of them, “Thank you, love.” Kallamar waited for Robin to take their own seat before he took a bite of his own food. 

Robin enjoyed these little moments between them, usually Robin would be busy in the Tailor’s Hut or they’d be with Aspen and Harper. But when they had a moment to themselves Robin truly felt content. “So…Kallamar, I couldn’t help but notice you seem a little upset at something lately.” No point in beating around the bush. 

Those words got the squid to stop mid bite and stare at Robin for a moment, suddenly he seemed to deflate with his shoulders drooping and the sandwich going back onto the plate. “I supposed you would have noticed sooner or later. But please do not worry I am…it is a family matter.” 

“Considering we’re married I would think I’d be included in the ‘family matter’.” Robin pointed out a little curtly, making Kallamar flinch just the tiniest bit. Robin didn’t go through all the trouble of  learning and becoming friends with his family to not be included in at least some things. Especially when Heket challenged them to a little sparring match to, ‘Make sure Kallamari wasn’t marrying another wimp’. That frog sure as heck bruised their tailbone. 

“You are! And you will be, I just…need some time.” Kallamar had already looked deflated but now he looked like a kicked puppy. Robin sighed and shook their head before reaching over to hold his hand on top of the table. 

“Alright alright. I am a patient person. I can wait. But I want you to come to me if it ever gets to a worse point, okay?” A loving smile, “That’s what I’m here for. To help you.” 

Kallamar gave an appreciative smile as his own hand squeezed theirs back, “Thank you. I promise I’ll let you know when I can. And I will be telling the other two. “ 

“I trust you.” 

—

It was a week later when Robin had been working late into the night in the Tailors Tent, a request from Narinder of all people asked for a lace collar. He wouldn’t say what it was for but considering his and the Lamb’s anniversary is coming up Robin has made a few assumptions. The lace was covered in an intricate camellia pattern with other yellow and white flowers, once it was finished it would be attached to a leather collar and with a new and pristine silver bell. 

Honestly it was going to be beautiful and Robin wanted it to be one of their best works, hence the late nights. Hearing the curtain of the doorway open Robin’s ears flicked, “We’re closed! Unless you need a hand with stitching something up you’ll have to come back tomorr-”

“Robin.” Ah. 

“Kallamar? You’re up late, don’t you need your beauty sleep?” Robin smiled as they looked back putting down the tools. Their smile was wiped off their face, however, as they looked at him, Kallamar could usually be found smiling or at worse frowning. But he had a serious look on his face, it was obvious now was not the time to joke around. “..Sweetie? Is everything alright? Is this about the family matter?” 

“It is.” He walked closer grabbing a stool and sitting down in front of Robin, his eyes glancing to the floor. 

“You aren’t fighting with your siblings again are you?” Robin asked, concerned knowing the last time this sort of thing happened during an argument between him and Leshy.  

“No. No we aren’t. But this does involve them and I need to have a very important discussion with you.” Reaching over Kallamar took Robin’s hands in his own, staring at their joined hands for a moment before he looked up to them. The golden skull necklace catches his eye as it shines in the light of the candles. “My sweet sweet pearl, we’ve lived a long long life thanks to the Lamb. Longer than any mortal has.” 

Kallamar was rubbing their knuckles as he talked, “And it seems that Shamura has grown tired of living. They wish to move onto the next part of life.” What’s left of his ears droop as he squeezes their hand.  

Robin felt their heart squeeze in their chest, Shamura was the most wise of the five siblings and eventually became much like an older friend to Robin. “Oh Kallamar, I’m so sorry,” Robin turned the hands and was now squeezing Kallamar’s own, leaning in to bow their head. “But I’ll be here for you and so will Aspen and Harper.” 

Kallamr let out a wet little laugh, tears building in his eyes, “Dear you’re going to have to pull your head up. I can’t read you when you’re looking down.” Robin’s head snapped up at the reminder, an apologetic smile. 

“Aspen, Harper and I will be here for you.” A reassuring squeeze of the hands once more. 

“I know you will. But…this has made me think some things over. About life…my family and all three of you.” Robin quirked a brow curiously, “I have  come to the conclusion that…I have also grown tired of living.” 

Robin stared. They stared for a long moment as their brain tried to process what he had just said, already they can feel their muscle’s tensing.  

“I want to move on, Robin.” He said quietly as he gently pulled them forward to lean his forehead against theirs. “I think I have lived for far more than enough.”  

Robin could swear their heart squeezed hard in their chest, eyes glancing down to the golden skull necklace he still wore before looking back up at him. Tears gathering in their eyes as they took a deep breath, pulling away to look at him once more, “....you wish to move on along with your sibling?” Their voice was quiet, fragile. 

“I do.” Once more Kallamar’s hands squeezed theirs, this time staying in a hug like grip in an attempt to comfort. “And I would like for you to move on with me. If that is what you wish.” 

Robin was quiet as they thought about it. It has been well over…what a thousand years since they were given this necklace? More than any normal person could hope for. So much time. So many things they’ve been through and experiences. They've traveled, went to hundreds of celebrations, so so many birthdays and all the little moments between this silly little polycule they found themselves in. 

Would they be able to feel anything in the afterlife? The Lamb preaches how death isn’t the end, it's just another journey but Robin had always questioned it. Just a smidge. Even going to some lengths of trying to speak to the dead during a bit of a crazy Blood Moon party, it didn’t work at the time. Though they swear they heard the Lamb mumble about the misuse of symbols. 

But then again Robin was dating a former god. There had to be some truth to it. 

“I know death has never been easy on you.” He quietly began to speak again, “When Leon died it took you weeks to feel better. And I know you still visit his grave with fresh daisies every month.” Leon had been a dear friend to Robin, “And then Lamar had passed..,” another good friend. “If you wish to live longer I will not mind. I’ll have nothing but time in the after and I can wait for you.” Lifting their hand Kallamar places a slightly wet kiss to their knuckles.  

Robin still had plenty of friends, despite being able to live longer they still managed to keep their friendly nature about them.Those friends would still be in the cult, they would still live their lives with or without them. Under the Lamb’s care they would be alright.

Besides life has gotten just a taaaad bit boring. 

 “You know…I think I’m a little tired too.” A half sob slips out as they use one hand to wipe at their eyes. 

“Are you sure? I won't be upset if you wish to live longer, love.” Kallamar reassured, his own hand replacing the one that Robin was using. 

“No…no this is okay. And I know I’m going to cry like a child but-it’ll be fine. I have to get back on times clock sometime right?” Their voice wobble as they’re coming to terms for what was going to happen. “I expect you already spoken to-?” 

“Just make sure everyone gives me enough time for me to make burial garments because I am not dying before making my masterpieces!”

“Yes. And they’ve agreed to be laid to rest as well.” Kallamar moved closer, leaning his forehead onto Robin’s once more, a quiet pause. “So..Robin will you die with me?” Another one of his charming smirks on his face.

Robin couldn’t hold back the snort, “Ppf-oh such a char-aha-charmer!” Giggles taking over them both, “Yes…yes I’ll die with you, Kallamar. I’d follow you to the ends of the earth.” 

—--

It was about a week later that Robin and everyone else had their golden necklaces removed and the flow of time was once more working. They were assured they still had a long while before anyone were to pass but it was no shock that the first was Shamura. The old spider had passed underneath their favorite tree, the one they always sat and read to the kids. It had been during sunset. 

Their burial garment was woven with patterns of their past, spiders, their once previous crown and their story's conclusion of being in the Lambs cult with their family. All made with sparkling spider silk of course. 

 It had been hard on everyone but eventually things returned as normal as they could be. 

Then at a terrible turn of events Aspen had turned ill and passed away, Robin and Harper gave Kallamar all they could when it had happened. 

About three years later Kallamar’s health started to decline. It was getting hard for him to move and he had to take on easier meals to eat. Soon he was in his own bed in the Medical Tent. Robin knew the time would be soon and so they stayed along with Harper, the Lamb giving them a special pardon from their duties until Kallamar has passed. 

“You won't believe what Jude did the other day-” Harper as usual was talking Kallamar’s ear off, not that he minded. He loved to watch her tell him all about the juicy gossip from the village. Robin smiles as the two continue to talk, “You would think he would get a clue but no!” The two of them were laughing which quickly turned into one of them coughing. 

Robin was quick with the cup of water as they helped Kallamar sit up, “Easy now, love. Slow.” Kallamar slowly took a sip giving Robin a pat of appreciation, once he was finished they gently laid him back against the pillow. “Better?” 

“Very. Thank you.” He smiled. 

The doors to the room opened and Lesy was walking in with Theo, Heket right behind him, “How’s he doing nurses?” he asked. 

“Oh just fine! No difference since yesterday!” Harper provided to her chaos embodied brother-in-law, the worm giving a firm nod before moving to the foot of Kallamar’s bed. 

Heket moved over next to Robin, the both of them sharing an acknowledgement, “Narinder will be by later. He and the Lamb had to handle a situation.” She signed before pulling out a basket from underneath her cloak. 

“Are those puff pastries? Heket! Oh you know just what I like, sister.” Kallamar excitedly bounced in his bed, hands reaching over as Heket pulled the plate out of the basket. Once he had them in his hands he couldn’t help the little sound of satisfaction. 

