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Chapter Text

The first year passed by way too quickly for Lambert. The cult consisted of Lambert and Huty at the time, the loud and opinionated gray rabbit. She had lost her entire family to the hooded heretics of the Old Faith and struggled greatly with the loss. Lambert did what they could to take the ache from her soul. 

The lamb promised her and her family comfort in the afterlife. They weren’t sure if her family would actually get it. The lamb went out for supplies and food every other day but often came back empty-handed. The rabbit and lamb feasted on meals of grass and berries. Lambert cooked, cleaned, farmed, gave sermons, and collected devotion for just one animal and it was exhausting. 

The lamb needed to crusade for supplies and more potential followers so they went to Darkwood, sword heavy in their untrained arms. Almost immediately- their body was paralyzed and floating- forced to the center of the grassy room they were in. Cold hands wrapped around their lungs and squeezed until they couldn’t recognize the green figure in front of them.

Leshy- which Lambert now knew the name of- stood there with the thick bandage around his eyes. He screeched at the sight of the lamb, making the sacrificial beast trash in his invisible grip. “How can this be? You were put to the blade. Lamb, as all your kind were. And yet, here you stand before me, unrepentant.” He shouted in angry panic, “The Crown… his power… could it be? But I am stronger still. Turn tail and run, Little Lamb,” he hissed before dropping the lamb and disappearing. Lambert laid there for hours in a panic before making their way back to the cult- bailing on this crusade. 

A week later, Lambert decided the cult needed more help, so they began to crusade more often, going for short ones every day and slowly getting better at fighting. They discovered curses, powers, different weapons, and tarot cards, and even stumbled upon a red fox named Julnor whom they indoctrinated into their cult. 

The lamb never got too far, always stopping before the last corridor where the rocky temple stood only yards away from themself. Lambert also felt a little dizzy when the stone pillars came into view. Their eyes became unfocused and body more prone to being hurt and stepping into blades instead of dodging them. Lambert had gotten as far as putting a hoove on the concrete before the panic became an out-of-body experience.

Ice gripped their lungs, fiery pain gripping their body until they could not think or speak. Lambert eventually fell against the grass, soaked with the blood of heretics and monsters, and let the episode pass. Lambert was unable to let this type of panic get them often- or else their followers would dissent. Ratau had warned them about dissenters- just another thing to worry about. After the episode passed, they would travel back to the cult, and try again tomorrow. 

This time, the panic was dulled by their anger. Lambert had gotten to the corridor with minimal wounds, a good curse, and a sharp blade. They were angry at themself, for accidentally letting a lost soul go. A younger doe had been tied to a stake and set to burn as Lambert desperately tried to slaughter the heretics and save the doe, but they had been too late.

Now, at the entrance to Amdusias’ chambers, Lambert felt the hot streak of rage coiled in their veins. Lambert went into the chamber, anger making their movements sloppy, their swordsmanship brash and uncalculated.

Leshy’s voice rang out through the stone chamber, “You have come far enough little Lamb. My followers are willing to do anything for me. Can you say the same of yours?” His voice was filled with taunting and Lambert felt their vision fade. No, they could not say the same for their followers, not yet. 

In a blind panic, Lambert ended up dashing right into Ambusias’ teeth. Sharp pain shredded through their torso, and a weakened bleat was torn from their lungs before everything went white. 

Narinder has watched the lamb struggle over and over, has watched the pitiful creature stumble over their words, swordsmanship, dodging, and even their sermons were pathetic. He knew realistically, that it took time for the words to come naturally, but it was frustrating seeing the lamb fail at things that were so simple.

The cat-like God watched through the eye of the Red Crown, watching the lamb burn meals, get injured, fail to finish a crusade, and continuously break into those moments of convulsing panic. Narinder was annoyed with the moments but did not urge the lamb further. The One Who Waits is patient, and he knows in time, the prophecy will be fulfilled. 

In the first year, the Lamb did not finish a crusade- but they did get rather close. The One Who Waits watched as the lamb’s shredded torso appeared first- their left arm completely shattered, broken shards of bone and tissue decorating the red cloak they wore. Their ribs were exposed- cracked open with their insides in view. The lamb was breathing wetly, jagged breaths sounding deafening in the quiet of the afterlife.

