#cotl ficlet

[fanaroff]

Kind of continuation to this comic.

The first thing he opens his eyes to—

———

“Narinder?”

Too loud. Too bright. Too much. Even through closed eyelids and flattened ears. His head pounded behind his eyes. A rhythmic thumping so loud in his ears. A noise he was so unused to. A mortal sound.

Pain was a blinding experience when one was no longer numb to it. The One Who Waits could only huddle in one spot and cling to his own shoulders with claws he couldn’t not yet control enough to retract. He knew where he sat, but he was not going to allow the recognition to settle.

Hurt lanced across his chest, his wrists. He wanted it to stop. This was not how things were supposed to go. He’d planned for so long. How could this have happened?

Narinder chose wrong. He chose wrong. He chose the wrong vessel. His vessel who built him up, built a Temple in his name, raised devotion! His vessel who then tore him down and reduced him to this quivering mess of a new mortal.

How he wished they’d chosen to kill him instead. To have ended his millennia of suffering, not extend it further.

He chose wrong.

The physical hurt now ran in tandem with the emotional. How could they do this to him? When he saw them choose… he thought that maybe things would go right. He would be free and his vessel tucked safely in their own little heaven… but he saw them return the Red Crown to their own head. That damned Lamb!

The one he gave life to! The one he saved!

Betrayed by one he trusted so—

Now he was here. Now he was mortal. How foolish of him.

“…Narinder?” Faust’s voice was gentle, no doubt a front put on for the followers (they should be HIS) that he could hear hanging about in curiosity. (Insects to be squashed! How dare they look upon his visage and see him in this form!)

Narinder knew that if he were to open his eyes, he’d see nothing but hatred in theirs. After all, he ordered his vessel to sacrifice themself. And after all, this was not something his vessel was willing to do. Would such an ask not generate hatred in one unwilling?

Either way, the refusal… the betrayal… has generated hatred within Narinder and when he returned to strength… he would make them pay.

There was no point in putting things off.

Narinder cracked open an eye, blinking rapidly against the blinding light, prepared to see the Lamb standing before him with a weapon in hand. (They’d be foolish not to, what if he chose to attack?)

Instead, the Lamb kneeled before him (why kneel now and not then?), a bowl of water in hand and fake concern across their face. They were still covered in spots of their blood and Narinder’s ichor from their battle, fleece torn in places and wool sticking up in different directions. Yet, they were the victor and looked it. Narinder had no doubt that he looked worse.

He felt worse.

Light from the setting sun lit against Faust, brightening them in almost a halo. It would be beautiful sight… if not for the knowledge he had.

“Betrayer.” Narinder rasped. It came out wrong. He wanted it to be a hiss. A snarl. But it was a wheeze of air at best. His throat hated it. He hated it.

Faust had the gall to shake their head. They opened their mouth to speak, but Narinder beat them to it.

“Betrayer. I never should have chose you. A lamb that defiled my name. My Temple for their own!” He slowly devolved into a rant. A proper tantrum for the ages. Spitting insults that brought gasps of shock from those around them, a few being hands to weapons (garden tools at best), and yet Faust did not react.

If he had taken a moment, he would have noticed their eyes darken to sadness and a frown overtaking their features. He would have noticed the hurt. The Crown trying to get his attention that he had chosen the wrong subject for his ire. But he was understandably focused on his own.

“I wish not to see you! I wish not to be here! Kill me, Usurper! End the suffering you drag out further!” Narinder’s voice had torn by the end, quieted by the force he attempted to put behind it and sounding as if he’d been exposed to the smoke of fires for hours.

He’d begged at the end. Begged to be killed and put out of his misery. And again the Lamb ignored this.

When Narinder was done, panting harshly and lying against the ground as his body turned tired, Faust stood from their kneel and turned to a she-rabbit. They placed the bowl of water in her hands.

“Take him to a tent. I feel he would be calmer if I were not in his line of sight. Have someone come to me if he attempts to attack anyone. Make sure he drinks. Make sure he eats. Force him to if you have to, but be careful. He has not eaten in a long while.”

The she-rabbit bowed her head as Faust turned without a second look to Narinder and strode towards the Temple. His temple no longer.

Narinder could only squirm and attempt at clawing, glaring at Faust’s back as he was dragged away with the help of two other followers. Kicking and screeching, he vowed to himself that the Lamb would pay for this.

They all would pay.

— —

Quick Oneshot that may not stay canonical, or it may stay as a companion piece. The image will stay canonical as the first thing Narinder sees upon his indoctrination. For now, it’s a prompt for myself.

