Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Feelings flow as though a River. Rushing through one being out through the next, a silent, shared discussion that graces no mind but one’s own. The desire for something new rushes and roars, overwhelming as grief for a face left unknown. The ambition for what was previously unachievable left a scar on a bent body. Sat before bed covers of soft faux velvet and plush feather-filled pillows. hands tied together by unseen rosaries, pleading to a being unknown.

The wish for Escape, for something better, a life unlike one’s own whimpers to a being unknown.

The silence listens to a plea for a new start, with draped Hyacinths and dripping Ichor draped over a broken rosary.

—

With each death, the lamb could feel the weight of their choices weighs heavy on the head that wears the Red Crown. It wasn’t the first time they’d slipped up, and it was far from the last. But with each death, they learned something new. how to avoid something that caused a dull, searing pain the last go-around.

and with each death comes a minute conversation with Death himself. He who Waits below. The one to whom Lambert owed their utmost devotion.

“Why is it that they are so.. helpless? ” The lamb speaks freely, unbothered by the large cat who looks down on them. “They look to me for Everything and are completely incapable of taking care of themselves! How am I supposed to get anything done for you if they’re constantly making themselves sick?!”

“They look to you as a leader.” The cat states with a languid gaze “Revel in that. They are dependent , so use them .” Is the advice Death hands the lamb, who merely frowns.

“There’s hardly anything I can use them for.” The lamb argues.

“Sacrifice them for power. It matters not to me what you do with them. If you are incapable of taking two tasks to hand, then the fault lies not in the needy.”

The lamb turns their head around with a sunken frown. “Yeah, well– Killing them for being helpless wouldn’t make me any better than–”

The lamb is not granted the peace to finish their thought before they were brought back to the land of the living, leaning against the bark of a hefty tree while they regain their balance.

There was no rest for the weary and wicked, the lamb supposed .

–

A dog awoke to a place unknown. Lush grass clenched under unsteady paws as they raised their head and looked around themself. Trees stretched high above their head, casting wide, dark shadows across the woods. Pulled along by a string, The dog rose to their feet, turning around this way and that. There was no familiarity to be found in the outstretched tree bark and bugs on the forest ground. Nor to be found in hanging stars and symbols above their head. The dog found interest in the symbols and followed after the stars amongst the trees.

To be found with a little shop, and a duck sitting highly, hands held together peacefully, with a stack of cards in front of him. As the dog neared, the duck’s eyes opened, staring down at the animal. “Fate has brought you my way.”

The canine stares up warily before their gaze drops to the cards. “..What are these for?”

“A deciding factor. Fate plays its hand, and I am the listening ear.” The duck answers, spreading the cards out in front of himself “Would you care to test fate’s hand, lost one?”

A card is picked and turned over by the canine who teeters back and forth, waiting while the duck looks over the simple card.

“Judgment. ” He states. “A reminder to be mindful of the consequences of your actions, to know the mark you leave. Fate grants and warns of taking away.” The card is folded back into the deck and shuffled away.

The canine takes the words in without much thought of their meaning. Without a place to go, the Canine sits beside the tarot shop owner without so much as a word shared between Dog and Duck.

Clouds of white cross the canine’s gaze as they’re met with the calm expression of a little lamb looking down at them. The lamb stares for a moment, before his head cranes up, looking at the duck.

“Clauneck? Who is this?”

“A creature lost to fate, Lamb.” Clauneck answers, shuffling through the deck of cards before he sets two down for the lamb “Will you let fate guide your hands today?”

“I will.” The lamb answers with a nod, plucking a card from the two in front of them.

“Justice. May the fates find you well, Lamb.”

With a short nod and a card returned to a deck, the lamb answers “May the fates find you well, clauneck.” They offer their hand out in front of the Canine as they speak “Lost to fate? Do you have nowhere to go?”

“None.”

“I can offer you shelter and a place to Be .”

A hand is given and pulled into a temporary escape of inky black. The Dog was not sure how long they were stuck to the sight of shadows, but before they knew it, they were sitting atop a stone circle with engraved symbols, watching the lamb walk towards them with a calm smile and wiping sweat from their brow.

“That’s right–” The lamb mutters upon approach, wiping the dust from a reddened cloak before they offer their hand once more, assisting the canine to stand as they ask. “Now then. What’s your name?”

“I don’t know.” The dog blinks. A question the canine hadn’t considered. Names. One of the many things they had lost by now, less a faint remembrance of tones of voices they’d grown a bared-teeth dislike for.

“..You don’t know.” The lamb repeats with a tilt of their head. “That’s fine. We’ll call you...Altre.” They declare, hands raised delicately in front of them. A friendly expression crosses their face “That works, I’d think.”

“Altre.” The canine repeats the lamb, glancing down at the robes they’d known they hadn’t previously been adorned in. Robes of red with a simplistic symbol across the front of it. “I like it.” Altre decides, uncertain. The lamb takes their uncertainty in stride as they trot away from the stone circle, leaving Altre to catch up and fall into a steady pace.

The lamb brushes their hands across their shawl once more as they make their way to the midst of the clearing of their cult. It takes little time before their return is noticed amongst their followers, with a select few pausing their work to approach the Leader and newest follower.

Wary faces meet a canine’s gaze as Altre watches over the Lamb’s shoulder. A doe stares up at them with wide eyes before her head tilts closer to a rabbit beside her, speaking in hushed tones. Altre finds no offense in hushed murmurs they don’t understand.

“Gracious Leader,” An Elderly rabbit greets, holding her hands out for the Lamb, who takes them kindly “You’ve brought Anew.”

“Merar,” The lamb greets with a tilt of their head “You are well, I trust?”

“My bones grow weary still, but Punor has been an excellent help in your stead.” The rabbit releases the Lamb’s hands with a creased smile, stepping forward with weight leaned against a rickety old cane as she stands before Altre. In the moment, being a head taller than the elderly woman, they understand the Wariness. “Dear leader, who might this be?”

“Altre.” The canine finds that they favor the name. The first thing of Theirs and only theirs.

“Altre.” Merar smiles kindly “You will fit in well here. I’ve seen many come and go, and come again still. You’re a welcome fit.”

Altre smiles warmly, deciding at the moment that lambs and rabbits are amongst beings they like, shifting from foot to foot.

The Lamb takes no time to lead Altre down a pathway towards a collection of homely spaces. Warm and Cozy was the setup, neatly together and neatly contained to a space of the land.

“You’ll be staying here.” The Lamb guides with a hand directed towards an empty shelter. “For now, however, it may suit you best to become comfortable with your neighbors.” The lamb speaks, and watches as the dog trots off to make new friends out of wary followers.

Lambert was far from a being in need of protection. The red crown atop their fleece kept them safe all the same, preventing death from being an end to their legacy, a legacy they had yet set in stone.

They plan to engrave the words in the forests to be found by the lost and weary.

They watch the large canine trot along after a Doe, the dog quickly learning to make themself out to be smaller than they were. Less threatening. Lambert considers the size of the dog, and though they don’t require protection, it would make an easy feat out of tiresome crusades.

Altre wastes no time introducing themself to the other followers. The Doe was named Mai and quickly excused herself to return to what seemed like lumber work. Altre watches her trot away with a brief frown, before they trot along, introducing themself with their hands folded in front of them and hunched slightly.

A Cow named Huryn was straight-faced and kept an eye on Altre as they bade her goodbye. She seemed perfectly friendly in their opinion! A fluffy-faced Cat named Rue who stared up at Altre with eyes wide and tail tucked between her legs scampered off as soon as an introduction had been made. Altre was sure she was merely a nervous type! They wonder if they’d been that way before? They met a young little Fox named Merkaan who stared up at them as though they were a giant.

“Are you a giant?” The child asks innocently, and Altre blinks at the question. Not a moment too soon the fox’s parents come to grab the child by the hand and quietly reprimand them for being rude. Altre glances down at themself with furrowed brows. They’re not nearly that tall..but perhaps to a child, they may have seemed larger than life.

—

The months pass as Altre adjusts to their newfound routine within the Cult. They wake up and assist in whatever they can find first. Helping the Lamb clean messes, helping cook food after having been taught by a touchy fox named Arjul, and assisting with farming...

The dog was surprised to have been told that dumping the watering can all into one plot of land with a growing seed was not farming, but rather drowning the plant.

Lambert finds himself assured of the decision of the canine being a better-fit protector rather than the cult’s Jack-of-Trades. It better suited a beast of size to help in which made sense for them. That of which, The Lamb could decide for them, and guide the Dog down the path the Lamb required them to go.

All it took was a simple discussion after a Morning’s Sermon. “Altre,” The lamb trots alongside the dog who watches down at them out of the corner of their eyes. “You’ve spent days here. what do you think?”

“It’s the best place I’ve been.” Altre answers, uncertainly “Though, I..don’t have prior experience anywhere else. But this is wonderful.”

“And the jobs?”

‘...This is about Drowning the berries, is it? I told Huryn that I was very sorry and–“ The lamb raises a hand in a gesture, and Altre’s mouth shuts as they grit their teeth.

“This is not about the Berries. I would like you to Accompany me on my crusades.”

“...Why?” If there was one question Lambert had heard most often from the dog, it was why . Questions of how things worked, why they worked. Curiosities never sated with a single simple answer. Obnoxious, but the more Lambert watched the dog, the more they understood. Lost to the fates was nothing more than an understatement. The dog knew nothing of themself, no resonance with any skills on hand, and reading their mind led to foggy, disconnected thoughts that seemed nothing to do with what Altre was speaking about or doing.

The lamb had seen many and met many an odd fellow but the canine piqued their curiosity.

“You would be quite the welcome helping hand.” The Lamb doesn’t Elaborate further as they wait for an answer. The free will of decision is freely given to the canine, who visibly weighs their options. “I’ll give you time to decide.”

Altre is given their time of choice in heaps. The lamb leaves the clearing, out on a crusade, an action that the other followers of the lamb regard as normal. Altre can’t fathom the use for crusades, if not only for supplies.

“You question the Lamb?” The Chef, Arjul asks with one paw tucked under his chin while he regards the dog with a wary gaze “Newly brought in and you already border on Blasphemy?”

“Is it Blasphemous to ask?”

The fox doesn’t answer their question, merely chuffing a breath as he curls in on himself and grumbles “You still want shelter, don’t you? A warm roof and to be kept fed? Don’t question that which you don’t understand. It’s simple .”

Altre doesn’t regard it as nearly so easy to understand.

A canine, curious as a cat goes looking in places they shouldn’t go, poking around the Lamb’s temple, peeking behind a pew or standing near a pedestal, looking around for anything they could see of interest.

What they find, they find in the upstairs of the temple, a plush, unused bedroom. Neat and tidy and hardly lived in, if at all. Shawls of different colors neatly hung away on a clothesline, ready for picking. Altre doesn’t test their luck by messing with their savior’s things.

Except for a book of rotted old pages, held together by frayed twine. Burnt at the edges without a cover or spine, as though someone had tried their best to destroy the rotted thing, before discarding it.

A book of names, and a book of stories. Stories Altre didn’t know existed. Five Gods, written about by the last survivor of the genocide of the Lambs.

–

“Why would you need my help?” Altre asks, sitting in a confessional booth as had been guided by the lamb. They regarded it as the quickest way to privacy. Another follower wouldn’t dare eavesdrop on a private confessional.. but they would surely listen to gossip, or really just anything the leader had to say.

“It isn’t so much help as..” Lambert trails off carefully, considering his words. Calling it help made them think of such a thing as being considered a weakness. they didn’t need help, and they certainly didn’t want he who their own devotion was for to think as much. “As..companionship.”

“Why me?”

“Do you find yourself so undeserving, Altre?” Lambert questions, peering at the dog through the spaces of the booth.

“Anyone else could do it.” Altre reasons with furrowed brows. they consider what they have been told. Questioning the lamb was akin to Blasphemy. Was it, though? The lamb seemed to take no offense in their questioning..although Altre couldn't quite see them through the booth, but they didn’t sound upset.

“Anyone else could.” The lamb agrees, shifting in their seat “But I am asking you . Do you think yourself so undeserving?”

Altre doesn’t offer the lamb an answer before they trot out of the confessional.

–

The last lamb was marking their path through the mushroom-filled forest of Anura, striking a path through the labyrinth made of a God’s domain. Lambert had learned during their time serving as a vessel to The One Who Waits. With each death, Lambert was reminded of things to change. ways to adjust, ways they could improve.

Their mock-up training was based on releasing a barely contained rage upon the followers and heretics that made up the inhabitants of Anura. While Morality had been a concern of theirs, at the start of a decades-long journey, they hardly regarded the heretics they drove a twisted blade into as other beings. Merely a means to an end. An Obstacle in their way was that they were Just in cutting down.

Breaths came out in pants as the lamb swung their blade over their head, slicing clean through the rotted stain of Anura. And with momentary silence in the forest, the lamb pauses, their blade melting out of their hands and reshaping into the Red crown.

Morality had been an issue. Prior to being felled too many times. Not being able to perish was a feeling to relish in, until one realizes that they could feel and remember each death they suffered in before waking up in Death’s domain. Blunt force trauma. broken bones. Decapitation, far too many times . An Arm serrated excruciatingly off from a feeble broken body. All the varied causes of being foolish enough to drop their guard for a moment’s notice.

They don’t wait to be Just, after so much time. There was far too little purpose in being felled again and returning empty-handed to dutiful followers, no matter how many times Death reminded them that their followers were for them to use, and not the other way around.

Morality matters not. Earthly Attachments , however, were dug in like a leech. They had seen their followers through the ages and had a hand in overseeing the birth and adolescence of many.

Lambert wiped the sweat from their brow and shook their head this way and that, perseverance forcing the stiffness in their joints to fade as they trekked onwards, deeper into Anura.

–

A book of Gods and legends penned and dated like a diary of the Lamb they followed. Altre’s curiosity drove them to return to the Domain they were found by the Lamb in; The darkwoods. Home to Bishop Leshy, whom the lamb regarded as ‘ Immature and unprepared to right Injustices.’

The texts– diary of the Lamb fed a dangerous curiosity the Canine held. A desire to know who they were before they were found by the lamb. Where better to start than with the controller of the lands they were found within?

Altre leaves in the Midst of the night, while their fellow Followers are resting away, and their leader away on crusade. No one would be any the wiser if they were missing for a morning sermon, at the latest.

The first path they crossed out of the cult grounds was home to Five doors, four of which opened with vastly different terrains spilled out past the doors to cover cement stone pathways. The fifth door in the middle was connected to Four chains that connected somewhere far above Altre’s head, out of sight past the treeline. In front of the fifth door, in the midst of cracking stone lay a statue of a crown, inky black dripping from the eye of the crown that was reminiscent of the crown atop the lamb’s fleece.

Mossy green was the only area they recognized.. hardly , and without much mind, they stepped through the door, plunged into an inky black, and spit out on the other end, standing in a small clearing in a forest. Trees stretched far over their head, blacking out the sky. A few paces in front of them lay an inscribed headstone with text and a little crown, reading “ Now entering the lands of the bishop Leshy. Those who do not follow the ways of The Old Faith will be destroyed.”

Ominous , Altre considers, but they were certain it was nothing more than a warning for the wary to not proceed. As fate had it, Altre did not consider themself as wary , though they wondered if they used to be such. Maybe with a different mind, they wouldn’t have bothered with walking any further. With a spare glance over their shoulder at the thick trunk of the trees blocking their way backward...Altre comes to the conclusion that for the weary and weak-willed, the headstone would be redundant. There was no way back unless they wanted to test their luck in squeezing between the bark of two trees.

The dog continues ahead down a laid-out pathway of cleared bushes and pushed away grass, finding themself ignoring dried blood forever strained into patches of dying grass, instead marveling at the unseen skyline above their head. Large as the canine might’ve been, old oak made them seem nothing more than an ant in comparison. Altre walks through the laid-out path ahead of their head with their hands folded in front of them, occasionally looking all around themself, turning in a curious circle as they walk.

The forests were quiet, silent as they had been when Altre first woke up months ago. They had to wonder whether the Trees were investigating them as much as they were investigating the forest.

With each room, there were more and more figures walking around, on edge. Altre wonders briefly who they were so worried about seeing, before coming to the conclusion that this Leshy Fellow has paranoid followers. The hooded figures pay them little mind, beyond a cautious glance and squinted eyes seen from afar.

there was no reciprocation when Altre would wave and smile. As they pass through a collection of bushes they wonder if their teeth were a little too sharp to be regarded as friendly. Perhaps they looked mean?

They wondered if they were mean before they lost sense of themself.

In the midst of walking, the air turned cold, the wind kicking up and swirling around the middle of the clearing they were standing in. Empty, save for an inky back, spreading circle with a symbol in the midst of it. Out from the inky black raises something Altre had never seen before. The same color as the forest, Mossy green and bandaged around the face. A maw of teeth split open just under the bandages, opening as though the cloaked figure was going to speak.