After their skin slowly mended and stitched itself together- the quick breaths did not stop. The lamb did not rise. Narinder stared down the lamb, waiting for the vessel to rise and begin again. Baal glanced at the lamb and at his master, his red eyes slightly worried. Aym did not move.

Narinder decided to speak, “Rise lamb,” he said. The lamb did not move- except for their chest rising up and down quickly with breaths that were not needed. Baal glanced again between the two. The cat rose from their position and pushed his weapon against the lamb’s side- poking them. 

The touch seemed to make the lamb spasm for a moment before sitting up very quickly- their dark eyes suddenly seeing their surroundings. Narinder narrowed his red eyes and pulled at the chains in a dull reminder to the lamb of what they should be worrying about.

“Fear not, for you are my chosen vessel and death cannot halt you. I shall not allow it, for I still have need of you. Take what you have gathered. Build and strengthen the Cult. This is how power is gained. Continue on, undaunted. Each time you are brought down, you rise again stronger,” he rasped lowly to the lamb. 

The lamb still seemed shaken but they paused, “I haven’t failed? I can try again?” they questioned. 

Narinder clenched his jaw, “Did you not hear what I said lamb?” he asked, keeping his voice neutral and patient. 

The lamb swayed in thought- no longer the image of a shaky and pathetic lamb- instead they seemed like they were talking with an old friend, “Well, I did. Also, my name is Lambert- but Gods lie. That’s how they get what they want,” they said. Narinder glared at the lamb.

“Are you calling me a liar lamb? When I am the one who has brought you back? You question me ?” He asked. The lamb, stupid as they come, shrugged at the God of Death.

“Wouldn’t you want me to? When it was the same Gods that kill and lie today,” the lamb continued the stupid movement of swaying, making their bell jingle every so often. “No. I do not want you to question me. Pitiful creature- I want you to do my will,” Narinder said coldly before sending the lamb back to the world of the living. 

Lambert returned to the cult, the burning in their veins fading as they stepped from the portal. Familiar senses of the smell of grass, the buzzing of bugs and critters that come to their berry farm, the sight of the lamb altar in the middle of the camp, and the taste of berry bowls in the air- it felt a little more like home.

Unfortunately, failing crusades came with a price. Huty was loyal and often did not listen to Julnor when he fell into a phase of dissenting, but this time Huty looked rather nervous, avoiding the lamb and whispering to Julnor about false prophets and their fears.

The lamb just sighed and called a sermon, assuring the two with soft smiles and fumbling words that the cult would continue to grow- to thrive. The lamb reinforces the ideas and faith with praise of their resurrection and a special bonfire for their followers to enjoy. By the end of the night, Huty and Julnor’s faith was strong. Lambert decided to go back to Darkwood and finish the crusade.

Lambert defeated Amdusias the next time they ended up in their chambers. Gaining their service, plus another from the crusade to the cult as well. As Lambert stood in front of the rune-covered door, they were ripped from the world of living and into the afterlife.

The lamb felt dizzy and a bit cold, shivering under their wool as they blinked and took in their bright white surroundings, “Did… I die?” They placed their hands on their hips in question- truly they thought they had done a good job. 

The One Who Waits stared down at the lamb with disdain, “You did not perish. I intended to praise you for your mediocre work but if you continue to ruin my day with your useless words I will gladly send you back,” he said in an annoyed tone. Their tail swished back and forth in an angered manner.

Lambert decided not to speak, they wondered what praise would sound like from the old and cranky God. After the silence stretched for a few minutes the God shifted and spoke, “It seems I have chose well when I kept you from death. I will be watching your every move. Do not disappoint me.”

They tilted their head a bit, “Why isn’t Ratau your vessel anymore?” They asked. The One Who Waits watched the lamb, one eye twitching slightly as they tugged on the thick chains.

“The rat was too soft-hearted. He would not sacrifice a follower for me- for his God ,” he spoke in a grave tone. Lambert looked up at the God, “One of my followers keeps dissenting. What should I do with him?” They asked.