I plan to do the main fic series from Faust’s POV, but I wanted to play around with some of Narinder’s thoughts. I don’t know if it worked though, I have a hard time thinking how someone might react in hatred so I hope I got it close enough.

Hope you like it!

[aychama]

I was wondering, does king Narinder have ever had any funny episode with catnip in his life?

-Im getting the warnings of becoming sick so no art but you guys can have a little idea I have!-

"What is going on? Why is everyone running out of the building?" Lambert looks to the panicked palace staff.

"The king has accidentally sniffed catnip!" One maid yells as she rushes out the door.

"Huh? Why is that a problem? Is he alergic or something?" Lambert grabs the arm of a fleeing butler, not understanding the urgency. Their grip is firm on the poor butler.

"The problem is, whoever sees him in that state gets punished the day after!" The butler answers as another maid stops by the two to warn them.

"Years ago one had seen him lick his own hand and the next day the poor butler was forced to clean horse shit with bare hands!" She says it like its the grosest thing in the world.

"And another maid had heard him purr and my god.... she was almost fired!" The butler pries Lambert's grip off of his arm as he speaks.

"That just sounds like he is embarrased of the state he is in?" Lambert understands the situation of everyone fleeing as no one would want to be fired from the palace for such reasons, working at the palace pays well, but the situation was still too ridiculous for everyone to run away.

"Yea it- eeeee!" The butler and the maid hightail it as Narinder approaches them.

He picks Lambert up, they dont even protest (were they really this light for him to easily hoist them up?) as he brings them to the garden. The sun is still up but no one is around, everyone has fleed from the palace.He purrs and wraps his hands around Lambert, who wasnt wearing their armor. He cuddles them, burying his nose into their nape and licks wherever he gets his snuggly face on while lying down as the birds chirp and Lambert looks at the blue sky all stiff, not sure what to do in this unexpected turn of events.

"Oh im so dead tomorrow..." Lambert says outloud to no one, feeling dread in their gut while they are forcefully cuddled in grass. Their heart beats fast in their chest and they think it has to be because of fear.

His nose tickles...

The next day, however, when Narinder and Lambert run into eachother in the corridor, the morning sun hits Narinder's face in just the right angle for his face to be seen behind his veil and he is... blushing? He turns away before Lambert can properly see.

How weird, he would usually give them an order to follow him or something else.

Maybe he forgot. Cute.

[donutfloats]

One night, Lamb and Narinder are sat outside gazing at the stars, it’s before they’re in a romantic relationship (perhaps pining at this stage) so they’re just friends at this moment.

Lamb asks the question “If you had a normal life, what would you have wanted to do?”

Narinder is confused by this, “what brought this on?” He’d ask, turning to look at them.

Lamb shrugged, still gazing up at the starlit sky. “Just somethin’ I remembered thinking about a lot before.. well, you know.” They gestured down the hill, where the temple of their cult stood along with the many follower huts and other stations. “The whole cult thing.”

Narinder hummed as he turned back to gazing at the stars, “… I do not know. It was never a thought that crossed my mind as I couldn’t imagine my self as anything else other than a God.”

There was a long pause after this, the silence was then broken by Narinder.

“I assume you had something in mind for your self?”

“I wanted a family.” Lamb replied.

Narinder was taken slightly aback by this, brows furrowed into a look of confusion. “A family? That’s it?”

Lamb nodded, pushing their arms out that were propping their self up to fully lay back on the grass, their gaze still transfixed upon the night sky. “Yep, I wanted to get married and have kids. Settle down, have a house, grow our own food. Live a small, simple life.”

“How… mundane.” Narinder replied as he slumped back into the grass. “… Why?”

Now it was the Lamb’s turn to be confused as they turned to face Narinder. “Really? Thought it was obvious.”

“Enlighten me.”

Lamb rolled their eyes and sighed at this. “I spent my entire life on the move because of the hunts. I never got to call anywhere ‘home’.”

“Why a family though?”

“Well-“ Lamb turned onto their side so they were facing Narinder fully, which he recuperated by doing the same, the two now being face to face as the Lamb continued. “- I never thought I’d be able to have kids, let alone a partner. The herds were dwindling, so it was obvious that I was part of the last generation of sheep.” The Lamb’s gaze drifted, not focusing on anything particular. “It would have also been cruel to bring a child into the world that only wanted them dead.”

“So I used to just daydream about a life I wanted.”

It was quiet for a moment between the two, but the Lamb felt a sense of awkwardness rush over them as they quickly tried to fill the silence. “But uh, yeah. It’s a silly mundane thing to want I guess, especially now.”

Narinder’s expression hadn’t changed, but after a moment he closed his eyes as he in a softer tone than the lamb expected.

“I suppose the mundane wouldn’t be so bad.”

