wayward-engineer
Pronouns: ???/??? Age: 20≤X≤∞ Occupation: Mass hallucination rooted deep within the human subconscious
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Latest Posts by wayward-engineer
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!
(Ao3 links are not embedding for some reason)
What makes me angry about the whole "sometimes the curtains are just blue" thing is the abject unwillingness to engage in the media, instead just rephrasing known information in the form of an answer that doesn't dig any deeper. There was a conscious choice to describe the curtains as blue; to even describe it in the first place, and that has at least some small amount of significance.
An example of what I mean that comes to mind is Brian Jacques and his Redwall series of books. He would often give in-depth descriptions of food and meals eaten by the characters. Now, I could ask, "Why did he describe the oat cakes as sweet and crumbly?" you could say "Because they just are. That's what oat cakes are."
You would be correct. They are just oat cakes. This is just a small insignificant detail. The author only included it because he thought it was a nice little detail and, if it were removed, it would have no effect on the story as a whole. There isn't some big metaphor behind them, they are just sweet treats, but by dismissing the question, you miss out on so much.
"Why did he describe the oat cakes as sweet and crumbly?" Maybe because he wanted to demonstrate that the character was a competent cook. Maybe because he wrote his books for children in a school for the blind in Liverpool, and this is an example of the wealth of sensory details he uses to make the world feel vibrant and beautiful and help his readers feel like they were a part of it. Maybe because he was a massive goddamn foodie and always found himself wondering what it was the characters ate when a story simply said "and then they had dinner". Maybe because he takes joy in the fact that I always walk away from his books feeling hungry.
"Sometimes the curtains are just blue". Well, maybe they're blue because the author has some fuckin style.
That “the curtains are just blue” post remains the bane of my existence.
What your teachers were trying to do was make you think. About the story, the writer, and all the whys that come with literary analysis. Why did THIS writer at THIS time choose to write THIS SPECIFIC STORY and make THESE curtains blue?
There usually isn’t even a singular answer— the point isn’t to be correct, the point is to analyze it from all angles.
The great thing about writing is that no two people write the same. Writing is about your unique perspective. You could stick two writers in the same room and command them to write a story set in that room— and get wildly different depictions of the same space. One writer may describe the furniture in detail, while another fixates on the color of the walls or the detailed crown molding.
Neither writer is incorrect— but what they notice about the space and choose to focus on in their story is what is interesting. It gives you a glimpse at how this specific writer perceives and makes sense of the world. WHY does this writer focus on the room’s structural features? What does that say about them? WHY does this writer focus on the furnishings? What does that say about THEM?
It is about learning to engage with writing, and the person who wrote it, on a deeper level. Only George Orwell could’ve written 1984, only Toni Morrison could’ve written Beloved.
Now look at the curtains and tell me why that is.
new ask game send me a 🌻 and ill just tell you whatever the fuck i want
lamb
lamb
God taps the window of your cubicle, shaking your enclosure, wondering why its creation is so sad.
It is not the god that you worship. It is the one that is here, it is the one that made you. It is your mother glancing worriedly at her phone. It is your father staring at your old bike. It is your friends wondering why you have been so quiet. It is that part of you that looked at the world with wonder, but has been hidden for so long.
"Get back to work" the beast says, "You want to eat don't you?"
You tune the tapping out, and serve your "betters". Just as you do every day. Just the same as the poor creatures around you.
...
The Beast scratches at your phone, vying for your attention, wondering why its servant is absent.
It is not the beast that hunts you. It is the one that is a true threat, it is the one that already has you trapped. It is the one that sells away your health. It is the one that extorts your hunger. It is the one that wrings you dry. It is the one that told you your wonder is "frivolous".
"What's wrong?" god says, "Would another pretzel bite help?"
You ignore the scratching, and hold god in your hand. Just as you do whenever you can. Just the same as the poor creatures around you.
Love their outfits! Seeing them dance together is always a joy.
If you are still looking for doodle requests, perhaps Narinder and Lamb dancing? I always thought those were so fun.
Narinder falling into a Leshy hole is also fun.
i drew them on stream wheeee dancing is v fun
i am getting better at fabric look at them not being naked lololol
He worries.
He will never admit it, but he worries.