The God leaned a bit closer, his large form shadowing the lamb and lowly speaking, “Kill him. Sacrifice him to me. He will see what happens when he dissents, and the others will learn the risk.”

Lambert did not particularly want to sacrifice a follower, but Julnor was more work than they had time for, especially with adding two new members today. The One Who Waits stared down at the lamb with a satisfied grin, he knew the bloodthirsty anger running in the lamb’s veins. He knew what the lamb would choose, because who were they to stand in the way of a God? A sacrificial beast using God’s will to carve the heretics’ hearts from their chests all for The One Who Waits. 

Lambert was sent back to the cult, where they locked Julnor into the pillory. During their sermon, they ridiculed the fox, their words stronger- more sure of their cause. The three current followers believed in their lamb, shunning the fox.

Days later without food, Julnor died of starvation in the pillory. Lambert dug a grave, dumping the fox into it before refilling it with dirt. Lambert’s eyes were empty as they piled the dirt back into the hole, they had buried many people before, and this would not be the last time. Lambert did feel a little guilty for acting in anger and letting the follower suffer, but they did not have enough materials for a sacrifice, and the followers needed to be afraid of dissenting until the lamb had built up enough of a culture to keep everyone working and in line. 

It was also nice to know they pleased their God.

Lambert died several more times, each time they would speak to the God of Death, asking for advice on followers, doctrines, punishments, and ways to defeat the heretics. The One Who Waits was rather critical of the lamb’s way of fighting. Ridiculing them on the way they hold the sword and their flailing about.

Lambert stood there, swaying back and forth, “Well it isn’t like anyone taught me to fight; you gave me a magical crown that turns into different weapons with no explanation on how to use them,” they accounted casually. 

Baal’s red eyes were wide and his tail was moving as he glanced between his master and his master’s vessel.

The One Who Waits cackled at the fire in their voice and narrowed his eyes. “Pathetic lamb- you try to push your failures onto me? Your savior? You ought to be struck down and your tongue ripped from your throat for your insolence,” the God hissed in a hoarse voice. 

Lambert shrugged, “I mean- it is kind of true. I have no fighting experience,” they said. “If only… someone could teach me?” The lamb looked to Aym and Baal with a little spark behind their dark eyes.

Aym did not move but Baal, ever eager to do something new, glanced to his master. The One Who Waits tugged at the chains- as he usually did- before letting out an angry sigh, “ Fine . For the betterment of your weakness and failures,” he growled.

Aym and Baal took the time to teach the lamb about the different weapons, attacks, curses, and moves. Lambert was injured and killed multiple times- although they did not truly die. They just writhed in pain on the pristine floor until their body healed enough to keep going. The One Who Waits watched the sparring and lessons but did not speak or give advice to the lamb.

Lambert would return to the afterlife for training after deaths or crusades for the next nine years. On the tenth year of ruling the cult, Lambert had made plenty of changes in their day-to-day life. Now the cult had ten followers, more doctrines and laws had been put into place to keep life orderly, they had a large berry farm, the chapel had been updated, streets had begun to sprawl in the pasture, faith had begun to rise faster and devotion was strong within the cult.

Lambert had visited a small fishing village south of the cult, and often went fishing there at night when their followers were asleep. They did little quests for others- some for the Fisherman, a local following of Lighthouse keepers, and some of their own cult followers. They always wanted something- whether it was flowers, a special meal, or to hurt another cult member. Lambert did their best to satisfy their needs unless it came to hurting another cultist for no reason. 

The lamb found that those particular requests came from a dark place, from a desperate urge to fit in or feel powerful above others. Lambert knew this because their God gave them the gift to read minds. He had gone on a long speech about staying in command of their followers. They tried not to use it too often.

It was their third crusade when Lambert was summoned to The One Who Waits. The lamb could feel the difference between dying and being summoned now. Dying was cold and convulsing where being called upon was warmer, but also with some convulsing. 

Blood dripped from their hands, still gripping the Red Crown in the form of a dagger, the quickest weapon Lambert possessed. They had gotten rather used to the weight of a blade or axe in their arms, the heavy sigh of relief at the end of each room, and the even larger rush of calmness at the end of a crusade. 

