“I am not what they prayed for. I am what answered.”

Rules of Contact

“If you’re looking for a god, look no further. I’m not divine. I’m just what’s left.”

Dossier.

“Some altars bleed. I merely remember.”

History and Lore

“The first time they called me holy, I smiled. The second time, I forgave them.”

  Act I — The Quiet Birth
 
Blackpetal Hollow
Far beyond the reach of kings or roads, a small village lay cloaked in perpetual twilight. Once it had no name, but in hushed tales it came to be known as Blackpetal Hollow. The settlement nestled in a vale where strange black flowers blossomed among the weeds, their petals dark as midnight. The villagers led simple lives there—tending meager crops by day, huddling by smoky hearths at night—yet always with one eye on the encircling woods. For in that remote hollow, even ordinary days carried the weight of old secrets and shadows. On one moonless night, a child was born to Blackpetal Hollow under portentous silence. The birth was difficult and the midwives waited for the newborn’s cry—but none came. The babe emerged into the world as quiet as a held breath. For a heartbeat the midwives feared her stillborn, until the infant opened her eyes with calm focus, alive and alert yet eerily mute. The child’s mother, pale and fading from the ordeal, whispered only “Lamb” before death claimed her. And so the silent infant was christened Lamb Noctessa Thorne, ushered into life amid sorrow and unnatural quiet. As Lamb grew into a slight and solemn girl, her unsettling quietude remained. Other children laughed and played in the muddy lanes, but Lamb moved with an eerie stillness beyond her years. She would sit for hours at the edge of the forest beneath a twisted old oak, listening to unheard melodies in the wind. Her eyes, dark and distant, often seemed focused on something just beyond mortal sight. Not a giggle nor tantrum escaped her lips; even her footsteps fell soft as a whisper on mossy ground. It was an eerie stillness that clung to her like a second shadow, noticed by all who crossed her path. The villagers of Blackpetal Hollow grew uneasy under Lamb’s quiet gaze. Mothers murmured prayers and drew protective signs when the girl passed by, and children peered from behind doorways with fearful curiosity. To them, this pale, silent child was a being out of a folktale—perhaps a changeling left by forest spirits, or a vessel for some old soul. Yet not all eyes looked on Lamb with dread alone; a few elders regarded her with reverence mingled with fear. They remembered whispers of ancient times, of omens and special children touched by powers in the earth. In Lamb’s still demeanor and midnight eyes, those elders saw a portent—a child set apart by the old gods. Whether cursed or blessed, none could say, but everyone felt that hush when she entered a room. One autumn dusk, as ashen light stretched thin across the fields, a farmer found young Lamb standing before the ancient stone that loomed on the hill outside the village. This weathered monolith had stood for ages untold, a remnant of forbidden worship from long before. Lamb’s small hand rested on the mossy altar-stone as she hummed a low, wordless tune to the gathering darkness. Black petals from wild blooms swirled in the chilly breeze around her bare feet. The farmer, struck with a sudden terror and awe, hurried away to tell the others. That night, the village buzzed with hushed dread. Villagers spoke of how the quiet girl had sought out the old altar on the hill, as if drawn by a call none else could hear. In their hearts, the people of Blackpetal Hollow knew: something was stirring, and Lamb Noctessa Thorne stood at the mysterious center of it.
Whispers of the Old Ways
Misfortune soon gathered over Blackpetal Hollow like a stormcloud. The harvest that year came in stunted and blackened by blight, leaving granaries nearly empty. Wells began to falter, the water turning brackish and low. By night, a wasting sickness crept from door to door; coughing fits and fevers plagued the young and old alike. No prayer to the new holy idols brought relief. With each passing week, dread settled heavier upon the village, and superstitious eyes turned again and again to silent Lamb as she wandered under the woeful sky. In her uncanny calm, some wondered, had the strange child brought this curse—or was she meant to lift it? In secret, the elders of the village gathered to discuss a terrible choice. In flickering firelight behind the meeting hall’s closed shutters, they spoke of ancient practices long forbidden. Grandmother Sybil, oldest of them all, recalled the hushed lullabies her grandmother sang—lullabies that were in truth fragments of an older worship. She trembled as she recounted the legend of a power chained beneath the earth, an ancient god whom their ancestors had both feared and bargained with in darker times. Long ago—so the tales said—when famine or plague struck, the village had performed a sacred blood rite to appease this buried deity. Such rituals had been outlawed for generations, banished as evil and forgotten by all but a few. Yet now those fearful memories returned. The elders found their tongues whispering the name of that rite once more: "The Stillheart Offering." The Stillheart Offering demanded a sacrifice—one of pure spirit, given freely (or so it was said) to the hungry darkness below. To spill innocent blood upon the old stone altar was to rekindle the ancient pact and beg the chained god’s mercy. At first, even voicing this plan felt like a sin. How could they condemn a child of their own village? But then a hollow voice in the corner reminded them: “She was never quite ours, was she?” One by one, desperate faces turned toward Lamb’s distant silhouette outside, illuminated by cold starlight as if marked by fate. Her very name seemed a sign—Lamb, the sacrificial lamb. Perhaps she had been born for this sole purpose. Whispers spread from the elders to families: that the silent girl must be offered, her still heart given in exchange for Blackpetal Hollow’s deliverance. Some wept at the thought, and some steeled themselves with grim resolve. In the end, desperation and ancient superstition won out over pity. The village agreed that come the next dark moon, they would perform the unholy ceremony their forefathers had forbidden, and Lamb Noctessa Thorne would be the one to fulfill the old covenant.
The Stillheart Offering
The appointed night arrived, moonless and ominously still. Under a star-dusted sky dark as a widow’s shawl, the people of Blackpetal Hollow gathered at the ancient hill where the moss-grown stone altar awaited. A circle of torch flames wavered in the cold wind as the villagers assembled in somber silence. They had dressed Lamb in a simple gown of white linen, and a crown of withered blackpetal flowers was placed upon her ink-dark hair. To an outside eye it might have looked like a wedding or a grim coronation—except the bride was a sacrificial offering, and the witnesses were steeped in dread. Lamb herself walked at the center of the procession with hands unbound, her bare feet treading the path lightly. Those who walked behind swore they heard her quietly humming a lullaby under her breath, the same uncanny tune some had heard at the old stone before. Atop the hill, the old altar stone loomed beneath twisted oak branches that clawed at the sky. The villagers formed a half-circle around it, faces drawn and ghost-pale in the firelight. Grandmother Sybil stood at the head, acting now as priestess of the forgotten rite. From the folds of her cloak, Sybil produced a long ritual knife—an heirloom of a darker age. Its blade was of ancient bronze, dulled green with patina and etched in strange runes; yet its edge had been sharpened keen for this night. A hush fell as Lamb Noctessa Thorne willingly lay back upon the altar. The cold stone pressed against her small back through the thin linen of her gown. Sybil and another elder gently bound Lamb’s wrists to the stone with frayed silken cords, though the girl made no attempt to flee or resist. Her calm acceptance brought tears to a few eyes in the crowd. Lamb’s own gaze turned up to the heavens, where heavy clouds now drifted to blot out the stars. She felt no fear, only a distant melancholy. In the silence, she closed her