It's not something I've experienced much myself, and I am hardly a historical scholar, but I can imagine how genocide or oppression can hollow out a culture and leave the survivors with only the worst parts of it. How they only remember the way their people would run and fight and hide. How they only remember the jackboots in the streets, the insults hurled their way and the friends left to die. How no one remembers the way they celebrate because they haven't done so in so long. How no one remembers their stories because the ones who told them are dead and their books burned. How cruelty strips everything away and much of what is left must be cruel in kind.
But they still sing. They still dance. And they do so because joy is stronger than those who would see it stamped out. Because they are still here, and no amount of hate can change that.
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.
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.
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
A group of hooded figures watch from high in the trees as a lone lamb picks flowers from the forest floor below.
"Something's off..." An opossum shifts in his perch on a branch. "The crown, where is it?"
The badger on the branch next to him flashes a manic smile from underneath his black hood. "That's the thing! They lost it! They're vulnerable. Grendal, you and me, we can be the ones to finally kill them."
Grendal fidgets nervously with the pick he grips in his hands. "The way I've heard it, they've fought gods Flitch. You think we can take that?"
The badger next to him scoffs, rolling his eyes at a cowardly opossum. "Please. All the power they've ever had, it all came from their fake god. Can a fake god stand up to the might of the bishops?"
Grendal shrinks down into his arms, "Well... no...".
"Exactly. And guess what, they don't even have their fake god's power anymore!" Flitch grabs his compatriot by the wrists, and shakes them, as though he could wring the cowardice out. "They've lost the crown. They're nothing now. Just a little lamb, waiting for slaughter."
"Right," Grendal gives the signal to the others waiting in the tree tops "just a lamb"
Half a dozen warriors drop to the ground below, armed to the teeth with picks, knives and magic of the old faith. The lamb is outmatched and outnumbered, all on their lonesome carrying nothing more than a basket of flowers, and a bag slung over their shoulder.
They hardly seem surprised by their sudden appearance. Stopping in their path, they simply stand there; hands folded in front of them, quiet and relaxed, waiting patiently.
"Just a lamb. Just another sacrifice."
---
Grendal gapes in horror at the carnage around him. Corpses cut to pieces and burned bodies surround The Lamb, blood dripping down the steel of their blade as they stare at him expectantly.
It had all happened so fast; the violence, the killing. He believed himself to be an expert, but how many times has The Lamb danced this dance? Dozens, hundreds of times? How foolish was he to think he could fight that?
Shakey hands raise his pick at the lamb. They don't react. They don't need to. What threat could one fool pose to such an efficient killer?
There is a long, agonizing moment where neither of them move, each staring at the other, waiting for their next move. Eventually, The Lamb begins to step toward the terrified heretic.
Grendal drops his blade, falling prostrate before his target. "Please, spare me! I was wrong! I shouldn't have come after you!"
He hears the sound of hooves on dirt as they approach him, and flinches as they kick his weapon away. "Please..." he sobs "I'm sorry."
Gently, a bundle of flowers and two rolls of bandages are placed before him. "Your friend, the badger, he still breathes." They motion to a body leaning against a tree at the far end of the clearing. "Clean and apply pressure to the wound. Grind the flowers into a paste and lather it on the cut when the bleeding slows. It will stave off infection and help with clotting."
They rise from where they crouched before their assailant. "Work quick, and you should be able to save him."
"...why?" Grendal cautiously brings his eyes to meet The Lamb's. "Why not just kill us?"
Their mouth turns down, and eyes droop to the forest floor. "Because I never wanted to in the first place."
I can still see everything from you and have your profile pic unblurred, but had to go into settings and turn off the option to blur "mature" content.
anyways uh yeah imma see what i can do about the mature thing but like, yknow
My most successful post is entirely based on other people's work. This is less a dig at myself and more a comment on how other artists lift me up and inspire me by being Just That Good.
Pro tip! Instead of doom scrolling for 8 hours at work, doodle your favorite lambs! Then hide them from your coworkers so they still think you're normal!
Artists are: @stychu-stych, @theshepherdshound, @bamsara, @aveloka-draws and @ane-doodles.
Shout out to this post for being labeled as mature? Why you may ask? No idea. Maybe Tumblr just doesn't like him.
I did it again, but the cat this time! For whatever reason, Narinder is always harder for me to draw. I suppose I'll just chalk it up to him being a bastard.