The Lamb’s ears perked up at this, surprised by Narinder’s response. “Is… that something you would have done?”

“Perhaps.” He replied

Silence fell once again between the two, but it was comfortable. The stars had been forgotten as the Lamb gazed at Narinder’s face at rest. It would be a couple hours until the sun would start to peak over the horizon, so the Lamb indulged in the serene moment by closing their eyes, drifting away to one of the most comfortable sleeps they’ve had in a long time.

[moonlefey]

“Sons of a God”

(A COTL Ficlet)

——————————————

“Master!” The twins cry out in unison when they spot him, like the word has a different meaning entirely. Suddenly he’s a fifty-foot tall god again, hunched over to hear two kittens purring peacefully inside his arms. When his empty heart felt a little fuller.

Aym and Baal smother him in their embraces, taller than him now. Had it really been so long? They smell like ginseng and myrrh, like their mother and long traveled nights. They’re grown now, no longer small and afraid.

He looks at the Lamb and finds his vision blurred. Their slurred face is smiling warmly at him. Narinder realizes the thing clouding his vision are his tears.

He returns the hug with a single arm, the action foreign and strange to him. Aym breaks away first, ears perked and eyes sparkling with his own set of tears. They both detail their journeys. The things they’ve seen. The people they’ve met. The world that was stolen from them twenty-six years ago.

Narinder stands and listens. Habit strays his hand to Baal’s head and he ruffles the fur like his finger is twice the size of his head again. His cheeks feel wet and heavy and Baal holds him just a little tighter.

“Do what you wish, scornful God. I care not for them.”

His kittens are grown now. No longer two young boys struggling to hold a weapon. Capable fighters, gentle souls, adventurous spirits, and loyal friends. His kittens are grown now, and they feel like a small piece of him that’s been missing. Now made whole.

Narinder is still standing in the same place when they’re gone, eyes trained on the portal sigil they left from. The Lamb is beside him, always hovering by his shoulder.

“You did a good job with those two.” The Lamb whispers. Their wool is haloed by the moon’s soft light. “Forneus wants to thank you.”

“I did nothing,” He confesses, feeling oddly misplaced.

The Lamb sighs and it does not sound as heavy as it used to. “Sure, Narinder.”

[olrinarts]

I love how Harut is so fascinated with the history he represents. His sister seems like a protector of sorts. I totally believe that when Narinder said in 'Consistency Must Transpose' that he was hoping to find other traveling partners while meaning his kids, he definitely got that.

He and Esriaal especially teaching the lambkits how to fight and protect themselves on crusades while Narinder also teaches them how to search for information, something Harut uses like crazy.

I can even see Harut and Narinder going on trips to track down information about the sheepfolk, each clan and the like. Maybe even scouring libraries and random books gathered from each domain. I totally believe Shamura has a possible hidden library of all the books he could get, but the likelihood of them being cared for and maintained as his mind wavered became slim, so the books are hard to read and understand at times.

have a lil fic for this bc it made the brain go brrrr (under the readmore bc it's a lil long)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

‘Dad!’

Narinder turned his head, all three eyebrows lifted as Harut’s excited voice echoed off the ancient stone walls of the vault. Harut had always been the quieter one, Israafil forever needing to be reminded to keep her voice down; in contrast, Harut often had difficulty speaking up. Let alone in a place like this, Midas’ vaults long coveted stomping grounds that Harut always wanted to delve into as soon as Midas would grudgingly allow anyone inside. Now, the little black sheep’s hooves were clicking and clacking as he raced across the cluttered cavern. ‘Yes, Ru?’

‘Come see!’ Harut said, grabbing Narinder’s hand and tugging on it, dark eyes sparkling the same way the Lamb’s did when they were excited. ‘I found something, come see!’

‘There are many things here,’ he said, amused as he let his son tow him along. ‘You shall have to be specific.’

‘I think I found one of those things Ren was talking about – the kind Naana made when Ren was a lamb!’ Harut said, and Narinder nearly tripped as he flinched. ‘The tap trees!’

‘Tapestry,’ Narinder corrected faintly, and Harut nodded eagerly.

‘I think so, but I can’t tell, it’s too high up,’ he said, tugging on his father harder. ‘Can you get big? I started trying to climb but I fell down.’

‘Are you hurt?’ Narinder demanded, alarmed, eyes flickering sunset orange for a split second as he searched Harut’s energy for injury. Thankfully it was nothing but a bruise over the little lamb’s long tail, and Harut was shaking his head. ‘Very well, then. I would advise you to prepare for disappointment, however.’ The likelihood that one of the recordweaver tapestries had somehow survived the centuries was already low, without taking into account how the Bishops had intententionally sought out and burned every tapestry they could.