eyes and listened for that familiar heartbeat in the deep earth below. Faint and slow, it echoed in her mind, and Lamb almost found herself humming in harmony with it. “Hear us, O Bound One beneath the world…” Sybil’s voice rang out over the whispering wind, carrying the old words that had not been spoken aloud for generations. The gathered villagers repeated the incantation in uneasy, low voices. “In darkness and desperation, we return to You.” Another gust sighed through the branches as if in answer. The flames of the torches bowed and fluttered. Sybil raised her aged arms, knife glinting in one hand and an earthen bowl in the other. “Accept our offering—this innocent blood—to break the curse upon us.” Her tone was reverent, almost pleading, and the villagers echoed, “Accept our offering…” Sybil’s gaze swept over the people and then down to the girl lying so still on the altar. “Tonight, we give You Lamb Noctessa Thorne,” she cried, her voice cracking with emotion. “In her still heart, take heed of our prayer. In her blood, find strength. Spare us and let our land be healed.” A tremor passed through Lamb’s body at those words—not of terror, but of strange expectation. Though her eyes remained shut, a single tear escaped and trailed down her cheek, glittering in the torchlight. High above, the clouds had fully smothered the moon, and an oppressive hush fell over Blackpetal Hollow. The air itself seemed to hold its breath. Sybil lowered the bowl and placed it just below the altar’s edge, positioned to catch what was to come. She then nodded to the tall blacksmith, who had been chosen to wield the blade for the sacrifice. The burly man stepped forward, his features grim and ashen, and accepted the ritual knife from Sybil’s trembling hand. He hesitated only a moment, jaw clenched, before raising that cruel blade high. Lamb’s lips parted ever so slightly. Perhaps she whispered something then—a final prayer, or a fragment of her lullaby—none could tell. In that instant, the blacksmith brought the knife arcing down. The blade plunged into Lamb’s breast, straight through to her quiet heart. A collective gasp and sob rose from the villagers as the child jolted once, arching upon the stone. Lamb’s eyes flew open wide, reflecting the firelight—but she did not scream. Not a sound escaped her pale lips, only a soft exhalation like the final verse of a lullaby. As the knife was withdrawn, a ribbon of crimson bloomed across the white linen of her gown. Hot blood flowed over the altar’s sides, dribbling into the earthen bowl and onto the thirsty soil below. In that moment, all the night noises of the hollow ceased—no crickets, no distant owl, not even the wind. The world seemed to pause in reverence and horror. Sybil stepped forward, tears silvering her cheeks, and peered into Lamb’s face. The girl’s eyes were still open, soft and glassy. With gentle fingers, the old woman closed the child’s eyelids and murmured, “It is done.” A low rumble of thunder sounded in the distance, and as if on cue, cold rain began to fall in sparse droplets. The first rain in months pattered onto the stone and mingled with Lamb’s blood, diluting bright red with murky rainwater that ran off the altar’s edges. A sigh of wind arose, scattering a flurry of black petals from the wreath in Lamb’s hair. The petals swirled down onto her still form, settling in the blood around her like dark tears. The villagers watched in frightened awe as the drizzle speckled their faces. To them, this gentle rain felt like a blessed sign—their offering had been accepted. Relief and grief warred in their hearts. In silence, they each knelt and bowed their heads toward the altar, giving thanks and begging forgiveness all at once. One by one, the people of Blackpetal Hollow retreated from the sacred hill, leaving the sacrifice upon the stone as tradition demanded. Torches flickered and hissed in the damp air as the villagers made their way down the slope, some sobbing quietly, others stony-faced with the weight of what they had done. Soon, only Sybil remained a moment longer in the falling rain, her old bones shaking. She whispered a final trembling prayer into the darkness—words lost in the roll of another distant thunder. Then the last torch descended the hill and vanished among the trees, and the ritual site was abandoned to night. Upon the ancient altar lay the lifeless body of Lamb Noctessa Thorne, clad in white now stained red, crowned with wilted black petals. Rainwater pooled in the hollow of the stone, washing the blood from the grooves of those ancient runes, carrying it deep into the soil. All was quiet, save for the soft patter of rain and the fading echoes of the villagers’ footsteps.
Beneath the World, the Chained God Stirs
Deep, deep beneath Blackpetal Hollow, beyond the roots of the mountains and the reach of any sun, an ancient presence stirred. In that lightless abyss, a god long chained in silence suddenly awoke to a taste of blood and sacrifice. For countless generations it had been little more than a hushed rumour in the stones, a listening force bound in dreamless slumber. No prayers had reached it since the old rites were banned; no living voice had whispered its forbidden name. Yet it had waited, patient and hungry, with ears attuned to the slightest tremor of devotion above. Now, on this moonless night, the echoes of Lamb’s offering resonated through the bedrock. The hot spill of innocent blood soaking into the earth was a signal—a summons the chained god could not ignore. The god’s awareness unfurled like a great shadow through the veins of the soil. It felt the life essence of the sacrificed girl blooming in the darkness like a rare flower. In its mind’s eye, the god beheld Lamb’s spirit drifting near, pale and luminous against the gloom. It perceived her fully: the uncanny stillness that had always lived within her, the quiet courage in her final breath. She was unlike the frantic, fear-wracked offerings it dimly remembered from ages past. This soul was calm, almost gentle, even as her life flickered out. To the bound god, Lamb’s silent surrender was as beautiful as a piece of mournful music after centuries of deafness. In that moment, the ancient one felt a stir of something akin to gratitude—or reverence—toward the girl who had died so silently in its name. The chained god reached out, though its form remained imprisoned far below. With tendrils of unseen power, it encircled Lamb’s ebbing spirit. The veil between death and life was thin here on this blood-soaked hill, and the god’s essence seeped through that veil like dark incense. Rather than devour the girl’s soul outright, the entity embraced it. It imparted a fragment of itself unto Lamb—a sliver of immortal shadow to fuse with her mortal core. It was not an act of mercy exactly, nor entirely cruelty, but something beyond mortal reckoning: a claiming. In the black silence under the world, the god gave Lamb a gift of unholy grace, binding her to its own endless being. Knowledge ancient and wordless rushed into her in that exchange: the understanding of all that crept and sighed beneath the earth, the weight of years and sorrows no human had ever borne. And with that dark boon came life anew. On the altar above, Lamb’s still heart gave a sudden thump, then another. The spilled blood around her began to stir, as if drawn back toward her wounds by an invisible thread. Lamb’s chest rose faintly—once, then again. A shuddering inhale rattled from her lips, and she drew breath once more, shallow but growing stronger by the second. Rain continued to fall on her closed eyes and pallid cheeks, washing them clean. After a long moment, those eyes fluttered open. In the darkness there was no one to witness it, but had any remained they would have seen a subtle glow behind her eyes, a pale glint like distant starlight in midnight pools. Lamb Noctessa Thorne, who had died moments before, was alive. She lay quietly upon the altar, staring up into the weeping sky. Her heartbeat was no longer slow and ordinary, but deep and resonant—an echo of another heartbeat far beneath the world. For a time, Lamb simply breathed, the rain mingling with her hair and the remnants of her blood. She felt no pain from the mortal wound that had killed her; in fact, the gash in her breast was kni

