#bilehwit au

[bilehwit]

I have a reference for Bilehwit now, drawn by the most wonderfully skilled and immensely patient @ane-doodles ! She has worked with me for a good long while now to create a reference sheet for Bilehwit.

We worked together on the design, and there are hidden bits of lore, both made after seeing ideas from the artist herself and requests I put in!

If anyone wants an in depth explanation of the background for each outfit, let me know in the asks, and I'll answer!

I am so immensely grateful for her work, as @ane-doodles has worked with me through her own life and work. I would suggest that people go check out her own Lambsona and au! It's really a wonderful time.

[bilehwit]

Just read your Bilehwit Au on Ao3 and was greetes by the amazing ref for the lamb here on tumblr!

And yes i absolutely love it when people explain clothing choices in character design especially since you wrote Lamb culture is based on the Old English pls do ramble 🙏

Well hello!! This my first ask from someone I've never met before, so I'll ask you to please be patient with my wild trails of thought.

This will be a long one, but I'll focus on two main outfits - the daily wear and the ritual outfit, as they have the most symbolism.

The easiest one is obviously the leaf outfit - cute, I love it so much!

The leaf was chosen for its symbolism in English mythology. The tree itself is well beloved as a symbol of strength and a symbol of fertility - acorns are often depicted as lucky, and an oak full of acorns is a good sign of fertility!

I also chose oak because I think they're very beautiful trees - they can live for up to 1,000 years, and they can grow to 30 meters wide in their leaves. That's amazing to me. They also smell nice, and I remember climbing them when I was little, so it's nice to share the oak with my lambsona.

Next, let's talk about the sacrifice outfit - it's oddly bridal, no?

Well it's intended to be!

The use of white/silver to denote Purity is an old concept, but white wedding dresses in England were only truly popularised after Queen Victoria wore the colour to her wedding - previously a mourning shade.

I chose silver satin as the fabric, and a simple design, as I wanted a bridal look but also something that felt sleek and pure. Bilehwit is a virgin (virgin sacrifice in all ways) and it's a cruel trick to play.

Also, Shamura in my fic struggles to see/differentiate between objects, so having an all white lamb made it easier for them to stay focused.

So while this outfit feels bridal to us, the symbolism in fic is more that it was easier than dying fabric, just raw spider thread spun into a dress.

Shamura did make the veil themself, though, for reasons you will see later ;3

Now, we get to the heavy hitters! First up, the daily outfit.

Now, Anglo-Saxons were all about those layers! So this outfit actually has more layers than you'd even think.

Under the base dress is a thin cotton chemise, or under dress, made to soak up the oils of the skin and sweat, changed most often. Bilehwit would use these as pyjamas in the summer months, too, to keep cool while covered and decent.

The next layer is the linen, with the thin dark band. This would be a slightly tighter layer to the body, and would be long sleeved to offer protection from the sun and the cold. Linen would be the lighter colours, as they'd be protected more, and linen was used as a middling layer to hold heat in winter. Air would be trapped between layers and keep people warm, and also it protected them from any scratchy wool. The woven ribbon at the bottom is decorative.

The next layer is my favourite. This is the red layer, the thicker dress, made often from wool or from linen again. This is made from wool, using a technique called naalbinding, which is what the Anglo-Saxons would have used, as they didn't knit like is common today.

Anglo-Saxon embroidery and weaving was actually really well known in Europe for its fine work and was gifted to Emissaries and Kings. The weaving and sewing business in England went hard as hell, and it's where most people would be employed for personal use or as gifts.

The embroidery of flowers on the cuffs of the red dress, as well as the colar, are those of Achillea millefolium, or 'Red Velvet', flowers. These tiny buds are native to Europe, western Asia and North America, and are small blooms that self seed and explode into colour. I chose them after seeing the flowers on a sketch, and decided that I had to include them.

Red in flower language is always to do with romance and passion. I wanted Bilehwit to show that desire, as they are a hopeless romantic at heart, and they also just feel a deep-seated loneliness that they want filled. The red flowers are the only flowers they've ever been given, and they've spent hours tracing the embroidery threads and staring silently at the sky.

The final apron layer is just that - an apron. It's a thin, boxy piece of fabric that is played on top to ensure the front of the dress stays somewhat clean, and there is a secret pocket behind it that they store honey-sweets in for children (and themself). Just a length of plain cut cloth!

Tied together with a woven belt, this outfit is my second favourite - I love every detail, and when I can talk in fic about it, I will spend thousands of words trying to detail what it means to me, and probably failing.

The final outfit now, one that definitely won't be seen in fic for a good long while - the Fancy/Ritual set.

Look at ittttt ahahahahagahqabqgagagquipqguqugjv

Okay, keysmash over, serious time!

Now, this outfit is interesting, because not only does it have embroidery and styles of old English culture, it also has mixes of Indian influence too!

"Well, that's random to add," I hear you murmur, and you're right. Why would I add that?

Well, because originally I was going to make Narinder have a more Egyptian vibe! I thought; ah, perfect, he'd do great as a Sphynx cat, the Egyptians loved those cats.