“Of course I made them. Don’t know how long you’re going to last, might as well just feed you every little sweet thing in the compound.” Robin’s ears flicked back for a moment, sure Heket was telling the truth but they still didn’t like to hear about guesses on when he was going to move on.

Eventually Narinder came along with the Lamb and everyone had a small knucklebones game night, it was full of laughter and love. 

But somehow without anyone seeing, without anyone noticing, while Lehsy and Narinder had been playfully arguing and causing a roaring laughter of the place….he slipped away. 

The Lamb of course had noticed first, their laughter abruptly stopping. Then it was Heket, Harper, Robin and finally Narinder and Leshy. The room was silent for a moment before a quiet sob from Harper broke everyone out of the spell. 

It was odd how Kallamar looked like he was asleep with a smile on his face, as if he was just resting. Soon the whole room was full of tears and quiet sobs, Robin shook as they tried to stay quiet. Usually they’d prefer to mourn on their own, never quite liking anyone to touch them or to even offer their condolences. 

But when Heket had offered her arms Robin quickly slipped against the frogs chest and cried.  

Soon preparations for the funeral began, the whole family included their own touches much like when Shamura died. Robin was sure to have his casket made out of the nicer pile of wood.

 Kallamar had been dressed in the fanciest clothing Robin could design, with all the glitz and glam he ever wanted. And just like Shamura’s there was a mural of his story woven into the garment as well as a forget-me-not stitched right over his heart. 

Just as they were about to close the casket for burial a bright light from between the clouds shined through, making every bit of crystal on him shimmer and shine for just a moment before it faded back behind the clouds. 

Leshy, while he couldn’t see it, jokes he bribed a sun god into giving him the prettiest funeral ever. 

Life went back to moving forward. More different than it was before but still moving forward. 

Soon Heket went. 

Leshy's husband.

Harper. 

And finally it was just Robin and Leshy left. The two had taken to seeing each other every day and managed a few final days of mischievousness together, much like switching out the Lamb’s sermon book. Instead of notes for the morning sermon the Lamb was met with confetti that went absolutely everywhere.  

Or how they managed to tie a bow to Narinder’s tail while he was sleeping, he had no idea until the Lamb came around and couldn’t stop laughing at how adorable it looked. 

Soon however, it was their own time. Unlike Kallamar they had not been surrounded by their family, but in their bed in the middle of the night. Sleeping and soon with a final breath they too slipped away.

—--

The world was a beautiful creamy white color, the fog not frightening nor uncomfortable. Robin had thought it’d be a little colder but all they felt was warmth. Looking down they notice they’re wearing their burial garments,which was odd. They shouldn’t be buried yet.

 A red light catches their attention,the Lamb was standing right there waiting at the gate. Robin took a moment before they walked forward,“Hello, Robin.” 

“Here to usher me through the gate, divine one?” Robin smiled, “You know you’re either really good at being quick about it or you don’t do this very often.” The Lamb usually could be found somewhere in the cult, with how many souls die so often you’d think they’d be far more busy.

“I have my assistants. But this time I thought I’d pay a personal visit.” A soft smile on their face, “Leshy is going to miss you. As will Narinder and I.” 

Oops. Wrong thing to say, Lamb. Tears began to well up in Robin’s eyes, “D-don’t say that! You’re supposed to be making sure I’m at peace, Lamb!” The Lamb laughed as they stepped forward to wrap their arms around the crying deer. 

“Sorry sorry, but you’re going to be crying anyways. You have plenty of people who wish to see you…they’re actually making quite the ruckus.” Another laugh as they pulled back and directed Robin to the gate. “You should go.” 

Robin couldn’t see anything beyond the fog but they’re sure they hear the slight bit of sound echoing from somewhere. Ears twitching as they take a step forward and then another and soon they were almost through when-”Oh!”

The lamb quirked a brow when Robin turned around, “Tell Leshy I hid his game pieces in his flower pots!” A laugh slipped out before one final wave and the Lamb was alone once more. 

Though from the sounds of cheers and declaration of love they could hear…Robin was home. 

-----

Thank you for reading!

[baxxartist]

Get to know my cotl oc’s 

I know the sketches are really rough, the designs are not set in stone but I wanted to get my thoughts out. I’m not the best artist or writer but I try my best. (these oc's have been in my brain for months) These characters are a work in progress and things can change. I will try to post full refs, art, answer asks, and write stories, overtime but I make no promises of consistent content

TRIGGER WARNINGS

Within these ocs there are mentions of bullying, harassment, violence, neglect, and abuse

This story will not portray the Lamb in a good light, please keep this in mind as you read/interact with these characters

Boundaries -Fanart is always welcome -Asks are open

-Do not sexualize my characters without asking first

The descriptions are written in relation to the current time in this au (I will edit this post as I remember/as needed)

General information

All 5 friends call each other siblings, they care for one another deeply and have been close since they were younger. They found a ritual of immortality and through a good (or stupid if you ask them) decision to do the ritual on each other, leaving all 5 immortal to old age (think the golden skull necklace). They all do not fear the bishops, neither do the members of their cults fear the bishops. Taught to respect them instead. All of them come from a long line (over 2000 years) of disciples and cult leaders Everyone but Ari is a disciple and runs a cult The Lamb has not reached any of the bishops yet at this point in the story and has been running the cult for about 10 years, completely unaware of how their actions will affect these characters (my oc’s).

Levi

He/Him The youngest of the group, he takes his job seriously being trained by his parents to act almost as a guide for Leshy. His cult is a bit out of order but it’s functional chaos, not wanting his friends to guide him and his parents who were slowly losing their sanity couldn’t teach him much. He is a serious yet childlike disciple and cult leader. But he is not to be underestimated, knowing how to throw his voice, his staff isn’t just for show as even with no blade it is just as deadly as any other weapon. His design was inspired by jumping and chasing worms. Wearing anything that makes a sound that isn’t a bell, loose and baggy clothing. He mostly covers his eyes, being sensitive to light, sometimes with a hood, hat, his hair, or a cloth. Never keeping his hair neat, it’s always a mess, though he could care less how he looks, his bishop is blind so to him he feels he can express himself however he pleases. Though he will clean himself up for formal events. meetings, or tasks. Hates shoes, but he will wear trapeze gaiters as a compromise.

Harper

She/Her

The second youngest, a farmer and hunter at heart, she was taught to be a disciple of Heket. Even though she wishes to live in peace wanting to run a town instead of a cult, she also enjoys being a disciple, running her cult to be self-sufficient, as not everyone in her cult worships Heket…but no one is hurt if no one knows that…right? Protective of her friends and cult, and mostly loyal to her bishop, she is a skilled archer, hunter, and farmer, as well as almost a mother figure to many especially within her cult. Though she is known as someone you do not mess with, despite her more innocent appearance she is not afraid of getting dirty or a good fight

Wearing loose and flowy pants or long skirts, she stays away from patterns or bold colors. She is almost always seen with her bow and quiver and her sickles at her side. Preferring to keep things simple and professional, she has a reputation and legacy to uphold after all. Her hair remains in a braid most days, though sometimes she wears it in a bun or down.

Ari

He/Him

The middle child of this friend group, not the oldest but not the youngest either, he was drawn bad cards in life. Born a hybrid, a half fox, half lamb, and with a very high pain tolerance, abandoned by his parents, and raised by his grandmother, he learned about The One Who Waits and became fascinated. He started dedicating his life to this god of death, learning to fight, worship, and lead, with his grandmother’s guidance. Though…this happy life wouldn’t last long his grandmother disappeared one day, he was not abandoned…not on purpose, she died and he never knew by who or how. Ari was 12, now mostly alone, now raised by Ratau until he was no longer a vessel. Ari was an adult but alone, with only his friends at his side. Joining the Lamb’s cult for a few years, only to leave due to the Lamb being unaware of the torment Ari was facing. He is now living in the cabin his grandmother raised him in, worshiping Narinder himself and not the red crown, believing the Lamb is undeserving of his help, deviation, or worship. Wielding a kusarigama that turns into a scythe he made with some help from his friends, he felt it was a fitting weapon. Looks to be a white fox, with a medium-length tail. His fur is wool-like in texture, and horns are all he has to show his lamb side, something he can hide by cutting his horns down and using mixtures he made to force his fur straight. Ari prefers to wear the traditional clothing of disciples past, embroidery, fancy patterns, fabrics, and textures, all made by him. He makes his loyalty and stance clear. His hair and fur is neat and well cared for

Kay

He/Him

The second oldest of the friends, he is open and friendly, known to be outgoing. Not many are surprised as a disciple of Kallamar, he holds himself professionally and runs his cult to be clean and efficient, working in his spare time to make new discoveries as he was raised to worship but also to look at the world with wonder. He’s the medic of the group, sometimes the voice of reason, though Ari is the only one to fully disregard his advice. He finds socializing and making friends easy, and outgoing. He dislikes fighting and though he knows how to, being taught he needed to be strong when his bishop couldn’t, he typically avoids violence not out of fear but disgust and more work he will need to do once the fighting is over. His injuries heal much slower than most, leaving him to do his best to avoid getting hurt. Wearing long see through robes, long form-fitting clothing vials, and a messenger bag at his side, preferring bright colors, shiny materials, or jewelry, mostly to catch the attention of Kallamar as he hates startling him. Despite his eye-catching clothing and jewelry choice, he is very reserved, preferring to cover up over showing skin.