‘I know, but it has the red edge they talked about, with the gold stripes? So if I’m right, it’s a South Anuran tapestry! Maybe even one of Naana’s!’ Harut explained, excited again.

Narinder reminded himself to not get his hopes up. It was difficult to do; whenever his Lamb talked about the recordweaver tapestries, they did a good job of presenting as though it was just another facet of the sheep’s culture. He knew them too well, however. There was always a subtle loss haunting the edges of their smile, peeking out through their dark eyes. He was sure they didn’t know, but whenever they felt grief, the blue spot in their left eye always glittered a little brighter. The godblood would know that loss well, after all.

‘Then let us go find out,’ he said, shooing Harut a short distance away. A few seconds later, Narinder no longer occupied a mortal shape – his godform was never far from him, particularly as his role as the god of Life had cemented itself. He bent down, laying his skeletal hand on the ground, and Harut happily clambered into his palm. The little boy giggled a bit as Narinder carefully lifted him. Narinder smiled as he set his son on his shoulder. Harut liked heights for some reason, and took every chance he could to have Narinder pick him up.

‘Which way, little one?’ he asked, and Harut pointed off to Narinder’s right, so he set off.

The walls of the vault were lined with tall shelves, carved from Darkwood ebony, and he quickly spotted the rolled fabric. The gold thread was glittering in the low light; he could see why Midas might have squirrelled it away, regardless of if it was a recordweaver tapestry or not.

He picked it up with careful fingers, setting it on his palm, and held his hand up to Harut. The little lamb scrambled onto it, sitting down; he was so small, but his excitement filled the air. He then grabbed the edge of the tapestry with eager hands.

‘Ru. It may be delicate,’ Narinder reminded him before he could pull too hard. Harut made the same grumbling sound he’d learned from Leshy but nodded, and Narinder chuckled. ‘Be careful, but go ahead.’

‘I was going to be careful, dad,’ Harut huffed at him. ‘You don’t have to tell me that.’

Narinder lifted an eyebrow at his son. ‘I know you are excited, but that is no excuse to be rude,’ he warned, setting a finger on the tapestry so Harut couldn’t open it. ‘Rephrase that.’

Harut’s ears drooped, his eyes big as he looked up at Narinder. ‘Daaaaaaaad –’

‘That was not a request, little one.’

Harut made a face, but nodded. ‘Sorry. I’ll be careful, I promise,’ he said, and while it was still a touch huffy, Narinder nodded and removed his finger. Harut reminded him of Baal, more often than not, but sometimes his defiant streak was much more akin to Aym's.

With more caution, Harut unrolled the tapestry, laying it out over Narinder’s palm. It was the size of a small carpet, and though the border was indeed red and gold, the depiction on the tapestry was rich with greens and blues. It was stylised, and appeared to depict a marsh of some kind; there were skilfully woven creatures gathered in the centre, and there was no longer any question of what this was. Each creature, whether sporting white, black, or brown fleeces, was a sheep. Along the border were patterns that he didn’t know the meaning of, but recognised the shapes of. His Lamb had taken to writing things in their native script once they fully remembered it, so he’d seen it many times.

The tapestry was upside down, so he carefully turned it around, and then he recognised one section, down in the lower right corner. The letters were thin and delicate threads of gold, but he knew more or less what each letter was, in its phonetics. That was why he knew the names that were woven in.

Harut looked up at him, sparkling in happiness, running his fingers over the letters spelling out Verchiaal and Raqib. ‘That’s Naana’s name, right? And Baaba?’

‘Yes, Ru,’ Narinder said faintly, unable to look away from it. ‘You have a good eye, little one.’

‘We have to bring Ren here!’ Harut said excitedly, touching the threads woven by the Lamb’s mother and dyed by the Lamb’s father. ‘They’re going to be so excited, they have to see it!’

‘No,’ Narinder said, and before he could continue Harut gave him a horrified look. ‘Peace, little one. I mean only that they need not come here. We will take it to them.’

Harut blinked. ‘But doesn’t it belong to Midas?’ he said uncertainly.

‘No, it does not. If anyone can claim it, then it is your ren,’ he said firmly. ‘Midas may protest, but he shall have to accept it will leave with us. Otherwise, I will be informing your ren that he is keeping their own inheritance from them, and he will be left to handle a very angry god of Death. I believe he will be willing to let us take this with us, if only to avoid your ren’s wrath.’

Harut nodded. ‘Okay,’ he said, and carefully rolled it up again, his grey hands much more reverent now that he was certain of the tapestry’s origin. ‘Ren’s going to be happy, right?’