Lambert stood there, swaying a bit eagerly as the dagger shifted back into the headpiece and floated to their head before setting down gently. “Hello Aym, Baal- hey what’s your name exactly? You’ve never told me,” they rambled a bit.

The One Who Waits stared down at the lamb, not speaking. The quiet noise of the chains against bone emanated from the ichor-covered God. When he did not speak, Lambert continued, “I know Gods have names, like Leshy has a name, it just feels weird to call you Master or something like that-”

“Why?” The God of Death asked the small beast, “I am your Master… am I not?”

Lambert sat down, their bell jingling cheerily as they stretched their wooly legs in front of them and sighed. Their hooves were still caked in dirt and blood from the recent crusade, “I mean… Yeah in terms of hierarchy. But… my cultists don’t call me master. They call me Lambert, because y’know it’s my name,” the beast said pointedly. The One Who Waits did not use their name, he called them things like lamb and vessel . 

The God was silent for several moments before his red eyes shifted from the lamb to the crown that rested upon their brow, “You see me here in chains, reduced to nothing. But it has not always been thus. I was bound to this wretched place by the Bishops of the Old Faith. They betrayed me and left me to rot. Each of the four chains that bind me are guarded by one of the Bishops… Destroy the Bishops and you break the chain. Break all four and I will be freed. I gave you life anew, vessel, and now you must repay the debt. You know what must be done. To defeat the Bishops you will need to become stronger.”

Lambert stared up at the God and glanced at the two disciples at his feet. They felt bad for the lonely God. Reduced to nothing, yet still having to work in the afterlife. He seemed to notice as he sneered.

“Stop with the pity, useless beast. I care not for your… soft eyes and loose gut,” he grumbled and pulled at the chains. Lambert noticed the little fidget, whenever it was silent or he did not know how to respond- he would pull at the chains. They supposed it was the only thing he could do.

Then their brain caught up and a smile stretched across their face, “You think I have soft eyes ?” They asked and bleated out a laugh. Aym did not react, but Baal was grinning.

“ Enough ,” The One Who Waits rasped in a dark tone, “Pay attention to the task at hand. Sacrifice a follower to absorb more power- this will aid you in your quest to free me.”

Lambert’s smile lost its shine and when they glanced back to Baal, he was no longer smiling. The God of Death waited for a reaction, for any words or promise of service. When they did not speak, he sighed once more, “Why do you wait? Why do you waste my time?” He sounded tired.

The lamb stood up and brushed off their fleece cloak, “Oh nothing, you’re just telling a sacrifice to sacrifice other innocent people,” they crossed their arms over their chest and stared up at him, “I feel like you’re better than that. I feel like we are better than that.”

There was a low rumbling coming from the cat God, “There is no we , you pitiful mortal. You are mine to command. And if you cannot listen then I will find another vessel to take your place,” he threatened.

“Another lamb?” Lambert quipped and with a wave of the God’s arm, they disappeared back to the cult.

The absolute gall of the lamb was becoming increasingly annoying. The unnecessary chatter, the useless complaints, the awful suggestions, the disgusting kindness- Narinder could not take much more of it. 

When the lamb came to learn to wield weapons- Narinder was silent. He would watch with disappointment at every opening, every slip-up, and every failure. The lamb was not good at fighting, he decided. 

Aym and Baal were finally talking again, brothers that bickered at the drop of a dime- very similar to Narinder and Kallamar in their youths- a thought that Narinder shoved away as violently as he could. He refused to look upon the times of safety and joy with his siblings. However, the task of training the lamb was making the cat siblings speak to one another in less harsh ways.

Aym was rather rough with his vessel, not pulling his punches or swipes with sharp weapons. He attacked relentlessly and his sun-shaped weapon always struck true. The lamb had fallen to his blade more than once. Baal on the other hand- knew Aym’s attacks like the back of his paw. He taught the lamb how to dodge, and how to use fervor in an effective way. Baal taught the lamb strategy as well. Slowly- the lamb was able to beat Aym in a spar. Aym had puffed up and lashed out at his brother once more, but the lamb had smiled and danced with that ridiculous bell singing like they had won a third chance at life- this time with no strings attached. 