Sal

They/Them

The oldest of the group, the one with the biggest cult, they have watched all of their friends grow up. Being very organized, strong, and patient, taught to help Shamura keep everything in order. Leaving Sal with rare free time as they have essentially almost taken all of the role of bishop without the crown, title, or power. They do not wish to overthrow Shamura but they genuinely want to help them, believing there is a way to put their god in the right state of mind again. Sal’s cult runs in a way that allows them to lead from a distance, working more as a government than a religion. With a low immune system, they take pride in caring for themselves, usually using their knowledge of plants and herbs to make different products, teas, and vitamins for themself. Almost in fear of getting ill and being unable to care for and protect the ones they care about. Sal wears form-fitting clothes only, no robes long unless it’s a formal event, and nothing dangling, they keep their long hair up, usually in a fancy hairstyle.  Preferring dark colors and wearing silver rather than gold they stand out from the other disciples.

[heyitsghost57]

Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing 3

Pairing: Lamb x Narinder/The One Who Waits

Chapter: Chapter 3 | My darling’s fear

Chapter Summary: With open arms, Narinder is accepted into Lamb’s cult. After spending centuries chained up, he’s scared and overwhelmed with his mortal body, as well as full of rage and betrayal. Although he won’t admit it, he is scared of Lamb, to an extent. He struggles to acclimate with Lamb’s flock.

Content Warnings: panic attacks, sensory overload, violence, love-bombing, manipulation, ignoring boundaries

Word Count: 7k

Authors Note: credit to @maibel-mai for inspiring me to make this fic & giving me permission to post this! this fic is also cross-posted on AO3

Narinder felt himself being transported by the crown. It was magic he was all too familiar with. It was his former magic, which stung his pride. How dare Lamb so easily use the knowledge he taught them against him. He was a God no more. With little grace, he was now in Lamb’s cult, sitting down on a stone. His stress was high and he was one sudden movement away from attacking. It felt like he was slammed down to the ground with the way his head hurt. There was a cracking within in his skull that muddled his thoughts. Reduced to a mortal with little Godly powers, his mind was weak to the cult’s indoctrination. Although he wasn’t as weak-minded as Lamb’s typical followers, it still wormed its way into his thoughts. Loyalty coiled up inside of him, worming its way between his ribs, going past his lungs, and wrapping itself coldly around his heart. The feeling made him sick. His betrayal and anger towards Lamb was too strong. He didn’t want it to be reduced to this; he wouldn’t let it.

Everything hurt. His body was sore and bruised. He had cuts and ichor dripped down from his face, an aftermath from his Eldritch form. His ribs were aching. The sky was too bright and everything was too colorful. The cult was too loud, bustling with joy and happy to see a new member, proud of the traitor. Narinder was quickly becoming overstimulated from the scenery. His lungs felt tight and he realized he had to breathe. Lamb approached him and a hiss left his throat. His fur continued to raise, his tail puffy and pointed straight up. His claws were bared.

“Greetings, my faithful. Welcome to the cult,” Lamb spoke sweetly. The tight coil of rage that was forming deep in his chest, making his blood boil and bubble, quickly came undone. Narinder snapped. He was quick to bring himself up from the ground, jumping on top of Lamb.

Lamb’s head hit the ground hard and they let out a surprised gasp, dirt from the ground getting into their eyes. The sound of their glorious leader in distress alerted their cult. Followers were quick to rush over, dropping their wood and gardening tools to aid the sheep. It was too late, for Narinder was already doing damage. His claws wiggled their way underneath their collar, the bell jingling as a hand pressed down on their windpipe firmly. This collar formally bonded Lamb to him, a mark of ownership and later, friendship and a blossoming romance. Now, Narinder wanted to destroy the collar and snap their neck. His eyes narrowed, as his free hand was holding Lamb’s hands above their head. He pinned them to the ground with his knee harshly digging into their thigh. Lamb wiggled around, squirming and struggling to break from his grasp. Despite his mortal form, he was still very strong. Lamb’s lungs were beginning to burn slightly and they let out choked whines. He knew he couldn’t kill them or harm them extremely. That wasn’t the point. He was betrayed by someone he loved. He still loved them even now, which disgusted him. Narinder hated himself for it. It made him feel gross. He wanted to cut their pretty head from their neck and yet, also cry into Lamb’s arms. The point of his tantrum was to expel his complicated feelings, to show Lamb the damage they’d done to his psyche. Tears of frustration and fear were beginning to form in his eyes, ichor blocking his vision. Why wasn’t Lamb fighting back? They could get out of his grasp with a bit of resistance. They weren’t hurting him now, though they were fine with killing him minutes ago. He didn’t need their mercy.

Although he resisted at first, Narinder let himself be forced off of Lamb. It took three followers to do so. Coughing and rubbing their throat soothingly, Lamb caught their breath. He was so close to them and it made them happy. Lamb still felt upset, their delusions faltering, though that didn’t stop their idolization of him. Against their flock’s protest, they stepped closer to him.

“Did you get it all out of your system?” they mocked, teasing. They smiled at him, their pointer finger raising his chin up. He let out a hiss in response, moving his body away. “You’ll be living in Ratau’s old living quarters,” they said, quickly moving on as they walked past him. Ratau often praised Lamb for being the benevolent cult leader he could never be. Although Lamb cared not for him, they pretended to. He made them believe they were a good person. That’s all they really wanted, deep down. To not be seen as the monster they truly were when their facade wasn’t being displayed. Ratau’s hut was no longer in use, as he was getting older with time. The travel to Lamb’s cult was tiresome on his pathetic and frail body. Lamb was silently waiting for the old man to wither away.

It pissed Narinder off, how they were so quick to brush off his attack. Despite this, he followed them further into the compounds to his new house. Followers rushed over to Lamb, asking if they were okay, and they only stared blankly at them back. Lamb didn’t like their special moments with their love being interrupted. It wasn’t usual for them to ignore their followers, though their flock took the hint and retreated. Lamb’s hand rested at the middle of Narinder’s back, hurrying him along. Their touch burned underneath his clothes. Much like when Lamb was resurrected, Narinder had new clothes. It was the standard, slightly frayed and raggedy red tunic all new victims wore. With mocking theatrics, Lamb dipped down, bowing, as they opened the door.

“The furniture is a bit old, though I could get you newer things, if you’d like? Or would you prefer to sleep in my room, my Lord?” That annoying smile was on their face again as Lamb straightened their back. Narinder kissed his teeth, sighing. His hand pressed against Lamb’s face, pushing them back, annoyed. The thought of sleeping in their bed appealed to him slightly, but he banished the thought quickly. Why leave himself vulnerable to another attack, just for a few moments of comfort?

“Cease,” he demanded, walking past them. He shut the door behind him harshly. He needed time away from them; from everything. Nari quickly closed all the curtains, wanting the room as dark as possible. After this, he laid down on the bed. It had been centuries since he felt the comfort of proper furniture. In his realm, he’d softly stroke Lamb’s wool. It was so soft and warm. Some lambs were killed for their wool when they were rare, close to extinction; it was a luxury then. Narinder found it cruel then, as they could just be sheared, though he wished to do the same to his usurper now. He sighed deeply, wishing Lamb had finished the job. Anything would’ve been better than this, for him to be left in a weakened form with too many feelings to make sense of anything.

Nari was full of rage when his siblings betrayed him. Cowardly things, they feared his power. When Shamura indulged Narinder in controlling life as well as death, it all came to a tipping point. His siblings argued that mere, foolish mortals shouldn’t be resurrected. They were hypocrites. How was it different, when they revived their lovers, their disciples, or their best workers? The Bishops offered peace, knowledge, strength, and food. Though, how could those compare to Narinder’s gift of life? His siblings feared he’d let them grow weak, obsolete, as many Gods were rendered before them. Narinder felt hurt by their fear. They were family, siblings, who ascended together. After their struggles of becoming Gods together, of forming cults, of becoming powerful, they still doubted his loyalty to them. Nari was more hurt by them thinking they meant so little to him, than he was hurt by their entrapment of him. Although the Bishops refused to acknowledge it, brushing their mistakes all under a rug, Narinder was the victim. They hurt their brother, the mighty vessel controlling life and death. And, now, Lamb had done the same. His trust in others was cracking.

A familiar sinking formed in his chest. He clutched his tunic, his claws scratching against his stomach through his clothes. Narinder had planned on courting and proposing to Lamb after he’d been freed. Nari found himself often waiting for their death, just for brief visits. He had to maintain his image of the reaper, though he let it slip around Lamb. Their laugh, their smile, the thoughtful gifts. He’d be a fool to think Lamb didn’t reciprocate his feelings. Bittersweet memories fought their way from the back of his head, although he tried hard not to dwell on it.

Once, Lamb had died by their own blade, their dagger cleanly hitting their heart. Narinder felt bad requesting them to die for him, them usually opting for death by heretics, and the sight made his body jump. Such endless devotion, to pause their fickle life just to visit their God. It surprised him. When Lamb said they’d visit, talking to him through the crown, that wasn’t what he expected. Despite Lamb dying thousands of times and their pain tolerance growing, it still had to hurt. The resistance of flesh, scraping across the ribs, piercing their lungs, dragging into their heart. Narinder’s ears turned down at the choked gasp of pain Lamb let out, as well as their coughing, their injured lung quickly filling with blood. They fell into his realm quickly. Blood staining Lamb’s teeth, mouth, and pretty white wool quickly vanished.

