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The time has come. Four cults vanquished, four Bishops slain, four chains shattered. The efforts of the imprisoned God of Death, Narinder, have finally come to fruition. Soon, he will be freed from millenia of captivity by his most loyal servant: the Last of the Lambs, granted the power of his divinity to carry out his bidding and overthrow the Old Faith.
All that is left is for the Lamb to return the borrowed Red Crown to its rightful bearer - and yet, it would seem that The One Who Waits will be made to wait a little longer.
Has he not summoned them? Has he not made it clear that their service to him is almost complete? Surely there can be no obstacle, for the entrance to his temple stands barely fifty paces from the gates of their nascent cult. He would suspect them of a deliberate delay, but they have long since proven their unswerving devotion to him: at this stage, rebellion is all but unthinkable.
It is nearly two hours later when the noise of the Lamb's hooves finally clatters into the glaring white void of his domain, the bell upon their collar jingling merrily. "Hello, my Lord! Um, sorry it took so long. I was just finishing some things up at the cult - making breakfast, cleaning up, a bunch of stuff like that." They smile up at Narinder's towering, emaciated form, as obnoxiously cheerful as ever. It would seem that despite his warnings, the Lamb has grown attached to the mindless fodder that worship his name. No matter.
"Hi, Aym! Hi, Baal!" His twin attendants, garbed in black and white robes, spare no more than a glance for their master's vessel. Their duty is to be his hands where his shackles do not permit, not to humour the whims of mortal servants.
As always, the Lamb is procrastinating. More delays, more diversions, more distractions from the task at hand: none of it is of any further consequence. They are here now, and that is all he needs.
"Vessel, I relinquish you from your service to the Red Crown. Return it to me, and embrace the end that awaits." His rasping, disused voice carries well through the utter stillness of Death's domain, so there should be no cause for the look of confused indignation that now creeps across his servant's face. "With this last sacrifice of my most devoted Follower, I will be-"
"WHAT?!" The Lamb shouts in disbelief, hands balled into fists at their sides. Aym and Baal bristle, suddenly upon their guard, and for good reason. It is the first time anyone has dared interrupt him in a thousand years.
“You… you’re going to sacrifice me? After everything I've done for you, you're just going to toss me aside?” The Lamb sputters furiously, grasping for an explanation. “Why? What have I done to deserve this?”
"This fate is no fault of yours, Vessel. You have served me more dutifully than any other, and for that, I thank you; but your time as the executor of my will has come to an end. You know well that the power you wield is mine by right, and a crown may not sit upon two brows."
His teeth part to let out a low, mirthless chuckle. "I will give you this much, at least, for your service: your death shall be painless, and your soul well-cared for in the lands beyond."
At this, something hardens in the Lamb's eyes, and they purse their lips. "You've asked so, so much from me, my Lord: working your followers to the bone, feeding sweet promises of an eternal reward to the sick and the dying, throwing myself into unwinnable battles time and time again. I've always obeyed you, even when it hurt me more than I thought was possible - but this is too far."
Raising a hand, they take hold of the divine artefact that rests upon their white-woollen skull. No doubt they seek to form a weapon against him - a disappointing outcome, but one he has anticipated.
Their hand comes away from their head, and the Crown... remains a crown. No blade sprouts from its peaks, no handle emerges from its base. Instead, they raise the Red Crown high, and throw it upon the ground like a discarded cup.
It clatters against ancient marble tile, the sound strangely muted. The One Who Waits and his attendants watch in bewilderment as it rolls to a stop against his tattered robe, the three black cats struck dumb.
The Lamb bleats sullenly into the silence, "There. Take it!"
Aym, clad in black, is the first to recover his voice. "You're… giving it up? Just like that?"
"I never wanted it in the first place." The Lamb crosses their arms with a huff. "After all, I didn't really get a choice on becoming the Crown's bearer, any more than I got a choice when I was sacrificed by the Bishops. Getting revenge on those four felt good, yes, but all I ever really wanted was to have a family again - and you helped me find that too, in a way."