See, as it turns out, Narinder is actually a Sanskrit/Hindu name. It's a form of the name Narendra, a masculine name that means "Lord of Men". It's a very formal name, and one I immediately knew I had to switch things around for.

Following this, I was also able to determine the domains and cultures of each other Bishop, by tracing back names and meanings! That's a whole other post I fear.

Back to the dress!

The outline is far more recent than Old English, medieval style dresses, and that's because, uh... I wanted it. (This one is not very historically accurate. Forgive me.)

I wanted a mix of English style embroidery and Indian embroidery styles. Will come back and edit in which style I went with specifically, but I wanted the ritual set to be a touch more dedicated to Narinder, with darker colours, and more Indian fusion embroidery.

The black is velvet, the red is silk, and the white is linen - why? Again, it looks cool.

I can't lie, I have very little explanation for this besides the fact it looks bangin'.

But yes!! That's all my explanations at this current point in time for outfits! However, if you have any further questions, please ask away, and I will happily detail everything and anything about my AU and fic! Thank you for joining me on my rambling!

[bilehwit]

Hi, another ask kinda indirectly related to the Bilehwit AU

But what are some of your personal headcannons about the bishops, that may or may not be in this au but as a personal interpretation of their character?

+ Who's your fav Bishop(excluding Narinder for now) ?

Favourite has to be Kallamar - gay coward??? Me coded fr fr.

That being said, I somehow always write more about Shamura???

But headcanons!

Kallamar:

🐙My man has a skin tone for gold, and he lets it be known by wearing enough to be heard janglin' a mile away.

🐙He has never once in his life done that! (He has done it 1 billion times, but he must appear better than thou.)

🐙Scared of Shamura when they're not lucid.

🐙Once drunk Leshy under the table only to then get decimated by Heket.

🐙Many spouses, does not like sexual activity. In my eyes he's asexual but a hopeless romantic.

🐙Will stop whole processions to look at bacterial growths on the floor.

🐙East Asian - South Korean, modern day would be a K-Pop beauty influencer.

Leshy:

🌱 Is Chaotic, but not in a fun way, more in a "Oh my God 3 people are dead" way.

🌱Used to biting to show affection.

🌱Cries when he's angry.

🌱Wants Shamura to be proud (they are.)

🌱Turns spouses into Witnesses. Also doesnt know what a spouse is/is for.

🌱Is the most physically violent.

🌱Ate scraps of metal on a dare (digested with no problems.)

🌱Russian.

Heket:

🐸Hates mushrooms (shockingly).

🐸Bought a cowboy hat.

🐸Likes to garden and cook but hates washing up.

🐸Says shit like "four score and twelve moons ago" to piss off Kallamar.

🐸Likes writing on Papyrus.

🐸Egyptian and will complain about heat.

🐸Lesbiab. Lesbaen. WOMAN LIKER.

🐸Tells you to go fuck yourself if you compliment her looks.

Shamura:

🕷When lucid, talks about the good old days.

🕷Most crimes committed as a mortal.

🕷Writes nursery rhymes for their followers.

🕷Used to have dancing rituals to gather sin - now can barely twitch their legs to a beat.

🕷"Oh, thank you Leshy- sorry, Narinder." "I'm Kallamar." "That's what I said." - common occurrence even before.

🕷Wants a pet so so bad. Do not give them one.

🕷Attracted to people with long hair and excellent grammar.

🕷Once did a kickflip so bad they had to kill the elderly congregation watching them.

🕷Tanzanian and speaks swahili when angry.

Narinder:

🪦Likes to bite Kallamar ("I can't help it, cats love fish." "I AM NOT EVEN CLASSIFIED AS A FISH." "You could be.")

🪦Indian, but spent so long in Purgatory he can no longer handle flavourful foods. At least at the start.

🪦Didn't realise Bilehwit had an ACTUAL CRUSH on him and thought they were like. Just that devoted. Pious. That's why they never took a lover.

🪦Cat baths when no one looks - gotta look constantly refined.

🪦Uses his third eye to scare people, namely children.

🪦I Would Never pt, except he definitely is still doing it while you watch.

🪦Finds children hilarious (to torment).

🪦Best dancer, worst singer of the Bishops. Can play music very well though.

🪦First time in Bilehwit's tent, he paid no attention because they were arguing. Then snuck in later to actually see the place.

And that's all my headcanons!

[bilehwit]

Day 2 - Heart

(Based on a ritual in my AU, so very loose on the prompt)

I am so so so happy with how the fire turned out! I am not good at shading so I went with a simpler approach - but I think it looks awesome!

Ask box open!

Again, this is based on the prompt set by @/stychu-stych!

[bilehwit]

DAY 3 - RISE FROM THE DEAD

Experimenting atm, but DAY 3 of Cotltober by @stychu-stych ! I hadn't realised I was doing hard mode, but here we go!

[bilehwit]

Bilehwit! As mentioned previously, I am no artist - I write more than draw, heh.

Also can someone tell me if I did the tag thing correctly?

I tried to draw a cloak but really struggled - I did this from a doodle in my notebook!

Here they are - Pure, Honest, Stabby- I mean, Sincere <3

[bilehwit]

Day 6 - Ritual

This looked way cooler in my head, but my hands can't do much with my phone screen, so have my best attempt!!

