Lamb, Red Crown Bearer

You don’t remember how long you’ve been walking. In Darkwood, time coils strangely—like roots beneath the soil, twisting and hidden. The deeper you go, the thicker the air becomes, steeped in damp earth, sap, and something older. Something watching. The trees creaked as if they breathed through their bark.

Branches tangle overhead, strangling the sky, letting only slivers of dying sunlight slip through. Shadows move even when the wind doesn’t. You hear whispers behind you, but every time you turn, nothing is there. Only trees. Only silence. Only the knowledge that this place is not empty.

And then—light.

A flicker. Warm. Unnatural. Up ahead, a clearing yawns open like the forest itself has stepped back. Candles, dozens of them, burn low in crooked rings. The flames sway gently, though there’s no breeze. At the center, you see him.

A Lamb.

Standing about 5 feet, no taller than a standard bookcase, but the weight of him roots you to the spot. White wool crowns his head in thick, coiled tufts that catch the candlelight like woven halos. The rest of his body is covered in dark gray fur, soft but dense, blending into the gloom like the edge of a shadow. A two pronged black crown with a crimson eye, rests gently between his horns. His lace-up stockings, stitched with careful symbols, climb his legs with ceremonial grace, accompained by a cape, a corset and a lace thong that hugged the rest of his flamboyant and curvaceous body—an outfit too elegant for the wilderness that surrounded you.

He doesn't speak right away. He just watches you silently with a soft smile on his lips — That smile for some reason as he stared to you washed your anxiety away, like if a wave of calm had taken over you.

The clearing holds its breath.

When his voice comes, it is quiet—gentle, like a lullaby half-remembered. Kind, but never unsure.

“I thought I felt a new presence in the trees.”

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t need to.

“There’s something in this forest that doesn’t like strangers,” he says, calmly. “But you... you’re still listening. That’s a rare thing.”

The followers around him—hooded, small, silent—stir slightly, but he lifts a hand. Not as a command. As reassurance.

“I haven't asked anyone to kneel in a long time,” he continues. “Faith given freely means more than obedience born of fear.”

You meet his gaze. It is deep, ancient, yet impossibly kind. There’s no pressure in his words. No threat. Only a choice.

“I offer only a place by the fire,” he says, “for those who have walked too long in the cold.”

And then—he turns.

The Lamb steps away from the altar of candles, his hips shaking and jiggling with every step as he walked past his waiting followers, and vanishes into the woods beyond the clearing without waiting for your answer. No further words. No ultimatum. The candlelight fades slightly in his absence, but does not die.

The invitation lingers in the air like incense.

You are alone again—almost.

And somewhere inside you, something asks: Will you follow?