‘More than you can know, little one,’ he said, allowing Harut to climb back onto his shoulder. ‘Let us bring it to them, then. You have done well.’

Harut smiled, purring a little, tail wiggling with his pride. Narinder made sure his son was secure on his shoulder, then went to tell Midas that he would be losing an irreplaceable treasure, looking forward to Midas’ horrified face almost as much as he looked forward to his Lamb’s joyous one.

[spoiledleaff]

there's a monster circling the borders of the cult. the lamb knows what it is—who it is. they're not terribly bothered.

the fox.

as a creature who values both brutality and strategy, the fox admires shamura deeply, to the point of love obsession. they've met before, though shamura could not remember that now. as a bishop, the fox loved watching them work. they would meet on occasion, standing at the crossroads between war and darkness. the fox has always had a bit of a stalking problem, not that shamura would feel threatened by him. they never stopped him before. the company was nice, soothing. they both smelled of blood—it was like finding another half of yourself, drenched in the afterbirth of your crimes and murders.

they'd chat. sometimes. ironically enough, shamura liked taking time to talk about nothing. so much of their life and work is spent strategizing and wondering and learning and doing things with a purpose, it was nice to take a moment to revel in the nonsense. the fox didn't mind, he would be too infatuated with the way they'd fidget with the bones of their followers. they would remember so much.

he was so curious, so obsessed that when shamura offhandedly let slip of that damned prophecy, of their siblings, of their brother, of the lambs—he didn't hesitate.

"i will handle it." he said. "i will devour every lamb to ever walk this earth if that is what you wish of me."

they paused, calculating. always so careful.

"leave one for me." they said, their smile filled to the grim with too many teeth and murderous intentions, and the fox thought he felt something stir in his long dead chest.

(there was a sadness there too, he realizes. maybe they knew of the consequences all along. even back then.

maybe especially then.)

it's hard to think that the shamura from before and the one he'd grown so used to watching from the shadows were the same creature. they still smell of blood, still ramble nonsense that only makes sense to them.

the fox wants to kill them, this mockery of the great bishop he once knew. this thing does not demand respect, does not stir that feeling in the fox's chest; it cannot be them.

they never seem to sleep, always roaming the cult's grounds while the rest of the herd scatter off for their bedtimes. they drift near the cemeteries, reading aloud names of followers they've never known. they do this every night—pay their respects.

"i know you are out there, little shadow." they say one night, "may i help you?"

"no." the fox is quick to answer, his maw is open and dripping with his resolutions. this thing will die tonight.

the false one turns towards the shadows, though the fox knows they will never find him if he doesn't wish it.

"do i know you?" they ask. "you feel familiar to me, though i'm afraid i cannot place it."

"...no." the fox lies — it is the truth — his teeth lay ready, though he does not bite.

"ah. my apologies then." the false one turns back to the graves, turns away from the fox. "your voice soothes me in a way i cannot describe. though i am unsure as to why, as to me you sound like blood, like cattle willingly led to slaughter, like betrayal."

the fox is ready to strike, he drools.

"you remind me of someone who i think i once felt safe with." he stops. "i apologize. i know we've never met before, but i cannot shake the feeling that i know your teeth."

the fox hesitates, closes his maw, backs away.

"your teeth are beautiful, by the way." the thing turns around, and the fox feels as though they see him—they see him. "i feel as though i've known your ivory all my life."

he leaves.

it doesn't matter, the night will always come—there will always be tomorrow.

it doesn't matter that this false one replicates shamura's desire to babble about nothing.

it doesn't matter that there is a beating in his chest that will not go away.

(he misses the chatter.)

there is always tomorrow night.

[mojavejourneys]

For the skykid asks:

Where does the name Sparkie come from in-universe? Who gave them the name?

So... Sparkie's name actually came from the fact that when he was found by his adoptive siblings (my friends' skykid OCs), he was pinned down under a rock formation in the Hidden Forest, the rain having washed away his light to the point where it was flickering and sparking and struggling to stay alight.

They started calling him Sparkie as a silly little nickname but he actually liked the name and it eventually stuck as a permanent name.

~

The ragged cape that hung heavily over his small form was as bitter and as cold as the rain that beat down upon the earth, the inner light he carried unable to stay lit for much longer.

A crack of thunder boomed overhead, startling the frightened child more and causing him to whimper, his cries barely audible over the battering of rain. Huddling further beneath the rock, the child knew he didn't have much time left. The flicker of flame was dimming, growing colder by the second.

A sound from nearby caught his attention, but by this point he was too afraid to go out to see what it was. With his light already dangerously close to being extinguished, he couldn't afford to take any chances. The best he could do was try to call out, but he doubted that anyone had heard it.