Altre beat them to it without thinking.

“ Hello! Hi!” A viciously friendly wave and a closed-mouthed smile based on the assumption that their teeth were too mean-seeming.

The figure seems to have not understood the message of sharp teeth perhaps being unfriendly. Their maw opens, and they speak “ You’ve come far enough, Little dog.”

“Little–” Altre murmurs, glancing down at themselves, not sure what to make of the comment. Though, comparing themself with a tilt of their head this way and that, they supposed they were small. “Er– Are you Le...L eeeshy ?”

“ I can smell the little lamb on you. ” He states with a growing grin. “ Have you no shame to represent a heretic with such a nauseating scent ? ”

“ Wha–?” Altre mutters, befuddled “I represent no one, I’m just here to–”

“Your droning bores me already,” The Bishop’s complaints are followed with the heavy tilt of a head larger than the dog’s as the figure wanders the clearing, the hole of symbols closing up underneath him with the first movement.

“I had questions to ask of you–”

“Heretics with questions are worth so little time.” Altre watches in befuddlement as the worm finds his way around the clearing in a jagged pattern. A few paces forward and then a pause in movement. a tilt of the head, and a continuation of movement. Altre pays rudeness little mind.

“I was found in these forests. your forests. I just wanted to know if you knew–”

“ Bah! ” The worm grunts, turning in a sharp movement...but not facing Altre. “Like claws to stone, whine to your lamb! I care naught!”

“I just thought–” Altre pauses as the worm draws near, following the voice of the dog.

“ Let this be a warning to the little lamb. ” Altre hardly looks above their head before their world is plunged into Inky Black.

–

Altre finds themself in an otherworldly blanket of white. Stone beneath their feet, chains tied and hanging, as though holding the plane up on fingers rusted by time. The Canine finds themself walking, turning about themself as they frown, uneasy.

The first thing they discovered was that they were not alone in the blanket of white. Not far ahead of them were two felines, resting on the ground with their respective weapons, eying the dog warily on approach towards a much larger, three-eyed Feline, wrapped head to tail-tip in chains.

One of the smaller felines resting on the ground reaches for his weapon, symbolic of the moon, and rests his hands against the handle “Master, shall I dispose of them?”

“It is unneeded.” The three-eyed cat speaks. Altre takes a hesitant step backward as the cat continues “My vessel has become sentimental .”

“Vessel?” Altre mutters with furrowed brows, glancing behind their shoulder, on edge. Perhaps it was the feeling of not knowing what happened to cause their appearance in such a somber and bright place, but it turned the canine’s stomach upside down. They sit, passing their hands in and out of the faded white smoke of the area. “Where am I?”

“The gateway. This would be your last step to the afterlife.” The large cat states.

“A gateway,” Altre repeats in wonder. “That makes you..”

“The last faces one sees before the afterlife. Or prior to a return to the land of the living. I am The One Who Waits.” The shifting of chains and weaponry drags Altre’s attention back to the three cats, who, with nothing else to do, peer back at the recently deceased.

“Who’s your vessel?”

“I shan’t say. You will know.”

“Oh.” Altre passes their hands through the clouds of the floor once again, drawing their gaze away from The god of Death. “You seem...Blase.”

“Many come to pass. Your death was no more special than the last who walked through the gateway.”

“Why are you within chains?”

“You ask much.” The cat states with a scrunched-up expression beyond a blackened veil “And listen little. Await your return to Life in silence.”

“..Okay.” A moment only passes quietly before Altre has thought of another question for the God of Death.

Only to find themself collapsed in a heap of sore bones and flesh in the midst of the cult’s temple, surrounded by the hooded figures of fellow cult members and the lamb, wearing a kind expression.

Only once those unaware of the dog’s passing had left did the lamb approach, expression falling serious.

“My grievance is apparent.” The lamb states cooly, pressing a hand to the bridge of their snout “I had not made rules clear enough in the months since, And that is on–”

“I will join you.” Altre interrupts the Lamb with wide eyes, before reeling their words back carefully “I've..had plenty of time to think, and to make..a mistake.” The lamb’s expression reads that of one who does not deem death a singular mistake, but the mistake of many. “But I’ve thought about it, and I will accompany you.”

“It does not excuse your absence in my absence.” Lambert’s posture relaxes slightly as they trot around the temple’s podium, offering their hands to the dog and assisting the newly revived to their feet. “Was there a purpose?”

“..I was someone before the cult.” Altre began timidly

“Everyone has their story. I am aware.”

“I know nothing of my own. Down to a name before you had given me one.” Altre says “I don’t want to leave , I just..want to find who I used to be.” The canine rubs their paws together, decidedly nervous. For no cause, though the lamb looks on at them as though they don’t understand.

And when it clicks together in their savior’s head, the lamb smiles with the grace of a god. “Then we Shall find who you used to be together.”

“..Thank you, my lamb.”

Altre follows the lamb out of the temple, jogging to keep up with the leader’s quickened pace before the dog’s continued speech gives the leader pause.

“I met Death. or er...The One Who Waits? He had a message for you.”

“And?”

“He said to get a move on. That he didn’t..give you prowess to be wasted.”

“ I see .” The lamb’s smile thins slightly as they turn to look at the Dog with raised brows. “Thank you for telling me. You’ve had such a long day, I think it's best you rest.”

The lamb watches the dog trot off to the shelters, before retreating into the temple, shutting the doors behind themself as their expression sours in thought. Slacking , they had not been doing. They had been gathering people, keeping their followers spirits high, stomachs full, keeping the grounds clean, keeping roofs over heads. Slacking was one of the things the lamb certainly had not been doing.

Though, they had been biding their time, getting the doors to the bishops’ domains cracked open so they could freely walk between the domains without a barrier–without a thing to show for it.

With a sigh and a wrinkled nose, the lamb tips their head towards the sky and breathes. Get a move on. Prove themself. Cut down anything in their way as a simple act of devotion for He who raised them from the Dead.

It was the least they could do, in Thanks.

–

Mid-morning was the time of day when the Lamb had begun preparing to leave again. Their daily morning Sermon was conducted with a hand to their heart, stocking the food stores, setting up water canteens, remaking beds, and doing their rounds across the cult grounds to ensure it was safe and clean enough to leave the followers to their own devices without disaster. The early days of the cult had not been kind to the Lamb, and they’d personally vowed to never be gone long enough to let things get that bad again.

“Altre,” Lambert calls for the canine’s attention as they trot away with a bowl in their hands. The dog stops in their tracks, turning on their heel to jog after their Leader while eating. “You’ll be coming with me today, yes?”

“Mhm–” Alte wipes their mouth clean before speaking “If you want me to, I will. I don’t know if I’m any worth fighting with but–”

“You won’t be.” Lambert states, leading the dog into the temple as he continues “Fighting, I mean. I prefer to handle things myself. Foraging , however, you could assist with.”

“Okay.” Altre chews their words for a moment. “If..you prefer to handle things yourself–”

“One can only talk to oneself for so long before it is a staple of mania, no?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“ Ah. ” Lambert mutters with raised brows “Right, then.” Their ears flick, pacing around the temple for a moment before they clap their hands together “Right- there was something to give you– Merar had sewn this for you.” The canine was presented with a red and white shawl that fell down to their forearms once they’d clasped it together. “hm. A little short..” The lamb mutters, tilting their head as they look over the shawl.

“It’s fine.”

“It’s fit for a guardian, I suppose.” The lamb speculates with their hands beneath their chin, looking over the dog.

“Is that what I am?” Altre questions “Is that what I should be telling people?”

“I’ve yet to decide.” The lamb answers flippantly. “Perhaps you will just be a forager, perhaps you’ll be a guardian. All in flux.” They dismissed the question haphazardly before they led the canine along with them.

Not being alone on the crusade gave the lamb an additional reason to not die, and not have to travel back through the maze of the bishop’s domain, just because they couldn’t stay dead. Least of all to mention the presence of conversation.

“Now, while I am tending to other matters, all I need you to do is gather flowers.” The lamb explains rather languidly while they slung an axe, formed out of their crown, over their shoulder.

“That sounds simple enough.”

“It is. I would rather you avoid turning to look while I tend to said matters.” They’d seen the looks on faces before, when the lamb hadn't had the time nor the patience to go about the construction process of crypts and a functional morgue, and had to cut straight into..cutting into a deceased follower. Lambert figured it best to avoid any horror conducted by their actions on crusade.

However, the canine was not all that good at following a strict direction to look away .

Altre watched with widened eyes while the Lamb wasted no time indulging in the bloodshed. Hooded figures they’d seen before in the dark wood fell before the Lamb’s blade in a scattered spray of blood. They turn their head away slowly, tending to what they’d been told to do. Collect Camelia flowers to be used at home. To not pay mind unless they have to get away from someone heading their way.

Altre doesn’t listen quite as well as they should. Their gaze was drawn towards gargled screams choked by blood as the Lamb avoided or took nasty piercing blades without a grunt. Altre’s head turns back to the red flowers as the head of a heretic rolls towards their feet.

Gruesome, the dog thinks of the Lamb who’d saved them. A gruesome but quick killer. They understand why it would be a hindrance for them to assist the lamb in fighting. Said lamb didn’t stop moving or pay mind to their own wounds until the blood was drying in the grass, and Altre had a decently full basket of red petals.

“Good, we’ll make tea when we return.” The lamb remarks, out of breath and pressing one hand briefly to his shoulder as they stare down at Altre. “Arjul won’t be thrilled about the smell, but..One does as they will.” The lamb mutters, hand pressed to their face as they wipe caked blood from their cheek.

“..That doesn’t look good.” Altre frowns at the nasty gash in the Lamb’s shoulder. Though mostly concealed behind thick fleece, bright red blood and a hefty tear in the lamb’s shawl were harder to hide.

“It’ll heal.” Lambert remarks, turning around as they take a look around the clearing for a moment “Come along.” Lambert cleared the bushes with their blade before it had melted back into the little black crown sat atop their fleece, folding their hands in front of themself while they waited for the dog to catch up.

Altre watches from room to room as the Lamb slices through flesh and cuts through worms, spraying blood into the tree trunks as they pace themself. And when the room was clear, they would wait for the canine to trot after them.

The next clearing the lamb passed through led through to a quartz-pillared hall. The hall led to a room, beautifully constructed and soon to be decimated at the hands of a little lamb. A hooded figure stands in the midst of the room, and behind them stands the Bishop Leshy. Altre stood away, backing away into the hall while they watched the hooded figure stab themself clean in the chest, only to become something disfigured and misshapen, monstrous.

They watch while the lamb handles it cleanly. The monster would spit Acid, coating and bleeding through pieces of quartz. Altre watches the blue acid splash across the lamb’s hand, and dissolve through the skin. The lamb does not stop moving until all that was left of the monster was a cowering figure with their hands wrapped around their knees, wailing to the Lamb for Mercy.

And so Amdusias was welcomed into the cult with open arms, and the Lamb led him around happily.

—

Following Amdusias, Purged in the Darkwoods came along Valefar and Barbatos. Altre watched as they were brought into the cult, and they had to wonder where the Lamb found the space for Mercy between the slain in other spaces of the dark wood. Valefar adjusted to cult life the easiest of the three, happily taking on the work of tending to crops and keeping an eye on the food storages. They were far more friendly than Altre would’ve first suspected when they were brought in.

Barbatos was a standoffish fellow. Always watching, always walking, never a stop of the flow of movement. The lamb relayed their thoughts to their ‘Guardian’. “It’s reminiscent of the beast he was. Hardly stopped moving our whole battle.” They watched the pale figure wander away from the temple and the shrine, finding his way towards the shelter. “He’ll find his way here soon enough.”

”I’d like to go to the Darkwood” Altre starts, being met with a raised brow from their leader. “We’re running low on camellias.” They were not, though the Lamb had not seen that for themself yet. “I’d like to go alone to collect some.”

”Alone.” The lamb repeats. They watch the dog smile thinly, nervous with their tail between their legs. And after a moment’s consideration, The lamb returns the smile. “Gather Camelias, but do well to keep your wits about you.” And they watch their guardian as they trot off towards the five domains of the gods.

Lambert’s expression sours minutely. They could peer into the dog’s mind easily, this wasn’t an act of dissension, though they ought to think as much. Desperation, of a sort. That silly dog foolishly believed that the bishops might have some idea of where they could recollect their previous self.

The lamb turns away from the hall of trees leading to the five doors with a plastered smile. They, personally, do not see the point in finding a previous self. They never wanted to see their previous self, personally. The only time they found the image of a meek lamb prepared for sacrifice and extinction was laid only in the face of their four killers. Though they may not have laid the axe down to the lamb’s neck, they had it ordered.

Thus, the lamb had little issue with taking vengeance for The One Who Waits. For they had vengeance to find for themself.

Though it would respectfully wait until their ‘Guardian’ either returned or died amongst the trees once more. In the meantime, The lamb had their people to tend to. The job that truly never stopped was caring for their people.

—

Altre steps through the dark wood tentatively, occasionally stopping to clear a camelia flower of its petals, planning to make tea as an apology to the lamb. They turn themself around, staring at tree bark speculatively. “Maybe Tree sap..” they mutter in thought. Something to make a bitter tea sweeter. To quite literally sweeten an apology to one who was capable of slaughter.

“You come to represent the heretic.” The Bishop states. It was not a question, but a statement. The wrong statement, Altre ought to think. ”As though the life of their dog could pay for the lives of mine.”

”They’re coming for you, you know.” Altre remarks, plucking Camelias off from the stem. At the very least, as proof that they had not been lying to their leader. That they would not return empty-handed.

”What of it?” Altre watches the movement of the bishop in the corner of their eye. “My devotees were weak. I care not that the lamb stole them away. The weakness purged from my own is advantageous.”

”Should you not at least be worried?” Altre questions, tucking plucked petals away into their bag “Or is fear something not of the old faith?”

”One would offer a different answer.” The bishop cackles at the thought of something, a great maw of rows of teeth that Altre scrunches their nose at. A gnarly sight, they figure, keeping their distance from the bishop. Though, the shadow of the bishop looms over their head. “The weak find fear in the hooves of the lamb. I find a meal.”

”..You plan to eat them?” Altre mutters, not hiding the disgust in their tone.

“Purge, Consume. It’s all the same.” The worm laughs “In the end, it isn’t the prey who prosper. Perhaps you should consume them. It would serve you well, you who pluck petals rather than propose a fight worth a moment.”

”I rather like plucking petals. They make for a fine tea.” Altre mutters, much to the amusement of the bishop. The dog watches the movement of the Bishop carefully. A threat hadn’t been made nor a technical move of aggression, but they were expecting it. It was certainly more accurate to call them as ‘representing’ the lamb now, they supposed. A last offer of mercy that they’re fairly sure the lamb would not extend their hand to. “They’re going to strike you down,” Altre speaks slower, pulling the petals away from a camelia. “Or..smite you, I presume.”

A hefty pause follows the thought of being struck down. ”I ought to make an example of you.“ The worm guffaws.

”Again?” Altre murmurs, standing up and walking from the flowers as they patted down their robes “It didn’t stick the first time. I don’t think the lamb will allow it so.”

”The lamb doesn’t dictate what I—“

Altre doesn’t stick around any longer. With a full bag of camellias and a bare attempt to try to understand (and the failure of such).

To be met with the furrowed brow on a fuzzy face, the Lamb staring up at them with an unimpressed expression.

”…We’re running Low on camellias.”

”Ah.” Altre’s shoulders droop when caught red-handed.

“Must you continue your search for yourself on your lonesome?” The lamb questions, offering their hands out to take the bag. “You could ask Clauneck, instead of those I’m meant to slay.”

”Perhaps it is better to ask one who won’t live long enough to remember me.” Altre held their hands together as they followed after the lamb as they returned to the cult's grounds.

—

The dog is aware of what is to come while in sermon. At least they believe it so. The lamb blesses their flock with sweetened words and invites of a feast upon their return. That this crusade would be their longest yet, and they would return with the proper spoils given unto them by a war unknown to the flock. The dog understands it naught, beyond the promise of death behind the lamb’s words.

It’s a crusade that Altre plans to pack for before they were halted by the Lamb calling for them from a distance.

”you’ll be staying.” The lamb states simply, adjusting the crown atop their head. “I need someone capable of caring for the people.”

”..I think I am not—“

”I don’t have the bones needed to revive you again, should you die.” Lambert puts bluntly “It’s in your own best interest. Just keep an eye on things. Make sure crops are harvested, simple things.” It was a stretch of the truth, certainly. If it were all that simple, the lamb wouldn’t have been itching to leave for a while.

When they do leave, it’s with little argument. And with little disaster.

The tasks the dog had to handle in the lamb’s absence were menial. Cleaning around the grounds, planting flowers in the front of the temple because Merar had asked, as to avoid cramping her own hands.