However, Aym was well-versed in the art of relics. The lamb would ask questions about the past of the relics or the old magik that kept them working. Aym was brisk with his explanations- tail slashing across the white floor in agitation. The lamb listened, leaned forward to listen, their wool-covered ears twitching every so often. Narinder often looked away from his vessel, annoyed when he realized he wanted to listen to the conversation- to make sure his vessel knew the important knowledge. This vessel can not fail, no matter what the lamb cannot fail.

The lamb did not die as often over the years, often avoiding the large door at the end of each crusade. The lamb had slayed Amdusias during their first year. After the mishap with the weird breathing- which happened to the lamb more often Narinder noticed- the lamb went back and destroyed the monstrous heretic. Through the Red Crown- Narinder could feel the lamb’s bloodthirsty anger, could feel the rage and adrenaline in their veins. It brought the God a type of comfort- knowing this vessel is hungry for revenge and will fight to the death.

Narinder noticed that every time the lamb died- they would lay there in a frozen stance with dark eyes wide, unblinking, and hard. That was the only time their eyes were hard and empty. Usually, their dark eyes were open, listening, eager, sometimes twinkling when they said something absolutely brainless. The breathing issue seemed concerning though. Narinder knew their restriction healed their ailments, stitched their muscles back together, watched their skin stretch and seal their blood away- so what continues to ail the lamb? Narinder was not sure. 

The breathing issue happened often at night when the rest of the cultists were asleep, usually in the corner of the chapel, right under the podium. A few small trinkets and knick-knacks littered the podium. Narinder knew this because the lamb would set the crown down on the podium or the floor of the chapel. Narinder would watch the lamb attempt to sleep, and attempt to eat, and it would not work. The lamb seemed perturbed at the idea of being immortal until their job was done, but Narinder had waited far too long for the lamb to get cold feet about their deal. 

The lamb did not mention those moments, not when Baal lowly mentioned the subject to them, or when Aym would taunt them with the embarrassing act of their paralyzed fear. The God was frustrated with the lamb’s attitude, but they never commented back. Their smile just seemed a tad embarrassed or their gaze would grow more focus. Narinder hated it. Narinder hated the lamb. 

On the sixteenth year of the lamb’s rule- the cult had developed greatly with the new members being a particularly loyal bunch. The Red Crown bopped up and down in Narinder’s mind- the lamb’s silly swaying never let the crown sit still .

The beast traveled to Anura at one point, gathering a variety of new supplies to build the cult. The lamb expanded their farm, growing more crops at a better quality. The followers were loyal to the prophet and eager to please them too. They would pray to the lamb while they were crusading, they worked as fast as their feeble hands could, and when dissenting happened they did not listen. The lamb still seemed frustrated with the progress. They often died at the hands of hooded heretics or blades of teeth right before they reached the end of the crusade. It made the God angry. He tried being patient. 

As the lamb died, neck twisted at an unnatural angle and bruises decorating their face, Narinder waited for the lamb to resume breathing normally. Baal watched the lamb as Aym stared forward, the lamb barely a fleck in his red eyes. The lamb jerked a bit and sat up, head swinging left to right in confusion before realizing they were in the afterlife- yet again.

Baal spoke, surprising everyone, “Don’t let them get their hands around your neck- they can move you one way and-” 

The lamb looked away from the disciple, “-and they will break my neck. Yeah. I got it.” The little beast snapped. Thrilling, the annoying creature seemed to be on edge this day or night.

Narinder grinned, large and pleased with the lamb’s anger, “Someone’s touchy.” 

The lamb scraped their hoove against the floor, “I’d like to go back now. I have to beat Leshy,” they said.

Narinder was pleased with the lamb’s need to slaughter his brother but knew the lamb needed a clear head in this fight. He let the silence stretch. The lamb did not move for a long while before glaring at the ground and plopping themself right where they stood. 

“Good, now that you are being less petulant, you can tell me what is wrong. You seek guidance in your followings.” Narinder said, feeling rather kind at the moment.