Prompts by @/Stychu-stych

[bilehwit]

Bilehwit - Old English, also known as Anglo-Saxon, the language of the Bretons after the invasion of Norsemen.

Bilehwit means pure, sincere, honest - absolutely a word to describe a sweet lamb.

Isn't it?

Read More for AU details - This AU is under construction, and will be added to in further posts!

Bilehwit was born on an exceptionally cold spring day, to the dismay of their parents.

'At a time like this, in a place this awful?' This was the only thought the new parents had time to think, before it was time to run once more.

Years would pass, resentment and stolen seconds of fleeting happiness would be grappled with, and one would die to heretics before Bilehwit turned sixteen. Only a few months later, the other died to illness.

This was still long before the execution Bilehwit was suspecting would be theirs at the hands of the bishops. Lambs became more rare, almost mystical to see, glances of wool that disappeared into throngs of shrieking worshippers, eager to please their own Bishop.

Bilehwit learned to hide, to find comfort in cold grass stew, and to ponder the meaning of their name. They certainly didn't feel pure, not covered in muck and cowering in bushes from their end. They didn't feel sincere, thanking people from under their hood as they took goods from hands covered in blood. They didn't feel honest, pointing down an alley at another hooded figure to throw people off of their own trail.

This story ends how you think it will, as you know it has to.

Bilehwit was caught.

It wasn't some chase from an epic, it wasn't some brilliant moment that escaped them just too fast. They had crouched in the dirt, watching a tiny beetle wander in the muck, and a follower of Shamura had pressed a blade to their throat and coldly informed them that they were the last.

The Bishops were not just ones to kill the last lamb - they wanted a spectacle. They wanted to show their power was not easily usurped by mere species. They not once spoke to Bilehwit - instead, speaking to followers in special garb, giving instructions in booming, thunderous voices.

Lambs spoke the common language of the land, but Bilehwit only knew the language of the Lambs fluently. Their common was limited to asking for berries and the usual pleasantries. They were not informed of the next processes as they were tossed around.

Cleaned up by attendants in white, then fed foods covered in strange spices, even dressed in a new robe in silver, Bilehwit had no idea as to what was happening. They were inspected all over, invasive hands pressing and searching until someone made a declaration and pleased voices rebounded.

Once done, they were thrown in a silver coloured cage, and placed on a large wagon. Touring through the domains, they started in Leshy's forests of Darkwood. The verdant greenery towered above, and worshippers of the Chaos Bishop whispered and giggled as they passed.

The procession grew as the wagon toured next through Hekets domain, Anura, mushrooms crushed under the ever turning wheels. A phrase kept being repeated in mocking tones, but Bilehwit kept their head high.

Kallarmar's domain, Waterdeep, was their favourite to be put through - all the followers were covered in gold and jewels, beautiful men and women danced along the route, and the water cast dancing lights around them. The followers oooh'd and aaah'd at Bilehwit - they seemed pleased at their mock finery, and children chambered up parents to catch sight of 'The Last Lamb'.

Finally, they went to The Silk Cradle. Bilehwit felt sick to their stomach - bones cracked constantly under the wheels, the followers of Shamura stared silently or clicked their mandibles, and the cobwebs draped like veils over the cage to the point one of the attendants of the parade had had to brush them away with a sleeve over their hand to allow the spectators to see the Lamb.

Finally, they entered a secluded fortress made of stone brick. Inside was filled with trees that towered above even the bishops, and the comforts briefly afforded to Bilehwit were stripped from them as they were thrown into a cell for their final night. The silver gown was taken, and their meal that night consisted of beetroot stew. Bilehwit entertained the idea of staining their wool with it, but their captors had other ideas that didn't spill a drop.

Bilwhwit was lead out the next day in late afternoon after their last supper - a meal made of a piece of each Bishop's domain.

Leshy's had bitter grass and a holly leaf. Bilehwit had swallowed them with a scrunched face. They were pretty sure Leshy had forgotten and had grabbed leaves off the first bushes He saw.

Heket's had a large mushroom, stuffed with some kind of cheese, dusted with a hot red powder. Bilehwit ate that one slowly, pondering the conflicting tastes - Famine certainly knew how to cook.

Kallamar had sent some sort of raw tentacle from a Squid. It had squirmed when dipped in the sauce, and Bilehwit had been frozen in place, staring at it, before closing their eyes and forcing it into their mouth, chewing and pretending it wasn't still twitching. It had scraped down their throat. As much as they liked the domain, this was not for them.

Shamura's dish was some form of roasted scorpion - a dollop of soured cream on top. It tasted like chicken. Legs crunched as Bilehwit ate something more familiar - bugs had been eaten by them before, and this was not different to them.

Finally, a strange fruit was placed in front of them, by a nervous attendant. It was hard and smooth, and the same golden hue as their pupils and hooves. Another attendant sliced it expertly, until it fell in quaters with firm, pale flesh. Bilehwit stared at it, and stared back at the attendant, who wiped the blade of the clear juice.

Bilehwit ate, and found this fruit was the most delicious of all.