  Act II — The Vessel Wakes  
Lamb Noctessa Thorne stands at the twilight edge of Blackpetal Hollow, half-hidden behind ancient pines. A hush clings to the air around her as she gazes down upon the village she once called home. Smoke curls lazily from a handful of cottage chimneys; distant voices carry on the breeze, gentle and untroubled. The world continues on, ignorant of the quiet figure watching from the tree line. She has returned, but not to be seen. In the long shadows, Lamb observes the villagers going about their lives with relief and forgetfulness. Only a few weeks have passed since the night of the Stillheart Offering—since the night she died for them—yet already their days hum with simple, innocent normalcy. Children chase one another across the green; a farmer laughs as he carries a basket of late-harvest apples. They have already let go of fear, their sacrifice accepted, their prayers answered. Lamb feels a faint sickness coil in her stomach. It is not quite anger that moves in her, but a deep estrangement. In their relief, no one speaks of her. Perhaps they dare not utter Lamb’s name, lest it call forth the memory of what they’ve done. Her name drifts like a ghost through the hush—unmentioned, maybe purposefully forgotten. From afar, she watches a few villagers gather at dusk by the old stone shrine in the square. They light candles and intone soft prayers of thanks, the final rite of the day. Once, such a ritual would have moved Lamb’s heart with reverence. Now it stirs only cold disgust. The words are the same as they ever were—pleas for protection, gratitude for peace—but to Lamb’s ears they ring hollow. Their gods did not save her. Their prayers did not spare her from the knife. She was offered up, her blood spilled on ancient stone, and still these people pray as if it all meant nothing more than a passing storm. In the sacred stillness of her own rebirth, those prayers feel empty and small. Lamb slips through the gloom along the tree line, circling the village’s edge with soundless steps. No one senses her there among the sighing reeds and dusk-laden fog. She is a silent revenant in her own homeland. Where once she walked among them as a daughter and a friend, now she remains apart—unseen, unknown, and unknowable. The thought brings a bitter taste to her tongue: she had given everything for these lives, and now finds she cannot share in them anymore.
The Candle Within
Yet as Lamb lingers in silence, she becomes aware of something new stirring inside her. In the hollow of her chest, where fear and sorrow once lived, there is now a steady glow—like a candle lit from within. The chained god who dragged her back from death no longer whispers in her ear, yet she can feel that god’s presence coiled quietly around her heart. It warms her from the inside out, a gentle radiance that was never there before. In that inner glow comes strength. Lamb feels more whole than she ever did in her old life. Her limbs are light and sure, moving without effort as if guided by unseen hands. The chill of evening does not bite at her skin; the ache of the bruises left by the sacrificial ropes has vanished. Her senses are sharpened—the rustle of each leaf in the wood, the distant heartbeats of sleeping birds, even the slow breathing of the earth itself: all these she perceives with uncanny clarity. It is as though the boundaries of her body have softened, flowing into the world around her. Though the god is silent, Lamb is not truly alone. In the quiet chamber of her soul, she feels the slow, patient pulse of divine power. It does not command or demand anything of her now; it simply is, resting within her like a great creature curled in slumber. She suspects this power would answer if she called on it—but she does not yet fully understand it, and so she lets it be. For now, it is enough to know that wherever she goes, a faint aura goes with her, haloing her every step in unseen light.
Quiet Miracles
As Lamb moves softly along the outskirts of the Hollow, the world responds to her presence in subtle, wondrous ways. Each footfall kisses the earth, and something new awakens at her touch. In her wake, tender green shoots push up through the mossy forest floor. Where her bare feet press, flowers with midnight-black petals unfurl from the soil—an echo of Blackpetal Hollow’s very name. She pauses and looks back at the small trail of blossoms that now marks her path. A gentle frown crosses her face at the sight. These blooms have risen as naturally as the morning sun, effortless and unbidden. To Lamb, it feels less like a miracle and more like the earth itself is greeting her, recognizing one who walked in death and returned changed. Near the edge of a moonlit pasture, she notices a farmhand kneeling to inspect a lamb caught in a thorny bramble. The little creature bleats softly, its hind leg tangled in cruel wire and thorns. The young man frees the animal and murmurs comfort, but worry etches his brow when he sees blood matted on its wool. From the cover of dusk, Lamb watches with quiet compassion welling in her chest. She barely raises her hand—only the slightest motion—and lets her gaze rest upon the lamb’s wound. In that moment of gentle focus, the gash along the creature’s leg begins to knit itself closed. Within a breath, torn flesh is made whole. The lamb shakes its woolly head and stands, the pain gone as if it had never been. The farmhand starts in disbelief, nearly dropping his lantern. He had witnessed flesh mend as though time itself flowed backward, yet he saw no healer in sight. His trembling fingers touch a fresh cut on his own forearm—a scratch earned on that same barbed wire—and find nothing but smooth skin where droplets of blood had been moments before. The man makes a frightened sign of warding, then a reverent sign of thanks to whatever unseen grace passed by his field. Hidden among the reeds, Lamb exhales, a faint smile ghosting across her lips. And yet, to her it still does not truly feel like magic. It feels as natural as breathing, as simple as a thought made real. Animals, too, know that something in the night has shifted. As Lamb passes beneath an aspen thicket, a great stag with antlers crowned in velvet steps out onto her moonlit path. The beast meets her eyes under the silver glow of the risen moon. Instead of bolting in fear, the stag bends its forelegs and lowers its head—antlers nearly brushing the ground in a gesture of solemn respect. Birds roosting in the canopy above grow still and watch in silence; she can sense their quick hearts fluttering with a curious calm. Even the crickets hush their night-song in the grasses until she has passed. Lamb notices each of these gentle wonders with distant, dreamlike acceptance. The wild creatures recognize her as something apart—something both of this world and beyond it. These moments of wordless communion feel right to her, not like conjuring or sorcery, but simply the way things are meant to be around one who carries a sliver of godhood in her bones.
The Weight of Worship