With each camelia planted, they found a new question at the front of their mind. speculations and guesses that had nothing and everything to do with them. Why couldn’t they remember anything? Why were they trying so hard to find something they lost? why did the lamb take them in? why did Death let them sit around until the lamb brought them back? what more could they find out about the bishops? what exactly was the leader going to do about the bishops?

They get an answer to one question, at least. The lamb returns to the cult while Altre was in the midst of wiping dirt off of their paws from assisting Hunryn with planting berry seeds into the ground. The lamb returns to the cult doused in viscera and Ichor, holding a large heart with thorns between their two hands in triumph. Altre had their answer to one question, and their mind found an impasse. They would not stand in the way of their leader, not one who was kind enough to give them a home and rest and life , but they would find who they were.

For better or for worse.

–

“ Hapless Leshy, youngest of the five. T’was his eyes he lost.” The Owl, Haro’s words linger in the Lamb’s mind long after they set the Heretic’s heart aside, to be kept as a keepsake following a ritual in the morning. their brows furrowed as they glared down at the heart, thorny and spined as they expected the heart of someone vile to be. Thorned as the vines coating the upper branches of the trees of dark wood. Broken and damaged and gouged and gutted.

T’was his eyes he lost , and T’was his eyes The lamb aimed for with Adrenaline pulsing through their veins. Shame and sorrow for the death is lost on them, as it would be to their god.

Vengeance has a taste that sticks to the roof of the lamb’s mouth, honeyed and rightfully theirs to claim and keep. something they’ve no-doubt earned after earning an axe to the nape for mere existence.

The lamb sits in their temple, hands folded together in prayer. Held together gently by an unseen rosary. Peace crosses their face as they realize something. Repentance is what they could provide through death to the Heretics.

Chapter Text

A figure sits before a hearth in a slump, hands folded in front of themself as they stare down at the flames. Frayed edges of scarlet dance around their vision as they keen forward, weighed down. Tired eyes watched the fire before they breathed life into the flames.

After exhaling, a knot sits in their throat, and they watch the fire dwindle. The kindling does not save the flame without the air to bring it back to life.

Flames are stamped out to ashes before tired eyes.

–

Altre had been adjusting to life as their make-shift role appropriately. The Lamb had told them to be a guardian, and they would. When they weren’t spending time in their shelter, figuring out where they wanted their things to be, which side of the room they wanted the bed, or the little bedside table, or whether the tapestry of a door should be left rolled up during the day or not– they were spending their time following The Lamb.

The dog found ease in falling into a routine, watching on with a questioning expression as a young follower requested The Lamb to prank another follower with something decidedly foul . The gracious Leader accepted with a thin smile, but when the follower walked away, pleased, Altre cocked their head and gossiped.

“Do they always ask something so .. interesting of you?”

“The young find it amusing.” The Lamb comments though they made no step to head toward the shabby table The Lamb used for cooking themself. “ He was not being serious, not to worry. ” The Lamb adds, closing their eyes as they walk, “ He just wanted to have his Leader agree to such a thing.”

“How uncouth.”

“ Immature, I suppose.” The Lamb nods solemnly. “But one will do and say as they so choose. Free will is what makes us, does it not?”

“I can’t imagine using my free will to ask someone to be fed ills.”

“Well, the young feel different than you do.” Lambert chuckles, trailing their way slowly towards the Temple. “We’re headed for Anura today. Perhaps by the next full moon, I’ll have myself another Heart to display.”

“Is it not cruel to display their hearts as trophies?” Altre questions carefully, their hands folded in front of them.

“It is far better than they deserve.” The Lamb’s jaw snaps with a click before they smile up at Altre. “It is not in either of our control to dictate what a Heretic deserves.”

“I see.” Altre blinks, glancing down at their paws momentarily before they stare back down at their Leader. “Is there any chance I might be able to speak with the Bishop of Anura before you have to slay them?”

“Perhaps. Though, I will not slow my crusade for you to ask questions.”

Altre nods, following their Leader around the cult grounds as they prepared food for the other members, informed the elderly Merar that Punor would tend to her aching bones in their stead, refilled seed storage for crops, and lastly requested two people out on personal mission for supplies.

The Lamb returns to the clearing of five domains, and watches in bemusement, hand held out to keep Altre from walking as one set of chains holding the largest door, straight ahead, snapped off as though rusted and brittle. Altre bristles at the sight, stepping backward to keep behind The Lamb.

“What is that one for?” The dog questions hesitantly.

“I would assume it’s the gateway.” The Lamb answers, dropping their hand back to their sides as they walk, “Where The One Who Waits will be waiting for me.”

“Oh. The cat?”

The corner of The Lamb’s mouth quirks up in amusement “ Yes, The Cat. Although, I doubt a God would appreciate being called so..commonly.” After another momentary glance at the Gateway door, The Lamb continues to speak during their walk towards the door of Anura. “Though, perhaps he’s heard worse. He tells me he hears the pleas of any fallen soul.”

“So, everyone you slice through–”

“Has likely said worse. Or begged for rebirth.” The Lamb speculates with a squint, “Almost makes you wonder which is more common.”

“Not me.”

“Well. We’re different, then.” Lambert reasoned evenly as they stepped through the domain with the canine.

Anura was a domain of soft, tall grass and very loud creatures . Whether it were crickets and other insects chirping and buzzing, or bats bigger than their head screeching while setting after The Lamb, Anura was alarmingly loud in Altre’s opinion .

Their task for the outing was to collect mushrooms for The Lamb to barter with someone. While they hadn’t explained who they were trading with, The Lamb had just laughed awkwardly and muttered “He has an..enthusiastic adoration, I suppose. Well..it wouldn’t be too bad to add the spores to the crop rotation.” They’d hum in thought.

Altre would pick mushrooms and set them into a basket while The Lamb fought their way through each room, and then would round back around, splashed in bright red with a grin on their face, glancing down at the basket. Then, they would simply pat the canine on the head before they were able to stand up taller than The Lamb. “Come along then,”

Room to room, a routine was formed, with the dog staying back by the tree line made of mushrooms towering over their head, vines wrapped snug around stems, and.. faces made of mushrooms peering back at them, all while The Lamb handled anything in the way. Disturbing and morbid and horrid to witness, but it was a system that worked. Altre wasn’t going to argue with their Leader when it wasn’t their hands being doused in blood.

“Ah!” The Lamb hummed as they resummoned the crown, and looked between a fork in the path. two dirt roads, one to stone tiles and odd things held up from above by strings, and the other a simple dirt road. “Come,” The Lamb instructs, leading into the room with stone tiles. Where a blue-feathered duck sits over their heads, suspended by brittle chains. And she cackles upon seeing The Lamb.

“ Little God! You return here! ” She squawks. The Lamb’s mouth quirks up as they speak.

“Hello Chemach! I’m surprised to see you here. I thought you would be in the darkwood?”

“ The wee little God has a need for Chemach. We barter, you bring me things, do you not?”

“ I bring you stories. ” The Lamb chortles, picking up a pair of dice sitting upon a pedestal. They do not look it over nor pay it any mind, hiding it beneath their cloak as they beam up at the duck. “Such as; the Death of a Heretic.”

“ What Fun! Bring Chemach something, I’ll make you special relics, little God. The heretic falls and it all falls.”

“ That’s the plan.” The Lamb watches in amusement as Chemach hoists herself far above their heads, out of sight.

“She seems..” Altre trails off carefully, looking to The Lamb to find the better descriptor for them.

“Fun. She’s fun.” The Lamb finishes with a smile, leading the way ahead. “She creates relics. Don’t know much about her other than her being Clauneck’s brother.”

“ Really? ” Altre questions, glancing back over their shoulder with a squint, “They don’t look a thing alike..”

“Well, she did go a little..topsy-turvy, according to her brothers. I’d suppose Sanity, or the lack thereof, would change someone.”

“ Yeah, maybe. ”

–

The routine works from room to room, until Altre has a full basket of mushrooms, in which they just hang off to the side, watching The Lamb hard at work. Not to say that Altre didn’t receive their fair part of the danger of Anura. Red and yellow frogs seemed to enjoy hopping far away from The Lamb and instead chased after the dog with a basket held between fragile paws.

It was no fun when Altre was jogging away from one of the little frogs, looking over their shoulder with a deep frown–before being the stepping-stool to one larger frog that sent them with their muzzle in the mud, spitting up dirt as The Lamb handled the rest of the room.

As Altre worked their way back to sitting up, fixing their basket, and wiping their nose of Dirt, they spotted a little pond of water towards the back of the cleared-out room, secluded from the blood and gore that The Lamb was wiping their hands clean off. Something about a simple little pond in such a loud place put a grin on the dog’s face, and they trotted straight for the water, sitting before the pond. Not moments later does their Leader join them, hovering over them in vague interest, and not a moment later does Altre start talking.

“There used to be Frog ponds, where I lived. My cousins loved to go out there. wade in water up to your stomach, look at the little tadpoles swimming around you. knowing that in a little while they’ll grow up. My mother told me she loved to collect the tadpoles when she was young. Catch and release…I miss that one that used to be in my backyard. They had to cover it up after a few years. The water was stagnant, the PH balance was all sorts of off and it was killing off the frogs, so my mother didn’t want the frogs picking that place to procreate anymore.” Altre describes, fondly. “So they filled it in packed full of dirt. Took all day to fill it in and it really just ended up creating a big ol’ hole in the yard, but the frogs were safe.” They paused, reaching forward and dipping their hands into the pond's cold water, “I guess I miss it. The frog ponds.”

“Do you?” Their Leader’s voice snaps them out of their thoughts, and in a moment’s notice, the dog’s expression sours slightly as they stare down at the water, their own fluffy reflection staring back at them, and The Lamb staring down at the back of their head.

“ I guess. ” They nod. “ I don’t really know. ” Altre shakes off their hands as they get to their feet, staring down at the pond water before looking down at their hands. “ Blegh.. the water’s probably nasty..I shouldn’t have touched it, I bet.”

“I’m sure it’s fine.” The Lamb remarks, squinting. “I never had experience with special frog ponds. My family, er..” They trail off carefully, thinking. “They liked the forests. thicker and fuller than the dark wood, actually. It’s close enough to ‘Home’ without being home.” They frown. “My Father thought that the more space there was to hide out, the safer you were, the better off you were.” The Lamb now knows that this is wrong. The more cramped you were, the less time you had to escape . They learned that in the hardest of ways.

“He sounded smart.” Altre mumbles.

“I suppose he was.” The Lamb nods stiffly, leading the dog down the next dirt-riddled path. Where they struck with new vigor, more force, influenced by a bout of rage brought on by thinking about it . Their ‘Guardian’ watches them hesitantly before returning to plucking mushrooms and storing them away carefully.

They don’t ask, and The Lamb doesn’t provide any insight into their thoughts. They didn’t have to share those with a soul that they didn’t personally choose. From room to room, The Lamb seemed to be considerably more distracted by their thoughts, far more prone to getting hit and sent to the floor by a particularly bad strike or two. Though they continuously got back on their hooves with their weapon in hand. By the point where a final corridor was reached, The Lamb was covered head to toe in scrapes, cuts, and stab incisions.

“My Lamb,” Altre began hesitantly, “Are you sure we can’t just.. head for home? That doesn’t look good .”

“It’s fine,” The Lamb waved off recklessly, though they stared blankly at their limp non-dominant hand with the barest of a sour look. “Er..No, it’s fine. We keep going.”

“If you’re sure.” Altre mumbles, following directly behind The Lamb as they trek onwards through Anura. The Lamb steps ahead of them into the next room, to be met with one such monstrous being, not anything unlike what they’d seen of the dark wood. A devotee made into a monstrous first-round of defense, a large green frog that The Lamb immediately engaged in fighting.

It didn’t go well.

To say the least, The Lamb was busy scraping and chipping away at the keratin of their hooves as they hit the ground, sliding away from the frog as it bounced again. They’d run and spit out blood to the floor or wipe their mouth only to nearly be crushed again. They’d strike only to make a short dent in the flesh of the frog.

Altre watched from a distance, grimacing at the sight of their Leader decidedly losing . It only gets worse when Altre glances up when a shadow looms over their head and they can feel it this time, when their neck snaps, crushed under the weight of a smaller red frog.

They can still feel the weight on their neck when they’re sitting in the gateway between life and death with a particularly bemused Cat-God and his two guardians having a staring stand-off with The Lamb, who stands hunched and sour-faced.

And there's silence. Until The Cat speaks, chained hands held together as he loomed over The Lamb. “Anura seems to give you difficulty, Vessel.”

“It does not, it’s fine, send me back.” The Lamb insists with raised brows. When the God of Death does not immediately send The Lamb back to life–which is news to Altre in the first place– The Lamb’s stature deflates, and they sit on the ground of the gateway with a short, immature huff.

“Your recklessness with my crown is not appreciated, Lamb.”

“It’s not reckless– you told me to hurry it up.”

“You take my words at face value.”

The Lamb curled in on themself in frustration as they got back to their feet, and paced the gateway, walking back and forth in front of the God of Death. “You said ‘em surface level! Your cryptic language isn’t appreciated!” They argue with Death, though The Cat does not meet The Lamb with the same frustration. Instead, he relaxes, bowing his head to become eye-level with The Lamb as he stares at The Lamb.

“You’re acting in my will, Lamb. My patience is ever-lasting. While I desire justified freedom, your reckless death will affect your people.”

“I know that.” The Lamb quips as they paced, before stopping in front of the face of Death with a sour frown. “They’re fickle with their beliefs.”

“You’ve inspired that in them. For better or for worse is yours to decide.” Death answers, folding one chained hand under his chin while he watches The Lamb in amusement.

“The Old Faith’s made ‘em fickle– I had no hand in it.”

“Your devotees fear your death and their own.” The Cat sighs, “Inspire them to believe that you cannot die. If their God does not fear the end, what fear shall they have in it?”

“It’s easy to you, isn’t it?” The Lamb frowns.

“Use your witness to your power to do it, then.” The Cat reasons evenly as three eyes gaze at the dog, drawing a line in the clouds with curiosity.

“…They’re not the best example.” The Lamb mutters quietly, glancing at their guardian over their shoulder before staring up at death “You advise me under the guise that it’s simple .”

“It is not simple work. I do not make it out to be.” He Who Waits raises his head as he grins, “Your hysteria is merely a form of your impatience.” And to prevent further argument–The Lamb was simply gone, brought back to the world of the living by the God, who straightens his stature not a moment later, eyes closed in wait.

Altre finds their interest in the floor of the gateway, and how it wasn’t real to a certain extent. The texture is plush and materially like sand, pliable and movable and considerably weird to Altre. One of the Guardians of Death slowly sets down his weapon after glancing at his master, before he hovers over Altre, watching them draw a small smiley into the ground.

–

Newly revived, The Lamb presses their hands to their face, dragging them down as they groan. Devoted they were, but they were decidedly irritated with not having made progress themself. Now it felt like a failure, despite being told otherwise.

However, the Leader wiped the sour look off of their face before they crossed back onto cult grounds to see that it was in the exact state of slight disarray that they expected to see it in after having been gone for the better part of the day. It was nearing evening, and it took not a moment after their return for Hunryn to come follow them around.

“We’re fresh out of seeds, My Lamb.”

“I’ll have to find more.” The Lamb answers evenly.

“Arjul has fallen ill, no one’s eaten in a while.”

“That’s alright, I’ll make supper tonight. Is Punor helping him?”

“Punor’s too busy helping Merar with her wrists.”

“Alright, that’s okay.” The Lamb answers, “Then I’ll assist Punor after Supper.”

The list only grows while The Lamb does a check-in with their flock. There was an incident in the lumberyard with Mai, who knew very well after having been told plenty of times before to not prove points by carrying more than she was able–that made 3 people sitting in the healing bay, two of whom were waiting to be treated. and their followers were starving. The grounds were looking a shame, as a Rabbit named Puyn hadn’t been keeping up with the cleaning, far too busy sharing word of mouth to do their job.

The Lamb’s eye twitches as they send Hunryn off to let others know that their Leader would be preparing food and to stay up later until it were done.

The list grows and never ends. The Lamb interrupts Puyn from their silly gossipping, much to the Rabbit’s dismay as they run off to clean up and pretend that they hadn't been disregarding their job.

The Lamb’s eye twitches as they cook food, and Merkaan creeps around their station, ceaselessly questioning just what they were making, that it looked different from what Arjul usually made, Whether or not it’d actually be good, how long it might take, questioning why water boils, or why cauliflower had to be added, or why beetroots looked so odd when cut-up. Another time, The Lamb might not have minded the endless curiosity that came with being so young. but currently, it served only as a stacking annoyance atop a novella-sized list.

The Lamb decides that they would revel in spending the evening in their room and their peace and quiet away from their followers. Or a midnight bloodbath.

They’d decide after dinner. And maybe after a lonesome ritual.