They were given a greyed robe, and trussed in heavy chains, and then lead out into the pavilion.

They walked the path.

They bent their head.

They tasted tart fruit on their tongue.

You know what happened next.

[bilehwit]

Uhh kinda not directly related to your au but how much of the Bilehwit au will be based on your own cotl gameplay & how much will be oc content made for a story in mind?

And what were your cult & lamb like in your gameplay?

Went on desktop to answer this one!

Well, the AU is actually based on a mix of my first ever game (now completed) and a newer game save I have used to remind myself of each area. It is also dosed with a healthy amount of off game things - I use it as a baseline for the main plot lines, such as dungeons and boss fights, but cult life and worldbuilding are much larger, exploring more than just running and grinding resources.

I do want to also explore more of the culture of each area, with undercover missions and such into areas to avoid repetitive fighting through the many, many mini-bosses. This is based on my own personal headcanons, and I have been and will be researching my chosen cultures as much as possible.

So while I will be going through plot points of the game, that is more of a goal to reach rather than the focus of the story, which is exploring Bilehwit as a leader and Narinder as a god, and what that relationship entails. It is a lot more relationship focused than the game, though some mechanics do exist! I am trying hard to make it exciting and fun!

My cult in the game was wild as all hell I will not lie. I was out there getting faith low as hell then using blessings to bring it back up when we had no food, and panicking a lot. My lamb in game was as feral as I was, the fighting style very much... hit it 'til it dies and before it kills you. I beat Kallamar first try on about 4 hearts with nothing but screams and panic in my soul.

I am not a good gamer, I prefer watching, but I have all DLC's on my switch and quite a few on my hand-me-down playstation (did I have to save for those, lordy) and I mostly work with the cult rather than fight. The second I got the 'go-home-free' thing from Leshy i started just escaping my dungeon runs when i had collected enough resources to not be impacted by the percentage loss.

Essentially, I am no gamer girl (I am no woman or man anyway but the vibes remain) but I do enjoy the game on easy and medium! And I fight with pure tornado power, never dodging, only hitting until they or I am dead xx

[bilehwit]

Day 4 - Lose your Head

I can't lie, I gave up a bit today - my laziest one yet! Here's one I only spent 40 minutes on today, lols

Prompt by @/Stychu-stych

[bilehwit]

Happy Birthday slutty mcslut face 🎂🎂

*spreads legs*

[bilehwit]

Bilehwit - designed with a base from @lumilium on DeviantArt/Patreon. A design in my style will be soon, but I am not am artist - I prefer to write. If I every write out Bilehwit's story, I will be sure to post it!

[bilehwit]

Drawtober - You are who you eat~

I wanted to try the October Drawing Challenge for this year in the CotL fandom! I'm using the @/Stychu-stych one, I really like the prompts!!

Again, I'm really not an artist, so if anyone has tips, I'd love any ideas on how to improve!

Prompts under cut.

[bilehwit]

Prologue

I will be leaving the Prologue for this AU on this account, if anyone would like to read the full story as I write and post it, I'd love to know! My ask box is always open, and so are my DMs! This is 4.5k words of pure prologue baby.

Prologue

Cold nipped at the heels of spring, a fearsome wolf in white that had yet to let go of Silk Cradle. Mud was soft with the rain and clung to the legs of those trying to cross the domain. Many of the residents took to swinging from trees to ensure they avoided the muck and mire, but two forms struggled as silently as possible below.

Hoods were drawn tight over heads, sawn off horns rubbing against sack-cloth and mulberry-dyed fur steadily getting dirtier. Heavy panting came from one figure, leaning heavily on the other with drawn face. They were walking as best they could, though the panting figure was clearly in no state to continue much further, a sort of harried step to the two that drew little more than idle curiosity.

Further, further, further still, until the couple finally found themselves in an abandoned cave, far from any other breathing creature, and hung cloaks at the entrance to hide themselves away. In this facsimile of safety, they finally drew back hoods to reveal two soft black faces, haloed in dark wool. One scrunched her face in gentle agony, a moan of pain slipping from her throat as she sank against the wall, sighing as she finally was off her hooves.

The other breathed a sigh through his nose, brushing her cheek gently and settling in next to her. There was no sound beside the wind outside the cave and their body heat soon warmed their little sanctuary. Eventually, the peace ended, as all things seemed to end for them at the moment. The woman gasped sharply, throwing her head back as pain wracked her, arms coming to scrabble for his as she keened.

“Mine dearest one, I know, I know it hurts,” he soothed, stroking her knuckles as a sob fell from her lips. Her eyes sparkled with tears, and he was once again captured by how she was all he had. “You look as though your eyes hold starlight, dear.”

“We cannot- nay, I cannot do this,” she heaved, her fingers wrapping in his cloak. “What do we do of it?”

She cried out again, and shifted, hunched over, palms pressed to the wall as she sat on her haunches. He stood beside her, uncertain of what to do, before a howl ripped out from her and he set about unpacking their small bags to find blankets and water-skeins. He set up a fire as she muttered and spat curses, fingers finding handholds on the cave.