“Lamb,” Narinder started, “although death is of little consequence to you, it seems you come to me too willingly.” Narinder’s face was covered by his veil, though his face would reveal his flattery. He smiled a little.

“Forgive me, my Lord, for my bluntness. I think you enable it, as well. Last week, did you not ask for my company?” Lamb joked, smiling up at their darling. “Given your predicament, I don’t think you’re a rather busy God.” He enjoyed their banter.

Narinder’s chains clinked loudly as he leaned down. As he was tall, Lamb’s full height not even reaching his ankles, Nari often hunched down to speak to his vessel better. “Watch your tongue, my Lamb,” he warned. His raspy voice seemed dark with danger, though there was a lightness of joking Lamb sensed. It was a side of him he only rarely showed to the kits. His hand came down to Lamb, his claws reaching between the ground and their feet to carefully lift them up. Now in his palm, Narinder brought them closer to his face. “It’s not often I humor my vessels the way I do with you. Consider yourself special.”

Narinder’s mind reading was never voluntary, though he grew used to it eventually. He learned to tune it out, bored with the mindless hum of his followers. Yet now, he keenly listened for Lamb’s thoughts. It was almost as if Lamb’s heart was trying to break from their ribcage, with the way their heart was beating. Hells below, who do I pray to? they thought. Narinder hummed softly as Lamb thought of petting him. It was sweet. Hesitantly, Lamb stepped closer, near the edge of his palm. Their fingers shook as they lifted up his dark veil slowly, letting the fabric drape over them. Nari’s eyes were wide. Laughing a little, Lamb’s hand softly brushed against their God’s dark fur, petting him, brushing against his sensitive, white whiskers. Narinder would’ve found this to be patronizing with anyone else, cutting their hands of quickly. Lamb wasn’t aware that letting them touch his whiskers was a sign of trust; Narinder wished they knew. Maintaining eye contact, there was such admiration in his Lamb’s eyes. They were so close to their God and if Lamb wished to kiss him, he’d might let them.

Narinder willed himself to stop thinking about it. His thoughts were rapid as he fought off the phantom sensations of their hands on his fur. Warmth bloomed in his chest. And then, heartache. If Lamb had just listened and trusted him, this wouldn’t have happened. Deep down, past the layers of betrayal and anger and hate and fear, Narinder still held feelings for them. He wanted to shut off all his emotions. How could he still love someone who hurt him so bad? Who hurt the kits, who tried again and again to kill him, who trapped him in this miserable form?

Even when they all reached ascension, Narinder was still far bigger than his siblings. He was used to towering over the other Gods, the kits, his followers, and especially Lamb. Nari was accustomed with being able to hold Lamb in his palm, to gently carry them or, now, to squish them like a bug. This body was much smaller and weaker. The discomfort Narinder felt in battle lingered, phantom pains carrying over in his new state, still battered and bruised. His physical pain and mental anguish all swirled around in his senses, muddling his head. He was now a mortal with Godly feelings and it rendered him scared and overstimulated in his bed. His body wasn’t used to breathing or blinking. Narinder could feel his tongue pressing against his teeth, his fur attached to his skin, his bones within in his body. He felt everything too quickly. Trying to ground himself, Narinder released his grip on his clothes and held his arms up slightly. There was a burning sensation in his body, trickling from his spine into his fingertips, throbbing in his brain. Too much stimulation at once. The sensory deprived God, trapped for centuries, was again overwhelmed with the new world. His fur rose and his tail puffed up. He wanted to claw the skin off his face. His face and neck was burning and he wanted to throw up. Everything was too hot and too much.

Tears formed in his eyes. Narinder felt embarrassed, the God of death reduced to a panic attack by sensory issues. He closed his eyes and willed himself to breathe. In and out, in and out, despite the actions feeling foreign. It was uncomfortable. Nari brought his hands to his face, trying to soothe himself, but his fur felt like the wrong texture. It made him feel gross again. The seconds of calm he was slowly achieving all reverted back to panic and disgust. His stomach hurt and he genuinely wondered if he would throw up. The battle, attacking Lamb, them touching him, this new body, this new realm; it all set him off. They all slowly tipped him towards the edge until, in the privacy of his room, he let himself cry. He wrapped his arms around himself gingerly, his claws digging into his fur, as ichor dripped down his eyes and mouth. Narinder’s skin felt too tight, too snug against his muscles. Despite the current discomfort of touching anything, he still wished to maul Lamb’s face off. Tears, of pain and fear and anger and heartache, mixed with ichor. His new tunic was beginning to catch wet, dark splotches. Narinder felt defeated and pathetic, now fearful of his vessel. He hoped he’d been emotionally drained enough from his panic attack and crying that he’d fall asleep.

⸻

Ascension had started.

Lamb kissed their teeth, disgusted and upset. They looked in the mirror, their fingers in their mouth, pulling it open. When they ran their tongue over their teeth, they found new ones forming, pressing out of their gums. Fangs. They figured they could whittle their fangs down, but the real issue was their horns. Their horns, once smaller and cute, were now growing, curved and upturned. They were sharp and jutted out of their head. The fangs and horns reflected Lamb’s true, monstrous self and it made their heart sink. All Lamb wanted was to be seen as a good person, to be acknowledged as selfless for all they did for their God’s cause, to be loved by him. They wanted their happy ending that they were robbed of so many centuries ago. They couldn’t control how Godhood changed them, though they wanted it to stop. Their emotions were changing, too. It was like they were forced back into their primal state of fear from being hunted, all those centuries ago. Lamb’s thoughts and feelings were amplified.

A formal woodworker turned traumatized kid, barely twenty-one when killed, moved place to place to prolong the inevitable. They remember coming back from the woods, a mass of trees by their village. Lamb had taken after their father, often carrying wood and handling it for others. Logs in hand, sweaty from their endeavors, they spotted their village burning late into the day. The sun was setting and the sky was painted oranges and pinks. Although the memories were muddy now, Lamb remembered dropping their work and rushing to their house. Just earlier, they had said bye to them. They hadn’t even been gone for a full twenty-four hours yet. They remembered them all eating dinner together yesterday, trying to stay calm despite the hunting plaguing their species. Why did Lamb go to work that day? Maybe they could’ve prevented it. No, they were too weak then. They didn’t even get to say “I love you” one last time. They felt like vomiting, seeing their family’s corpses there. Blood and burnt wood and pillaged belongings flooded their vision. Although it tore them up emotionally, they had to survive. For them. For a few weeks, they hid with others. At first, they were desperate to fill that hole left from their family’s death. After seeing others meet a similar fate, they learned not to become attached. Lamb’s brain was high-wired then, strung up tight, and anxious. Their death would come any day now. Soon, they’d be found. They couldn’t hide forever. Lamb was caught when running. Their legs were aching and their lungs were burning. Every part of them screamed for a break. A break, they got, when they tripped, landing on their stomach. Lamb was grabbed and dragged by the ankle. Scrambling to protect themselves, their hands clawed at the ground. Dirt and mud got under their nails as they were forced to move. Lamb gripped a rock and as they were flipped onto their back, they raised the rock to hit their attacker in the head. However, they hesitated, not used to violence, and their chance was up.

Ascension had made their feelings so much more intense. They were experiencing such big emotions for a body that was so small. The urges and fears Lamb had kept a tight lid on were now bursting. They felt like they were losing their mind, in fight or flight mode. They pressed their palms to their temples, their head aching, and tears of pain and exhaustion pricked up. Lowering their hands, they noticed black liquid staining their fingers. Ichor. That was a new sight and it unsettled them. Lamb’s body and mind ached. All they wanted was to lay down and let these growing pains die down. They were paranoid and terrified to kill someone innocent due to their stressed state. However, their flock needed them. Wiping the ichor away, they moved away from their mirror, to their chest. Their night tunics, as well as sheets, were inside. New, clean, black sheets were ruffled out of the chest. Fall would die down soon and the world would move onto winter. Their beloved would need this, they thought, as they deposited the blankets into the crown’s storage.

Lamb had hoped to make a quick trip to Narinder’s hut before people started asking questions. It was around time for people to wind down from work and start eating, anyways. They realized they’d have to make a speech about Narinder soon. His earliest and oldest follower, Nana, would soon recognize who he really was. Lamb pushed the thought away as they headed to Ratau’s old hut. They were thankful that no one disturbed them. Lamb knocked softly, though Narinder’s sensitive hearing woke him.

“My Lord, I’ve brought you something. It’s not a peace offering item, per se,” Lamb rambled, “though, if you’d like it to be that way, it can be,” they laughed softly. Lamb thought about their next words carefully. Their heart raced happily when they heard movement inside, Narinder dragging himself near the door. Narinder hummed, barely audibly. His throat was sore, his eyes were puffy, and his head hurt. He wanted Lamb to leave as soon as possible. “I know your winter coat will come in soon, though I thought extra blankets couldn’t hurt.” Lamb’s voice was awkward and light. They felt guilt sinking into their consciousness, careful not to slip and call him Narinder like they did earlier. They no longer felt worthy of calling him that name. The sound of their nervousness and forced laughs stirred up Narinder’s affection for them. It was a soft flame, barely holding on. He put it out as quickly as it came. Narinder heard Lamb softly place the blankets down, then leave.