It is under the cold light of the stars that someone from the village finally sees her. Lamb is crossing near an old well at the far edge of the fields when she hears the sharp intake of a breath. A lone villager stands frozen on the footpath, drawn by the pale figure moving at the periphery of his vision. Lamb turns slowly to face him, her form limned in moonlight and the soft aura emanating from within. She recognizes the young man—he is a neighbor’s son, one who once played with her as a child. His name hovers just out of reach in her mind, a fragment from a life that ended on the altar stone. The villager’s eyes widen in disbelief, then flood with awe. He takes a faltering step forward, and the bundle of kindling in his arms tumbles to the ground. “Lamb...?” he whispers, voice trembling as if speaking to a ghost. In that single word is a wealth of heartbreak and wonder: the echo of a girl long thought lost, and the trembling hope of her impossible return. He falls to his knees in the wet grass. The motion is slow, deliberate—an act of devotion. “You have returned,” he breathes, tears carving shining paths down his cheeks. “Divine one... merciful gods... you are here.” He bows his head low, overcome, as though in the presence of a living saint. A pang spears through Lamb’s heart—a sharp, sudden pain cleaving the gentle calm that had settled in her. It is as if a fine crack splits the radiant core within her breast, leaking sorrow into her blood. She flinches at the word divine. Unease grips her; she feels the ghostly memory of chains tightening around her wrists and ankles. In a flash she recalls the iron shackles biting into her skin deep beneath the earth, when the chained god first pulled her back from death. She remembers the weight of being bound—first as a sacrifice laid upon the altar, then as a vessel to a power beyond mortal ken. And now here, under the open sky of a starlit field, this man would bind her anew with the chains of reverence. His worship, however well-meaning, presses on her soul like a yoke she never asked to bear. “Please,” Lamb whispers, her voice carrying on the night breeze with surprising steadiness. She steps forward and lays gentle fingers beneath the young man’s chin, urging him to lift his bowed head. “Do not kneel to me.” Her touch is light, and her tone is almost pleading. Startled, he raises his eyes to meet hers. He expected an angel’s countenance or a goddess’s pride, but in Lamb’s glowing gaze he finds only sadness and fearful compassion. “You... you saved us,” he stammers, confusion knitting his brow. “They said you were gone, that you gave yourself... but here you are. A miracle.” He reaches for her hand with shaking reverence, as if to assure himself she is flesh and not phantasm. “You must be divine... our guardian returned...” His words spill out in an eager, desperate rush. Lamb slips her fingers from his grasp and takes a step back, wrapping her arms around herself as though warding off a chill. She shakes her head, dark hair spilling over her shoulders. “I am no savior,” she says softly, and now her voice falters with emotion. “I am just... awake.” Her eyes brim with unshed tears that catch the moonlight. The young man remains on his knees, confusion and hurt warring on his face. He does not understand—how could he? He only sees the miracle before him, the beloved Lamb returned from the dead. To him, that wonder deserves nothing less than worship. But every reverent gaze, every adoring word feels like a weight pulling her backward—back into a story she no longer wishes to inhabit. At the sound of distant shouts drawing nearer, the young man tears his gaze from her to glance toward the village. Others have heard his cries and see the glow pooling like starlight by the old well. “Stay!” he begs, turning back to her, his voice high with sudden panic. “Let them see you. We... we can all be saved—” But Lamb is already stepping away, tears slipping down her cheeks. While the villager calls desperately after her, she backs into the veil of trees. His voice is soon joined by others—a chorus of astonishment rising in the darkness. Lantern light sweeps across the clearing by the well, bright and searching. Yet all they find is trampled grass and a single black-petaled flower, nodding gently in the midnight breeze. Lamb is gone—vanished into the shadows of the wild, as if she had never been there at all.
Into the Deep Wood
Lamb flees from the village outskirts, her feet barely touching the earth as she slips into the embrace of the nighted forest. Her heart is pounding—a wild, startled drum against her ribs. It is the first time she has felt truly afraid since her rebirth, and it is not fear of any beast or darkness lurking in the trees. It is the fear of being bound once more, of losing the fragile freedom she has only just claimed. The fine fracture within her spirit begins to mend as the shadows deepen and the familiar hush of the wild enfolds her like a protective cloak. She does not stop until the last golden lights of Blackpetal Hollow vanish behind the dense trunks and brambles. Only when she stands beneath a canopy of ancient oaks—their gnarled branches interlacing above like the vaulted ceiling of a cathedral—does Lamb finally pause to catch her breath. The night is profoundly silent here, save for the soft rustle of leaves and the distant hoot of an owl. In that stillness, she senses the god within stirring at the edges of sleep, roused by the thrum of her racing pulse. A moment later the presence subsides again, settling deep inside her chest like a great beast curling into contented slumber. The god sleeps within her still, and for that she is grateful. A thin shaft of moonlight pierces the branches, illuminating motes of silver in the air. Lamb tilts her head up toward the scattered stars peeking through the lattice of leaves. There is a vast world beyond this hollow, and she intends to find her place in it—somewhere far from the shadow of what was done to her. She stands now on the threshold of the deep wood, that endless, unmapped forest spoken of in half-hushed tales. Once, the very thought of walking into this unknown would have filled her with dread. Tonight, it feels like the door of a cage flung open. At the edge of a moonlit glade, Lamb takes a final lingering look back in the direction of Blackpetal Hollow. Darkness has swallowed the village; nothing of her old life remains visible beyond the trees. A faint ache blooms in her chest—sorrow for the home and the people she leaves behind—yet her resolve does not waver. That life was given up on an altar of stone, and there is no reclaiming it now. Gently wiping away her tears, Lamb whispers a soft goodbye—a prayer not to any god above, but to the memory of the girl she once was. Then, without another glance behind her, she turns and steps forward into the untamed night. As she ventures deeper, the forest itself seems to bow in quiet acknowledgment. Branches laden with moss part subtly before her, and the thorny underbrush yields to clear her path. An owl watches from a high perch, blinking solemnly as if in approval, and eyes gleam in the darkness at a respectful distance. Lamb walks onward, one deliberate step at a time, further into the heart of the unknown. She moves not as a lamb led to the altar, but as a woman walking a path of her own making. And though she walks alone, she is unafraid. A soft light, born of the god’s sleeping power and her own indomitable spirit, glimmers within her, guiding her forward. She will walk forward into whatever dawn may come—free, unfettered, and wholly herself.