A simple stew was enough to keep starved members happy. Merkaan was in no way pleased by the meal, being a child with a sweet tooth, and The Lamb inwardly grimaces at their own actions as they promise to find the child the sweetest berries the Darkwood has to offer. Simply promises made, but their followers take every word and promise to heart . The Leader never quite understands why a task forgotten causes such anger in their people.

Don’t let them control you, they’re yours to use. A term far more simple in words than in action. The Lamb does, admittedly, let their followers walk all over them. It may lead to their annoyance and avoidance of their people when possible , but it keeps them happy and endlessly devoted, and remarkably self-motivated.

For most, anyway. There were always hefty outliers. quite a few outliers, actually . The Lamb shuffles and sorts that thought away to a growing list of things to care for.

The Lamb watches, standing beside the cooking fire while their people eat, set their bowls back, and separate to their shelters as the sunset comes to pass. However, any task within the cult was not without its hitches and stops. Namely a scuffle between Hunryn and Puyn, the Cow and Rabbit arguing about the current crop rotation. The Lamb makes another promise, to find seeds that would appease the both of them, before sending the two off to their shelters. The Lamb watches with a friendly smile plastered to their face until Puyn’s small stature finally ducked under the tapestry of their home.

Lambert sighed, shaking their head to themself as they ducked into the temple with a ritual to do. It’s not attachment, it’s simple necessity. It cuts the time spent on crusades in half, to have someone gathering supplies while they fought their way through the domain of the old Gods. Therefore, there was use, and in the long run, a helper was far worth the waste of bones and blood from The Lamb’s own veins.

–

Altre sits crouched on the ground of the gateway with the God of Death’s two guardians watching them draw shapes they don’t quite recall the names of in the sand-like substance. The two guardians would occasionally share a glance before mimicking the dog’s drawings, misshapen circles, and odd smiley faces shaped by sharpened claws.

Altre decides they find the cats to be amusing. especially in the way the twins argue.

“That looks nothing like it-”

“You wouldn’t know.”

“I think I would. my claws are sharper.”

“And yet your scrawl is messy.”

“Your fur is messy.”

“You clean yourself like a maniac, make not a claim of me .”

“ Me, maniac? You scratch yourself with your weapon.”

“ Do not- ”

They’re decidedly younger than Altre would’ve guessed them to be. Though, they supposed that had something to do with the domain if their thoughts about the God of Death being taller than the temple at home had anything to say about it.

The God in question seemed to be sleeping. They thought so, anyhow. Altre left their drawing in the sand for the two guardians to argue with each other over, staring up at the God of Death, whose eyes crack open upon their approach, bright red staring down at them through a veil.

“Your arms are skeletal.” The dog states, sitting down on the ground in front of the God, whose eyes crease.

“Astute observation.”

“Why is that?”

“The Ichor of my veins takes its root in rot.” The Cat answers, folding one hand under his chin.

“So your arms are rotting?”

“It is one way to put it.”

The God of Death doesn’t seem particularly bothered by the game of questions, thus reinforcing the dog’s endless questions. They’d thought of some more in the time between life and death.

“You guide all who die to where they’re going. Do you ever pity them?”

“Once.” Death answers with the hint of a grin. “Once, I felt sorrow for all who came to pass.”

“…But?”

“But after enough time, I have heard most any story of death there is to tell. The death of the old is not sorrowful; the death of the young is not tragic. One dies for one reason or another. The reason matters little anymore; only where they will be going in the end.” He answers with a crooked grin. “Your questions are miraculously surface-level.”

“I’m still thinking,” Altre mutters, tapping their paws against their legs while they racked their brain for more questions. Merely passing the time until the Lab can bring them back.

“Take your time. It is Plentiful.”

“Are Gods born or made?”

The One Who Waits props his head up on rotting bones as he regards the dog with a bored gaze. Behind the dog, his Acolytes continued a petty argument about the misuse of weaponry and immature drawings on the floor of his domain. “That is nothing of use to you.” He decides as his maw splits open in a yawn. “Worry not for it.”

“Would you tell The Lamb, if they were to ask?”

“It is not relevant to them any more than it is to you. Mortal qualms and questions are for mortals.”

“They’re right.” Altre decided with a smile, “You’re very cryptic. Is it fun for you?”

The Cat does not answer, and Altre is not left with the chance to ask any more questions as they are brought back to life, plucked out of the gateway, and sat alone on the temple floor, reeling from the feeling of the tendons of their neck clicking and slotting back into position. And then they retch up some sort of fluid that couldn't possibly have been normal. Just as the act of evading Death by way of Death’s vessel.

The Lamb rested a hand against the dog’s shoulder as they wiped their mouth of black liquid, and recoiled in disgust as they got to their feet, rolling their shoulders as they mutter. “What is that? That didn’t happen the first time–”

“I hadn’t woken the rest of the flock to return you.” The Lamb answers in a hushed manner as they cross through the temple towards the doors, holding them open for the canine. “I’ve seen this. You’ll be fine. Just..Ease yourself back into food. It won’t go down easily for some time. Ask me how I know. ” They mutter as they shift from foot to foot.

“I..don’t believe I will.”

“ Go rest. ” The Lamb urges quietly, “We’re leaving again tomorrow.”

“Again–But last time–”

“ Rest. ” The Lamb instructs with a narrowed gaze on the dog. Altre frowns as they continue, “This isn’t for instruction, this is for you to listen. ”

Altre leaves the Temple, their tail dragging against dirt as they wander back to their shelter and ducked behind the tapestry, and look around themself, unimpressed with their home. They’d need to find a way to decorate when granted the time. Find a way to make it their own.

They considered their windowsill as they fell asleep.

–

“This time will be different, rest assured.” The Lamb had been swearing up and down this fact repeatedly. In fact, they hadn’t once stopped talking about this plan they had for their crusade since they and their guardian crossed into Anura’s domain.

Altre trekked beside them, letting the Leader rant to them as they scuffed and scraped the soles of their paws raw once again. If anything, at least they were building up resistance to different terrains, now.

“ This time , I have a plan. No going in guns a-blazing. That didn’t work last time. And you’re no help with it so–”

“You’ve told me expressly just to gather.”

“Yeah- Well, maybe I’ll find you a weapon someday.” The Lamb rambles enthusiastically. “Point being. Conserve energy, don’t go in injured; That was clearly stupid on my part–”

“So..Your idea is to miraculously not get injured by fiends with swords this entire time.”

“ Precisely. Smart dog.” The Lamb praises before they continue to chatter out their plans. That they would strike faster than before, focusing on the vulnerable points of any creature. The neck and the eyes. Altre wonders what brings them to this conclusion, but their Leader leaves no room to get a word in edgewise.

“What has put such a spring in your step, My Lamb?” Altre questions, tugging at their own floppy ears as they tried to block out the long-winded speech. Though, the question stunts their Leader for long enough for them to think for a moment before offering the dog a sharp-toothed grin.

“I ate today before we came. It’s been so very long since I've had a proper meal. I’d just about forgotten how nice a home-cooked meal is, even if I cooked it myself.” They hum, swinging their blade over their shoulder, “That is where we differ as well. It’s something to come with being a Vessel, I suppose. I don’t feel hunger. I don’t tire. I rarely break, or need breaks for that matter. It’s so strange .” They pause, tapping their hand against their mouth, “But I rather prefer it. It’s quite nice, to not have to worry about an empty stomach!” Their head turned, tilted halfway as they regarded their companion, “Have you?”

“I don't remember.”

“Ah, That’s right.” The Lamb taps their fingers against the handle of their blade, gazing down at the eye of the crown as they sigh. “That’s right, you need to have a discussion with Her , do you not?”

“I’d like to, if you’ll let me.”

“Well. If Anura is like the Darkwood, I’ll be ringing Death’s chimes thrice before she’ll allow me close.” The Lamb smiles, “I’m sure you’ll find your time.” They tap their fingers repeatedly before they cross into a new clearing, and launch into offense.

Altre gathers mushrooms once again in the meanwhile. Death in Anura had meant a loss of all that they had gathered, setting progress whirled backward. The dog would watch their Leader while they sliced through flesh as though grass and would grimace as The Lamb lopped the head of a heretic from the shoulders.

Endlessly gruesome.

One room to the next, The Lamb progresses without much more than scrapes from their own actions, and they jog off down a path to speak with Clauneck at his setup. They told Altre to stay put and wait for them.

They don’t, figuring that they could go unnoticed long enough in the next room to wait for The Lamb and gather a few spores. The dog realizes they’re not good at planning when they witness the sight of symbols in a circle and a figure rising out of them.

Altre finds themself before a Frog. The Bishop of Anura, Heket. She holds a silent, cold gaze on the dog as they gather mushrooms. Briefly, Altre wonders if this would follow a similar line to their first meeting with A Bishop of the Old Faith. They did have some more questions to ask the Cat-God of Death. Which is a rather odd fashion to view Death, now. The blame for that lies solely on their Leader, who was busy down the dirt-trodden path, fighting tooth and nail through the rooms to tip their blade to the neck of Gusion once more.

The Bishop gives no conversation, though Altre foolishly tries their hand. “You made one of ours starve.” They pluck a mushroom from the stem and set it neatly in their basket. “Do you..intend to do that to the rest of us?”

“... The Lamb heeds not the words.” The Bishop answers in a graveled tone. Her entire body shifts as she physically tracks the dog around the clearing as they pick at grass. “ Action is necessary...When one follows a fallacy. ”

“Perhaps it is fallacy.” Altre reasons. Provoking a Bishop would not serve them, and they were hardly head-strong enough to consider themself worthy of testing the patience of a Goddess who could starve them dead without thought. “But have you no pity?”

“ No pity..for the foolish. ”

“How blasé.” Altre murmurs, gazing down at their dirt-covered paws before they set them on the floor. “Are all who do not follow the old-faith foolish in your gaze?”

“ The answer would mean naught to a fool who follows fleece.”

Altre frowns at the answer they receive, picking up their basket and holding it against their abdomen as they stare up at the God, picking their words. “Maybe. I’m a fool in search of an old self.” They open their maw to speak before the Goddess interrupts them.

“ I care not for the self-discovery of a mutt...your insolence of The Old Faith lends you no favors here. ”

“It is not insolence–”

“ Your continued existence in my domain is a mercy and a shame of inaction. Take it. And Leave. ” The frog croaks, a garbled growl in her throat as she vanishes into the inky black of a symbol-covered hole.

–

A successful crusade is marked by The Lamb Indoctrinating and leading a new person around the Cult’s grounds. Gusion. After having been killed, he was remarkably pliable and easy to convince to accompany The Lamb and dog back to camp. Though The Lamb only didn’t transport him simply because he gave them so much trouble , they'd never go as far as to say such a blasphemous thing about themself .

With a new follower settled in, The Lamb did their check-ins. Older crops were harvested, the soil was replowed and replanted with new seeds, and Hunryn was no longer squabbling with the loudest mouth of the cult. A temporary solution , they were certain, but it would work for the time being. At least until the next full moon, if they knew their followers.

While The Lamb did their rounds, Altre had concluded that they had made a mistake, in not being more curious about the followers of the Bishops so devoted that they would allow themselves to be disfigured, to a point where it followed them through to their new start. Amdusias with a maw of teeth sewed shut atop their head that pulses and moves with their head. Barbatos with an opened crack through his skull filled with teeth that would occasionally open and close while he spoke. Arguably, Valefar was the most normal-looking of the three darkwood devotees, the only thing with her being elongated claws sprouting from her hands. Now that Altre was looking over the three, who often spoke together in a little group, they had a world full of questions.

And with half a mind not to ask, the canine joined the discussion of the three previous devotees.

“Puyn told me that Arjun fell ill because he ate someone’s–”

“Valefar.” Amdusias shakes their head vehemently, “There is no conceivable way you’re buying into what they have to say–”

“Well..they said they’d been here quite a while. That they knew a lot.”

“Hunryn calls them a liar. I figure a ranch hand might know more than a janitor.” Barbatos Remarks with his arms crossed.

“That’s subjective! ” Valefar pleads her case before her head cocks to the side, Observing the canine’s approach “Hello, Dog.”

“ Altre. ” They correct.

“ Altre. I see your crusade with The Lamb went well.” Amdusias observes, glancing over their shoulder pointedly, “That fellow..”

“Do you know him?”

“I better not say. To think of the past would be near traitorous.” Amdusias frowns, debating their choices for a moment before staring up at the canine. “Is your word trustworthy?”

“Pardon?”

“Can you keep a statement to yourself? or would you run and tell The Lamb?” Valefar prods, crossing her arms pointedly. While the three devotees were not nearly as frightening when they were smaller than Altre was by half a head...Being able to see in the gaping hole of teeth that was Barbatos’ head truly perturbed them. Altre nods their head a little too quickly, averting their gaze.

“I can keep to myself. I won’t spread word.”

“The most highly devoted of the Gods were renowned in comparison to the others.” Amdusias boasted as they swung their arms in front of themselves “We know of each other, for whatever it’s worth anymore. Gusion… ” They trail off with a sharp frown, “ cannot be trusted near food storages. Though, you have not heard that from me.”

“Certainly not.” Altre nods. The frog, in the meanwhile, was setting up his shelter, standing on weak, shaky legs. Altre averts their gaze as the frog falls while adjusting the tapestry door. “Though, I must ask. It couldn’t have possibly been comfortable becoming..as you were.”

“It was an honor.” Valefar argues. “The highest there is. Was. Use to be.” She corrects herself gently in her excitement as she picks and tears at her claws. “To be hand-picked by a God to protect them. You couldn’t possibly imagine it, Little Dog.”

“ Altre.” They correct once more with a tilt of their head. “Is it truly so honorable, to protect a fallacy?” They spew the same words they had been told by a Bishop. It feels like a farce. It feels like the correct thing to say, in their opinion.

“...No longer.” Barbatos states. “No longer is it honorable, to know a felled God for what he was. To be the last standing defense...I would’ve thought it to take longer for our Lamb to best him. Some part of me hoped for it.”

“And you were wrong.”

“ Very much so. ” He frowns, staring at the ground beneath his feet before he grumbles. “Is there reason to your questions, Dog? Or must you shame us for our past? Must you make fun?”

“I assure you, I make no light of this. I just wanted to know.” Altre states, swinging their arms slightly as they turn on their heel. “I’m ever so sorry to bother you for so long. Blessed be. ”

They don’t remember saying that before, but it just felt right. In a way that leaves their mouth feeling raw and rotten. The canine does not question it as they return to their shelter, keeping an eye on the new follower..and wondering about the non-existent decor of their home once again.

They really needed something to spice the area up. Something like flowers, maybe.

-

The Lamb was hardly still at their home for longer than a day before they returned to Anura on their lonesome. With full of thoughts and a desire not to share with their guardian, they turned to a habit. Finding new curious ways to tear through the devotees of a God older than their mind could keep hold of. The blood-letting helped them think, and process through the suffocating feelings of loss of self. They ponder about their first ventures through the domains of the Gods, how they were nearly apologetic for the deaths of the heretics. They were not their Gods, merely pawns in a long-standing game of chess between Death and Gods.

it was not their fault, but it was neither The Lamb’s fault that they were to cut through anyone in their way, hell or high water.

-

“They are undeserving of your pity.” Death had told them once, head tilted in what they could only presume was confusion. Why they could possibly pity those who swung the actual axe.

“They’re just people.” The Lamb had muttered then, sitting down on weak-willed legs as they stared at the grounds of the gateway. “Do they really deserve this? I can’t help but think they could be saved.”

“They’d made their choice long ago, Vessel.” The Cat would remind.

“But what if they have families? or people who would miss them? Or what if they come here only to spew vile at you while you decide their fate? or what if–”

“ They made their choice. They have that freedom, and this is what they chose. You are a consequence for the actions of a Heretic.” Death drawls in his boredom, chained arms folded across themself in petty argument with his Vessel. “Your deaths make you a Martyr. Theirs make a Deserter. Keep that in mind and release your pity. It’s unbecoming of a Vessel.”

-

Who was The Lamb, if they hadn’t taken their God’s words to heart? If they did not cull a bloodline without remorse, as their God had told them to. They strike without mercy, spill blood to pay back their own. and they intend to reinflict the visible wounds given to the Gods. Twice Dead , is what was deserved. Injuries that would maim, or kill a mortal. Though The Lamb knows not of the origin of their injuries, they had their suspicions.

The God of Death does not hide his anger towards The Old Faith with an ounce of subtlety. Ever. Lambert had reason to suspect that it was personal, of course, but who were they to ask?

Death had a boon, and so did The Lamb. A mutually beneficial transaction between a God and Prey.

The Lamb traveled, room to room with ease, biding their time and sufficiently expressing anger beyond their years in the discarded heads in blood-covered hoods. They desecrated the lands of Anura, though the Domain would no doubt change locale each time they had the will to enter. No door was ever the same in these lands, no devotee was ever by their lonesome.