Lamb was burdened to realize ascension made their feelings for Narinder more intense, as well. The next day, they woke up with ichor pooling out of their mouth and seeping from their horns. Huffing, they wiped it away with their morning tunic. Lamb made themselves presentable, getting ready to start the day. They stopped momentarily to look at their mirror’s reflection. The sight continued to upset them so they quickly turned away. Before their flock would gather for the morning sermon, Lamb was quick to visit Narinder. Lamb wondered how he was holding up today.

“Good morning, my Lord,” Lamb started. Their voice was soft, full of affection and sorrow, “I brought you some fruit. Hopefully they’re to your liking.”

Narinder was at the other side of the door. His claws softly and slowly dragged down the door. Being called that title wasn’t exactly fitting anymore. Lamb calling him Narinder was personal and he missed it, somewhat. Their voice saying his name always made him happy. He missed that intimacy with them. His siblings had fallen and the only one who knew it was them. It was their special, shared word. He refused to ask them to address him that way yet. Not when he was still mad and scared. He would not kneel to foolish, mortal feelings such as love.

They fell into a quick routine of doing this. Lamb would bring him gifts early in the morning, rambling with their soft, apologetic voice that sickened his ears. He’d be at the other side of the door, listening. He’d daydream of killing them and taking back his crown. The gifts wouldn’t be moved. Narinder thought of shredding the blankets or smashing the fruit up, but decided against it. He liked these daily visits. He didn’t want them to be discouraged. It helped ground him into this new world. His trust for them was still broken, though it was the only piece of familiarity he had. Nari wouldn’t admit it, though he was a bit weak to these gestures. Lamb wasn’t aware of this, of how each gift, each talk, each visit slowly chipped away at his resolve. Narinder wasn’t sure if this was smothering but the part of him that still loved them made him ignore it. He was so starved for familiarity and closeness with others after his siblings betrayal that Lamb had made him fall for them. Although Narinder didn’t mind their hyper and eager feelings for him, his love for them was different; it was built off of genuine attraction, not idolization like Lamb’s. Their romantic feelings now were based off of fear, betrayal, obsession, and loneliness. It was the perfect concoction to make Narinder truly be theirs.

“It took me a few days to have made, but I have a special gift for you,” Lamb spoke softly, at his door in the morning again. Narinder’s breath caught in his throat. The day before, Lamb hadn’t visited him, busy with fishing at Pilgrim’s passage. He was relieved at first but quickly realized he missed them. “I noticed you leave my gifts at the door, which is fine,” they stammered, reassuring him and clarifying for themselves. Lamb sighed before continuing, “but this one is a bit more personal.” By the way their voice sounded, it was like Lamb was confessing to their crush. Well, they were doing that, in a way. Narinder moved his head to the side slightly, keenly listening. He wasn’t sure if it was due to his curiosity or if it was from him missing his lamb, but he opened the door slightly. When Nari peaked out of the door, Lamb felt their heart race. It had been days without seeing him or even hearing his voce. They were happy they weren’t being attacked on sight again. They eagerly shoved the gift towards him. It was too bright outside for the feline’s liking, but he shielded his eyes with one hand and opened the door more with the other as he stepped outside.

Lamb gingerly grabbed one of Narinder’s hands, their fingers brushing against his palm as they coaxed his hand open. The soft sensation made Narinder shiver slightly. He wasn’t sure if he loved or hated it. The gift now in his reach, the cat held it in two hands. It was a neatly folded white robe, with a red stripe down the middle and frayed ends. It was Narinder’s former robes he wore as a God. There was also a diaphanous, black fabric that laid on top of it: a veil. The sight of it made his heart throb. Lamb smiled up at him softly, expectantly. “Do you like it?” Lamb asked. It was in a breathy, nervous tone that made them sound awkward; Narinder loved it.

“Yes,” he mumbled. Lamb got no thanks as he quickly shut the door behind him; it was rather sudden. Lamb pouted at the sight, but quickly bounced back into their cult leader mask. This was progress. He finally accepted one of their gifts, let them touch him, he went outside, and he spoke to them! At the other side of the door, Narinder gripped his chest tightly, his heart pounding excitedly. Blush bloomed over his cheeks and he swallowed nervously. Despite it all, he still loved his usurper.

Although he tried to act indifferent, the gift meant a lot to him. Experimentally, he put the robe on over his tunic. His room was always dark, so he couldn’t tell what he looked like, but he felt comforted. There was a hood with holes in it for his ears, as well as a slit for his tail. It also smelt like the Lamb, of grass and dirt and flowers. He found himself sniffing it slightly, laying down on his bed. Narinder had a hard time sleeping in this form, as Gods didn’t require sleep. He drank little water and forgot to rest or eat. The familiar clothing and the smell of his beloved calmed him enough to finally get an appropriate amount of sleep.

⸻

Narinder woke up early the next morning due to passing out too soon the night before. His fur stuck up and he felt more tired than he did yesterday. He took his time cleaning himself, licking the back of his paw to smooth out his face fur and fix his flipped-inward ears. He continued to do so with the rest of his body before he felt clean and satisfied. The black cat soon realized Lamb was late today. No knocking, no gifts, no sweet words that made him sick. Was Lamb busy again? Surely, their former God who gave them life again was more important than their trivial cult duties. Huffing, Narinder smoothed out his robes. He got out of bed and reached to open the door. He was a bit anxious, but he swallowed his nerves as he stepped outside. It was around 5:30 AM, by the way the moon was positioned. The cult grounds was quiet and still, with the only light coming from the kitchen. His head tilted a bit at the sight. How curious. He wasn’t as tall as he used to be, but his height was still respectable now. His long legs made the walk further into the cult grounds much easier. He was met with the sight of Lamb and a rabbit, a light purple hare with a pink flower pinned by her ear, preparing a dish. Lamb had a soft smile on their face as the rabbit spoke, cutting up food. By the looks and smell of it, it was a meal consisting of different fish. It made Nari’s pupils widen; it smelt good.

Narinder took in her thoughts, full of admiration and praise for the sheep. They seemed very close. It grossed him out. A specific thought took hold in his brain: could our mighty leader ever fall for me? It set him off. Narinder quickly entered the kitchen, much to Lamb’s and their helper’s surprise. She seemed a bit uneasy, given his appearance. Hooded robe, tall, dark fur, red eyes. However, she didn’t seem very shocked; just intimidated.

“My Lord, what are you doing here?” Lamb questioned. They were very surprised, but happy to see him. Narinder’s jaw locked tightly.

“Your flock knows?” he hissed, seething. The rabbit perked up.

“Only me, as of right now,” she answered.

“Nana,” Lamb warned, their hand on her shoulder. They didn’t want her to get attacked, too. They still had need of her. Nari’s eyes narrowed at the contact. Regardless, she continued.

“I was the first,” Nana elaborated, revealing the golden skull necklace from under her tunic. No wonder they were so close; they’ve been together for centuries. But Narinder was still closer to them. Lamb wouldn’t die just to see her, or give her gifts, or flirt with her. They’d never show their real personality of Lamb, just Lamb, not the cult leader. Never to her, never to anyone else; only him. He took pride in this fact. She quickly tucked it back in her robes, placing the cooked, minced fish into a bowl. “A pleasure to finally meet you, my leader,” she greeted, passing the bowl to Lamb.

“Thanks, Nana,” Lamb spoke, forcing a slight smile on their face. Nana beamed with pride and lowered her head slightly, bowing. “We’ll take our leave now,” Lamb dismissed. They turned to walk away before Nana even had a chance to say goodbye. Her ears flopped down a bit, a little hurt. Narinder was met with the feeling of Lamb’s touch. It was now at the small of his back, lower than before. It made his skin crawl with slight disgust. They weren’t directing him back to his hut, but rather towards the temple. Narinder wondered if Lamb knew or cared how much their touch disgusted him, his tail swishing in annoyance. Once inside the temple, Lamb turned back to Nari, sparkles in their eyes as they smiled. He frowned in response. With the crown’s magic, Lamb revealed their room, showing off their powers. Such trivial magic. It was full of books, relics, tarot cards, string lights, candles, flowers, and crystals.

“Why did you take me here?” he asked, after taking in the sight of their room. His senses were overwhelmed with the sight and smell of them. His pulse quickened, mainly from love, though also fear. Lamb brought Narinder’s hood down, which made him hiss, his claws at Lamb’s arms. They made a soothing hush noise to calm him down. His ears pulled to the back of his head, the tip of his tail hitting Lamb’s ankle as they removed his veil as well.

“I wanted to keep you company until today’s sermon,” Lamb answered. They moved over to their bed with soft red covers, patting the comforter to signal him to sit down as well. Narinder was scared to refuse them. He sat down with a considerable distance from Lamb, with Lamb offering the dish to him. “For you. I remember you liked when I put fish in your offering chest.” He considered it, eyeing the dish.

“Do you intend to poison or drug me, damned traitor?” the cat hissed. Lamb laughed.

