Cotl Outfit Ideas: Lamb Inspo

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.

Lol, remember when I said that their design would probably change?

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.

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.

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 .

combined the wip cus i haven't worked on this thing yet hcgvj

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.”

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.”

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