A Cowpoke's Sweetheart | Chapter 15 | Cult Of The Lamb

Call me a contestant on Hell's Kitchen that is being yelled at by Gordon Ramsay because I'm cooking up some Shit.

Making a fic about this, but to get to the existential horror we are going to have to go through some regular horror first.

Lots of people depict ascension to godhood in cult of the lamb as a horrifyingly dehumanizing thing. There are some cases where the lamb completely loses themselves or even becomes something more akin to a force of nature rather than a person. This is often foiled very well with Narinder learning how to be a person and enjoy the world around him. It results in the potential for a very interesting plot where the lamb is doomed by the narrative while Narinder can be saved by it. It does beg the question however:

What if they say no? What if they decide the story doesn't get to end that way? What if they break divinity over their knee and pull their still-beating happy ending from the open chest of the narrative? What if they never stop fighting for that life they never got to have, even if it is against the very thing that saved and enabled it? A narrative that seeks to doom them against a lamb too willful and stubborn to let that happen.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/49892641/chapters/167537173

The Rehabilitation of Death

Chapter 23: A Dance With Death

Narinder awakens to find The Lamb overcome with caring for their sick cult. The plague is unforgiving, and they realize that they'll need to take down Kallamar sooner than later if they plan to prevent any more unnecessary deaths, or face the potentially deadly consequences for over half the flock.

The crusade is a long one, a final journey before the Bishop's door. Narinder humors Lambert's investigative hypothesis on the crown and their issues of separation of power, and how both seemed to have gained strengthen since. The voice of Kallamar echoes from a statue adorned with gems.

Lambert vandalizes a completely different statue in the image of his brother, and learns what exactly is required in dowry for a marriage of a God.

They find Kallamar's treasury: a Ballroom, grandiose and magical. The hand of Death extends to the Lamb an offer. A dance, one that will lead to a very strange waltz, and many important, personal conversations. A dance that will lead to a heart-to-heart talk. Questioning, of one's important to another, and in what manner that might be.

They also almost drown. Keyword: Almost. (The nightmare himself finds the Lamb, and they find themselves confronted, both asleep and awake.)

Chapter Wordcount: 26,593 | Read Tags & Notes for Warnings. Thank you for reading!

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I had always thought "The Rehabilitation of Death" referred to Narinder, but I'm realizing it very much applies to Lambert as well. Both those fuckers need so much help.

Lambert has near perfected the art of facade. That sheep is fucked up

Wanna draw lamb and/or Narinder fighting a boss?

i sketched many things, liked none of them, so instead it's the moment where the lamb tried to figure out how to kill leshy and asks narinder for help and i dunno weird colours

tyty for help me idea draw a thing

When Narinder wakes, the storm has passed.

He’s lying alone beneath the wagon. The canvas and the earth beneath it is damp, but somehow the tempest came and went without Narinder getting soaked to the bone. Water drips down from the wagon’s sides. He shimmies carefully from beneath it, taking care not to smear mud all over himself in the process. His shoulder, neck, and back all complain about the conditions with a chorus of aches. Narinder hisses under his breath and stretches, rolling his aching shoulder until something pops satisfyingly.

The noise draws Hamal’s attention. They’re sitting at a freshly built fire with their gun in hand. It’s unloaded, six bullets sitting on the ground in a small pile beside them. A rag is in their free hand, stained by some kind of oil.

“Hey there,” they say. “Sleep well?”

Narinder rubs the back of his neck. “Well, I slept.”

Thinking about lambs, whose culture was joyous and loud and vibrant. Lambs who had a dance for everything and a song to match. Lambs whose caravans could be heard marching melodies across the planes. Lambs for who even a combat was done in step to a waltz.

Thinking about The Lamb, who only knows the mourning songs. The Lamb, who only remembers the dances that require a blade in their hands. The Lamb who whispers sad melodies as they walk hostile lands. The Lamb whose only connection to their lost people is in the way they would spill blood.

The Lamb who sings and dances anyway, because while everything else may be gone, they still have this.

He worries.

He will never admit it, but he worries.

My Warrior of Light in his ARR summoner fit. We love Brayflox Longstop for that fancy early game gear

Well, you know what I think!? No??? Me neither.