What should have been a moment surrounded by her elders, her mother, her sister, and her husband was spent biting down screams and getting cave mould over her fingers. What would have resulted in a party that would go on for days while she was treated as a queen instead resulted in her bleeding over their last clean blankets. What could have been a beautiful birth instead was filthy, hidden and utterly ruining.

He tried whispering words of comfort, but there was nothing he could do, no leaves to soothe her pain, no way he could deliver with his shaking hands. He stood to the side silently after a while, stirring thin soup with the last of their parsnips and potatoes, waiting for it to be over.

Her muffled scream settled down to a low moan, he glanced over, and she shook over a reddened lump of wool. She had a knife in hand and was sawing at the umbilical cord with a hardened stare. She picked up the soaked wool lump and lay it over her knee. He looked on in confusion – wasn’t a babe supposed to cry? She raised a hand, he moved to stop her, to ask what in the name of the Bishops she thought she was doing-?

A sharp smack cleared through the cave, and the babe coughed up some slime, and a wail pierced the air as it inhaled its first breath. She smiled then – the adoring smile of a mother to her newborn, and he saw her happy for the first time in months.

“Hello,” she cooed, and its sobs died away, staring up with big dark eyes. She picked a clean corner of cloth, and started wiping away muck, before thinking better of it and putting it down. She stood, leaving behind a wet fleshy lump he didn’t want to look at. “Let’s wash you, baby.”

“There was a river only a few moments to our left,” he said, quickly standing. She nodded, not looking from the babe. They went, and he grew frustrated. No cloak had been adorned as she left the cave, and she walked bare and unafraid through Silk Cradle to the river. There was blood staining her thighs and calves.

The river was slow moving, and frigid to the touch, but it didn’t seem to bother her as she stepped in it to waist level, letting the bright and clear water wash over her. Dye and blood mixed in the waters and was swept away downstream. He followed in hesitantly, standing beside her as she breathed in frigid air.

“Hold,” she said simply, and held out their babe as if it were the most precious of silks. Awkwardly, he folded his arms and let her place the babe down, and she stepped to the side to finish her own bathing. He watched her splash water on her face and scrub away blackness from her fingers, slowly becoming as black as the bearded irises bowing their reverent heads on the riverbanks.

He looked down uncertainly at the babe, who now seemed content to not cry. Instead, it gazed at him and was silent. What did one do with a babe? He knew what they were really here for, but it seemed she was content with washing herself first. He already felt relief as mud came away from his legs as well.

“Bathe, I’ll take the babe,” she murmured to his left, and he looked up surprised as she appeared next to him. He nodded, and made quick work of it to the side. “What name do we bestow?”

“How about ‘Burden’,” he said drily, washing an ear, glancing back. Her stare froze him far more than snow ever did. “I- apologies, dear.”

“If we are to bless the babe, the babe shall need a name,” she continued frostily. He nodded quickly. “I always liked Aethelbald, but I don’t think that suits.”

“How about Purlamb?” Offered he, and she nodded uncertainly. “Well, maybe the name will come once washed and clean.”

She nodded, and they moved to stand facing each other.

“In birthing, you are a symbol,” he began, holding out his hands, cupped with water.

“In birth, you are loved,” she continued, holding the babe out.

“In living you are one,”

“In life you are all,”

“In dying, you are alone,”

“In death, you are with us.”

They poured the water over the lamb, and both then lowered it to the river to wash clean. It did not cry at the cold, and it did not bleat at their speech.

The lamb was not the same as them, they could tell. Its face was not black, and its hooves were a strange yellowed white. A darker blonde batch covered its face, creating two bows that framed its dear face. Matching patches were on its ears, and they turned it gently to look for the smallest spot of black. Not one resided on its body – it was cream and soft all over. After a moment, he gasped in joy.

“Oh, we are blessed,” he murmured, and she turned, blinking gently. “My mother’s, mother’s, mother’s father looked like this. It is a blessing of the highest order – for a lamb born of black sheep that is gold as dawn will live a cherished life.”

“We can hope,” she murmured, closing her eyes in reverence and dropping a gentle kiss on the lamb’s forehead. The last dregs washed away, and their lamb was as clean as the sky on a bright spring day. Adoring eyes looked at the newborn lamb, and a name crossed their minds at once. They raised the lamb from the river, and pressed kisses to its cheeks as they completed the ritual.

“Blessed be, Bilehwit.”

~~*~~

Bilehwit crouched in the earth, poking at a worm with the intensity only a four-year-old could muster. The worm sluggishly squirmed, and Bilehwit poked it again. They sat up sharply as a twig cracked in the distance, and stood, drawing their cloak tighter around themself, and silently bounded off into the forest’s edge. They hopped and scurried up to a tall tree and looked side to side before jumping up as high as they could, grasping onto the branch and hauling their body up after.

They scrambled up higher until the branches thinned, then turned their back to the sky, drawing their brown cloak around themself, drawing all of their body away. Tucked out of sight, they listened for footsteps below, or worshippers chatting in their odd tongues. Wind whistled. A crow cawed in the distance. It was a small sound, but they did exactly that which they had been taught.