Surely, the child was doomed to become a formless face with cold stalagmites tearing through his body.

Then... warmth.

Looking up, the child saw another similar to him, their light helping to replenish his own. Taking that offered hand, he shakily stood up, feeling that his cape was now drying out.

And without any words spoken between them, he was happily taken away to safety.

[wolsalwastaken]

O tragedy, watch the seeds of Chaos bloom. O tragedy, you shall reap the havoc you sow.

[ROTWOOD- 75 YEARS OF ASCENSION]

It was peaceful- peaceful in a way. The type of peace you took with bated breath, as if waiting for the first signs of danger. Careful not to let down barriers for false calm.

The goat sat on the ground, large glowering trees stood proudly over him. It almost felt as if the forest itself mocked him, staring down at the goat at the front of the stage, waiting with giddy gleeful grins for the real show to begin.

Flecks of sunlight dappled his form, creating small patches of warmth from the gaslight in the sky. He took in a deep breath, feeling his chest swell with the air- the heavy scent of organic material making its way through his nostrils, only sullied by the familiar metallic tang.

He looked down at the grass, still wet with morning dew. Beautiful deep pink flowers crept across the ground as if reaching for something beyond their reach on the other side of the forest. Vines burst from the soil, making their way up the trees and towards the sun. Sol.

He reached a cloven hand down, his claws touching one of the flowers below him. He closed his eyes, furrowing his brows in concentration. He felt a beetle crawl across his face. Focus. He focused hard on the feeling of the flower in his touch, the feeling of the crown rested upon his head between his horns. Focus. He felt a soft trickle of energy course through him- more. The trickle turned into a steady flow of power. He felt the petals shift in his hand- don’t stop, keep going.

He felt a sickening squirming behind his eyes- malicious. Acidic. As if not by his own will, his eyes shot open, looking down. The once small flower had elongated, not in height- no. The flower head seemed to grow sideways, curving in an almost ‘C’ shape, petals growing in places they didn’t belong. Leaves split off, almost resembling a forked tail of a lizard that regrew its tail wrong.

A smile encroached into his face- yes… yes. He’d done it- he’d found one. One of his gifts. He twisted the bottom of the stem, detaching the mutated part of the flower from the rest, holding it in his hand and turning it over.

Was it a useful power? Well, seemingly not. Not yet at least. But it was a power. And if his siblings had proved as any example, there were bound to be more. He stood up, dusting himself off with his free hand.

As he walked towards his temple and away from where he sat, the heads of the flower almost, ever so slightly, seemed to turn to watch him leave.

[lycankeyy]

It's times like recently that remind me that while I'm not Sure I have dependant personality disorder I sure as hell have SymptomsHDNQJSKQJSK

[neonpaperlanterns]

So, small story sorta idea thing. That includes a spoiler on the... Final boss. Which may not be that much of a spoiler. I wanted to ask for this, have a good time.

Lambert treats the red crown kindly, borderlining it as a family member. So the crown slowly shifts from its' role as a tool to a odd equal. Sometimes forcing Lambs' sword/axe/dagger arm to move to cut down a foe Lamb didn't notice in time.

When the time comes for Lamb to go and sacrifice themself for Narrinder. The red crown notices their fear, their sorrow. And "hypes" Lamb up to betray its' proper owner.

Pointing out all Lamb did on their own, stating the difference in fighting between early Lamb and late lamb, where Lamb may have struggled to properly use the sword, and may even burn themselves when they cast curses. Compared to swinging and slinging spells like a pro when going up against the last two bishops' domains.

So, although Lambert feels dread and worry about going up against death itself. The crown points out they have the chance in fighting back. And that they'd help (how I interpret Lamb still coming back to life after dying in battle is the crown just being loyal to the adorable cult leader.)

-Sunny Anon

Surpass God

"You don't have to do this." The Crown whispered in its masters ear. It could feel every shake, every hitched breath, every hard swallow its bearer made.

"You've come so far. Done so much. You are better than this." It reassured.

"Do not submit to him." The Crown could feel as the Lamb stalled. Listening, contemplating.

"But I..." The Lamb trailed off. Uncertainty clouding their mind. They thought their purpose was fulfilled. Shamura's blood still fresh on their fleece as they stood before that final door. The Crown's master while afraid was ready to accept their fate.

But the Crown was not.

"Listen to me my Lamb," The Crown stretched and morphed as it slithered along the Lamb's neck. Lovingly it squeezed, feeling the erratic heartbeat underneath its scales.

"It was you that felled the Bishops. You that succeeded where he has failed. You've accomplished all of this. Do not throw it all away." Eye imploring as stared down its wearer.