The lamb seemed set on not answering, stubborn as a mule in that way, but Narinder was quite good at waiting. So wait he did. The silence settled around them, keeping the four beings silent. His vessel finally spoke, “The last time I saw Leshy, I froze. I died. I’ll freeze again. I’ll die again.” 

Narinder knew this, logically the lamb would die several more times before beating the God. But, he did not speak, not until the lamb was done.

“I don’t want to die. Again I mean, it’s unpleasant. I have to rebuild trust in the cult afterward each time, and some of them are so fickle-” the lamb let out a sigh. “I’m making no progress.”

The God let out a low grumble, knowing his vessel’s frustration, “You barter your livelihood on trust and kindness when you should demand their respect and fears. You are weak in their eyes, a thoughtless sheep. You need not their trust, but their unwavering fear,” he insisted.

The lamb gave him a tired look. “I’d like to go now.” They seemed entirely done with the conversation- so he sent them away.

Soon after they got back to the cult- the lamb went on a crusade. They were rash and unprepared in their departure- which left the cult staggering on its own. A member fell sick, and then another, and then another. 

The lamb attempted to finish the crusade quickly, but Narinder felt the lamb stop moving- felt the lamb be tugged into the air and the familiar shrieking of his siblings rung in his ears.

“So it is true… the Red Crown sits upon the brow of another,” Heket croaked- her voice barely intact. It brought Narinder sick satisfaction to hear her voice trembling. 

Kallamar spoke next, “But how? We did everything we could to-”

“It matters not. We need not bother Shamura with this. Deal with it, brother.” Heket interrupted before the two older siblings faded away. Leshy, the coward that he was, promised to do as their sister commanded. 

Once Leshy disappeared, the lamb collapsed onto its side and did not move. The vessel was breathing rapidly, chest heaving up and down, the Red Crown laying on its side, catching the view of the lamb’s chest and below. The grass was clean and soft, untouched from the war waged around this specific pasture. Full trees with corpses and skeletons strung up like decorations, spears sticking up in one corner- and of course the lamb’s limp body.

Narinder could not make the lamb move, and could not urge the vessel to continue on their mission. The lamb stayed there for a few days, unseeing and empty. Narinder felt frustrated but even more, he felt worried . Was this vessel malfunctioning? What kept them from getting up? Their body was not poisoned or broken and yet- the damned creature would not move. 

The cult's devotion grew lower as an elder member died and the body was not taken care of. Sickness spread and the weaker-bodied followers began to perish rather rapidly. Narinder had no choice but to wait until the lamb pulled themself together. Once they got up, they quickly gathered their things and turned around to go back to the cult. Narinder was not sure what to think.

“Four days!” Huty cried out as Lambert ran down the steps and took in the state of their cult, “Four days- where have you been? It was just a cold, and then Finlay died, and no one thought to bury her without you-” The rabbit’s ears drooped with sadness as she continued to follow him and sputter. She was old now, in her last few months of life at this point. Lambert did not have the time to dwell on the fact they may lose her soon.

Lambert gave her a reassuring smile, but it felt tight on the edges, “I was running errands- how many people have we lost? How many are sick?” they asked quickly as they headed in the direction of the healing tent.

Huty hobbled beside them, surprisingly quick, “Five are dead, three are sick.”

Lambert sucked in a breath and stared at the sick cultists, covered in sweat and vomit. “Ooohkay. Huty- I need you to start using the camillas to heal them okay?” They instructed her. Huty looked to her leader with unease, “Oh I don’t think I can- I’ve never-”

Lambert interrupted her, “We don’t have a choice right now. You have seen me heal before, and you know how to give medicine. Try. I need to keep the contamination to a minimal amount,” they insisted and Huty sighed, “Yes leader…” She replied.

At the end of the day, another one of the infected followers had died, and Lambert had buried all six of their dead. They planned the funerals for later in the week when they had enough supplies. Regular medical check-ups were done the following month and everything slowly smoothed out. Except that they went from eleven members of the cult to five now. The two others that had the illness did not get better, they died the following month from medical complications and left Lambert with few followers. 

