The Remains of the Cult (of the Lamb) | Essay

You’ve defeated the Bishops of the Old Faith, and the Witnesses that sprung up in their wake. You refused to relinquish the Red Crown; refused to bow to the One Who Waits. Your patron, the on in whose name you committed countless atrocities — in whose name do you fulfil your dark desires now? The bloodlust, the pillaging; recruiting new followers and, if necessary, converting them by force.

You’ve traded with the Fisherman and the worshippers of Spore Grotto. You have freed the land from famine and pestilence. Liberating these woods has made them stronger, and to thank you for your labour its inhabitants now fight you harder. You follow the path over and over again; the forest’s shifting and winding ways never the same, and you return with bounty beyond your imagination.

You feed your flock and tend to them — their devotion makes you stronger, and it makes you richer, too. When your Cult is at the peak of its strength, there’s no more need for devotion, only coin. Gold, gold, only more gold. At night, spiders will make off with your coin — catch them, get your gold and a tasty morsel, too.

Shamura turned your followers against you — more than one loyal soul have you lost to their vengeance and threats. But you persevered, and now the lands are free. You have fields of crops and the harvest is bountiful. You only rarely seek out the seed merchant — the realms are open to you, and you find all you need on your crusades.

But against whom are you crusading?

Your flock still grows, though you could stop searching for new minds to bend to your will. But why would you? Followers live and love and laugh — and die. Some of old age, some wish to be sacrificed or murdered in the night, and who are you to deny their wish?

Thoran insists that Brear is a spy sent by the non-believers and petitions you to have them thrown in the stocks. Brear loves you and wishes to marry. Ybret wants Hrurubert to eat a bowl of poop.

The cemetery’s full and there’s still funerals to be held: harvesting meat it is, but you declared the doctrine to grieve the fallen, so they cannot return to the earth on the fields. Still, you carry enough poop in your pocket to fertilise the camellias you grow to heal the sick, the beets and berries to feed them. You sell pumpkins by the dozens, for you are tired of cleaning up after everyone who loses their lunch as soon as eating it.

There are days, weeks, when you have no need to venture into the Darkwood. Anura is quiet, and so are Anchordeep and Silk Cradle. There is no threat to your leadership — yet. You remain with your flock to hold sermons and take confession; to listen to their sorrows and rage. There’s no more doctrine left to teach, they have pledged themselves to you until death, and the ones who join will do the same. They seek sanctuary, and you give them a home, teaching them love through labour and loyalty.

Dissent comes when you fail — and it lies with you to punish them for your mistakes, or to make amends. Call yourself a fool when there’s no harm in it and respect to be won — but is it forgiveness if it comes as a tithe?

Sermons and enrichment: your coffers swell, full to bursting with what earthly goods your flock can spare. Midas’ Cave is a place of temptation, but its gods are fickle. Your so-called friends are but merchants to trade; one paranoid, one greedy — well, make that two, and one with eyes only for the sea. More than two eyes, too.

What need have you for devotion? Of coin? Of fealty? What else is coming? A challenger, a foe? Will the Bishops return one day, casting off the bonds of death? Their Witnesses are gone, but who might resurrect them?

Return to your flock, lamb, for you are now no less than a god. The future will do as it will.