But occasionally, They were amusing, to The Lamb. The final hooded figure in a room would get down on their knees, pleading to the Vessel. Inwardly, they wonder if they had to be feeling the same way The Old Faith felt, slaughtering flocks of Sheep in droves. Unrepentant.

They Plan to pay it back ten-fold.

When The Lamb returns to the cult’s grounds, it’s with another new follower or two. A devotee bested and made coward , Eligos. As soon as he was offered his robes, he took off running away from The Lamb to the shelters while throwing the red robe over his head. The Lamb offers no pity for the fear, nothing more than a simple smile as they turn to introduce the other new being to the cult.

–

It took a week before Altre was instructed to accompany the Leader again. Something must’ve been happening on the crusades The Lamb took on their lonesome, as they had been far shorter and curt with the morning sermons. They were short-lived like a fleeting memory, and The Lamb hadn’t even stayed long enough to see their followers out of the temple, they merely commanded the dog with them and trudged out to the five doors, and into Anura.

Altre, despite their better sense instructing resistance, questions their Lamb. “Something is off.”

“I’m merely feeling impatient.” The Lamb mutters as they heft the hammer the crown melted into over their shoulder, immediately weighed down and slouched forward, “Pay it no mind.”

“It’s strange.”

“Pay it no mind.”

“Why am I here?”

“I’ve answered that before.”

“I’m asking you now, My Lamb.” The canine questions, and reels backward a few steps when The Lamb swings their body around to face the dog..only to send the hammer flying out of their hands. They grunt, thrown off before they trudged after their hammer.

“I was told to Bow. ” They sneered. “For them to think I would ever present my neck again is nothing short of arrogance. Ignorance, too, for what it matters.” The Lamb ranted as they swung the hammer over their shoulder with a grunt. Altre wonders if they meant to take a hammer with them, of all things.

“How...rude.” Altre mutters, jogging after The Lamb as they trekked the dirt-trodden path through the maze that was Anura. Buzzing and alive as can be. They can't help but think that Anura gets louder with each session of slaughter The Lamb commits.

What was a murmur had become a scream of the marsh.

The Lamb takes little care and little mind as they traverse the forest, fuelled by an anger they weren’t sure where they were pulling from. Latent feelings, they supposed. It was always pesky latent feelings rattling around somewhere in their skull.

The Lamb only rests when a blade slices straight through their abdomen, skewering them clean through, slicing their shawl to bits as they hacked and coughed. The Lamb only pauses to look down at the damage of the blade once the room is quiet. And instead of the horror that Altre was expecting, screaming or shocked silence, something , The Lamb only groans in annoyance.

“ Agh.. ” They grumble, clutching their hands to their abdomen. “Can’t risk the people right now.” They complain to themself. The Lamb hobbled to the dog’s side, who stood rigidly with their little basket full of mushrooms. One moment they were in Anura, and the next The Lamb was shuffling back to the cult’s grounds with one hand held over their stomach covering bloodied fleece, and the other keeping their shawl tightly covering the sight of the wound.

Altre does their best to help their Leader to the temple, but once they had, The Lamb complained about wanting to be left to themself. “Leave it be! It’s not that bad- you are overreacting- ”

“ You’re bleeding out! On all accounts, you are under-reacting, My Lamb! ”

“I am fine, leave me be! It’s just a simple flesh wound.”

Altre would heavily argue otherwise.

They were told to leave, and the canine listened. Far too well, in fact. They shut the door to the temple, took a glance at their shelter and frowned. Decorations seemed like such a silly thing to ponder, but before they knew it, they were crossing into the Darkwood domain in search of camellias. Following the death of Leshy, the Domain was overrun with plantlife. The grass grew taller than the canine’s stomach. they felt as though they were wading through the grass. Though each patch of camellias they came across, they’d decided to be picky about. Those were too short, they weren’t good enough to put in a planter. Those ones were desaturated, or wilting already, or they hadn’t bloomed and the dog didn’t want to wait to spice up their home.

They trekked room to room in the moonlight, wasting their evening in the woodlands and letting exhaustion creep into their bones all for some decoration they could’ve asked The Lamb to find for them. Though, it would’ve been a waste of The Lamb’s time when they had Gods to erase.

In one room, they come across an Owl, perched high above their head amongst the trees, with only beady black eyes staring down at them. Altre doesn’t know what to make of the Owl perched above them, though he began to speak.

“Eons agone, these lands were rife with Gods and their adherents. What befell this pantheon? Alas. 'Tis the nature of beasts to forget, and of Gods to be forgotten. Mayhap they left. Mayhap they slept. Mayhap they devoured and were devoured in turn. Those few who remained spread roots, spun webs, molded this world to meet them and theirs. 'Twere a land of many Gods once. Hundreds. Now...“ The Owl trails off carefully as it stares down at the dog.

Altre takes it as a comment on The Lamb’s action. How the Owl might know is beyond them, perhaps stories of The Lamb were already being spoken of, but they don’t honor the Owl with much of a response, perturbed. “It’s the nature of beings to survive. The blame doesn’t lie with them.”

The further the dog ventured into the Darkwoods, the more perturbed they became. The flowers high above their head had eyes. Perfect pearlescent eyes staring down every move while the dog kept their eyes to their feet. In contrast to Anura, the death of the Darkwood’s God had cast a silence over the woodlands. They hadn’t seen a single soul during their walk through the dirt-trodden path, instead faintly hearing the sharpening of weapons and the grumbles of far conversations. Altre doesn’t strain to hear, for they did not want to know.

When the dog continued their search of being picky with decorations, they came to an overgrown ruins. That is what they would call it, by now. They assume this was the temple of Leshy, for this was where his corpse laid, culled and ripped apart by The Lamb.

The desecrated corpse of a God lay wilted and rotted in the midst of a temple. Overthrown by nature in a matter of a few months, or perhaps it was always over-run by its own domain. Sprouting from the midst of the corpse were brilliant red flowers, bunched together and nearly mutated in color. Larger than they should have been and sprouting high above Altre’s head.

Altre decides to collect a few of the smaller flowers from the corpse, plucking the stems away from the corpse as they hold their breath in disgust. They leave the temple with a small basket of bright red flowers, and stand between a doorway and a symbol they recognize. Before realizing that they were, for all intents, stuck .

A lousy plan comes out to a lousy result.

“Stop doing this.” The Lamb stands at the symbol plate just before the cult grounds, staring up at the dog, who looks around themself and blinks. The transfer had happened far too fast, and the dog’s head spins.

“I didn’t do–”

“You know by now that you can’t get yourself out.” They continued, turning about as they walked back to the camp, “You’re lucky I noticed your absence before morning.”

To be scolded by their Leader was minutely mortifying..and lack-luster. It held no weight, as The Lamb turns their head when the dog walks to keep up with them. “What is it you had to get?”

“I wanted to decorate my home.”

“ You could’ve asked– ”

“I am capable of getting my own flowers.” Altre argues, “You’re fighting Gods. And beasts. And folk with swords. It’d be foolish to demand you get me flowers.”

“..You’d be surprised.”

“What happened to your wounds?”

“As I said. Nothing but flesh.” The Lamb brushes aside the question.

“It went straight through.”

“Straight through flesh. I heal fast. Your questions are endless. ” They complain with their arms outstretched ahead of themself, before they pause. “...Ask The Cat plenty of questions should you see him again.”

“..Why?”

“That doesn’t matter in the least.” The Lamb smiles, patting their hand to Altre’s arm as they guide the dog back towards the shelters, “Don’t you have decorating to do?”

They do.

And they did . Set up a nice little planter against their windowsill inside in the middle of the night, situating the most brilliant red camellias with patches of soil taken away from the crops. Inwardly Altre had to hope that Hunryn would not notice or question the missing soil.

As if that would work.

–

“ Tempermental Heket, with her throat cut neat.” The Lamb recalls as they strike at the shrieking frog. Anura was alight in sound with the God’s presence, shrieking and screaming and thudding from jumps and fire singeing The Lamb’s fleece as they struck again and again.

And they would die. Repeatedly. Over the span of a week, they had died on five different occasions at the hands of Heket. Tempermental was a lack-luster way to describe the God. They would go as far as to commend her for her perseverance, had they not been culled at her hands, and their species eradicated at the beck and call of her putrid family. Starved followers and a breeding ground for descension thanks to her and hers. The Lamb had little appreciation for such hardships thrown their way.

However, they did have a certain appreciation for the five separate opportunities to learn from their deaths. They would meet with The One Who Waits, and he would undoubtedly, always have something to say.

Inwardly, staring up at their God, Lambert wonders if this is entertaining to him. A life of waiting for the next passing soul had to be just dreadful. Though, they don’t pity the position. They had half a mind to know there was a reason that Death was held against chains and locked in wait, but it wasn’t worth dying to know. Maybe they would ask some day, after releasing him.

Five deaths, and The Lamb had been certain they figured it out. Heket was quick, and she wasted no time each time they returned with a new weapon. Hammers were out of the question. Far too hefty to swing over their head and avoid getting hit. Swords were a good bet, naturally. It was more than dependent on the handle shape that the sword took on. With the way they were dealt a shoddy hand on what form the Red crown had taken on, they could’ve sworn the thing had a mind of its own. And a terrible sense of humor to boot. Axes and Daggers were no doubt fun to use , entertaining to throw and recall back, but above all, daggers were the fastest to use.

If The Lamb had a proper choice, daggers would be how they would slaughter Heket, leaving as many lacerations as they could. They were left with a sword, as they had approached Anura’s temple for the last time. A gorgeous swampy area, with pools of water not far out of reach , and certainly not out of reach to the God. To be sprayed with water in the midst of a battle was not ideal, for the weighing down of damp fleece was perfectly avoidable for The Lamb.

In the end, The Lamb stood with their sword, drenched in viscera and Ichor, and sat onto their knees before the heart of a heretic, still beating within a broken down body, split straight down the middle. They take in a breath as the crown reformed atop their head, and they picked themself back up. The Lamb plucked their earned treasure, tucking the spined heart under their arm as they trudged towards one puddle in the midst of the temple to at least attempt to wash themself of the blood on their hands.

It leaves their fleece an awkward shade of pinkish-brown, but it was as good as they were going to get on short notice. They had people to get back to, and who knew how many people had gotten sick in the full week that they were in and out of the cult for small bursts of time.

It was almost as bad as they were expecting. Only a small fair bit better than the utter hell they were expecting to come back to. Just a whole lot of loud arguing between a farmer and their guardian. Another thing to deal with another time. The Lamb knew Hunryn well enough to know she would not hold a grudge against the dog to last the day, and certainly not over soil.

She does make quite the loud fuss though, until The Lamb’s return was noticed. With the Heretic’s heart in their hands, The Lamb claims themself another win for themself, their God, and a species eradicated.

They smile as the cat that caught the canary as they gave a sermon, and made clear the purpose of the heart. To help themself-and to be presented as decoration. Or warning, if they really thought about it.

That evening, The Lamb made a promise to themself. They would Visit Ratau soon, and inform him of their progress under The One Who Waits. How far they had come, how far they still had to go.

They inwardly add it to the list of things to do.

Chapter Text

Tired eyes sit cross-legged at the bottom of a pond. their hands brush against sediment as they hold their hands together, thumbs pressed to the middle of their palms. sunlight refracts across their face as they watch small fish circle around their head. Their head turns slowly, staring above their head at the surface of the water. Tired eyes watch as the stilled water shifts and moves, pushing them to lie on their back, staring up at the sun. It burns them, yet they watch. They watch as their vision burns away.

They breathe out in the water, with a lack of bubbles escaping them.

–

When one does not require sleep for survival, one finds various ways to entertain themselves. Namely with things to make. Skills to learn during the night. Hobbies. The lamb found all sorts of things to do with themself when there weren't any repairs to be made or any last-minute fixes. That evening, it was wood carving. There was a surplus of lumber for the time being, so they thought nothing of taking a hefty log up to their room in the temple’s loft and carving shapes into the wood. For fun, they try to carve a little totem of the red crown, just to see if they could. It took hours and caused plenty of splinters, but in the end, they were staring back at a very misshapen little crown on a pedestal. Well, there’s plenty of time to improve. All the time in the world.

And yet, it was still dark out with more time to waste. So the Lamb wanders the grounds, doing their nightly checks for a second time that evening. Seeds had been planted, a new rotation of cauliflower, beetroots and berries. They would be watered in the morning by Hunryn, and Lambert leaves the freshly sowed soil to grow. 

The grounds were clean. Or at least, cleaner than they had been in quite some time.

As The Lamb falls into a natural auto-pilot of actions, their mind wanders off, considering their position in all of this. They were a martyr in every sense of the word. Their god was right about that if nothing else. The last of the Lambs, taking revenge on their killers. On their own killers, not a boon for family, and not only a boon for a god.

They picked up the red crown from their head as they considered the small thing. Its size was interchangeable. An open pocket dimension that stored away anything they actively needed so they may grab it as needed. Simple and yet it made crusading so much easier, especially when they were alone.

They weren’t alone anymore. When they really thought about it, they hadn’t been alone at all in the years since they’d started the Cult.

In the beginning, it was all about upkeep. Keeping people fed while resources were abysmal, keeping the grounds clean when others would refuse to tend to it themselves, keeping material production up so they could continuously improve.

In the beginning, The lamb rarely left the cult if it weren’t for resources, focused on keeping their people situated before enacting their role as a vessel. They had initially figured that devotion was of far more importance than that of slaughter . Granted, they feel different now , but that was over time. Thinking back on it almost makes them sad. nostalgic, maybe. for the things they didn't have, or couldn't have.

Such a foolish thing to wallow about.

As the sun peaks over the Treeline, the Lamb can hear the hustling and bustling of their people waking up. The farmers were always early to rise and trot off to tend to the crops, the lumber workers and miners would wake up shortly afterward to get an early start on things, and the devotees would wake up after that, refreshed and happy to pray with gentle rosaries and promises of utter devotion.

The Lamb likes to plan their Sermons beforehand. They’d never seen a sermon performed before, having grown up in the midst of a horror. But they figure they must've been doing something right, if their peoples’ faith in them was anything to talk about.

And then there was their Amnesiac guardian. Someone with a fractured story and jumbled up thoughts that rattled out when the lamb would look. The Lamb chooses not to look for too long into the dog’s head, should any thought revolve around frog ponds. The simple discussion had pulled forth a few thoughts that Lambert would rather remain repressed in the deep recesses of their mind.

“Lamb” Altre greets as they trot straight for their leader with a smile stretched across their face. The lamb regards them kindly with a dip of their head.

“Altre. How does your decor look? Since you were so determined to obtain some flowers, I assume it must be good.”

“Oh it's real pretty.  On the inside. It’s for me .” Altre’s learned plenty in the months they’ve been with the cult. nothing about themself that they wanted and desired to know, but more about those around them . The farmers were incredibly self-sufficient and would pitch a fit to have it implied otherwise. The cult’s worker bees of wood and stone were overconfident in their abilities, if the healing bay’s frequent fliers had anything to say about it. The devotees were near pretentious about their contributions to the cult. They’d learned plenty to know that if they had their brilliant bright camellias on display, The lamb would’ve been bothered by requests for flowers tenfold.

The Lamb doesn’t say as much, but they appreciate and recognize the sentiment. “I see. Hopefully that calls an end to your estranged midnight walks, then?”

“..For now.” The canine answers hesitantly, their ears pulling back as they thought about it. For the time being, they had nothing specific to look for. “Are you holding a Sermon today?”

“Shortly, yes.”

“Are we leaving out today?”

“We are. Mid-day.”

The Lamb watches their Guardian wander away with amusement, before turning to enclose themself in their temple while they prepare their sermon for the day. The added peace and quiet to be on their lonesome was appreciated as well. No one was foolish enough to enter the temple when the Lamb had not summoned the flock for something or other, so it was quiet and calm, beyond the muffled sounds of talking somewhere outside.

–

It’s routine, to step through a god’s domain and immediately tarnish it with bloodshed and collecting. Although, unlike Anura and the Darkwood, Anchordeep was partially underwater and filled with crystals. Pretty and shiny as they might be, Altre was decidedly glum at the prospect of having to carve out crystals.

“You should’ve brought one of the miners. they’re actually supplied to help with this.”

“Surely.” The lamb hums, swinging their arms out in front of them as they hovered over the crouched dog, staring at the crystals “But they’re not nearly as good at conversation. You speak freely whether I want you to or not. It’s kinda fascinating.”

“Well, you speak to me as a friend, not a commander.” Altre mutters as they etch their claws into the crystals, testing.

“Is that what you think?” Amusement paints the Lamb’s features as they stare down at the dog’s head. It’s wrong, no doubt,as far as the lamb was concerned. But it wasn’t as though he was going to stop Altre from thinking as much.