“My Lord, of course not. I just figured you haven’t eaten since your arrival. I’d never tamper with your food!” Lamb silently took note of putting something in what he consumed. Hmm. Good idea. Sighing, Narinder took the food and slowly began to eat it. Squid, octopus, pufferfish, and swordfish; any cat would love it, including him. Although he’d been starving the past few days, he was careful to eat respectfully in front of them. He didn’t want to make a fool of himself. After chewing and swallowing a few bites, he spoke.

“Are you aware the rabbit fancies you?” he questioned.

Why did I say that? he wondered. Hells below, I get a gift once and I’m sweet on them again.

Lamb’s eyes gleamed, smiling brightly. They had that adoring look again, the one that confused Nari’s feelings. “Yes, my Lord, I know. Why, are you jealous?” Narinder wanted to kiss them so bad it made him look stupid.

“Yes,” Narinder confessed, “you’re my vessel, yet you let them get comfortable with you, too. Mere followers.” He spat out the words with venom, full of jealousy and disgust. Just because he was mad at them didn’t mean they could find another lover. He ate more fish to not feel so ashamed. Lamb shrugged. They desperately wanted to see more of this side of Narinder.

“Did you not do the same with me, my Lord?” inquired the sheep. He froze. Narinder wanted to hit them for comparing their relationship to that of them and their flock. They were so much more than that. Lamb’s knees now on the bed, they crawled a bit closer to Narinder, moving the bowl away haphazardly. The closeness made Narinder nauseous, yet also made his heart dance. Too close. “Holding me, letting me pet you, asking me to visit you . . .” Lamb moved closer, testing the waters. They were too close, “isn’t that right, Na-rin-der?” They enunciated each syllable and it drove him crazy. His name, his real name, out of their pretty mouth. Their knees were touching his. Any closer and they’d be in his lap, practically straddling him. The thought disgusted him. They were still too fucking close. “My beloved God, my darling, my soulmate,” Lamb teased. A burning feeling formed in his stomach, the feeling of fear and disgust. He liked this, but he was still mad at them. He couldn’t forget their betrayal and the fear he held with a few sweet words. Narinder was too scared to move, yet he loved the contact. He needed to shove them away. Why did Lamb like messing with his mind so much? “Don’t be jealous. I can fix that,” they cooed. Lamb’s hand raised as they moved back. Narinder was worried they’d choke him, they way he did to them a few days prior. He wanted their hand to cup his face, to soothe him, and help him make sense of his feelings. Narinder got neither options. Reaching into the crown, Lamb produced a doll. It looked like Lamb. They rudely tossed it towards him, it falling into his lap.

“Why did you make this for me?”

“In case you miss me.” The way they said it seemed so sweet. It almost made Narinder forget that they’d just mocked him and freaked him out. He brought forward a claw, sinking into the neck of the doll. Lamb whined that he was killing the stuffed animal. “Anyways, are you done eating? It’s almost time for the sermon.” He’d lost his appetite. Sighing, he shoved the doll into his pocket. It smelled like them. It made him want to rip its head off. He nodded and reached up to put his hood back on. “No, you can’t! You’ll freak the cult out, like you did with Nana!” Lamb exclaimed, grabbing his wrist. Hearing her name again made him roll his eyes. They let go of his wrist and he found himself missing their touch.

“Okay. But one more thing.” Lamb turned to Narinder and froze as he grabbed them. One hand was on their shoulder and the other gripped their horn. Even though his touch was loving and delicate, the growing pains Lamb felt made them wince at this contact. Narinder thoroughly rubbed his cheek against Lamb’s. His face brushed against their forehead, the hairline of their wool, against their nose, and down to their cheek again. Then, his head dipped lower to their jawline and their neck before he pulled away and let go. Lamb wasn’t sure what he was doing, wondering if he’d gone mad. He was suddenly very touchy. They loved it, but they were still surprised. Narinder’s scent was successfully on his Lamb. If Lamb would get in his bubble, then he’d do the same. Pleased, Narinder let Lamb lead them to the temple.

The bell rung throughout the grounds, followers quick to gather within the building. There was their mighty leader. They looked flushed with their wool a bit messy. Next to them at the alter was a tall black cat. To his dismay, no veil nor hood was permitted right now. Lamb’s palm pressed against their book of scriptures. It was Narinder’s native tongue that he could speak freely. For Lamb, it took them decades to do so, and even now their talk was slightly clunky. The book wouldn’t be needed for today. Lamb’s other hand gripped Narinder’s arm, pulling him closer to the altar. Once satisfied with this positioning, Lamb let their fingers brush against his. Being rather docile today, Narinder didn’t move away. Pushing their luck, Lamb locked pinkies with their God. He didn’t move.

“My leader,” one of Lamb’s disciples called out. His name was Cedar, a dog. He dared to speak. “Forgive me, though why is he here?” Lamb sighed.

“Well, my faithful, that’s what today’s sermon will be about,” Lamb responded. They nervously cleared their throat. “Some of my more observant or older followers may recognize this being . . . He’s The One Who Waits, our former God. The unholy one, Ruler of Death.” Gasps and murmurs were heard throughout the temple. Lamb’s hand rose in the air, then formed a fist to silence their flock. “You might ask ‘why is he here?’ Especially after attacking me?” They side-eyed him before continuing. “Well, because I’m the new God of Death. Unlike the Bishops of the Old Faith, I shan’t hold grudges or let myself give into my anger. Many of you are converts from other biomes, and I welcomed you with open arms. I’ll do the same with The One Who Waits, as I owe him my life. Although I have usurped him and you’ll now worship me, you will treat him with respect.” Lamb’s free hand rested on their chest, their heartbeat thumping against their chest. “If it weren’t for him, none of us would be here now, living comfortably. Be grateful in the face of divinity, as you’re all honored to be in his presence.”

Excessive praise, a grand display of their loyalty, too many compliments, and showing him off in front of all their flock. Lamb’s speech was embarrassing him. Narinder felt his face flush and was thankful his dark coat didn’t reveal it too much. He wished to be trapped again, just to get away from this. He was nervous but flattered. Lamb’s finger locked with his held him there like an anchor.

“My Lord, what shall we call him?” another follower asked. They were referring to how “The One Who Waits” no longer suited him.

“Na -” he started. Lamb took full hold of his hand, interlocking their fingers and squeezing his hand. Despite him no longer being a God, his true name would stay unspoken. It was only for Lamb to say, no one else. Apparently, they didn’t like sharing. Lamb rolled their eyes at the question, quickly becoming annoyed.

“Hm, well, let me think . . .The Unchained One, Freedom, The Undead, The Freed One . . . Any of those are good,” Lamb interrupted him. It was a joke that only they found funny. Narinder thought carefully before speaking, ignoring their cruel humor.

“You may call me Fate,” the black cat said. Lamb nodded. The sermon was a bit awkward, with Narinder standing there, still holding their hand. Lamb had to come up with a new script, as they were no longer worshipping Narinder, but themselves. To tease Narinder, they stepped away from the altar and handed him the book at one point, inviting him to give the sermon instead. Narinder wanted to bang his head into the wall.

“ . . . Praise the Lamb, our faithful, for blessing us with shelter, food, and peace. Although strong, never merciless nor uncaring, thine leader only loving. May we be blessed by thou, Death.” The words came out strained, an awkward tone in Narinder’s voice. It was the monotonous speech Lamb used to give, though tweaked slightly. The flock didn’t seem to mind, though. They were more in shock to see him listen to Lamb.

“Praise be the Lamb,” they echoed. The sermon had ended and their followers began to leave the premises. Narinder’s social battery was officially drained for the day. He wanted to yell at Lamb for embarrassing him. He wanted to tell them he only went along with it because he chose to, that he was still in control, that despite their new title, Lamb still served him. The words dissolved in his throat when Lamb pet him softly. Gingerly grabbing his hand, Lamb pressed a kiss to the back of his hand. Narinder hissed in response, quickly drawing his hand back. He was losing his patience.

“Good job, my devoted. Since you’re so sociable today, I expect you to be able to do chores tomorrow, as well as converse with others. Right?” Lamb said. It was more of a demand than a suggestion. Narinder’s ears went down, his tail whipping, unhappily.

“Yes, my Lamb,” he groaned. They smiled up at him.

Docile, obedient little thing.

“Good.”

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[vraisetzen]

Hiya V! How’re you? Hope you’re well! 💛

Out of curiosity, who are your top ten favorite ‘Demon Slayer’ characters and why? I’m really curious!

Thanks! Xxx

Hi Anon! I'm doing well, thank you!

This is a really good question! I've never really thought about my top ten KnY characters before because I love all of them, but if I absolutely have to single out ten of them, with a few underrated ones:

Kokushibo: Need I say more? Or rather, in the immortal words of Jane Austen, if I loved him less, I might be able to talk about him more. His unearthly beauty, his appreciation for talent and skill no matter who he fought, his envy for Yoriichi's gifts, his fear of his legacy being forgotten — all at odds with what is ultimately his all-too human desire to be seen and appreciated for his own skills. Kokushibo has done many unforgivable things in his long, long life — things which not even I can excuse nor downplay — but he is also an immensely complex and compelling individual fraught with at once the ugliest and most beautiful parts of humanity.

