Warning: I am an adult. I swear, I made dirty jokes some times, if that makes you uncomfortable or if you are a child, you probably should not follow me. Actually, no offense, if you're a kid, I would really prefer you don't follow me in general.
pronouns and gender: she/her and cis
Sexuality: Bisexual 💖💜💙
Birthday: January 3rd, that makes me a capricorn. OK technically a sagittarius bc the stars have moved and all that junk but I like the fish goat more.
My favorite color is light grey then teal
I have two babies, my cats, Morwen and Tellamane. Morwen is a diluted calico and Tellamane is a tuxedo. They are both assholes 🥰
My favorite food is tomatoes
⚠️ I shouldn't have to say this, but this blog is not a safe place for TERFs or other bigots. Just block me for both our sakes. ⚠️
Art Information
You may dub my comics, so long as you link back to me and tag/send me the link to the finish video. I love seeing ya'll hard work!
You may repost my work but you must link back to me. Please do not repost my work to places I have already posted it. I'd much rather you reblog or share the orginal post.
You may use my work as a icon or PFP so long as you link back.
The program I use is Clip Studio Paint EX.
The brushes I use changes often but here's the ones that have stuck around plus a basic tutorial.
Click for better quality
I don't do commissions currently. You can ask for requests, but I make no promise I will draw them.
Fandom Junk:
How did you learn to draw? At 14 my parents got me "How to Draw Anime for Dummies" and it's been down hill ever since.
"Do you ship---" probably. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ I'm a multishipper. So long as it doesn't give me the squick, I either probably ship it a little bit, even if I don't make peices for it, or am completely indifferent.
My favorite Pokémon is Trapinch, followed closely by the Hydreigon line.
My classspect is Slyph of Life and my blood caste is Olive.
It's the flag of the army of archers--causes it's the army with all the "aros"???
Ha-ha-ha!
OK, anyway, since I've spent a lot more time thinking on the duck siblings over the past year, I figured out some good ole queer headcanons for 'em.
Kudaai first, because I made him the butt of the joke
If he wasn't already a golden child in the eyes of The First Ones, having no feeling of romantic attraction ( and thus much less risk of romantic attachment), would have really sealed the deal. (they really weren't the best parents...)
He's one of those types that thought when people say they fall in love at first sight or after knowing someone a short while, those people were just joking or using hyperbole.
And for his sexuality, he's straight, but he had some bad experiences with women trying to get weapons out of him when he was much younger, so he avoids the whole thing now.
Rami is also aro and attracted to women, btw.
Chemach is our mighty, WLW, pillow princess goddess and you will bow before her!
Given it was her job to scope out worthy mortals, she has really good insight, so, unlike Kudaai, she's never got caught up in a honey trap.
Not being able to go steady with anyone for more than a few years (which is nothing in the life of an immortal) as well as never being able to settle down in one place for long were two more reasons on the long list of things she hated about her duties, though.
She and Yngya were friends with benefits. Though Chemach always wanted to go farther, she could never make get herself to take more of Yngya's time than she already did and risk Yngya become weak and vulnerable.
If this were modern time, Chemach would have clocked Kudaai at 13 and Clauneck at 12 as being queer.
Clauneck just doesn't care what one has in their pants. It's not a big deal in the end, anyway.
He's not had many relationships at all. Since, at least before the Bishops' rise to power, the people he was around more than one or twice were gods. He never allowed any of his handful of flings to get romantic.
It's too risky.
If he showed favoritism with the cards to a god who slept with him, he might change his future and end up like Chemach--and that's one of the few things that scares him.
He tries to stay present out of politeness to his partner, but being in the present both makes him tired and frees his mind up to worries and fears he's usually too preoccupied to think about.
His longest relationship was with his tit-for-tat with Shamura when Shamura was trying to gather information from Clauneck. (information he would have just given them if they'd ask, mind you...)
In a different timeline where they weren't a god trying to prove themself and he wasn't a ageless duck destined to deal the future to all who ask, maybe they could have been happy.
Tangentially related and mentioned in an ask like a year ago, but all three of them are infertile by design. No nepotism allowed.
This fact doesn't bother either of the boys, and while Chemach didn't particularly want kids, she felt it was unfair the choice was taken from her.
Only Lamb-Approved cannibalism is allowed on these grounds.
Sometimes all the cult has is stolen pumpkins and that's what everyone is eating until Ratau can go slaughter some heretics, so you sneak into the morgue and take a little nibble of the old lady who just croaked. Why does everyone make a big deal out of it? You didn't hurt her and she was going to go to waste just sitting there...
Anyway, The Night, aka The Fox, was one of those really whiny meat eaters who complained that he "isn't a rabbit and won't eat rabbit food."
It's just as much about keeping his persona as a proud predator up as him being a baby about food he doesn't like.
Only Lamb-Approved cannibalism is allowed on these grounds.
Sometimes all the cult has is stolen pumpkins and that's what everyone is eating until Ratau can go slaughter some heretics, so you sneak into the morgue and take a little nibble of the old lady who just croaked. Why does everyone make a big deal out of it? You didn't hurt her and she was going to go to waste just sitting there...
Anyway, The Night, aka The Fox, was one of those really whiny meat eaters who complained that he "isn't a rabbit and won't eat rabbit food."
It's just as much about keeping his persona as a proud predator up as him being a baby about food he doesn't like.
Summary: Kallamar agrees to hide The Goat in the healing bay for the night after they run afoul of The Lamb. Out of boredom, Kallamar asked to style the Goat's hair.
Ships: KalGoat
Rating: Older Teen for adult themes for swearing and innuendo
Read On Ao3
—
After a long day of dealing with the petty woes of that usurper's followers, Kallamar could finally go to his shelter.
He stood in the entrance to the healing bay. Hands on his lower back, he stretched.