  Act III — The Hollow Grove  
Lamb wanders alone beyond the edges of Blackpetal Hollow. No road guides her steps—only a silent pull deep within her soul. The chained god within her is silent now, a heavy hush at her core. Yet in that hush, something else stirs, faint but insistent, like a memory not her own. It draws her onward beneath ancient boughs, farther from all she has known. She walks beneath eaves of pine and oak where sunlight seldom reaches. No birds sing here; only the soft crunch of her steps and the whisper of leaves disturb the silence. Hours or days may have passed—time is lost in the green twilight beneath the trees. At last, the undergrowth thins and yields to a small clearing. In its midst, Lamb spies a shape of weathered stone where only wild growth should be. What Lamb finds is a small, abandoned chapel swallowed by the forest’s embrace. Its stone walls are dark with age and damp, braided in ivy and cracked by grasping roots. There is no mark of any faith here—no sigil carved, no icon hanging; the place feels blank, untouched by any god. Inside the dim ruins, nothing stirs—only motes of dust dancing in a weak shaft of light and the lingering hush of centuries. It is a hollow sanctuary of silence and stillness, hidden deep in the wilds and all but forgotten. Lamb steps over the threshold, disturbing a carpet of leaves that had gathered at the doorway. As she breathes in the cool, dust-laden air, the atmosphere seems to hum faintly, as if this space has long awaited a living soul. A gentle peace envelops her, a solitude that is not loneliness but sacred shelter. Her heart, so long restless, falls quiet with soft anticipation, like the expectant hush before an unseen dawn. In her bones, she knows: her wandering has led her here, and here she is meant to remain. In the days that follow, she begins to sanctify the place—not by any ritual or spell, but by her simple presence. She kneels and brushes years of dirt and dead leaves from a bare stone altar with her hands. In the emptiness, she hums a low melody without words, a tune that drifts through the broken nave and echoes against cracked walls. The chapel has no doors to bar the elements, and a slow wind wanders through the open archways; it catches a strand of Lamb’s hair and carries it across the cold altar stone. In these small, wordless acts, she consecrates the space by devotion alone. Lamb has no ink or quill for writing, so she finds a more primal way to mark this sacred place. Perhaps it is with charcoal from a burnt stick, or the dark juice of crushed berries, or even blood drawn from a thorn-prick on her finger. With one of these simple offerings, she carefully inscribes a few words upon the altar. It is her first prayer in this refuge—a verse not spoken aloud but offered in the language of ash and life:
Though no tongue speaks, a prayer rises still.
No one comes to this grove, and no mortal eyes witness Lamb’s solitary devotion. The forest keeps her secret—branches weave a veil of green around the ruins, bending to shield her sanctuary from prying eyes. Only the wild creatures know of her vigil—an owl blinking from a broken rafter, a fox still in the ferns, a few black ravens perched like silent statues among the high branches. The chained god within her slumbers on, silent in its ancient bonds. And still, she prays.ink.