Altre continues to scratch their nails into the stone before they frowned, craning their head to look up at the Lamb “I don’t think I’ll be able to-” Their eyes blow wide open as a blade crosses inches in front of their face, smashing the geode into beautifully shiny pieces in front of them.

“There you go.” The lamb chirps as they straighten up, folding their hands in front of them “You’re really quite simple. Everything’s got a solution here. you’ll just pick up the pieces behind me.”

“..Alright then.” Altre mutters with wide eyes tracking the lamb as they walk along with a grin on their face. It takes a moment before the dog leans to gather up fragments of shattered crystals and drop them into their woven basket. Then they were up on their feet again to trot after the lamb.

Walking through empty rooms and spending their time watching the Lamb spill blood gave them a good chance to examine Anchordeep for themself. It was a waterworld, no doubt. There was no sun, as far as they could tell, but something was keeping track of time. It would get darker as if clouds were blotting out the sun, but when they looked above their head, there was nothing there. A waterworld, and both Altre and the lamb were wading in water up to their waists. It’s a struggle for Altre to walk room to room, tiresome and their legs felt like Lead by the point that they would be crouching beside crystals bursting out of the ground, waiting for the lamb to shatter them into pieces.

However, there was no denying the Beauty of Anchordeep. Blue lighting painted the entirety of the environment, painting every stone and blade of wet grass in a stream of pretty blue,light refracting off of the water. It was blinding, to look at it at the wrong angle, but Altre was perfectly fine marveling at the lights while they trekked with the lamb.

The weight, however, was getting ridiculous.

Their fur was heavy and soaked up to their neck, and the Lamb really wasn’t faring any better with heavy pounds of fleece. They would clear a room and though they had no need for rest, they would take a few moments to themself, leaned against rock sediments while they waited for the burn of their hooves against sand to fade away. The dog was no help with momentary rest, either.

“ This is just awful. ” They’d complain, trudging beside the lamb to rest against the rocks, setting their basket against the rocks as they frowned. “I’d like to stay home next time.”

“if that’s what you choose, by all means.” The lamb mutters, cracking one eye open before they push them self off of the rocks to start walking.

“ not to mention how heavy these rocks are. they better be real pretty.” Altre complains “Do you know how to Polish stones? What would they even be used for? Would I have to Polish them? These are so heavy and–” Altre blinks as the Lamb plucks the basket out of their hands without a word.

Altre watches in befuddlement as the lamb transports the basket of crystals into the red crown, and in moments it is gone. The crown reformed to the lamb’s head to rest, and they smiled “there we are. Empty basket. Not so heavy now.”

“..You could do that the whole time?” The Canine questions with raised brows. In Awe, sure, but also an annoyance “You mean I didn't have to carry pounds of mushrooms for days on end?”

“Ah.” Lambert blinks, and stops short before they could cross into the next clearing, their head turning slightly to look at their companion “Well-yes, but , it builds strength in weary bones?” The dog didn’t look nearly as pleased with the news, and the lamb’s shoulders relaxed as they started walking again. “With you here, I just forgot about it.”

“My arms have been tired for weeks , My Lamb.”

‘Well-...problem solved. Now I’ve remembered, and I won't forget.“

Altre isn’t nearly so reassured.

The lamb however, continues pressing on through Anchordeep.

-

The Lamb and the Dog stop in to visit a certain red bird with a stack of cards, who perks up as the two enter his space.

“Good Morrow, Lamb.” Clauneck would greet with a dip of his head. The lamb returns it in kind as they pick up a set of two cards laid out in front of them, and glance between the two while they discuss with Clauneck.

“You’ve not answered previously. Do you find Destiny to be Immutable?” He questions as the Lamb makes their choice of the cards, setting one back down as they ponder the question.

“I don’t have an answer to provide. When I do, I will find you.”

“You will find fate in my place. As it will be,as the cards have said.” Clauneck dips his head before his gaze shifts “Would your companion choose to see fate’s hand for them today?”

“Well? Do you?” The Lamb prompts.

“...If fate has answers, I’d be a fool not to listen.” Altre answers. The bird shuffles the cards between skilled hands before laying down three separate cards out. Altre picks up the one in the middle, glancing over the imagery of an upside down boat drifting amidst water with the handle of six swords stuck into the boat. Altre glances up at the bird, who almost looks thoughtful of the card. It worries them, really.

“The Six of Swords shown reversed to you. Fate asks your resistance to leave one's past.” Altre stares up at the bird with a sudden unease as they glance back down at the card. The lamb, on the other hand, smiles.

“That doesn’t seem that bad of a card.”

“..We think differently, then.” Altre grumbles, holding their hands close to themself as they think. The lamb discusses short pleasantries and wonders with the bird while the dog thinks. Fate asks them to leave their wants for a betterment of their life. They disregard the card entirely as they leave the bird with the lamb, both bidding the bird a short goodbye.

–

The Lamb sits in a god’s domain. It’s merely been a few weeks since they began a cult in the god’s very name, acting as a vessel for each action of a god. They’re devoted, if only for their own survival. They would never tell the god as much, however. That was a secret they didn’t need to tell. They had realized now that he needed them for the same reason. Survival, and nothing more.

But fleeting conversations were fun to share. They had a multitude of ideas and things they wanted to accomplish for the few followers they had before the slaughter of their own killers, and their god’s imprisoners.

“I had a thought. Camellias might mask the smell of death, would they not?” The lamb would ponder, sitting amongst the sand of the gateway while they carve a line with their fingers, drawing an outline of their sitting body. If nothing else, they would make a mark in the gateway this way. Just for fun.

Their god looks down on them in pondering. “That is for you to decide. I have no opinion on how you run yours.”

“Well, it’s a cult in your name, i would have figured you'd want a little input on–”

“The sentiment is clear, Vessel. My appreciation is in leaps and bounds.” The god remarks with a flat expression. The Lamb pouts and laments the sour attitude

“You’re no fun. This is something for you, and you don't even care what it looks like?”

“I am aware of how it looks.”

“...How?” The Lamb squints.

“It is of no importance to you. What is of importance is when you will take care of more than mortal needs.”

“Well, I need to make sure they can last a day without me first. They remind me of babes. need someone looking after them constantly .” The lamb grumbles, dramatically laying back amongst the gateway’s sand as Death looks down on them. “There’s one Rabbit, One who can almost take care of herself. She’s got issues with her arms, though. Can’t remember the name of it, but her hands might as well be broken. Point being , I can’t leave her to care for the cult on her own.”

“It is foolish to let your followers run you ragged.”

“I’m allowed to care for mine, aren’t I?”

“Do what you will. It matters not to me.” The cat disregards as his head tilts, shrouded veil following suit with his movements. The Lamb regards him with a smile as they state.

“Well, It should .”

“Don’t Maim yourself to have such petty discussions with me. Complain to your people.” Death mutters before The Lamb is brought back to life.

–

The lamb thinks fondly of their conversations with their god. It gave them time to think while time was essentially unmoving. They would discuss silly things with him often, and then come back to life prepared to take back the reins of their cult and get their people situated for the umpteenth time.

Such is the state of things when the lamb and the dog return from a successful crusade in Anchordeep, with two new followers to introduce to the flock, and a pestilence spread to the cult that needed to be dealt with Promptly. The lamb could see it before it would come, the intention of a massive sickness spreading through the cult.

So they split the responsibility. The Dog would lead the two new folk around and help them find a place to build shelter, and the lamb would manage the sickness on their own. They instruct Punor to set up a bed immediately, and then disperse from the healing bay. If they could do anything, they could quarantine the sick. Of which was the Chef, Arjul. The poor fox had just recovered from a bout of Illness brought on, and now he was right back to sputtering,hacking and coughing up a mess of reddened spit onto the ground in front of him. The Lamb escorts him into the healing bay on their own, and instructs Punor to leave them be to help.

"He has sent many vessels like you. One after the other, they all fall. You have gotten further than most, granted. I shall enjoy watching your Cult rot from the inside! A disease upon them!" The voice of the Bishop rattled around the lamb’s skull as they watched their follower spit up blood and roll over to lay on his side. There was not much that the lamb could do, beyond bless their follower. It’d worked before, for other illnesses (at least while they try to figure out natural remedies accessible to them), but they weren’t certain how well that would fare.

It seems to comfort the fox,anyhow. They’ll take that for what it was.

Altre, on the other hand was at least trying their best to direct The two new folk, The now former devotee Saleos and the yellow cat, Yeno, around the cult. Showing them the farm and the sprouting crops, showing them the ‘neighborhood’ of Shelters, The mines and the lumber yards, the temple and the shrine. And..they didn't know what to do after that.

–

The Lamb was beyond frustrated with the sickness. It was something nasty. Blood would pour from the nose of the Fox, and the best the lamb could do was supply the lethargic cook with plenty of rags to keep himself from swallowing his own blood.

His limbs weren’t well. Swollen and sickly looking, previously pink pads starting to turn black and purple with rot in the span of a few days. It concerns the Lamb greatly, but there was only so much they could do in their control. Arjul often complains of pressing pains and soreness of the stomach, and while the lamb was typically on top of illnesses, they hadn’t a clue how to remedy this issue. There were far too many issues that came with the plague Kallamar wrought onto the cult. Blood would pour from the nose or the mouth and would take hours to stop on its own. The fox couldn’t keep anything down and would produce Bile for hours on end. Punor was no more experienced than they were with such a vile sickness, but the bear promised to care for Arjul in the Lamb’s stead. He’d even gone as far as ripping and tearing cloth from his shelter to shield his face,if this plague were anything like the common illnesses that spread through the cult every so often, it would spread through the coughing and the spittle.

The Lamb is thankful for the Bear.

They are not, however, thankful for the bombardment of questions from other followers that erupted the moment they left the healing bay with anything but a smile on their face.

“Is Arjul okay?”

“Is he dying?”

“Shall we dig a grave?”

“Will he live, Leader?”

“Did you heal him, Leader?”

The lamb does not like being asked questions they had no answers for. They did not like informing their followers that there was something they could not accomplish. So they avoid it. They inform the followers that the heretic they were currently hunting is he who wrought this upon them. That the lamb would be their hand of justice whether or not Arjul shall pass.

Their mouth feels like cotton as they speak. Swollen from singing blessings that didn’t seem to be working.

Perhaps that would be the reason that same day they went out of crusade, and willingly let themself be slaughtered by a jellyfish larger than their head.

To call for a discussion with their god. to see if he had any ideas. Or prior experience. or SOMETHING to help them manage a follower bleeding out of every orifice and being sent to a suffering death.

Death looks on at them in a decidedly somber mood as the lamb takes a seat before him. The desperation upon their face could not possibly be more clear if they had tried. Death avoids the gaze, but his acolytes seemed only slightly perturbed by the sight of the lamb. Chatty little lamb with questions they must not ever ask sits in the gateway to the beyond and questions Death.

“A plague has been brought. I don’t know what to do. The crown is not helping.”

“I cannot tell you what to do. That is your own decision.”

“ Help me. ” The lamb barked before they sat up straighter with a deep frown and furrowed brows. “He doesn’t deserve to die for your revenge.”

“The blame lies not in me.” Death’s gaze narrows on the lamb sharply after such an accusation “You forget your place here, Vessel.”

“ I do not want my followers to die any-way but peacefully and old and wrinkled and-”

“ Then you ought to get back to yours.” The god states in a rumble as he makes the effort to lay his chin against his hands, watching the lamb “Or do you ask of me to keep you here to plan . To cheat time?”

“I’m asking for Help .” The Lamb enthuses as they shut their eyes tight “Just tell me what ritual must be made, what I need do to fix this, I don’t Have the supplies to bring him back if he goes-”

“Then let it go.” Death states solemnly. His gaze does not soften, cold and narrowed on the lamb as they lament at him. “There is no ritual beyond that you could conduct to remove illness. Prove yourself and figure it out , Lamb.”

“..You’re no help.” The lamb shields their face in their hands as they allow their thoughts to run wild. Every way they could think of to deal with this without scaring other members. They were disturbed enough to trudge through a few days of famine, but a sickness where one pours out blood?

They can’t possibly fathom their people being calm about such a thing.

Death does not take tone with their aggression, nor does he argue against their panic for their people. He speaks not a word, three red eyes watching the lamb carefully while they thought.

When the lamb stands with a different attitude in their posture, he is not surprised.

“ Send me back. ” The lamb asks

“So it will be.” Death obliges as his face splits into a sharp grin. “So shall we meet again, Vessel.” The lamb was gone, and death folds his rotted hands underneath his chin,eyes closed in thought.

The voice of his acolyte pulls him from his mind, however.

“Is there truly nothing to be done?” Baal,the more empathetic of the twin cats, stares up at death with wide eyes in wonder. The twins had seen many perish from various illnesses or any myriad of reasons before. He does not know why this predicament seems to intrigue them.

“I know not. Medicinal matters are not and never were my chosen practice.” Death answers, closing his eyes once more as he smiles “The vessel merely panics. They forget they could just bring a soul back.” Death taps his bony figures against the sand as he wonders aloud “Perhaps, this will teach the Lamb to Accept Loss.”

In the end, Death is decidedly doubtful of this fact.

–

When the Lamb is returned to their cult, they’re well aware of their state. And they’re determined to not let their people see any semblance of panic on their leader, ever , if it were avoidable. So they straighten up before they trot onto cult grounds, and beckon their guardian to come along with them.

Minimal conversation was made before The lamb led Altre into Anchordeep. The dog doesn’t question it,but they find familiarity in the slightly wider-than-typical eyes, the fine-lined smile, the tightness in the shoulders and the perfectly straight posture as the lamb summoned their blade into their hand.

The lamb’s expression falters as Altre questions them. “You look Worried. Did something happen when you were gone?”

“ No. ” The lamb answers smoothly,not so much as glancing behind himself at the dog “We’re just..behind schedule. I’m behind schedule. Another Bishop down is another step closer to releasing him.” They answer in a strain.

The dog’s brows furrow as they stared down at their leader’s head of fleece.They recognize something there, they’re certain of it, but just can’t possibly place their finger on what .

There’s something different in the movements of the lamb. They’re ruthless, without fear of the cuts and scrapes and near-miss stabbings they endure as they serrate flesh from bone, pouring blood and gore to a watery world. They rend the waters red in their wake, and don't bother to stop to crush crystals meant for collecting. They only press on ahead without so much as stopping. They don't take breaks, even when their companion walks on weary limbs.

“ My Lamb, It’s been a day- Can we not rest?”

“ I do not need it. ” The Lamb mutters sharply. Altre takes silent note of their tightened grip of their blade, despite the slightest of shake in his shoulders.

“ I do. ”

The lamb snaps, in their own way. Their head turns ,staring at the dog through a narrowed gaze and a quick glance around the clearing before they snip “ Then rest. I’m going. I’ll come back.”

They weren’t given the time to argue with the lamb before the Last lamb was out of sight and back to a bloody conquest.

–

A day spent in Anchordeep, wading in water and finding a fine place to perch upon and lay down on top of in the evening was far easier said than done. There was no ease to be found in resting while one’s entire lower half was soaked with water, and no amount of kicking their legs and shaking off water droplets would make their fur warm . They have half the tired mind to find a fire somewhere in the domain and sit in it for warmth.

Evening is when it really sets in that the Lamb was far ahead of them, and would likely not be back by morning. Altre only decides to start walking on their own, against their leader’s orders after the rock pressing into the middle of their ribs bothers them enough.

They see a testament to the Lamb’s anger–or hardiness– in each room they pass through. Corpses left in the wake of the lamb, blood painting the water a fading purple under the evening sky, hooded figures floating in the water face-down. The bones that the lamb had not taken had sunk to the floor of Anchordeep, and Altre makes sure not to disturb the watery graves of the dead more than they had to.

For they do not remember if they were a superstitious person, but it felt improper to disturb the bones of even heretics when they had no need.

Altre finds a room different from the rest. The water level only rose to the ankles rather than the waist, and the room was alarmingly large. The lack of blood in the water tells them that the lamb had not crossed through here. Altre finds themself somewhere truly beautiful for the first time in these months-long ventures through the domains of the gods. A temple decorated with beautiful naturally occuring crystals, with falling water blocking the temple away from the rest of the domain. They find themself walking along a cold stone pillar filled path towards the front of the temple. They knew what they had to expect. Leshy’s ruined temple looked something similar, though much more..chaotic, and they had no doubt that heket had a domain something like this as well.

They drag their hands along crystals as they trek closer to the Temple of hanging crystals and ornate markings along pillars higher than their head.

It was empty. Not a soul, not a noise. There were no devotees here, though the dog believes this to be the place they should all be, for its beauty told them this was the bishop’s .

It was easier to find a place to take reprieve of their weary legs and rest when the water-level only crossed their feet. They stepped up carefully along a white-lined staircase they figured was made of stone to come to a smaller room. Far more shiny than the rest of the temple. In the center of the room lay a chair fit for a statue,though left empty. Plain and white, beyond jewels hanging from the arms of the chair, and three shining red rocks embed into the top of the chair, micking the appearance of buttons.