Their gaze softens. "I know the whole point of starting the cult was to set you free, but I still really do love them. I guess when you preach about friendship and the value of community every morning, it eventually starts rubbing off on you."
Chains rattle and clank as The One Who Waits extends a manacled hand to retake his holy symbol, inspecting it thoughtfully. "I must admit, you have surprised me, little Lamb. You are more of a fool than I had thought, to give up divine power while you still draw breath - and yet, I cannot fault your devotion to my cause."
"So... you aren't going to kill me, after all?" The Lamb seems to recoup a hint of their usual cheer.
The God of Death merely rolls his eyes, scarlet sclerae revealed in triplicate. "We shall see."
Placing the Red Crown upon his head, Narinder gasps as a surge of power races through his body, and his divinity returns to him in full. His robe renews itself, stained cream and faded crimson restored to their former vibrancy. His arms regrow as long-decayed flesh sloughs off from blackened bone, replaced in the next moment with sleek muscle and fur. Finally, the chains that bind his wrists glow with an inner light, before exploding into a shower of sparks which quickly dissipate.
Aym and Baal fall to their knees at the sight of their newly restored master. The Lamb, however, begins cheering. "That was awesome!”
"Awe is the general idea, yes. Fear and worship would also be acceptable." Narinder flexes his new wrists, enjoying the sensations of unencumbered movement. "Let us depart for the realm of mortals. It has been far too long since the creatures of this world have been graced with my presence, and I wish to see the results of your devotion for myself."
The Lamb trots ahead to the exit, then looks back at the others, bouncing on their hooves with impatience. "Oh, you're gonna love the cult! We'll have a feast to celebrate, and a bonfire dance, and a Holy Day too, and they'll all get to meet their god in person! It'll be great!"
"A feast, you say?" Baal's ears prick up, and he nudges his twin with a sly wink. "How long has it been since we've tasted grilled salmon, eh?"
Aym's composure remains stern for a few seconds, but then cracks into a grin. "Why, it must have been an age, brother - I can almost smell it already!"
"Patience, my acolytes. There will be time for the indulgences of life soon enough, but first you must present yourselves well to my followers, as the faithful servants of death."
The two brothers stiffen, correcting their posture. "Yes, Master," they echo each other.
"I really don't think they'll care. We're not much for ceremony, after all," the Lamb snickers behind a cloven hand.
Narinder raises an eyebrow. "Is that so? I seem to recall you saying something about a bonfire ritual, just now..."
The Lamb laughs openly this time. "Oh, you know what I mean!"
Stepping through the portal, the three cats are taken aback by a sudden cacophony of sights, sounds, and smells. In comparison to the endless pale nothing of Death, the cult grounds are nigh-unbearably colourful, the bright red and white painted buildings popping against a backdrop of vibrant green foliage and weathered grey stone. The burgeoning village is alive with a bustle of constant activity: farmers tend to their neatly planted rows of pumpkin and beetroot, labourers gather fresh lumber and stone from the forest, and a team of builders put those resources to use in their newest construction project. Most distractingly of all, the camp's open-air kitchen is well-staffed and stocked with all kinds of meat, fish, and vegetables, producing a steady supply of fragrant meals to fuel the cultists' industrious efforts.
"A fine showing, Lamb. Your methods of motivating the cult may be undignified and inefficient, but they have certainly borne fruit," the God of Death hums thoughtfully.
The Lamb's tail begins to wag. "See? It's not so bad, being nice to people."
Narinder's own tail lashes once, betraying his composure. "Don't push it."
As the four descend the overgrown steps that lead into the cult grounds, they are met with a party of excited followers. "Welcome back, leader! Did everything go... okay?" The first to speak, an antelope, trails off as she notices that the Lamb is not alone.
The Lamb places a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Yes, Paya, it went wonderfully. We've done it - the One Who Waits is free at last!"