  Act IV — The Red Rite 
In the stillness of Hollow Grove chapel, Lamb Noctessa Thorne stands alone, preparing for a quiet cataclysm. Night clings to the wooden rafters above, and only a halo of candlelight dares to press back the darkness. There are no mortal witnesses here—only ancient timber and cold stone silently observing. Lamb draws a slow breath, white hair falling around her horn-crowned brow as she closes her eyes. In this sacred hush, even the forest beyond holds its silence, as if the very world awaits her next motion. One by one, she gathers the elements for the rite, each a humble relic and a vow. A smear of ash, grey as predawn gloom, is scooped into a clay bowl. A length of deep scarlet thread is wound carefully around her fingers. A strip of frayed linen, once an altar cloth, is folded at her side. A small bleached bone, light as a whisper, rests in her palm. And lastly, she gathers silence itself—letting the final echoes of the night die until only her heartbeat and the faint crackle of candles remain. These offerings—ash, thread, fabric, bone, and silence—she lays reverently upon the chapel’s altar like pieces of a prayer. The rite Lamb performs is no grand spectacle, but a deeply personal communion. She kneels before the altar, spreading the ash in a careful circle and placing the bone at its center atop the folded fabric. The scarlet thread is draped in a gentle coil around them. Every movement is measured and deliberate, carried out with solemn grace. Ever since the chained god resurrected her, she has carried its presence within—a quiet shadow bound to her soul. Tonight, beneath the gaze of silent icons and bowed candles, she means to gently unbind that last tether. She does not seek to reject the god’s gifts, nor to drive it out in anger; instead, Lamb offers up her gratitude and an invitation. With a voice soft as prayer, she whispers "Thank you." She bows her head low, horned silhouette bathed in candle-glow, and in that act of grace the ancient deity stirs. The chained god’s presence, once coiled tight around her spirit, offers no resistance. It unfurls like a patient breath, answering the call of the rite. No blaze of light marks this moment—only an undeniable shift in the air, a gentle quiver in the candle flames. Lamb inhales slowly, drawing the god’s essence inward. An unseen warmth blooms in her chest, spreading through blood and bone. The invisible chain binding mortal and divine falls away with a final, soundless shudder. The power that was once a separate entity flows into her like water into parched earth. She absorbs it wholly, and the deity that had been her master and savior settles inside her, quiet and at peace. Within her, it will sleep—not banished, not destroyed, but integrated as part of her very being. In answer to this sacred union, the offerings on the altar begin to transform. The ash rises first, swirling up from the bowl as a fine grey veil in the air. It encircles Lamb, tracing the outline of her shoulders like phantom hands. Next, the bone in the center cracks and crumbles into pale dust, which the currents of magic catch and spin into the orbiting ash. The scarlet thread uncoils and lifts, twisting gently through the air of its own accord and weaving through the cloud of ash and bone-dust to draw faint crimson patterns in the darkness. Finally, the frayed linen stirs and lifts as if taken by invisible hands. The fabric unfurls and drifts around Lamb’s form, guided by the dancing thread and the settling ash. Piece by piece, the robe forms upon her. Not a stitch is sewn by human hand, but by sacred intent each element finds its place. Soft grey ash and white bone-dust fuse into the linen, dyeing it the muted color of storm clouds. The red thread slips through the cloth like a needle of light, embroidering it with sigils of devotion in delicate blood-hued accents. A mantle takes shape over her shoulders, and sleeves of wrought fabric coil down her arms. The silence in the chapel is absolute as this final offering binds it all together—no rustle of cloth, no scrape of thread, only a holy quiet as the new robe wraps her in its embrace. When the last mote of ash has settled, Lamb rises slowly to her feet, now clad in her final robe. It is a simple yet hallowed garment, born of offering and oath. In the dim glow of the chapel, the robe’s once-plain linen is marked with swirling patterns of charcoal and crimson, like prayers written in an ancient language across the fabric. A small clasp of ivory, formed from the bone, rests at her throat, fastening the robe closed. The attire carries the memory of every sacrifice and gift: humble in make, yet radiating quiet sanctity. Something in the atmosphere shifts as she stands transformed. The candles around her shrink their flames low, each one guttering to a timid glow as if bowing in her presence. The darkness in the corners of the chapel recedes—not from any blaze of light, but in silent deference. Beyond the chapel’s threshold, the forest itself has gone still. The usual chorus of night creatures holds its breath; even the dawn-bound birds hesitate, their morning songs forgotten in this moment. A deeper hush falls over Hollow Grove, a reverent calm stirred by the aura now emanating from Lamb. There is no flash of light, no clap of thunder to herald what she has become. Yet in the silence, her power is felt unmistakably—soft and unyielding, like the glow of embers beneath ash. Lamb Noctessa Thorne is no longer merely a vessel carrying another’s will. She stands sovereign and sanctified, divine in her own right. She is no longer the god’s echo. She is her own prayer.

