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Published:
2023-12-19
Updated:
2025-07-08
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314,063
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28/?
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Black Sheep

Summary:

Narinder is used to the Lamb and their strange quirks. He is used to watching the Lamb do chores, gamble away their money in Knucklebones, fish, and other inane activities. Even being unable to read the Lamb's mind, The One Who Waits is confident that he knows the Lamb.

Until he realizes he doesn't.

In which the Lamb trusts Narinder (for whatever reason), the Crown apparently is a matchmaker, and Narinder enjoys being as contrary as possible, including acknowledging his feelings.

Notes:

Brainrot. So much brainrot. I wrote two chapters in one day and I have no time in my schedule for a fic to be added to it. Help me.

I love this game a lot; I fell off for a long while and then played and adopted Narinder as a little meow meow and Narilamb promptly exploded.

The Lamb feels kind of doofy with the little :> face, and I'm terrible at combat (I am preparing to do a Hard run of the game. I am terrified), and I tend to fall into a semi-routine in these kinds of games, so I was like, "well, what if the lamb had a routine and a whole personality that everyone sees, and then they trust ONE (1) person who also happens to want to kind of kill them with their REAL personality" and then before I knew it I have six pages of an outline already and two chapters written with a third in the works.

The Lamb does not have DID. Clarifying this right away.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Vague descriptions of violent/graphic death.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter 1: Narinder

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The Lamb was a fool.

At least, that was how The One Who Waits felt about his newest vessel.

It wasn’t stupid, necessarily– it certainly was a competent cult leader. It offered a multitude of things in return for gold on a regular basis. The cult grounds were kept sanitary and their followers well fed. There were few dissenters, and the few that did dissent were usually conveniently offered up to him as sacrifice.

Though, the way the cult was formatted was horrendous. The pillory was shoved into a corner and blocked off, eventually, by a humongous skull with dozens of candles shoved into the eye sockets, various pillars of skulls and spiderwebs, with its own little cobwebs forming from disuse. The outhouses were next to the main bulk of houses, forcing all of the followers to make a trek across the entire grounds if they wished to attend the sermon, with the confessional and a lone hut awkwardly situated in the middle of that path; and the kitchens and farms were a hop, skip, and a jump away from the crypt.

Even Heket’s temple, messy and choked with thousands of little red mushrooms, was more nicely laid out than the cult– but, after all, he never actually gave the vessel any instructions on how to decorate and lay out the cult, and perhaps it was just a matter of strange taste.

Ratau certainly liked that strange game Knucklebones a great deal.

What really led The One Who Waits to believe his vessel was a fool was their insistence on ruling in such a cowardly way.

Sacrifices were saved for the dissenters who were too loud, or the pleas of followers, or, occasionally, an elder whose final days were causing them incredible agony.

There are no murders– which The One Who Waits does not care about– but when the Lamb is announcing a new doctrine and can visualize the options he presents them, he swears he sees its face pinch in distaste before smoothly announcing the other option; he doesn’t even remember what it is.

It never jailed. Not even dissenters. The Lamb would try to talk to the dissenter over any sort of punishment; even sacrifice was mostly to replenish any faith that seemed to be dimming in it.

It took the time to fish, and avoid combat to harvest berries and cauliflower and beetroot, and carefully selecting their best-rested followers to go out for meat to maximize their chances of survival, to craft as many pleasant meals as possible.

Even when it was no longer the vessel’s responsibility to cook, with the construction of a nice kitchen, nicer than the campfire with a stove that it had to stoke periodically, it would.

In fact, it always took the time to do chores. It restocked the fertilizer. It restocked chests and the composter. It went and walked around the graves, strolling through flowers interrupted by a mix of tombstones and wooden crosses. It took the time to clean the outhouses with a pair of thoroughly washed yellow gloves, the Crown sitting on their head.

He did once, when they inevitably died from something idiotic as usual, like rolling onto a trap or forgetting to watch the shadow of the Dropper until it crushed them into black ichor, ask why they didn’t just use the Crown’s shapeshifting abilities to be gloves.