“Bilehwit, you may come down now,” came the call of their father’s voice. They peered from the branch, seeing the familiar hoods of his parents, each painted with a red eye on top. Carefully they hopped down from the tree, and came to a stop in front of their parents. “There’s my lamb.”

“Fæder,” Bilehwit smiled, and received a ruffle on the head. “Didya see me climbin’?”

“No, Bilehwit, good job,” Mother crooned. Father picked them up and tucked them under an arm, and the three of them continued through the Darkwood. Birds chirruped, and occasionally they stopped to pick berries from the bushes. Most worshippers were at the temple today, so they had a bit more freedom. Bilehwit’s hood fell back, and they relished the wind on their ears. All seemed well and quiet, and the day passed in a golden blur.

~~*~~

“What have we told you?” Snapped Father as he dragged Bilehwit by the arm. His grip was tight, his face was tighter, and Mother was hurrying along, making aborted bleats and trying to calm him down. “You are an idiot, you are a selfish idiot-!”

“Don’t call my lamb that!” Mother gasped, scowling at Father. He scowled back, entering their current camp in Anura, tucked into a dome grown of mushrooms. “Don’t you ever call my lamb that, it isn’t like it was meant.”

“Your lamb?” Father laughed hollowly. He stared down angrily at Bilehwit, who whimpered at the tight grip on their bicep. “Is this not even our lamb? We were with that herd for a few weeks, you were gravid shortly after. Is that what you mean to say?”

“You are being cruel for cruelty’s sake,” Mother tried to pry his hands off of Bilehwit, but Father just flung them back. They hit the wall of the cave and tears started falling, but no sound came from their mouth as Father stormed to them, towering over them, a black thunder cloud of rage. “They are six! Don’t you touch them, you’re being a brute-!”

“Shut up,” he roared at her, and turned back to Bilehwit. “Thanks to you, lamb, we have to leave Anura. You fool, you have doomed us from this place, and for what? To talk to a dirty culler’s son?”

“I just- I wanted to play,” Bilehwit said, blinking away tears. “The-they said that we could play knucklebones.”

Father went silent and stared down at them. His mouth became a hard line. Mother went still as he turned and threw his things into his pack. He stormed out, and she was quick to pack both of their bags and run after him, carrying Bilehwit even though they were getting too old for that now.

“Shh, it’s alright love,” she murmured as they followed Father from a distance. “He just wants us to be safe.”

“My arm hurts,” came the petulant response. Mother glanced away, wiping her eyes where she thought Bilehwit wouldn’t see.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

~~*~~

Bilehwit watched the sun rise that morning. It had made the sky looks like a rippling fire. They were nine now, and it seemed like the last three years, Father had started to dislike them more. He loved them, that couldn’t be denied, but he no longer had time to tell stories or sit with their family. Mother still loved them, but she was getting more and more tired as the days went by.

She wasn’t waking up again.

Father had gone to collect water and berries, smiling one of his brief smiles, and even ruffling Bilehwit between the ears, something that hadn’t happened in a good long while. They were alone in camp, packed up for a new day of travel, out of Waterdeep’s cove.

There was a dripping from the leaves after last night’s rainfall, and a spider skimmed its crystalline web, dancing a ballet as it pushed the drops away. There was sand everywhere, damp enough to stay stuck to verdant green grass, and lumps of white chalk littered the area.

Bilehwit picked up a lump thoughtfully, and went to a tree, drawing a line, then another, and a curve. The smiled at the drawn face, and quickly rubbed it away when they heard approaching hooves, turning to greet Father.

It was not Father.

A pig girl, in a red wrapped dress, dropped her basket of apples. She looked left and saw Mother, her eyes growing wider. Before Bilehwit could speak, she had turned, running and shouting, and the answering cries resounded, as well as a now familiar horn note.

Cull horns.

Made from ram’s horns, they blew a clear, low note, and three high ones. It echoed over the forest, and Bilehwit wasted no time. They threw on their pack and shook Mother roughly – she needed to be awake. Her eyes opened, and she caught the end of the horns. Her eyes became clear, and she snapped upright, grabbing Father’s pack and her own.

They ran.

Hearts pumping, lungs burning, they did not stop, soon catching sight of Father as he bounded over a fallen tree to meet them and swing his own pack over his shoulders. He did not question it, but kept running with them as the horns sounded, and dog-folk started barking and howling.

The ground was soft, but not mud – perfect for a trio of springy lambs to run over, but awful for trails. They left hoof-prints behind, too fast to sweep them away like normal.

They ran.

The wind whipped their faces, stinging their eyes with sea salt and sand, and trees snagged on cloaks. The pounding of their hearts filled their ears – or was that the pounding of following feet? Blood rushed and legs pumped to get them away as fast as possible.

They ran.

They came to a sheer cliff – blocked off by sea, their pursuers behind. Bilehwit bleated in fear – and Mother looked up resolutely. She readjusted her pack, and threw her long wool behind her head. Two steps back. Crouching on her legs. Breath in. Out.

She ran. She leapt. She flew.

Mother landed on the cliff face and gripped on tight. Her hooves found the crags easily, and she began to climb. Her dark gold eyes looked back, and her face twisted in a scowl.

“Move!” Father nodded, and pulled Bilehwit into his arms.