  Act V: The Living Relic
 
In the aftermath of the Red Rite, Lamb emerged reborn. She is no longer a mere vessel nor a devout follower of another’s path—she is a divinity of her own making. A gentle pall of dusk clings to her form as she steps into the world anew, a living relic wandering between the realms of myth and memory. In quiet solitude, Lamb Noctessa Thorne has ascended beyond the bounds of mortality. Now wherever she walks, reverence blooms in her wake, unspoken and profound.
Wandering Beyond the Hollow Grove
Lamb’s presence extends beyond the Hollow Grove now, though always in subtle ways and never announced. Villagers in neighboring hamlets whisper of strange sightings at the forest’s edge—a pale silhouette with snow-white hair and curling horns glimpsed under moonlight. Blessings, or soft miracles, soon follow these fleeting apparitions. A withered orchard might burst into late bloom after midnight, or a bedridden elder awakens at dawn, inexplicably healed. No fanfare heralds her visits; Lamb passes like a phantom of grace, leaving only footprints that fade with the morning dew. Yet those humble souls touched by her silent wanderings know some sacred presence has brushed their lives. In one village, a child lost in the woods returns home at sunrise, speaking of a kind lady humming an old prayer as she guided him by hand through the dark. In another, an aging farmer finds his barren fields shimmering with new green shoots after a silent figure walked across the furrows beneath starlight. These tales are never identical, but each shares a quiet wonder. Lamb walks beyond her grove from time to time, and when she does, the world around her shifts gently toward the miraculous without a single word uttered.
A Quietly Growing Myth
In the wake of these secret journeys, the myth of Lamb grows on its own, needing no proclamation from the Living Relic herself. Around hearth-fires at night, villagers trade hushed stories of the horned woman who sang without sound and brought solace to the desperate. By candlelight, mothers sketch charcoal drawings of a slender figure with gentle eyes, teaching their children to recognize the Lady in White should she ever appear. Though she is not worshiped openly, small quiet offerings begin to appear at the edges of the Hollow Grove and on the doorsteps of those she has blessed—a sprig of white heather, a wooden charm carved in the shape of a lamb, a bowl of milk left out under the moon. These tokens are given in thankfulness and hope, not as tribute demanded, for Lamb seeks no worship. In abandoned chapels and moss-covered shrines deep in the woods, her memory is tended like a secret garden. Travelers have reported finding anonymous verses etched into stone: fragments of prayers and poems that seem dedicated to her gentle miracles. No grand temple rises in Lamb’s name, yet her spirit infuses the folklore of the land. Every new moon, the faithful (or merely the hopeful) light lanterns on their window sills, murmuring blessings toward the forest. They do so not because she asked it, but because her legend guides their hearts. In silence and subtlety, Lamb’s reverence grows into an unspoken faith.
Seekers Without Sermons
She does not seek followers, but inevitably some seek her. Pilgrims, drifters, and the broken-hearted are drawn to the Hollow Grove, guided by rumour or perhaps by dreams in which a soft humming beckons them. Those who find Lamb discover a quiet presence beneath ancient trees or by ruined altars wrapped in ivy. She offers no sermon, no doctrine to these seekers. Instead, Lamb might simply listen to their sorrows under the boughs, or meet their eyes with a gaze that reflects the truth they’ve hidden from themselves. Her presence alone acts as clarity or change: a grieving widow who encounters Lamb leaves the Grove with tears dried and a newfound calm in her soul; a wayward knight kneels before her in confusion and rises with purpose illuminated in his heart. She gives nothing explicitly—no promises, no talisman or grand revelation—yet people leave changed in profound, personal ways. One traveler, hardened by years of war, stumbles upon Lamb in a moonlit clearing. He expects words of prophecy or judgement, but she only places a hand lightly over his heart and hums a few notes of her ethereal prayer. In that moment, the rage and anguish he carried dissolve like mist. He departs at sunrise, not quite able to articulate what has shifted within him, only that the world now feels different and hope finds root in his breast once more. Many such wanderers go forth with similarly quiet transformations. They speak not of dogma or commandments, but of a wordless understanding they found in Lamb’s company—a feeling that their burdens had been lifted or their path gently realigned. In this way, Lamb gathers no formal disciples, but the echo of her grace lives on in each life she brushes.
Silent Prayers and Rituals