The Lamb had looked up at him, craning its neck, and shrugged with a bright smile. “I figured it was a little mean to make the Crown clean up poop.”

The One Who Waits mentally conceded that point.

He watched the Lamb. There was not much else to do.

He watched them dart through enemies in Anchordeep, the deep blue shimmer of water over their head casting an eerily beautiful glow over the place, even though Kallamar had clearly let it fall into disarray.

He watched the Lamb fish at two in the morning, catching various fish and setting them aside, only to dump most of their catches (barring the tuna or salmon, which they saved for follower meals) into the offering chest the moment they returned.

He watched the Lamb play Knucklebones with Ratau, and Flinky, and Klunko and Bop, and eventually Shrumy; losing yet another round and deciding to give it one last try for the night, on their fifth last try of the night.

(He wonders if he should stop taking their offerings, in a refusal to continue funding their gambling habit.)

(He doesn’t actually stop taking their offerings, of course, but he does consider it.)

In between every crusade, they wander the tombstones, they clean the outhouses, they send off more missionaries and stock the seed stores and cook the meals. They play Knucklebones until the morning, they send him all of the swordfish they catch, they chat with the followers and dance with them and conduct funerals.

One by one, each Bishop falls.

(The lamb does not bow.)

(Not once.)

(A small part of him is proud about that.)

It takes what feels like an age.

(It kind of does. The Lamb, though more and more skilled with each crusade, is obviously not a fighter; or at the very least, not a good one.)

The Lamb is very quiet when he brings it to his realm, most of the time; though even their silence doesn’t wipe the silly smile off its face.

(And he truly brings it there a lot. They die an excessive amount, either by rolling straight into attacks or a lack of fervor catching them off guard or getting knocked over by an enemy with a shield, which they seem abysmal at dealing with.)

(Fool.)

Whenever it does speak, it is always in the form of a question.

They’ll ask him if he likes the fish, and if he would prefer octopus or crab this time.

(He asks for salmon, once, and is barraged with so many of them the following day that he ends up giving the extras to Baal and Aym.)

One visit is to ask what Aym’s name is, and the next they ask for Baal’s.

The third visit is asking them if they are identical or fraternal twins, though they don’t get a straight answer on that occasion, for none of the three know the answer.

They offer three fat swordfish the following day, with three notes attached— one for Aym, one for Baal, and one for The One Who Waits.

They ask about one of his siblings, and with his luck it is about Shamura.

He was the fifth. The fifth Bishop of the Old Faith. Our brother, The One Who Waits. Back then he was known by the name Narinder.

Shamura’s words resound in his mind—

— in my imprudence, I loved him—

(even the ones he wishes not to hear)

“Shamura called you Narinder,” the lamb says, and though it isn’t an inquiry, the question is embedded in their voice.

He dismisses them without replying.

The next time they return, it is another question about Shamura, though when they speak the name and he tenses they put up one small hand, in a placating gesture.

“Is Shamura non-binary?”

… he doesn’t expect this question, so he honestly replies “yes.”

The lamb nods, and Shamura is never again brought up.

They offer him spider silk the next day.

He looks at it for a while.

Five becomes four becomes three becomes two becomes one–

The One Who Waits willfully ignores the last two words–

becomes nothing

The time is drawing near.

He watches them, one final time, walk among the graves and check on the crypts and fill up the seed stocks and the fertilizer bins and the compost, even though it will no longer matter.

They make the meals and chat with the followers, and dance together, and preach their sermons.

They fish, and make him offerings of everything, even the tuna.

They play Knucklebones, and lose, and gamble away at least two hundred coins before they give up for the day, joking that Shrumy rigged the dice and watching Shrumy practically swell in offense at the accusation.

They make sure all of the fields are full of growing crops, and that the harvest totems are finished and not half-built structures jutting from the fields.

They build a new decoration, a glittering lamp to stand out like a sore thumb among all of their wood and candles.

They hold another funeral.

It does not matter anymore.

The Lamb approaches him, for the final time.