Lambert now had to work day and night, nonstop, to keep the cult running and functional Occasionally they would return to Darkwook to search for lost souls who needed a new home, a new life. As they gained a following, they lost Huty only a year later. Lambert buried her body by themself, a special grave for the erratic gray rabbit who loved her life, who loved her lost family, and whom Lambert would miss dearly.

It took the leader ten years to get back to the position where they could go on long crusades again. The lamb felt frustrated with their progress; they could not imagine how their God must feel. In times of need and boredom, they would talk to the Red Crown. Discussing cult followers' lives, their crushes and enemies, the new doctrines and rules that they thought would work well with the current members, even touching on the topic of missing Baal and Aym. It felt nice to talk to something about the stresses of cult life. 

It was the twenty-ninth year of the lamb leading the cult before they got to Leshy’s door. Their hands were shaking, mind racing with images and thoughts of Leshy. Of how Leshy would kill them, of how they did kill them. The lamb paused outside of the rune-covered door, axe heavy in their hands and curses twisting their tongue. 

Lambert entered the chamber and let out shaky breaths as Leshy stood in view, hooded heretics standing in circles around the God. The blood-soaked bandage over his eyes did little to hinder the God’s movement as he leaned forward, all claws and shrieking.

“Your persistence is annoying , little lamb. You may think yourself clever. You may think yourself righteous in your service to HIM. But you should not be so trusting of the Chained One. Oh… well… it’s too late to talk. One such as you deserves no absolution. This will not end well for you,” he mocked. 

The lamb was breathing heavily, short bursts punching from their chest as they stared up at the God. Fear was cold in their chest, in their neck. Cold like an axe, cold like dried blood- Leshy let out a scream and the hooded heretics began to kill themselves. Lambert spun around, axe swinging in panic at the sight. Curses spilled from their lips in a panic, shooting out tentacles of poison and agony. 

Leshy roared out words that Lambert could not hear over the fear in their veins. His body had split open, embedding itself in the ground. Where he had stood, grew a large body that almost looked like a caterpillar. The head was enormous, covered in spikes and antlers or varying sizes, widths, and sharpness. The truly terrifying part was the large gaping mass that was Leshy’s mouth. Hundreds of rows of teeth, razor-sharp, and readying to tear them to ribbons. He reeked of dead flowers and rotting animals- making Lambert screw their eyes shut and scream out more curses, basically draining their fervor.

A section of the tentacle curse hit Leshy- who let out a loud scream and slammed his body against the lamb. Lambert was slammed against the wall- axe embedding itself into Leshy’s skull from the impact- a complete accident.

Lambert let the axe slip from their hands, shocked as ichor spilled from the God’s skull. With an ear-ringing shriek- Leshy pried the lamb’s weapon and threw it on the opposite side of the stone room. Lambert couldn’t breathe- couldn’t see past the utter fear of death in their face.

They bleated another curse, words fumbling as the tentacles struck out once more and landed a heavy blow against the God. The lamb scrambled to their hooves, darting across the room and picking the axe up. Remembering to breathe was the hardest part of Baal’s teachings. Knowing where to strike was the easy part. Lambert darted forwards, axe raised, arms shaking, voice cracking as they shouted out and swung the weapon.

Leshy turned the axe hit the side of the God’s jaw and embedded itself into the bone. With a mighty cry of pain, the God fell to the floor and writhed. Lambert placed their hands on their knees and wheezed, chest hurting so badly they felt like they were going to die.

The God lay feet away, twitching and bleeding out. Wet breaths leaking from the young God. Lambert shuffled forward after a few minutes and pried the weapon from his jaw with a loud, wet suction sound.

Lambert would’ve puked at the sight of ichor, exposed bone, and lacerated muscle. But the lamb couldn’t eat and had nothing to vomit. Leshy did not say a word as he died; one second his chest was moving and the sound of his breathing rang in Lambert's ears and the next second everything was silent and still. 

Lambert had killed Leshy, but he had been weak and irrational. They fell to their knees, wool soaking up the blood and tissue near the dead God, and wept. 

What is a Shepherd without a flock?