Even as her myth grows beyond, Lamb remains true to the private devotions that carried her through mortality to divinity. In the hollow of an ancient oak or by the glimmer of a forest spring, she continues to hum her prayers each day—soft melodies that weave through the trees like an evening breeze. These hymns have no lyrics that any living soul knows, yet the very woods seem to hush and listen. Animals draw near to the sound: a circle of quiet deer, an owl perched close by, fox kits peeking from the brush. All are unafraid, as if recognizing a familiar lullaby from the dawn of the world. Under pale moonlight, Lamb writes her own scripture in neat lines upon parchment made of pressed petals, or sometimes she inscribes verses with a fingertip in the frost on a stone altar. The words are in an old tongue, or perhaps a language of her own invention—a poetry of devotion and self-creation. She refines each of her silent rituals with care: lighting candles whose flames never flicker in the windless glade, arranging white lilies in patterns that correspond to constellations overhead, tracing sigils of protection and memory on tree bark with ash from sacred fires. These acts are not performed for an audience or a congregation. They are Lamb’s ongoing communion with the divine essence she has become. Through these rituals, she both honors what she was and nurtures what she is becoming, ensuring that the transformation wrought by the Red Rite deepens like roots into the soil of her soul.
Unchanged Yet Transfigured
Physically, Lamb appears exactly as she always did—there was no sudden metamorphosis of form when she claimed her divinity. Her slight figure still drapes in the same tattered, pale robes that once marked her as an acolyte. The pearl-white horns curled elegantly from her brow remain her silent crown, and her eyes still hold the gentle sorrow of wisdom hard-won. There is no dramatic transformation to startle the eye; no halo adorns her head, no wings grace her back. A passerby might mistake her for a simple wandering priestess at a glance. Yet those who draw near feel the change deep in their marrow. An aura and gravity undeniable now cling to Lamb like a cloak of ancient starlight. In her presence, the air feels richer, charged with a subtle thrumming like a far-off choir. The shadows around her seem to pool deeper and the light falls softer, as if the world itself knows a sacred being walks its soil. When Lamb steps into a tavern’s light by chance, conversation falters and a hush falls, though none can say why. Children at play pause in their laughter when she passes by, then resume with quieter joy, sensing a blessing in the air. Even animals bow their heads: a stray dog will lie down at her feet, a skittish horse will allow her delicate hand to stroke its muzzle as if tamed by an invisible command. Such is the gravity of her presence that all living things acknowledge her in instinctive reverence. Lamb remains outwardly humble and soft-spoken—often entirely silent—but within the calm of her face lies the weight of ages, miracles, and moonlit rites that have bound her to the tapestry of the divine. In every step she takes now, there is purpose and poise. She walks as one who has seen behind the veil of night and returned with secrets glimmering in her eyes. Those who meet her gaze find themselves breathless, as though looking upon something eternal and kindly unforgiving—a truth that is both beautiful and daunting. Lamb is a living relic, a testament to the power of faith and will unchained. And though her story flows onward like an endless river, this chapter of her lore closes as twilight closes a day: gently, inevitably, with the promise of dawn beyond. In the quiet that follows, a single phrase lingers, spoken once by Lamb under the sighing boughs of the Grove. It is a poetic benediction carried on the wind, a mystery and a comfort to all who remember it: "I am the hymn and I am the silence after—remember me in both."

Story will continue with more adventures of our Little Lamb~ ♥

RP Hooks

“She walks like a hymn long forgotten, and speaks like a secret trying not to be heard.”

—    Rules of Play.   

- Please talk to me ahead of trying to rp with me. I will decline to write with someone that I do not talk to prior.
- ERP must be talked about prior. My character is not meant for this kind of RP and will be treated with respect.
-Must have a thought out character (ex: detailed background, personality, and are willing to strive for character development)

—    Disclaimer   

- Please talk to me ahead of trying to rp with me. I will decline to write with someone that I do not talk to prior.
- I reserve the right to say NO to writing with anyone.
- Do not expect to become my "Ship."
- I am not looking for romantic interests. If this does form over writing, then me and the person writing will talk about it.
- I will not do ERP with people I am not comfortable with. I am not a one night stand or a sex machine. I will avoid this at all cost.
- God mode - I will avoid anyone with a god complex that think their character is the most powerful being on the planet.
- Anyone that tries to control my character through writing I will be avoiding.

Relationships.

“She walks like a hymn long forgotten, and speaks like a secret trying not to be heard.”

Gallery.

“Wherever she goes, the air smells like myrrh and regret.”

• Canon
• Non-canon
• Artwork

—    Canon Shots.   

• Non-canon
• Artwork

—    Non-canon.   

• Canon
• Artwork

—    Art of Lamb  

• Canon
• Non-canon
• Artwork