They do not smile this time. Their expression is strange. Peace and sorrow.

“Vessel, I relinquish you from your service to the Red Crown,” he tells them. “Return it to me, and embrace the end that awaits. With this last sacrifice of my most devoted Follower, I will be freed.”

The Lamb looks at him, cradling the Crown in their hands.

He waits.

He has waited for so long.

The Lamb puts the crown back on, with no pomp or flair. It is almost ridiculously plain, the way it replaces the Crown on its head.

It summons an axe– its weapon of choice, from previous crusades.

They look up at him in the eerie silence that follows their actions.

They bow.

It is the only time he has seen them do so.

The lamb’s voice is soft; no inquiring tone or lighthearted joke. Not on this occasion.

“I’m sorry.”

They learn.

Of course they do.

With every death, every bloody chain piercing their brain, every scorched corpse–

They are not a fighter–

it falls once

– at the very least–

twice

– not a good one.

a hundred times

But they learn.

he has lost count

Even when tentacles emerge and he gives a horrendous screech, the Lamb learns.

He has watched them learn this whole time.

He is pathetic on the ground. The third eye forever closed, reduced to a scar marring his fur. He spews insults, hatred. He was a god.

He recognizes the gesture the Lamb makes.

The little wave the Lamb does, to bring a new follower to the cult.

Before he can say anything, he is gone.

The One Who Waits emerges from the follower stone literally hissing.

(He would roar, but though his voice is deep with an intimidating timbre, The One Who Waits no longer has the vocal folds to form the sound, so it comes out, instead, as a raging hiss.)

The lamb (the traitor) shouts something, and the followers, crowded around, eagerly awaiting their leader’s return, fall back just in time to avoid being slashed by still-dangerous claws–

A few children burst into tears. He zeroes in on one, a capybara with a snotty nose, and lunges–

Something darts in front and blocks, knocking his hands away before any damage can be done. His eyes focus, through his blind fury–

It’s the Crown. His Crown. Staring at him, blinking silently, simply shifting in the air to block his movements.

He rages, he screams—

A hand grabs the god (former, he is no longer a god, former god) by the wrist, dodging the claws, and he is suddenly being towed along remarkably forcefully.

His one-handed, attempted attacks are futile, for the Crown (the betraying Crown) simply blocks his hits, darting from the Lamb's head to block the fatal blows of his claws- for they would be fatal, as he still towered over the lamb by a good head or two, and their neck is a more-than-tempting target.

He can hear the lamb over his yowling fury, the traitor, backstabber, heretic, former vessel— they are reassuring the flock with their typical vapid platitudes, and he swears he hears the lamb cheerfully say "don't worry, he's just nervous, he'll get used to it here", as if he's just another follower, just like all the other fools here, and he wants to rip the lamb limb from limb—

Then they are out of the burning sun, hot on his dark fur (and of course, he could feel heat now), and the hut door shuts.

(Distantly, a part of him recognizes it. This was the hut that was awkwardly out of the way of the rest of the houses and in the way of what would otherwise be a straight path to the Temple, at the crest of a small hill with the confessional booth at the bottom.)

The (former) god wheels around from where he was unceremoniously shoved into the little hut- one of the so-called "grand shelters" that, in reality, amounted to barely more than a shack compared to the grand temple he'd once had, ready to tear the foolish lamb apart–

The lamb stands there, expressionless.

Even when curious, he was used to a vapid little smile on their face, in their eyes. Even at night, when nobody looked, the lamb seemed to perpetually smile, like an irritating sunbeam that you couldn’t duck no matter how much you squirmed. Even when cleaning the outhouses, or walking among the tombstones, or preparing bodies for burial, or restocking the fertilizer bins.

But the lamb was not smiling.

Its expression wasn’t angry, or hateful, or smug, or any number of emotions he had expected from them. They were just… blank. Unreadable.

“Shamura called you Narinder,” the lamb said.

Notes:

Art in the chapter is a commission from the talented Kaola Rivas, who you can find at @kaola-rivas on BSky or @kaola_rivas on Instagram.