Muzan: I have read many manga series over the years, but seldom have I seen an antagonist as single-minded as Kibutsuji Muzan. Certainly, there are better written villains out there, with greater depth and harsher backstories, but the simplicity of Muzan's aims — to conquer the sun and become a perfect being — stands out in a sea of moustache-twiddling foes with schemes to take over the world. That he was born to comfort at a time of Japan's culture epoch, who saw nothing wrong with dirtying his aristocratic hands to kill a lowly doctor; that he did not mind subsisting on humans, but could not tolerate the idea of sitting in the shade whilst other languished in the sun; that he created demons as a tool for his objectives but ultimately saw them more as a hindrance — he is truly a man for himself. As he said in the final battle, was it not enough for the rest of you lot to still be alive? He is not trying to rule over the world, mind you — and even if one were to be so unlucky as to cross paths with him, it was, well, because they were down on their luck. He does not wish to play God, for he does not even care about these lowly mortals; this is truly his world, and we are all just living in it.

Douma: Douma IS brat, y'all. I have always loved unsympathetic villains as much as sympathetic ones, and the second Upper Moon is no exception. Make no mistake, there is nothing redeemable about Douma — he is a cult leader who takes pride in objectifying women as nothing but sustenance. I adore the moment when the light in his dazzling eyes shut off after Kanao calls him out his act. Yet, unlike other delightful sociopathic villains (Tsukiyama Shū from Tokyo Ghoul comes to mind), Douma never fully crosses the line into camp, as in the case of Gyokko; in his mind, he is as sincere as he can be, and he comes across as someone who truly enjoys being a demon and the benefits that come with it. In that sense, he is delightful to watch and even more delightful to hate, and I wished we saw him riling up the other Upper Moons more.

Nakime: In a different world, Nakime would be the perfect protagonist of a psychological thriller/slasher film a la Black Swan. Killing her husband was one thing, but finding the trembling of her fingers post-murder so musically inspiring that she did it again and again — this was a level of artistry that not even Gyokko could fathom in his wildest imaginations.

Rengoku Shinjurō: Reader, I can fix him — was the first thing I thought of when we saw Shinjurō properly for the first time. He is an interesting comparison against Uzui — both of them are retired Hashira, yet the former did not so much as leave a trailing blaze as he fell from grace. How useless must he have felt by the time of Rengoku Gaiden — losing his wife, disgracing his family's name? Likewise, he was no doubt feeling like a mutton dressed as a lamb when Uzui and Himejima joined the ranks of the Hashira. Though his abusive treatment of his children are reprehensible, they also stem from a deeply seated place of mid-life crisis, insecurity, and self-hatred.

Urokodaki Sakonji: There is a wonderful art from Chapter 90 which depicts Urokodaki carving two wooden dolls of Tanjiro and Nesuko — it moves me in a strange way that I cannot put properly into words, only that it encapsulates Urokodaki's compassion, empathy, and kindness in a manner that sets him apart from the typical elder mentor that we see in other shōnen works.

Kanroji Mitsuri: If we are talking about relatable characters, then there is no one I see myself in more than Mitsuri. Though I may not have her generous heart and endless capacity for kindness and love, I understand her struggle of not feeling like a good enough young lady of marriageable age. Her dyeing her hair, eating less and suppressing her naturally bubbly self in a bid to be more likeable — haven't we all been there? Truly, if there was someone in the entirety of KnY to whom I aspire, it would be Mitsuri.

Uzui Tengen: Though he may resent the Shrek comparison (or own it; it's tough to determine Uzui's actual taste when he brushes so close to being trailer trash), Uzui has layers — his flamboyant exterior belies a true concern for his wives and young charges, and if I may repeat myself once more: it is only when he is the most quiet (sneaking up on the shop owner to demand the whereabouts of Zenitsu, feeding Hinatsuru the antidote, giving Suma and Makio head pats) that he is the most himself. His inclination for all things shiny and extravagant is not merely an expression of himself after escaping from his family, it is also a way for him to cloak his true feelings of care — just as a true shinobi would.

Ubuyashiki Amane: There is so little we know of her besides that she was a shrine maiden, but her actions speak volumes. Her arranged marriage to Ubuyashiki could have left her resentful for it was tantamount to an arranged widowhood, but she nonetheless loved and took care of her young husband, and stayed firmly by his side till the very end. The anime does a stunning depiction of this through the eyecatch of her holding his bandaged, disease hand; and that close-up of her impassive face as the explosives set off around the estate, engulfing her and her husband in flames — she has always known what she was signing up for. A lesser person might have left, or ended their life, but Amane stayed true till the very last moment.

The magistrate who sentenced Hantengu: A true underrated favourite, so hear me out on this one; I think this man is easily one of the most righteous of the entire KnY series. He reminds me so much of the real-life historical figure, Ōoka Echizen (played to perfection by Katō Gō in the 1971 series of the same name, but this is a rabbit hole I shan't force on anyone...), who not only exposed Hantengu's lies, but also saw through that pitiful blind man act and gave him a proper sentence. In a kinder world, he could have adopted Daki and Gyutaro; or delivered justice for Akaza — but that is an AU for another time.

xoxo, V ♥️

[archaeren]

Hi Ren,

it's lavenderlight over from ao3!

I'm crossing my fingers that the infamous tumblr-ask-box-situation won't swallow my message! xD

I hope I'm not overstepping (and I don't expect a reply) but I just thought I'd check in - I know you've got discord but I don't think I have the spoons currently to make an account lol

So, good old tumblr it is :D

Anyway - I wanted to wish you happy holidays and let you know that I've been thinking of you (and your depiction of Chui ( 〃▽〃) ) and that LC:LS meant quite a lot to me over the past year - and continues to mean a lot to me.

Honestly, I keep thinking (constantly!!) about all of the chapters so far, imagining how the story might unfold in the future -

So, yeah. I hope you're doing alright and I'll look forward to any possible updates!! <3

Wishing you nice company, a warm blanket and a hot drink of your choice for the holidays!!

OMG hello!! You're not overstepping at all, this is so sweet aaaaa!! <3 <3 <3 I don't know how to say that it means a lot to me that the story matters to you so much. I look forward to your comments on every chapter SO MUCH, they're so thorough and thoughtful, every one of them is like a little gift. I'm so curious what other kinds of things you find yourself thinking about the chapters so far and the ones that have yet to come! It really does mean a lot to know someone else is thinking about it so much. It's a rarepair--the number of English language authors including the migikisa ship at all (let alone focusing on it) can be counted on one hand!--in a tiny fandom. (Someone recently asked me about how many longfics were in the Eng JJ fandom and I was able to rattle off all their titles and author names... because there are only three of them, and one of them is mine. XD) In such a niche pairing, it's easy to feel lonely, especially as one of the sole creators for it. You can't help but wonder sometimes if other people think you're weird or even annoying for being so invested. It can feel isolating. So for someone to say it means that much to them... it's really validating. <3 I got a bit sidetracked lately by doing fanart instead of writing, which is most of why I haven't updated recently. The art brain has a stranglehold on the writing brain! (I started writing again on Friday so I could update on Sunday and then on Saturday I was gripped by the drive to draw Chui as a character from Cult of the Lamb and that consumed my entire weekend... oops.) Actually, you're the one that inspired that art shift. It was that comment you left on Chapter 14, where you mentioned reading a quote that said, “People hate their own art because it looks like they made it. They think if they get better, it will stop looking like they made it. A better person made it. But there’s no level of skill beyond which you stop being you. You hate the most valuable thing about your art.” I thought about that a lot after you said it and it really changed my perspective on my own art. I draw more now than I have in years, and I usually even like what I draw! Even though I can still see its flaws and still see my own influence on it, I've really made a lot of peace with that. It's been really eye-opening and empowering. I really want to get an LC:LS update out today or tomorrow because we're finally hitting the winter performance and the timeline of coinciding with IRL Christmas is just too good. I wish I could post one today and one tomorrow for the timing but I'm not sure I'll have time to finish them both and I'm not sure people would have time to read them anyway! I will probably content myself with one. XD Anyway, if you ever do decide to make a discord I would love to talk more! You can also just lurk in the server that's linked on LC:LS, though I feel like you would be a great addition to the culture c: Thank you so much again for messaging and I hope you have a wonderful holiday (with a few moments to spare for thinking Chui thoughts! I know I will be, hehe <3 )

[resquices-of-godhood]

Chapter II: The bearer of the Gray Crown

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The silence between the two deities is deafening, specially considering one of them is a fully fledged god, while the other is just an infant one, albeit a god killer in their own right.

"Leoda, what are you doing?" Narinder asks between his teeth as he gets up to look at the Lamb.

Wolfgang, in the meantime, seems to be measuring them, his six eyes trained onto Leoda. That is, until he lets out a chuckle that builds into an amused laugh.

"You risk starting a war over a follower? Are you unaware of how the gods of old did things?" He asks rhetorically, before pulling his spear back. "No, even despite not knowing, you truly do care for your cult. Good." He then turns to look at his followers behind him. "You can go back inside and take the robes off, guys."

"Thank goodness." Said one of the thurifers. "Yeah, this incense stinks." Added the other as the group moved back into the blimp's cabin. Meanwhile, the wolf started getting smaller as his crown resumed its position at the top of his head. The baskets were left onto the ground, however, and Baines remained where he stood.