Artists are: @stychu-stych , @theshepherdshound , @bamsara , @aveloka-draws and @ane-doodles .
If Marshal Hamal carries a six shooter, does that make it the Colt Of The Lamb?
It sure does.
I need to find a way to work this pun into the fic lol
A Cowpoke's Sweetheart | Chapter 15 | Cult of the Lamb
So far, they’ve made pretty good time. Hamal realizes with a start that they’re only a day or so out from Meadow Rock. It’s less of a town than Independence and more of a…village. As far as they can remember, there’s a shop that calls itself a general store but mostly sells fish bait and trail rations, an old lady with no teeth who sells moonshine, a courier who could be paid to run letters to the proper postmen in Independence, and a handful of drunken hunters. Not exactly a bustling metropolis, but it’s also the last speck of civilization they’ll see for some time. Shortly after that realization, they notice clouds building on the horizon, as though nature itself had come to the same conclusion and decided it couldn’t let them off quite so easily. All day they watch the clouds grow taller and darker, like titans formed of turbulent shadow. When the wind picks up, Hamal calls it and stops the wagon. Narinder looks up from his book — a well worn copy of Frankenstein, this time — and asks, “Why are we stopping?” Hamal gestures to the looming clouds as they climb down from the wagon. As their boots hit the dirt, they hear him simply say, “Ah.”
Currently attempting to write a lamb, but I like the idea that they are a scholar, or at the very least would wish to be one.
I have an idea that they were raised from birth to read and write, to analyze the people and world around them and write it down. To collect cultures and thoughts and ideas to place into a book as a living history.
The reason being for this is that they were born into a generation that knew it was going to die, so while the others were trained to hunt, kill and hide, this lamb was taught to record everything that was left before it was gone for good. A sort of desperate effort to leave something behind, in the hopes that someone will find it and remember them when they are all gone.
As a cult leader, this translates perfectly into record keeping and maintaining a detailed history of the cult and its inhabitants. This also means The Lamb is physically unable to let go of their past and the grief attached to it. They have it all written down and re-read it over and over because someone has to remember. Someone needs to keep some part of them alive. Someone must remember every detail and they don't remember the color of their mother's eyes. They never wrote it down they don't remember what was the color why didn't they write it down whatwasthecolorwhatwasthecolorwhatwasthecolor
what's a characteristic you've given your Lamb and why?
I'll go first: My Lamb talks a lot. They're a rambler, and I got the idea from spamming the 'B to Bleat' button in game. Lil dude has a special button to repeatedly make noise
A bunch of misc. doodles. Some is me trying to figure out how to draw a lamb, some is drawings of D&D OCs. Indavidual doodles below the break if I did this right.
Lamb. Lamby Lamb. Forever trapped between wanting a round sketchy art-style, a clean angular art-style, and not having either.
Pyre. Masked guy with a big sword.
Hephaestus. Man's got terminal RBF
He might be blind, but he can still see you.
Creature???
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.
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
Can you draw Leshy trying to convince Lamb and Narinder to go to couples therapy?
i love leshy, he has many secrets. not sure if he's very successful in convincing them so much as outright forcing them?
i don't think he uses his perceptions kindly though. but given that his providence was chaos it would've been important for him to immediately read everyone. the others would've likely been fine at it for like.... other gods, but leshy i assume does this to everyone just to fuck with them
i did also eventually settle on what it was that leshy traded with the mystic seller as the last trade any of the bishops did
I did it again, but the cat this time! For whatever reason, Narinder is always harder for me to draw. I suppose I'll just chalk it up to him being a bastard.
Artists are: @stychu-stych , @theshepherdshound , @bamsara , @aveloka-draws and @ane-doodles .
Heavanswaed Dark Knight fit for my WOL. I always liked the simpler outfits over the big flashy suits of armor. And look, he's got a ✨scarf✨.
My Warrior of Light in his ARR summoner fit. We love Brayflox Longstop for that fancy early game gear
Pro tip! Instead of doom scrolling for 8 hours at work, doodle your favorite lambs! Then hide them from your coworkers so they still think you're normal!
Artists are: @stychu-stych, @theshepherdshound, @bamsara, @aveloka-draws and @ane-doodles.
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.