"You are not meant for the slaughter." The Red Crowns voice was hushed as slunk down its masters arm.

"You will be more." The Crown shifted, its form taking on that of a sword. The hilt held loosely in their hand.

Slowly the Lamb raised the weapon. Their face reflected in the crowns eye. Fear still oozed from them, their arms still shook, their breath still uneven but their grip tightened.

"I will be more."

[l0stw00d]

I'm currently balancing my cotl hyperfixation with a burgeoning satisfactory hyperfixation and a rapidly approaching minecraft hyperfixation and an unrelated omegaverse hyperfixation also. I'm also ignoring the project I was hyperfixated on a couple weeks ago but I'm my defence that's because I'm flared up and working on it rn is a Bad Idea.

All that is to say I have many many many thoughts and none of them are coherent enough to Do anything with and my body is continuing to betray me. So maybe I'll just play more satisfactory.

[fanaroff]

Cotl: Choiceless

Now with a Comic!

The Lamb could feel their heart beating wildly in their chest. In the silence of the Inbetween, it was loud and almost thundering in their ears. They had a choice. A very important, possibly last choice.

The Red Crown sat cradled in their hands, held close to their chest. It was almost vibrating. With excitement, anxiety, an itch to fight? Lamb didn’t know what, but it was active and waiting.

They felt a heavy frown pull at their face. Arriving in the Inbetween, they’d felt a sense of a happy anticipation. Rejoice for The One Who Waits is to be released from his chains! But now… there was a catch.

They must sacrifice themself for the breaking of their God’s chains. They must return the Red Crown to its original owner.

“Well?” The One Who Waits, Narinder’s, deep voice rumbled talk above the Lamb, sounding almost… impatient. Lamb would be too if they knew their release was moments away.

In the end, Lamb knew what they would choose. It was a choice they would make many times over for their God.

Willing their fearful trembling away (they would be in a better place soon, they must keep faith), Lamb took a deep breath and raised their head to meet the eyes of The One Who Waits. They opened their mouth—

“I su-“

—Their mouth was suddenly, brutally shut with a click as the Red Crown whisked from their hands and slammed atop their own head, nestled between their horns.

No. No, no, nonono that want right! What was it doing!?

That wasn’t their choice!

Terrified, the Lamb looked up at their God only to watch as his mouth turned down into a deep frown then raised in a snarl as his pupils shrunk and absolute anger settled on his face. And hatred.

“Betrayal.”

No.