A cheer erupts throughout the camp at their proclamation, red-robed beasts of a dozen kinds dropping their tools to rush over and greet their returned saviour. The Lamb sweeps their arms out and addresses the whole flock, "Friends, today is a day of rejoicing. Everyone is excused from their labours until tomorrow, and tonight we shall hold a grand celebration in the honour of our triumphant Lord: the Last Bishop, Narinder!"
The moon hangs full in the night sky, gleaming silver-bright through a haze of wood smoke and merriment. A great bonfire crackles and flares in the midst of the camp, surrounded by followers who feast and dance with wild abandon, and none partake with more glee than their once-divine leader.
Breaking away from the festivities with a tankard sloshing in each hand, the Lamb totters up to the newly-freed god who looms upon the outskirts. "Hey, Lord, I got some wine for you! C'mon, don't you wanna join in?"
"Perhaps in time." Graciously, he accepts their offering, but does not drink from it. "For now, I shall simply observe, as I have always done."
The Lamb smiles, resigned and slightly wobbly. "Eh, that's alright - you're the boss, after all. The twins are really getting into it, though." Leaning over, they make an unsteady gesture towards a dense throng of worshippers, which parts for a moment to reveal Aym and Baal locked in a drinking contest against each other, their ceremonial sceptres and veils discarded upon the grass.
As they watch, Aym knocks back his fifth cup of wine, sways in his seat for a moment, and then slumps against the table in a dead faint. The gathered crowd roars in delight as the pangolin referee (himself a little tipsy) holds up Baal's arm and declares him the victor. Baal does not seem too far from unconsciousness himself, but manages to get up from the table with a lopsided grin before he staggers over to a bucket and begins purging the results of his folly.
The God of Death says nothing, and simply stares down at his cult leader.
The Lamb cringes under their god's gaze, seeming to pick apart every flaw and failure in their soul. "Okay, so maybe they're- um- not the best example..."
Somehow, his stare grows yet more intense, until the faintest of smiles spreads across the Bishop's face. "It is well."
A bleating laugh bursts from the Lamb's mouth, made far too loud by the heady mix of relief and alcohol. "Well, I'm glad you think so, my Lord!"
Emboldened by his approval, they make to stand on unsteady hooves, and raise their cup to the stars. "I'd like to propose a toast, my friends: to the end of all the senseless cruelties of the Old Faith; to the bountiful love and freedom we now share; and to life, death, and the Bishop who commands them both. To the Cult, and to Lord Narinder!"
They take a gulp of their drink as every voice in the cult echoes their own, proclaiming, "TO LORD NARINDER!"
"Yes, indeed, to me." The Bishop raises his own drink to his lips, comically small in his claws. He takes a sip, and immediately recoils.
Narinder leans down to the sheep beside him and whispers, "What in my name did you put in this? I did not expect the gods’ ambrosia, but even still, this is vile!"
The Lamb giggles, "Oh, y'know, a bit of this and a bit of that. Berries, beetroot... maybe a tiiiny bit of Menticide mushrooms?"
The god's ears flatten against his skull. "Why am I not surprised? Of course you, of all people, would take the most potent brainwashing substance known to the Old Faith and make cheap moonshine from it."
"So, do you not want it?"
"I never said that." Swiftly downing the cup, he grimaces. "Feast and famine were never mine to command, but fermentation, at least, falls within the domain of decay. I shall have to teach you its proper techniques if you are to continue serving as my high priest, Lamb."
Taken off guard, they stumble, "H-High priest? You… you really mean it? I can keep running the cult for you?"
"But of course. There must be someone to preach my glory to the masses and keep my worshippers in line, and you have proven yourself to be competent thus far." Rising to his feet, he continues, "If you swear to serve me dutifully, as you have done these many years, then I shall bestow my blessing upon you, and you shall lead my followers for as long as you desire. Do you accept this covenant?"
Looking out over the festivities, as beasts of every tribe and species celebrate in harmony, the Lamb sees their flock: those they have rescued from misery, guided to this place of safety, and cared for as their new family. They smile fondly, and reply, "Absolutely, my Lord."