"Wait, what just happened?" Gayne asks, getting a shrug from Shamura, who seems strangely calm, at least in comparison to Heket and Kallamar, the former, who was ready to throw hands but a moment ago and is now thoroughly confused, and Kallamar still cowering behind her. Leshy was turning his head curiously, trying to figure out what was going on from sounds, without much luck.

"Care to elaborate?" Leoda asked while crossing their arms while Narinder watched as He of Technology took his follower form... Or at least a close approximation of one. He was still 3 meters (10 ft.) tall, after all.

"Oh, it's just that I prefer to deal with follower on their level. Makes it easier to get inspiration for new inventions when you are more approachable." Wolfgang explains as he adjusts his robe into a lab duster. "That, and I don't have much patience for gods that treat their followers as disposable things to use and throw away. It is lives we are talking about, after all, even if not the same kind as ours." He adds while patting down his clothes to get rid of any wrinkles resulting from the transformation, more so out of habit than actual need, as anything he wears would change with him perfectly. When he looks back at Leoda, he has his upper and lower pair of eyes closed, leaving only the middle pair, which are located where they would be in any other wolf.

"So was this all a test?" Narinder asks incredulously. "To see how they would react to it?"

"Hardly. See, I didn't know which kind of god I would be dealing with, only that there were two." Wolfgang replies, before looking towards Gayne, beckoning them to approach and join the conversation. "So, considering who composed the previous pantheon that ruled these lands were, I decided to err on the side of tradition. I must admit, I am surprised to see all members of said pantheon not only alive, but mortal."

"Well, you can thank Leoda for this." Gayne says as they approach the group, followed by the former Bishops as well. "After talking to the moon face guy, they went out to release them from purgatory."

"I should have known that Lunaris was involved." Wolfgang replies to Gayne. "Wherever there's a new god, they are soon to appear. It happened to me too, over eight and a half centuries ago."

"Eight and a half- How didn't we know about you before?" Asks Kallamar, shocked by the new information.

"Unless you want to stop hiding behind your sister, I suggest you just keep quiet, Kallamar." Wolfgang replies, somewhat annoyed at the coward squid, who just eeps and hides himself behind Heket, who just rolls her eyes. "But, to answer your question, the world is huge and the continents are far enough apart that a crown can't notice other ones in a different continent."

"Right, and you came to renew the treaties with the Old Faith. What treaty is that?" Asks Leoda, who is trying to get a read on the wolf, but is not having too much luck on the more experienced god.

Wolfgang looks at Leoda, then at Shamura. "You seriously didn't tell them that, Shamura?" He asks, somewhat increduously.

"It must have slipped my mind. I'm not as sharp as I used to be, mr..." Shamura starts, before their brain damage making him forget the name of the god they is speaking with, which doesn't seem to please him.

"His name is Wolfgang." Gayne whisper to the spider, who nods in return.

"Ah, yes, thanks, Gayne. It has been difficult to remember things since I lost the crown, Wolfgang, sir." Shamura adds.

"I can see that." Wolfgang seems to almost grieve at this information. "Very well. I suppose we all could review a bit of history, then. If you don't mind, please step into my dirigible, so we can go to my cult grounds, where most of the information is stored." He then looks at the former Bishops as well. "The invitation extends to you as well, of course."

"Huh, didn't think you would want us anywhere near your sacred grounds." Leshy says as he navigates towards the blimp.

"I wouldn't be inviting you if I wasn't completely sure I had proper countermeasures in place, Leshy." Wolfgang retorts, before gesturing for the others to join. "After you."

The others look among themselves, before following suit and boarding the blimp, which would be taking them towards the sky fortress.

Some of the followers of the cult of Technology remain on the ground, releasing the spikes as soon as the group boards the airship, before climbing the ropes and into the cabin to bring them back inside, as the blimp takes off and the followers of the cult of Death, including Vece, retrieve the offerings and go back to their tasks, if a bit weary of what it means to have a whole new crown bearer to worry about.

Baines, however, returns to the sky fortress with the group, approaching Narinder during the short trip.

"Master, it is good to see you free from the chains." Baines says to Narinder, who is looking through the windowed side of the cabin as the blimp start moving towards the huge structure in the air.

"So, you did recognize me." Narinder answer is not entirely enthusiastic. "I guess you are wondering what happened for me to be reduced to a mere mortal and my latest vessel to have become the new god of Death too." He sighs, not really in the mood to recount the events that transpired.

"In all honesty, sir, I do not." Baines respond as he approaches the window as well. "Whatever the reason has been, it is not something you resent this lamb for, so it is not my place to question it." He adds as he looks out of the window as well. "Quite fascinating to fly on one of these the first few times. Even now, after I have been in a few dozen flights, it still amazes me how stable these ships are."

Narinder looks at Baines, then back out of the window. "I can see that, but I doubt you approach me for small talk, Baines." He responds to the owl, who just nods.

"Indeed, my Lord. I feel like I should explain my reason to have taken part on the procession, though, as you can see by my robes, I have not been converted to the cult of Technology. Lord Wolfgang has been most gracious to allow me such an honor without asking that I abandon my old faith." Baines says, before Narinder motions for him to continue. He nods his understanding of the gesture, before continuing. "I have been studying and cataloguing several languages and cultures spread throughout his territory in the last three or so centuries. Such efforts caught his attention, so I have been supplying him with all that information in exchange for favors only a god can provide. As he learned of the fall of the Bishops and the rise of a new god of Death through Voxport, the northern settlement in these lands, he offered me a chance to come back to my homeland and act as his herald for the procession."

"I guess that was an offer you couldn't refuse." Narinder says as he straightens himself, leaning away from the window. "But why leave the lands you knew for so long in the first place?"

Baines nods to the first affirmation, before continuing. "I left the lands of Phemura in the first place because I felt I had nothing else to learn in regards to linguistics, and the vessels that came after me were isolating the cult, so I couldn't bring its word to new villages anymore." He explains to his former master. "So, I went to investigate Voxport to learn more about such a strange settlement and culture. It was all so different that I had to learn more about it, and the fact that the inhabitants spoke both the common language of this continent and the one from Euhera, it made it all the easier to learn for me."

Narinder hums, before looking back at the owl. "What did you call the continents? Phemura and Euhera?" He asks, curious about such facts. "I didn't know our continent had a name, let alone that there was another one until today."

Baines once again nodded. "Those are the names the inhabitants of Euhera came up with for these two continents, but there is a third one that we are aware of called Ofura, though that one is mostly unexplored."

"Fascinating." Narinder adds, not having a proper grasp of how big the world was, since he rarely, if ever, interacted with souls from other continents, and they usually were too far gone to get much information out of them, even with Judgement.

"My Lord." Baines calls, getting Narinder's attention back at him. "Even if the crown is no longer yours, I want to say that I will still worship you as the god of Death, even if the title is now someone else's." He confesses to the panther, before another voice comes from behind him.

"You and me both, predecessor." Says Leoda, before placing a hand on the owl's shoulder. "Even if the crown decided I should be the god, Narinder is still my master just as much as when I was his vessel."

Baines twitches at the touch, before turning to confront Leoda. "How dare you address our Lord without any honorifics?"

"Baines, they are a god." Narinder interrupts the owl. "Besides, I prefer to be called by my name now." The owl seems about to protest, to which the panther raises his right hand to interrupt him. "I'm not a god any longer, I have no use for titles and honorifics, specially from my spouse."

Baines looks at Narinder, then at Leoda, who just seems amused. "What?" He questions in surprise and confusion.

"Seems like you were too busy worshipping The One Who Waits to get to know who Narinder was." They say, before pulling Narinder's relic from a pocket to show. "And yes, we are married. Here's my engagement ring."

"Stop calling it that!" Narinder protests while reaching for the finger, but Leoda dodges his attempt.

"Dude, you literally asked Chemach to turn your left ring claw specifically into a relic. If that's not an engagement ring, I don't know what is." Leoda teases back, making Narinder cross his arms and grumble in embarrassment, while his ears flatten back against his skull and his tail trashes behind him.

Baines is just lost for words at how casual Leoda is about the whole situation, as well as that Narinder would both go that far to propose to someone, as well as act like a bashful teenager over the whole thing.

"Anyways, Baines, I know how most of my predecessors looked up to Narinder here, but the one you knew as The One Who Waits was a facade to hide how much he cared about each and everyone of us." Leoda speaks up while putting the relic away. "If you don't believe me, you can ask Forneus or Ratau about it, or see how he behaves in the cult."

"Way to expose me there, vessel..." Narinder avoids both of their gazes, except for his third eye, which keeps looking at Leoda.

"I... Guess I will have to take your word for it then, Lord Leoda." Baines answers finally still a bit confused due to all that new information.

"Oh, speaking of my word, Wolfgang said we will be docking shortly, so we should be getting ready to disembark." Leoda informs the two, before gesturing to follow them.

Soon after, the blimp is pulled to the docking port from which it departed and the ramp lowers, revealing the grounds of the cult of Technology.

And here we have it, chapter two, showing who Wolfgang really is underneath that Bishop guise, as well as a meeting between former vessels and their former god.

once again, separator by @lambouillet