Altre doesn’t pay much mind to their better sense as exhaustion wears on them. The pretty chair makes as good a place as any for the canine to curl up into a ball and rest.

–

The dog surely finds themself to be wrong, when they awoke to a shadow hanging over their head. With the sleep rubbed out of their eyes, they find themself before a Squid donning black and gold robes, with the shining tip of a held spear facing the dog, mere inches from the space between their eyes after they sat up.

“ What are you doing here?! ” The Bishop questions with a watery waver in his voice “ Who are you?! what say you?!”

Altre does not answer, for they have nothing to say while there was a blade pointed to their face. Although The bishop coming closer does provide quite the incentive “I was only resting–”

“ How did you find this place?”

“In the..Maze.” Altre squints. It doesn’t sound like the proper term for the domain in the least. Watery grave? labyrinth? Whatever it is, it wasn’t their fault that the Bishop’s temple was directly within their sights.

“ Are you armed? ”

“Do I appear to be armed?” The canine questions, though they falter as they stare down the sharp edge of the blade “I– No. I’m not.”

That at least convinces the god to relinquish his weapon to his side, rather than aimed square for them. Though, when the dog sets to get off the chair, the bishop startles.

“Give me a reason I should not purge you from this plane. The vile disrespect of attempting to defile One’s temple–” His voice pitches in a show of distress, as Altre steps off the chair, into the coldness of Anchordeep’s waters. the water level rose. With a frown, the dog stared across the clearing. By now, the water level in other areas would be at least chest high, wouldn’t it? Or was it only affected by the Bishop himself?

“I was only sleeping-” Altre reasons

“ A mutt’s fur is a defilement to my Temple ” He hisses.

They watched, perturbed as the Bishop used the sharp edge of the spear to scrape away ‘fur’, of which there was little, if any. The serrated blade scrapes against the chair with a screech that sends the dog covering their ears.

Altre finds it was as good a time as any to get out and find the Lamb. They didn’t get further than halfway into the water before they were shouted at “Hold it, Mutt. For whom do you come here for?”

“I have someone to find.” Altre avoids a direct answer. it didn’t seem beneficial to their own safety.

“Tell no one you defiled my–”

“I won’t tell a soul.” Altre grumbles to deaf ears as they waded through the chest-high water until they crossed into the clearing away from the temple. As they had thought it would be, the water-level seemed to be connected to the Bishop. Unfortunately, the dog learned such a thing by wading through high waters to only careen forwards onto their hands and knees in ankle-deep waters.

They vow to lock themself up in their room for a time when back to their home. Just to warm the chill in their bones as they collected themself and started walking,looking for the lamb.

–

Beyond the concern for Arjul, the cult was moderately quiet and peaceful for the day. It sets an unease within the lamb, who paces around their room in their temple with their eyes closed and their hands pressed to their mouth. The infection the fox held was progressing,as far as they could tell. His foot continuously looked worse and worse and smelled of rot and decay. He’d cough up blood at intervals of the day and be unable to stop himself.

For as much sympathy as the lamb could hold, they wished he’d die already so they could get this over with. Succumb to loss for mere moments before reviving him for the fact he was the only follower who knew how to cook and didn't need extensive teaching by a leader who had no time to teach.

And yet, the fox is resilient as ever. Rotting away slowly, coughing and spewing blood, and yet he holds on.

There is something to be commended there, but the lamb is far too busy ensuring the safety and health of their other followers to honor it beyond a surface level acknowledgement.’Their god was of little help in this matter, finding the life of a mortal to not be of importance to him. The lamb, in all their grace, understands such a thing, though they heartily disagreed with the sentiment.

After a morning’s sermon, They would set out again on another crusade. Only on their lonesome, to allow Altre to rest. The less distractions they had to worry for while fighting against time, the better.

They set out with an Axe in their grip as they ventured through the domain. It always changed, with each entry. They’d stopped caring to make sense of it early on in their crusading. Worrying for the logic of the gods for too long found form in migraines the lamb were never aware they were having until it were too late, and they were blinded by a kaleidoscope of colors.

They worry more about collecting bones, now. To gather what they needed from the floating corpses they left behind, defile the bodies of heretics they deemed deserving to be used in rituals, and leave for the next room. Room to room would they venture, leaving a trail of bodies in their wake with nary a thought of the lives of heretics. They’d made their choices long ago, and had every chance to escape a fate to be met at death’s hands. The Lamb was merely their escort.

The Lamb entered a clearing with a remarkably new sight. Bodies of what seemed to be people from a village within Anchordeep floating face down, a message of the death that were waiting for the lamb. A warning, they take it as.

They startle slightly, when a yellow tabby cat rolls over onto their back..and swims. As though unaware of the morbid sight around them. The cat swims with their eyes closed until their head bumped straight into the legs of the unmoving lamb.

“Oh! Hello!” The cat chirps as his eyes open,staring up at the lamb.

The lamb stares down at the cat, bewildered and watching as the cat collected himself, standing up and shaking his fur of water as he beamed at the lamb “Not much of a talker–’

“Did you do this?” the Lamb asks, gesturing with the tip of their Axe to the corpses lying in the water. The cat follows their gaze for a moment before his eyes widen.

“ Woah. Um. No? I heard folk screamin’, but I just figured it was a water game..Wow.” He mumbles, pressing both hands to his mouth as a look of nausea crossed the cat’s face. The Lamb spares only a few moments looking over the wet cat before they offer to take them in.

“I have a space of land, not far from here. It’s protected, and you’ll have nary a worry while you’re there. All I ask is your devotion to me.” They offer, though currently..it felt like a bit of a Lie. The cult was perfectly safe..so long as one avoided the healing bay that contained the plague.

“Ah...why would I do that? All..devot–ee and what-not?” The cat’s head tilts.

The lamb blinks, before they present a mere fraction of something. simply summoning the crown into the axe, and back to melting atop their head. It’s simple and takes nothing from them to do, and yet the cat’s eyes were immediately gleaming as he stared at the top of the lamb’s head

“ Woah! ”

“So what say you?”

“Gee..it would be nice to have a place to live.” The cat remarks, tapping at his cheek with a finger. The Lamb smiles, though they’re minutely annoyed. they have no time for games and dancing around an answer. Instead, they use the crown to transport the cat to the cult’s grounds, but not before stating “Please rest on the stone when you get there. I will return to give you shelter soon enough.”

And through the water filled room they pass, summoning the Axe back to their hand.

–

The new member of the flock was a weird one, from what the lamb had observed. There were plenty of odd folk in the grounds. Someone who has a certain liking for..excrements, some who’ve asked for the slaughter of another, some who request everything and anything under the sun because they fully believe the lamb will deliver. (The lamb will not make you a feast for you to try to pressure a crush to like you back, they’re busy and no, they don’t know what beetroot is, stop asking)

Though, Yeno, The yellow tabby cat found in Anchordeep, is a weird one. He’d find his way to any water source whether it was a decorative fountain or a stream of water dug up on the far side of the cult, and he’d rest in it. Swim around and have fun in it. Of the things the lamb had seen, it was by far tame , but odd. The other cats in the cult, Mai and Hekano, a brown tabby, were apprehensive and hateful of water. They’d scatter when Yeno splashed. Mai, ever opinionated , would inform The Lamb of every single time that the new member would splash, and demand they be imprisoned to learn not to splash.

Though it would upset the girl, the Lamb always denied her. Yeno had done nothing wrong beyond being an irritant, he was not dissenting (in fact, he was happier to be in the water than the lamb’s seen anyone else. They consider that it might be because he’s learned that he’s not supposed to be in the fountain, and thinks it funny.),and other than getting the other members splashed with water on hotter days, he’s done nothing fundamentally wrong .

It takes a few days to get Mai to stop watching Lambert with side-eyed glances and narrowed dislike. A few days and a promise to move Yeno’s shelter just that much further away from Mai and Hekano’s shelter.

Their dog is no help in this case. Rather, they might as well have been an enforcer of the behavior.

“My lamb, what if there’s a fountain built for Yeno to go splash in?” They’d suggest. “if it’s further away from Mai and Hekano, they might not be as upset?”

Lambert would hum with a tight smile “You’d think that, wouldn’t you?” But in the end, it was a better idea than letting the cat eventually upset the entire flock, so a fountain is built, and stored off to the side, with running, recycled water. The cat couldn’t have been happier to have their own personal fountain.

The Lamb is not looking forward to the accusations of favoritism that they’re sure will come.

“My lamb, I’d like to gather some mushrooms.” Altre explains as they trailed after the lamb, looming large over their head. The Lamb inwardly groaned as they shut their eyes and took a breath.

“I do believe we have enough. they should be going into the crop rotation soon enough and–”

“Hunryn said she used to plant white mushrooms. I don’t know what they’re called, but i’ve seen them before. I think.”

“..You’re not looking for them for a meal .” The lamb states with the slightest tilt of their head “Are you?”

“No. I don’t..want to experiment with that. I could hear Arjul complaining of pain from across the grounds” The dog frowns “he claims that the migraines he has are worse than those of the mushroom's effects.”

“I see.” The lamb mutters “It might be good to collect the white ones, if we could even find them..” they trail off, tapping absently at their bell. it chimes over and over again while they consider what to do. When the Lamb comes to the conclusion, they certainly didn’t seem pleased about having to cross through Anura once again, but they did lead the dog along with them. “There’s word of mouth i’ve heard before.” They state as they crossed through to the hall of five doors. “White mushrooms can be used as a counteractive to inflammation. I’m thinking..perhaps i could make a paste of it, see if it brings Arjul’s swelling down.”

The Lamb and Altre pass through Anura quick and quiet on their feet, though chatty as ever.

“That’s smart of you. I don’t know anything about them, really. I just remember them being really pretty. and there were types that I was told never to eat or touch, but I can't remember those either.”

Lambert only acknowledges the dog’s word with a nod as they walk along the grassy path through the orange-tinted Anura. After the death of its bishop, the domain was almost annoyingly quiet. Not a chirp from the birds, no buzzing of insects, not so much as the drip of a running stream. While it sets the dog at ease, it sets every instinct that Lambert had ablaze, sending them constantly checking around them, keeping the crown summoned in their grip as a dagger.

“Yeah, well. My parents told me the same, when I was young.” Lambert replies as they stare around themself. “I had a sibling that learned the hard way.” They state as they entered a tall-grass filled clearing.

“Oh? Well, I’m sorry for your–”

“Don’t.” The Lamb warns without a glance behind them. “They did not pass from that . Just an..incredibly nasty stomach bug. No fun at all, with a family of weak stomachs. Though, I suppose that’s what we get, being herbivores.”

“I didn’t know you were a herbivore.”

“I’m not.” The lamb states. “My family were.”

The dog takes in the information, though nothing of what it was meant to mean. The lamb falls quiet as they walk through Anura, falling disturbed by the quiet.

Throughout the whole of Anura, there were no white mushrooms to be found. Red,hallucinogenic ones, sure, but none that The lamb or the dog found suitable for use other than an altered state of mind.

It wasn’t until The lamb found Anura’s ruined temple that they were staring over their head with widened eyes. The temple, Like the darkwood, was overrun by nature, spores and tall grass had flourished in every corner of the wide clearing. Pools of water were covered up by the tall moss. Mushrooms that had sprouted out of the Ichor of a god were a brilliant white, with caps that drooped and wisped like a willow tree. They grew and grew, high above their head, creating a canopy protecting the corpse of She of Hunger.

“To think.” The Lamb starts quietly as they set their stride ahead, kneeling beside the corpse to pick a few of the smaller white mushrooms sprouting from the corpse. As they had, they took note of all the different types of mushrooms growing from Famine herself. “We will provide our medicine by she who starved us.”

“It’s..Ironic.” Altre mutters, as they kneel before the corpse to carefully pluck mushrooms away from the corpse “From the death of a god is where we’re finding that which we need.”

“They are false gods,” The Lamb corrects sharply, before their gaze softened a fraction “But..yes. It is ironic. Was it..Like this is the darkwood, too?”

“Yes. That’s where I found those flowers.” Altre states “Growing from a god’s corpse. Do you think it’s the blood that does it?”

“Well, my blood brings rebirth to those who’ve passed.” The lamb mutters, looking up at the willow-tree like canopy. “Though, it’s not quite the same..I suppose it would be possible. What are you going to use the Mushrooms for?”

“Decoration. I mean no offense but..I’d like decoration. I suppose it’s saddening to have to find beauty in a corpse, but it is a less gruesome ‘trophy’ than their hearts.”

“Their hearts send a message.” The lamb mutters “That’s all it is.”

“I would’ve never expected the heart of a..False god to be thorny .”

“Me neither. Though, these are the very same who..” the lamb pauses,setting the mushrooms in their hands down as they stood up from their kneeling position, and turned about “Doesn’t matter. There are things to do yet.”

–

The lamb had gone alone on a crusade. They’d instructed Altre to assist Punor in making a paste of the white mushrooms, which the dog had recalled as being called ‘Lion’s mane’,A task easier said than done.

In the end, Altre would sit beside the Bear, handing off the mushrooms grown from Heket’s corpse for Punor to grind up with a wooden mortar and pestle. They would watch over the shoulder of the bear,watching as he would drip water into the bowl to liquify the paste and ground it together smoother.

“Has he been getting any better?” Altre questions. They do not receive a verbal response from the bear,just a mere shake of his head “Oh, well.. do you think this will help him?” No answer other than a short pause. “Well, I hope it does. Arjul is a fine man.”

“We may have to remove his leg.” Punor states quietly as he sets the bowl down in front of him “I have not done such a procedure before. We can only hope by the grace of the lamb it is not needed.”

“..It’s that bad?”

Punor nods his head as he rises to his feet “It is only getting worse. Has the lamb given you instructions other than this paste?”

“Er.. no . But I am confident they have a plan” Altre lies to the bear. They haven’t a clue what the lamb was thinking. Or what they were planning. Or why the lamb thought it was a good idea to leave the dog with the nurse. “You’d have to remove his leg…?”

“Likely with an axe from the lumberyard, yes.”

“if it comes to pass, do you think you’d..”

Punor’s fingers tap against the Mortar as he frowns “I will do whatever the Lamb requires of me. If that happens to be removing the leg of a friend, then so be it.”

“I didn’t know you were friends.”

“You did not ask.” Punor starts his walk from the west side of the cult’s grounds to the east side, to the healing bay “Should he pull through, Arjul is the fellow to ask if you’d like to know. He tells the story far better than I could.”

“He’ll pull through.” Altre watches with their tail between their legs as the Bear trots off to the healing bay with a paste in his paws. The canine spares a momentary glance at the remaining white mushrooms in their paws,drooping like willowy leaves between their fingers.

They’ll plant them in the same pot as their bright red camellias.

-

Each and every time thus far that Altre had encountered the bishop Kallamar, It was in a different place. a different clearing, a temple, somewhere nearby Clauneck’s little broken-down ‘shop’, anywhere that was close enough to the lamb, but far enough that the lamb would not have been in the vicinity to find the bishop. To one hand, Altre found the secrecy amusing. On the other, they both were and were not protecting a false god. Well, not by choice. If they had the sense of smell to track down the Lamb to inform them of the bishop’s whereabouts, they might’ve. This being the Fifth time, Altre knew what to expect when they found themself an empty room. No heretics, a few formations of crystals. Every Time they met the bishop in secrecy, it was an empty room,with no threats. They wonder why that is. They figure it is for a sense of false security..

They would step into a clearing on their own, and after a momentary glance of an empty scenery, symbols would appear in the floor not far in front of them, and there he were.

It was sacreligious to consider the god a friend. Though, they supposed it was the proper term. He was fearful of them still, granted, and made the request that they commit an atrocity by not informing the lamb of his where-abouts, but they do.

There were things they noticed about the bishop, having been allowed to spend more time observing than his siblings (They believe that’s what the bishops referred to each other as). He had obvious trouble hearing them whenever they’d lowered their voice. He expressed discomfort to be told anything they knew of The One Who Waits. Part of them believes they should avoid the subject. a different part of them requests that they press and prod and wait for kallamar to tell them everything he knows, just to satisfy their curiosities .

He’s a friend. Because he’s helpful .

“Tell me what you remember.” The Bishop requests, tucking his hands deeper beyond his robes, pulling them tightly closed as he sits in the water. Altre does not join him in the cold water, remaining where they were perched upon a rock formation.

They’re aware he’s only listening under the hopes they’d never say anything to the lamb. But It helps them to rack through their mind for things they could clearly recall.

“Not much. I remember Frog ponds and a fondness for it. something from childhood. faces I can clearly remember but names are beyond me.”

“Explain it.” Pestilence asks of them. Altre taps their hands together as they ponder an explanation.