“I’ll get us up there, but you have to climb,” he said seriously. Cullers were now visible, speeding up with whooping and hollering, teemed along the beach. His father held him tightly, and Bilehwit felt his muscles tense under thinning wool. One step, two, three… there. They were off, running hard, and Bilehwit hid their eyes in the father’s wool. The steps kept going, and then there was a dip before-

Weightless.

They opened their eyes.

The sea was endless. The sky was endless. The sand was as gold as the sun.

The two hit the wall, and Bilehwit was turned to face unforgiving stone. Their hooves scrabbled and found purchase. They climbed like they hadn’t before, unseeing of the top of the cliff as their breath burned their throat.

By the time strong arms were pulling them up, they could taste blood coating the back of their teeth. No time to rest – they had to run. There was an entrance to Darkwood a mile or two, a small fold in reality between the realms that Mother and Father knew how to harness. They would teach Bilehwit this trick, eventually.

The world blurred into a mess of spinning green. All they felt was their legs hitting the ground, all they heard was their breath, and they tasted was blood and sweat. They skid to a stop just as Mother lifted the veil, and Father ushered the trio through. It closed after them and they hurried down the dark, leafy tunnel, and out into Darkwood.

This corner of the real was unused to travellers, overgrown bushes that the family often camped in, surrounded by thorny brush and nettles. Mother breathed heavily for a few moments, sitting down and opening her arms like clouds parting in a storm.

Bilehwit collapsed into her embrace and started to cry. Father stepped behind the two of them, looming, before he too knelt, gathering both into his arms. Tears dribbled down his bearded face and onto Bilehwit’s nose.

It was a quiet week.

~~*~~

Fifteen years on the run did things to a young lamb. Bilehwit was thin, ropey with forced muscle, and their wool was cropped closely. Mother was much the same, though her wool grew out on her head, held back in two thick, heavy braids woven with faded and stained ribbons. Father had sawn his horns off long before Bilehwit was born, but his shaggy beard, broad shoulders and strong legs allowed him to tower and defend. In his beard was woven a matching ribbon with mother’s.

They were both still black, though grey was starting to claim his mother’s hair and his father’s beard. Bilehwit wondered what it felt like to live so long your wool went grey.

They were having a lesson today, up a tree in Anura, over a camp of Mushroomos. They were an odd bunch, but had no intention of messing with the Bishops, so the lambs were free to stay so long as they remained hidden. Father was laughing below, a sound unheard in years, as a Mushroomo told jokes in their odd babbling language. Mother was smiling and looked younger than normal. A few weeks of rest had made it easy to talk and smile again.

“Fæder is laughing,” Bilehwit said joyfully, and Mother laughed like bells made from crystals. Father sounded like the giant brass bells in the temples, and her chimes flitted between the deep notes.

“I fell in love with that laugh,” Mother said with a smile, before crossing her legs. “No, what was I telling you?”

“We finished the birth ritual, the naming ritual, the ritual of the bells, birthday rituals, wedding rituals, funeral rituals and, um, the other ones like feasting and stuff,” Bilehwit rambled off, and Mother’s smile grew.

“We did, didn’t we?” she said, and tilted her head, a finger to her chin. “Well, I think then that we come to the very last lamb ritual, my love.”

“Yes please!” Their eagerness made her grin wider. “Modor, I love learning about the lambs!”

“Well, this ritual is the most special of all,” she said softly, and drew from her cloak a small, tattered book, which she gave to Bilehwit. “Your reading is beautiful, love. I am only sorry we have yet to teach you to write. In that book is not only in-depth explanations of every ritual, but of the one we have yet to tell you. It is the one of the deepest binding. Tell me, what makes Lambs special?”

“Uh… Oh! We as a species represent youth, innocence, purity, and… um…” Their face scrunched in thought. “We… throw good parties?”

Mother laughed again and nodded with mirth in her smile.

“That we do. No, what makes Lambs special is the fact we are so close to Divinity,” Mother explained gently. “We lambs used to be known as pious, as people you go to for help, as gentle lovers of the world. We used to run messages for the Bishops, we used to heal and nurture, we used to be beloved.”

“So… why are we no longer that?” Bilehwit asked, and Mother’s face fell slightly.

“Times change,” she eventually said. “The Bishop’s… well, Bishop Shamura, one day had a vision. A lamb would bring about the end of the world through its connection to divinity. People became scared, I know I certainly was. At the beginning, some lambs even went willingly to put their heads to the blade – for those, they had sharp axes that cut in one sweep and were given burials and mourned. As for those like us…”

“I don’t want to die,” murmured Bilehwit. Mother nodded. “Modor, I don’t blame any of the lambs for running. I think the ones who died were happy to die, but the others didn’t even have a choice.”

Mother nodded, and in the quiet, the two settled on this information. A fire crackled, with meat being cooked dripping fat. A lute was being strummed. Grass stirred in the wind. The sky dimmed with sunset.

The tree shook for a moment or two, before Father’s face popped besides them. He was grinning.

“Come on, come down!” He said, and Mother rolled her eyes, nodding. Bilehwit followed them down as more instruments were tuned. The fire cast long shadows, and already people were beginning to dance.