The Red Crown made the choice and it wasn’t The One Who Waits.

~~~

Small Oneshot for the ficlet I’m planning for my little blorbos.

[rurilamb]

Aw, this is so good.

Do you think Lamb was initially interested in Ruri because she subconsciously reminded them of Narinder? They of course unquestionably grow to love her, but perhaps that was what ignited the spark at first for them?

[starsonablackboard]

by the way, i have an ao3 account!! under the same handle, starsonablackboard. here's a lil piece for my cotl ficlet i wrote a couple of month ago before even finishing the game

i would love to write a whole fanfic for "with death comes peace" at some point, but for now that's all i have to offer. characterisations will probably change, but not much, since this oneshot was the starting point for the whole au

so, if you want to have a taste of my writing or just in the mood for a bite sized narilamb angst, feel free to check it out!!

[cultofdarkwood]

alright its that time again i want to write silly ficlets for cotl

send me a prompt and some characters in my inbox and ill write like 1000ish words for it. ill do any ship if i like it enough/think it's interesting :3 this includes rarepairs!! ill also do non-ships! for all of them, i need prompts to be included <3

prompt masterlists i like to use if u can't think of one: (fluff + romo), (misc + angst)

check out #fic reqs to see the ficlets ive done already. i like to keep the asks i get for a while until im ready to write them, but i also don't write every prompt i get! keep that in mind <3

because they have no defined characterization, if you send me a lambship (or a ship with a miniboss) and you want to see a specific dynamic, include that too and ill do my best :3 otherwise, ill use my own characterization

[sublime-roadkill-eating-bastard]

I made a small cotl Narinder ficlet. It's my first one, so let me know if I make any slip ups or mistakes. Please enjoy :)

Summary:Narinder receives a gift. Self doubt is annoying and there's a crap ton of fluff. Idk what else to put here.

(Ficlet under the cut)

Children.

A lot of things were children at some point. Narinder himself was a child. And just like any child, so full of curiosity and wonder about this strange world he was brought into. Questions as well. Children ask an awful lot of questions. Maybe too many.

Why do did that bird fly away from me? Why is the sky blue? Where does the moon go in the daytime? Why are plants green? Why did hurt when I fell? What do clouds look like? Why does my tummy hurt? Why won't you play with me? Why are there black things under your eyes? Why this? Why that? Why? Why?

Why.

Many children ask why. Many adults ask why. Everyone asks questions. It's how we come to know about things, after all. 

Today was a day Narinder asked "Why?" A lot.

It all started midday. Narinder was busy farming, pulling roots from the earth, picking berries off bushes, digging mushrooms out of the ground, only to replant them for the next time. Monotonous cycle, wasn't it? Monotony was very common in mortal day-to-day life. Washing dishes for breakfast tomorrow, washing clothes for next week, washing bones for this month's ritual. (He somehow always ended up with the washing jobs.) Maybe routine would be a better word. Monotonous seems to have too harsh a connotation. He doesn't hate every part of his day, not all of it, no-

"Excuse me, mister?"

Narinder looks up. It's a small child. 7 or 8, maybe? Most likely the child of that deer follower. They do look quite similar, maybe a little too similar.

His face softens. This is a child, a sweet innocent soul.

He cannot be irritatable or standoffish, lest he try to explain why he made a kid cry.

"Yes?" He responds. He hopes he doesn't look too annoyed, his face has a habit of doing that. Not ideal for socializing with children.

The kid fidgets with something behind their back.

"Uhm...I uh...made this. For you."

They bring their arms forward, revealing a crudely made flower crown. It's made of many wildflowers they must've picked from the meadows not too far from this here farm. He can identify a few. Daffodils, orange pansies, bluebells, purple crocuses, and some camellias (That were probably stolen from the farm, he thinks. Camellias don't really grow wild here. And some of these flowers probably aren't in season, either.) All in a repeating pattern of lightest to darkest. Simple, but very pretty.

He tilts his head. The child keeps on nervously rambling while their fingers curl around the crown slightly.

"It's for you, uhm...mommy said yellow and orange make red stand out and your eyes are red and uh-" they stammer, looking away frequently.

He places a hand on the flower crown. They let go of it, staring at him with wide eyes. He holds it in his hand gently, careful not to crush it.

"It's beautiful, thank you." He says, a soft smile on his face.

The kid's eyes light up brighter than the night sky, their smile stretching wider than any road ever built. Pure joy is on their face. Pure joy on anyone's face is a wonderful sight, especially if you are the reason it is there.

"Really!?! I kinda smashed a few, so I dunno-" they exclaim, rambling again

Narinder chuckles "Yes, it is. Even the smashed bits. Tell your mother that she was right about the colors for me, okay?"

The child closes nods and scampers off, shouting for their mother. Narinder sighs and shakes his head, a dumb grin plastered in his face.

"Heh, kids."

He stares at the crown, before putting down his trowel and placing it upon his head. It's a little too large, so it slides down a little too close to his eyes, partially obscuring his vision, not to mention the stems and leaves that stick out and make his face itch. But he can't care less. Somebody, a child, had made this for him for no other reason than to be nice. And he would wear this fantastic gift with honor, no matter how silly he may look. (He in fact, looked very silly.) It is a god's...er...ex-god's duty to accept each offering with grace and respect, especially the homemade ones. It would be cruel and stupid not to do so, wouldn't it?

He goes back to harvesting crops, the grin threatening to stay on his face long overdue. Hell, he might actually cry. Because dammit, wasn't this the sweetest thing he's ever been a part of? A child, a sweet innocent soul decided to give him a homemade gift out of the kindness of their heart. No manipulation, no strings attached, no mockery. Just a simple kind gesture to make his day better. They even felt the need to specify how they didn't mean to smush a few flowers, as if the quality of this fine gift mattered to him. He's seen much worse than a flattened dandelion, but he'll humor this child. He needed that today, this kindness.

But why him? Self doubt and hatred are brutal, more brutal than any type of disease (For him in this moment, at least. Whether or not internal conflict is worse than vomitting or stuffed noses is for the philosophers of the future to discuss.)

Did he even deserve this gift? Even after everything he's done? Thousands of sins committed, Millions slaughtered in his name or because of him, a mother separated from her children to curb his own self-infliceted loneliness. He's done terrible, unforgivable things. He's deplorable. His words have often been pejorative and vile. He attempted to use his vessel for his own gain. This mortal body is a prison, right? Why did he get this gift, then? Why did that child deem him worthy of such an exquisite gift, such a meaningful act of kindness?

Why can't his mind just be silent for once?

He huffs, wipes a small bit of moisture from his eyes, and goes back to his duties. Their mother was right, the yellow and orange make the red in his robes pop, and the blue and purple provides nice contrast.

He claws at the earth for crops once more. 

At least somebody's thought of him.