“I remember my father having a favorite record. er..music box? some sort of chimes. Some singers with a ‘Baritone’ and ‘bassy’ voice. He’d play it over and over again, ‘til it was rotten in my brain, I think. I can nearly recall words, but i just remember how happy he were, listening to the man sing.” Altre recalls, dropping their head into their hands with clenched eyes as they thought “And Frog ponds, still. My mother loved them, we had to cover the one in the yard up for the frogs' benefit. A relative used to collect them, awhile out from our home.” Altre explains, glancing at their friend.

Pestilence looks back at them. To his credit, he does a fine job of looking interested, nodding his head slowly as though taking in information. Altre gets the feeling he might only be able to hear bits and pieces of their story, if he’s even listening.

It’d make them sad to think otherwise, so they assume they’re being heard just fine.

“And then..wind chimes. Oh I loved the wind chimes on the front porch. It’d get gusty out during autumn, and you could hear the silly thing for miles .” They’re sure they remember that much. They remember loving the cylinder wind chimes rattling away at a metal screen door during windy evenings.

“But..beyond that? It’s just feelings. I know the faces of my loved ones, and they look nothing as I do.” Altre frowns “I can’t figure out why that is. Maybe something with the mind.”

“You should speak with Shamura.” Kallamar answers them. Altre’s tail thumps against the rock they sit on as they realize they were in fact, being listened to. “They..might not be of much help, but they would likely be more help than I.” Kallamar discreetly glances behind himself as he stares back at the dog “Bring them kindness, for they’ve fallen on..delicate times.” Kallamar is careful to not paint his sibling in a detrimental light, and Altre takes note of it.

“I’ve wondered of them. My Lamb has brief entries of them. I believe they’ve only met once.”

“..Once.” Kallamar’s smile is awkward , and it doesn’t inspire much faith in the dog. “That is..yes, that’s correct. Only once. none more.”

“Okay.” Altre stares at him for a moment longer.

“Er– You do promise not to tell that–”

“There is nothing I could do for you.” Altre frowns, pressing at the pads of their hands as they avoid the gaze of the Bishop. They could hear the quiet seethe of anger, and they continue “My words hold little weight when a mind has been set.”

“ They are no god! They are nothing more than– ”

“I would rather exchange pleasantries, rather than denigrate my leader.” Altre presses the claw of their thumb to pad in the middle of their hand, and look up to meet a more wary gaze in the eyes of their friend. There are nerves, to the fact that they interrupt a god. They depend on the good graces of not being slaughtered for perceived insolence.“Could you tell me of your past? Of your temple? I saw it once.”

He takes a breath. Altre inwardly lets their flash of panic fade and let go of them. “Yes. Of course.”

–

Five members of the Flock were struck down with the Plague. Arjul had only gotten worse after the removal of his infected,rotted leg, and no matter how deep Altre had personally buried the limb, the stench of rot refused to leave the back of their throat. A quarantine was placed through the cult. All those who did not live together were to stay confined within their shelters, allowed out for meals in separate servings, allowed for minimal amounts of work, and allowed out for confessional if it were of importance.

The Lamb’s patience wears thin. Altre can see the fine lines of their lamb crumbling when the lamb snaps at Punor. “ He’s worse?! Did you not remove the leg correctly? Have you made a mistake ?”

“I’ve done the best I can, my lamb.” Punor’s paws would raise in defense

“Your best is not nearly enough, it seems.” The lamb grunts “Retire to your home.” Their eyes would soften as they paused. “I will provide in your stead. Please take your rest and take ease.” They clasp their hand to the bear’s shoulder as they nudge him in the direction of the shelters.

Altre watches the bear walk across the grass for only a moment before they trot after the lamb. “What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“What is happening?”

“ Nothing .” the Lamb insists “Leave it be.”

“No.”

“ Altre . Leave it.”

“Don’t treat me like a bad dog. Why are you so–” The canine does not expect to see a snarl fit for a beast on their lamb’s face as they turn. The words died in Altre’s throat as they stared down at their Savior. They swallow dryly. “Why are you in distress?”

“My people are dying. I have a right to stress.”

“ yes , I know that, But–”

“There is nothing more to say.” The Lamb grunts as they stalk off towards the healing bay “Rest, Dog, we leave tomorrow.”

“Lambert–”

“ We leave tomorrow. First light of dawn.”

Altre’s expression sours to a frown as they walk the lamb jog to the healing bay. In their head, Altre does a headcount as they head for their Shelter. Only five were sick, that was something perfectly handleable, they would’ve thought.

They return to their shelter, and their temporary roommate, A reformed Devotee of Anchordeep, Baalzebub. She was a fine woman, if not exceedingly loud. Altre privately wondered why she felt the need to be so loud-spoken, but they did not stop her.

“ Welcome back, dog. ”

“Altre-”

“Altre, right yes. Apologies.” Baalzebub hums, fluffing out her space on the ground of their shelter. The dog had to share their things, removing a pillow and a scratchy fabric blanket for the cuttlefish to rest on. “How is the lamb?”

“..Were you watching out of my window? you were supposed to sleep.”

“I was observing the Camellias! They’re lovely. I’d love some of my own, for when my shelter is built. Where did you procure them? did the lamb grab them for you?” Baalzebub rattles off as she lies down on the ground. If she notices the twitch in Altre’s smile, she says nothing of it as they provide an answer.

“I’ll be sure to get you some when yours is built. Please sleep.”

Baalzebub does not. That evening, through a pillow squished over Altre’s ears, they discovered that Cuttlefish are nocturnal.

–

Anchordeep was made dull by slaughter. There were no longer chimes of deep sea crystals nor the gentle sound of the rolling water, pushed along by an unseen current. The water that lapped at the legs of the lamb and their dog was still and silent beyond their own footsteps. Twice The lamb and the dog entered the silenced domain together, and twice, the lamb was struck down. Once through a spear throat straight through their neck, catching their body to a rock and sticking it there. The second for an explosive thrown at the lamb’s head that bounced off of their fleece and burst their body to red mist before they could run. Twice the lamb was sent to convene with Death and complain to a concept bigger than themself. Twice the dog was dumbfounded to watch hooded heretics and cuttlefish scatter after the death of the lamb, watching their friend rise out of the ground.

“That is dealt with. We shall talk.”

Twice Altre would glance at the body of their leader, and then to their friend with a scrunched up expression.

“They’re going to come back” Altre would remark, and gather themself onto a rock where their leader’s dead body wasn’t . “I think you know they will.”

“It’s a deterrent.” The bishop reasons, “Let us talk.”

“They’re going to come back faster.” Altre stares owlishly at their newest friend. They can’t come up with a reason to need to talk.

The bishop dismisses their words entirely. “Tell me what you remember.”

“I remember that you’ve struck The Lamb’s people with a plague and they’re certainly displeased.”

“I worry not.” The bishop claims. Altre would insist otherwise, if they were foolish enough to believe that these latest discussions were not born from desperation.

When the lamb was struck down a second time, burst into a cloud of red mist and body parts, Altre stares as their friend rises from the symbol-filled muck.

“Pardon my word, but this is foolish.” Altre claims.

“It’s a deterrent.” The bishop claimed for a second time “It delays them.”

“It will enrage them.”

“So it may be. They will not find me.”

“And what happens if they do? They won’t hesitate to strike you down.”

“Convince them otherwise.”

The idea itself was most certainly traitorous. And something the Dog would never bring themself to do. “My word does not hold that much weight with them.”

“Then make it.”

“Do you figure I should pummel my leader to request your mercy?” Altre frowns at the thought. “I would never do something so callous.”

“Then we shall speak of something other than the lamb.”

“I wish not to.” Altre maneuvers themself off of the rock formation they had sat upon, dropping themself back into the water as they stared up at the Bishop. “They’re going to find you, and strike you down. You signed a letter of your own demise long ago as I understand it. I can’t prove a deserved thing wrong.”

“You think it just that I die? That is Callous.”

“I think Just doesn’t describe a thing that has happened. You’ve spun a wheel to pick an ending. You aren’t time nor fate, you don’t get to pick again.” Altre reasons as they glanced over their shoulder.

“That is a non answer.”

“Do you fear death?”

“I fear him. ”

–

The Lamb was struck down a third time, skewered through the ribs with a shining blade, this time by the bishop himself. Their body falls to a heap as they fell off the sword.

And awoke in the gateway, repaired with whitened wool once more. Annoyance permeated their attitude as they paced the gateway, ranting at Death himself. That’s Thrice now, Death recalls as his tail curls around himself. He listens to the rambling of his vessel with a bored gaze.

“If he’s so scared he should take death as a mercy!” His vessel complained as they walked back and forth through the gateway, kicking their hooves into the ground “It is a mercy! It’s far better than he deserves! My people are dying and the nerve to be scared?!”

“Calm yourself.” Death chimes as he folds hands of rot beneath his chin, lowering his head “Your anger is unbecoming of a leader.”

“You will let me be angry.” The Lamb points accusingly at death before they continue their angered pacing. Death relents in amusement, silently watching the vessel walk and talk themself in circles. He would allow the insolence of such a statement to pass, for now. The anger wouldn’t last. It hadn’t the death before, or the time before that. It hadn’t lasted after they were killed for sacrifice. The lamb were far too scatter-brained to hold onto things for too long, death considers.

“5 members. It’s spread to more of my flock!” The lamb bleats as they threw their hands in the air “I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him twice!” They declared as they meandered. Soon enough, the lamb was standing still before Death with a frown stuck. “I don’t know how to fix this. Will his death even fix this plague?”

“Your flock is resilient.” The cat answers, tilting his head to one side as he regards his vessel “You lack faith in them” He folds one hand under his chin as he regards the Lamb.

“Wonder why.” The lamb bites as they sit down on the floor of the domain, defeated.

“It is as simple as resurrection.”

“I don’t have nearly enough bones for that.”

“Then acquire them.” death states “Unless you’ve been so preoccupied with Kallamar’s death that you’ve forgone the collection?”

“I’m collecting just fine” Lambert snipes, before they frown, pressing their hands into the floor of the domain “just doesn’t help much when I break more than I collect.”

“You’re stronger than you were. That is not to be taken lightly.”

“I’m not taking it lightly. ” The lamb snarls with a face fit for a beast. Sharpened teeth dragging against the skin of their lips, pulled back in rage.

“Right.” death answers with a wry smile. “You’re taking it in a rage deserving of the gods. Are you beyond patience, vessel?”

“No, I’m simply..” The lamb blinks, mulling over their words. “I am at my wit’s end.” The lamb mutters, pulling at their fleece. They take an even breath before they state “I will deliver him unto you.”

“He will not hear you coming.” Death remarks, decidedly pleased as he leaned his head closer to peer down at the lamb. The Lamb is thus returned to life, and Death closes his eyes in the silence of his domain. A welcome peace from senseless,angry chatter. He is the one who should be displeased, not the lamb. A mind runs wild with ways to rend a brother’s bones and flay flesh in his domain. Alas, such brutalities could not happen in death’s domain. How does one kill what's already dead?

Instead, Death would happily keep an eye on his Vessel as they tore their way through Anchordeep.

–

“It seems you cannot be stopped by disease or hunger. And he sends you back from death stronger each time. Please know, it was not my idea to cast out the Red Crown! The other Bishops, my siblings, the blame lies with them. Please, I beg you, spare me. Kill Shamura, but do not send me to my death. Do not send me to him! You will not find my temple. I will be safe there. Yes, I will be safe!” The Bishop had wailed at the lamb. The words seared in their head prior to death.

They found the temple, alive and washed in blue light. Shining under an artificial moon, the light of jewels draped from every cornerstone reflecting back onto the axe held in the Lamb’s hands. They were there to grant mercy unto a false god.

Death was far more merciful than what they believed was deserved. It was what their god wanted, and it was what they would deliver.

"Insignificant critter! You will learn your place! You do not understand, Lamb. Heed my warning and stay away!"

It was a practice they’d seen thrice now. The devotees of a bishop rend themselves from life to be sent below, providing enough devotion to the bishop to make them change . The lamb only finds it somewhat strange that the Squid was not nearly as beastly as Leshy and Heket had been. To his credit, he had more weapons than Lambert could keep track of at once.

They die.

Again and again and again. Over and over in a myriad of ways.

Though blood and scars are washed away in the gateway, the upset following their death loomed over their head. They would return to death with a scowl on their face and demand to be sent back to rend the Squid’s head from his neck. Death was more than pleased to let them return.

A crusade of purpose takes Days. Then it takes weeks. Then it takes Three months to make any forward progress with the slaughter of pestilence. With every few deaths and a forming numbness to their own deaths, The lamb would return to their cult for brief periods of time, if only to keep things running on their own before leaving again.

In Three months, they had five members of their flock riddled with the plague, rotting away limbs and forcing blood out as bile. Not one had died, thanks to the attentiveness of Punor in the Lamb’s stead. Altre would assist where they could while the lamb were gone. While the cult was not in relatively bad shape in the lamb’s absence, its people were getting antsy. It had been days into another crusade of the lamb, and they had yet to return. It worried the people, and words of their strength and inevitable return did little quell the concern.

Altre watches from the privacy of their home with their new roommate as an upset reptilian member of the flock spits at the shrine before returning to work.

–

“ Mercy! Show Mercy! ” Kallamar wails to the Red crown, who’s Three eyes stare down at them in wide bemusement. The Bishop raises his arms to cover his head in protection as he begged for mercy from the Lamb.

Lambert stares at the Squid for a mere moment before they strike, Swinging their axe over their head, piercing straight through the skull of the Bishop. Blood splatters the lamb in the eyes as they flinch, and pry their weapon out from the Bishop as he rattles a final breath before splitting apart. Akin to an explosion, they’d call it. That’s what happened with the false gods. Their domains turn to ruin in the absence of their false god, and their corpses left to rot. The lamb pries the bishop’s thorned heart out from his ribs, storing it in the crown’s hefty abyss before they left the domain.

Death praises them for the slaughter. In his own way, of course. It is a rare occurrence for actual direct praise. Lambert has learned this was his way of doing it. By telling them about the Bishop they just killed.

"Kallamar was always a coward. This land is a better place now his pathetic, sniveling carcass is nothing more than a mound of rotting flesh.” Death would smile widely as the Lamb, spattered in fading-away blood, sat quietly in his domain. “Soon, I shall be freed, and the world remade in my image. All will pledge themselves to the Cult. All will bow to my name. ” A declaration, A promise.

“Have any of mine come to your door in my absence?” The lamb asks without wanting to hear such an answer. The quest had rotted and taken root in their head since the axe split Kallamar’s head. Death regards them with a stilled expression.

“Pity.” He comments “You share no joy in my freedom.”

“That’s not it.” Lambert scoffs “I am ecstatic for you.” Though it may have been a stretch of the truth “But I worry for our people.”

“They are Resilient, as I’ve told. No fallen.”

“..Thank you.”

Death sneers at the appreciation on the Vessel’s face “Never thank for simplicities. Go. You have a trophy to display, do you not?”

–

The Lamb returns to their cult with a bloodied heart in their hands, still faintly beating. Just another oddity of the heretics, they’d long since assumed. The heart still beats and yet the Bishop is dead. Lambert almost wonders if Death’s heart works the same.

If the cat even has a heart, for one.

The moment they crossed into the grounds, they could see quite a few issues to be dealt with. Dissension, for one. A reptilian member had created public uproar. Granted, not many would dare listen to the words of a fool on their leader’s grounds, but those who did and were made skeptical had to be dealt with. Celebrations of death would happen later. 

Those dissenting were sent away to the furthest corner of the grounds, in isolation besides each other, where they could spout and spew fallacies as loud as they like, without bothering the workers. Re-education was a hassle . With screams and shouts and begging to be let out of imprisonment, screams that “A true leader would not imprison me!” The lamb begs to differ. They’d long since learned. Let a dissenter keep prattling long enough and apparently they were convincing. Or just amazing at wearing others down until they agreed. Whatever the matter, it was an issue to be dealt with.

Sickness was another. Following the Death of Kallamar, the plague had mysteriously cleared up beyond injuries that were already there. Two of the five infected had to remain in the healing bay to recover from Migraines and extreme dehydration from vomiting. Arjul was fashioned a set of crutches by a lumber-worker as a gift,and he seemed to be doing fairly better, from what the lamb could see at a glance. The other two that had been sick were safe to return to work, but Punor advised the lamb that an eye shall be kept on them.

Another thorned,faintly beating heart is stashed like a Trophy within the temple, front and center on either side of the pulpit. A warning , they’d call it. This is what comes to those foolish enough to stand against the lamb– to stand against death.

The lamb watches the beating hearts for hours until night falls with a furrowed brow. Speculating. There’s no doubt something odd about the hearts. Lambert almost wonders if the crown’s influence would make their heart look something like this? How long would such a thing take?

It doesn’t matter. The Lamb would not lay down their heart for a Soul to take.