Mother clapped in delight, and Bilehwit joined her, smiling broadly as they kept the beat. The Mushroomos were happily twirling and dancing around the flames, and Father crouched by the musicians, grinning. Subtly the music started to shift, and it took a single note for Mother to stop clapping, her eyes filling with tears as a hand went to her mouth.

Father landed in front of her, landing on one knee, and held out a hand.

She took his hand.

They looked into each other’s eyes, falling back into true love as easily as water floods to the sea.

Father stood, and with clasped hands, they swept around the flames in barrelling, spinning movements. Mushroomos clapped and cheered as they leapt and sprung around each other, laughing and looking into each other’s eyes like tomorrow was never going to arrive.

The tempo picked up, and soon they were dancing with all their might, singing a song that only the two seemed to know, bowing and kicking to the beat of the music. Mother reached up and loosened her wool, pulling away her ribbons to let it bounce around her body. She wound the bright red satin around her wrist, leaving a long trail for father to catch.

Father grinned, and grabbed her as the music swelled, winding the ribbon around his wrist with one sharp move, pulling her to him and dipping her.

Silhouetted against the fire, they were alight. Bilehwit watched as they captured each other in a passionate kiss, and something clicked in their chest. Like a key opens a padlock, a deep pit of yearning suddenly swallowed their lungs.

They wanted that.

Mother and Father eventually collapsed to the side, laughing and giggling, stealing sweet kisses. They beckoned over Bilehwit, and tucked their lamb between their bodies, smothering them with kisses and hugs.

“Oh, but I am proud of you,” Father roared happily, his eyes flickering with flame and pride. “You’ve done well, Billy. You’ll do well as long as I see it!”

“You read that book, Bilehwit,” Mother sang, retying her braids and smacking away Father’s wandering hands. “Oh, stop that! Let me at least finish my braiding, you handsy thing!”

“Can a man not love his wife?” Father asked, kissing her above Bilehwit’s head.

Bilehwit smiled.

“I love you, Modor, Fæder,” they said, and their parents looked at them with adoration.

“We love you too,” came their overlapping voices.

~~*~~

The day Father died, Mother wasn’t waking up again. They were in the Silk Cradle, in a tiny cave. They had been doing well the night before, Bilehwit managing to open a veil themselves for the first time.

The cave had seemed familiar to their parents, who each smiled to themselves and set up camp. They remarked the river was close by, and Father went to clean himself. Mother laid down to rest, and Bilehwit had been reading.

The book had so much on the culture of the lambs, on the rituals and the way they lived. Bilehwit drank it all in, reading the tatty thing front to back, back again. They eventually looked up, noticing that the outside had gotten darker.

Father hadn’t returned.

Mother coughed.

She didn’t wake even as Bilehwit shook her, so with steely resolve, they donned their Mother’s cloak, and stepped out. It was unseasonably cold for spring. They skidded through the slick mud, creeping along. They could hear the river, but there was no sound of Father bathing. There was just quiet.

It burned into their eyes.

The river rushed by without a care, washing blood from the slit in his throat. Glassy eyes stared at the empty night sky. Black wool sagged down with water twisted in the current. There was some kind of blood on his chest, but it was no longer bleeding. After all, the empty chest had no heart to beat.

“F-Fæder?” Bilehwit whimpered. No response came. They picked their way down to him, gentlystepping on thick stones and pausing where he lay. He kept staring at the sky. “Fæder?”

They sunk to their knees, soaking the cloak in an instant as they reached for his face. They closed his hanging jaw. His skin was so cold, only the very last dregs of life fading away. He had died recently.

What were they saying? Why weren’t they crying?

Bilehwit curled next to him, watching as Father’s fist bobbed in the water. Clutched in it was a red ribbon – not faded and stained like Mother’s and his own, but new, freshly washed.

That was for them.

It was their birthday tomorrow.

At some point, they dragged his corpse ashore. They washed him, they said the rites, they redid his braids and closed his eyes. Lambs left their dead to rot and go back to the earth underground – so Bilehwit dug. He finished the deep grave before turning and shambling back to camp.

Mother was still asleep.

Somehow, they woke her. Somehow, they told her. Somehow, through grief, they managed to bury Father with the few things he had to take to the afterlife. Somehow they didn’t die themselves, though their wailing sobs should have alerted every culler in the area.

Somehow, two months later, Bilehwit did the same for their mother, next to their father, as she passed with a sigh in her rest.

Somehow, Bilehwit walked away, a red ribbon curled in their fist, with a pack filled with black wool, a heavy cloak made for a lamb far bigger, and trinkets made by relatives they would never know for two people they couldn’t know any more.

They slipped through the veil to Darkwood.

The Last Lamb had now been made.

[bilehwit]

How's the prologue going?

Well, let's see.... oh yeah, 4,585 words.

Anyway I will be posting the official fic for Bilehwit on Ao3 soon!

[bilehwit]

Chapter 2!!

Chapter 2 now has a word count over 8k, and all of the words I am so proud of! My most self indulgent chapter so far, and the longest by far, considering the next is only 3.5k!

Please consider reading if you like CoTL!