He couldn't wait to be in the quiet of his shelter and writing the day's complaints down in his journal. While Kallamar was happy to no longer be suffering in purgatory with his skin half-peeled off and skull split open, he would still rather not be assigned as this sad excuse for a cult's doctor.
Day in and out was the same parade of whines and moans with the same answers.
"My stomach hurts."
Then don't eat five-day-old food.
"My legs hurts when I do this."
Then don't do that.
"I have a hangover."
Then drink more water and less bog brew.
The worst comments, however, were the questions about his ears.
"Are you sure you don't need a doctor?"
No, he did not need a doctor.
"Do they hurt?"
Yes, they hurt.
"Can I touch them?"
Only if you want to lose your hand.
That day, one particularly rowdy child had grabbed hold of his bandages and yanked one side off when Kallamar was checking the lymph nodes in their throat.
He rubbed the replaced bandage with a scowl. Just because he had mastered how to dress the wounds dearest brother Narinder left at the base of his ears didn't mean he liked doing it.
Something caught Kallamar's attention out of the corner of his eye. In the dimming light of the evening, he turned his gaze to see a figure diving behind an offering statue. The figure crawled along the ground before leaping and rolling into a bush.
He tilted his head to the side, watching as the figure continue to stealthlessly creep across the grounds.
Could it be a spy? Kallamar hoped it was, if just so he could laugh at that lamb for letting such a pathetic spy slip past them.
Leaning against the wall, Kallamar waited to see if the figure would dash for the shadow by the stairs and cover a lot of open ground, or take the longer route behind the missionary building, which had more hiding spots.
To Kallamar's surprise, the figure chose neither. Instead, they bolted from between the drum circle and towards the healing bay.
Instinctive, Kallamar reached to his side for his sword, but grabbed nothing but air. He swore. That damnable lamb refused to allow him or Shamura to keep a blade on their persons anymore. The two of them had been carrying swords at their hips since before that creature's great-great-great-great grandparents were born! It was another of that lamb's humiliating punishments, he knew, to leave him so defenseless.
Instead, Kallamar stood his ground, his legs spread and hands gripped into fists, ready.
You've fought beasts a hundred times that thing's size. You can handle some puny mortal, Kallamar thought, trying to pump himself up, despite the pounding of his heart. If any of this younger siblings found out he let a fleeing spy topple him over, they would mock him relentlessly.
As the figure neared, more details became clear. They were smaller than Kallamar. They had long hair and horns. They wore a cloak. They–
The figured jumped an impressive distance to land in front of him.
The Goat grabbed his shoulders and shook him. Their mouth moved quickly, but Kallamar couldn't make out what they were saying in the dim light. The Goat looked over their shoulder before making a beeline behind Kallamar into the healing bay.
"What the..." Kallamar tried to see whatever The Goat had been staring at, but found nothing. When he turned to the healing bay, a faint light glowed out the door. He considered just going to his shelter. This didn't have to be his problem, but the idea of some stranger in his workplace made him antsy. It took weeks to get that place organized to his standards!
With a sigh, he walked back inside. The Goat held up a candle without a holder, looking around wildly. They opened the medicine cabinet and used their free hand to remove the bottles and tins that Kallamar had spent hours combing through, relabeling, and replacing.
Huffing, he marched over and grabbed The Goat's hand.
"What in the world are you doing?" He demanded. "Put those back!" Kallamar wrinkled his face up at the thought of this simpleton messing up his excellent system and instead pushed them aside. "Nevermind. I'll do it."
As he swiftly replaced the bottles and tins, The Goat scrambled to their feet. They waved the candle around. The light reflected off the amber glass in a way that Kallamar almost found pretty—if not for the context of a smelly mammal bursting into his space.
Once the tinctures and salves were safely back inside, he stood and spun around. This time, The Goat had pushed the boxes of supplies and extra blankets from under the bed and crawled to take their place. They licked the tips of their fingers to snuff out the candle, but Kallamar grabbed them by the wrist and shoulder.
He yanked them forward. He would have to concentrate, but if he paid close attention, he could read their lips well enough.
"What are you doing in here?" He hissed.
The Goat pulled their wrist free. "Hiding. What else does it look like?"
Kallamar resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Why are you hiding and why here?"
"I kind of pissed Lamb-Bam off, and I figured no one would be here. I told you that a second ago."
Kallamar pointed to his bandaged ears with a scowl. The Goat's thick eyebrows raised in surprise, as if they had forgotten one of Kallamar's defining trait. Besides his good looks and charming personality, he was deaf.
"Oh. Right." The Goat blew out a breath. They continued, enunciating every word painfully clearly, "Lamb. Made. Cupcakes. For. Their. Spouses. I. Ate. Them. Lamb. Is. Mad. At. Me. I. Want. To. Hide. Here. So. Go. Away." They waved him off with their free hand.
Kallamar dragged his hand down his face. The Lamb was bad enough. They killed him, they subjugated him, they forced him to heal their followers, and they made him to interact with Narinder, but this goat was rapidly climbing the ranks to take The Lamb's spot as the most annoying creature in Kallamar's life.
Since they clearly weren't going to leave, Kallamar had no choice but to stay. He was not about to let them stay here without supervision. He could just imagine the broken glass and half-dried herbs scattered across the healing bay should he leave them alone.
Also, knowingly keeping The Goat there would make The Lamb irate, and making that horrid beast irritated would make Kallamar very pleased.
He rocked back to his heels and held out a hand. "I will make a deal with you. You can stay here in with me, and I'll cover for you, but you have to do something for me."
"Do what?"
"What do you have offer, Goat?" Kallamar smirked at him.
The Goat narrowed their eyes, glaring. They opened their mouth to speak but jumped. They looked warily towards the door. He wondered if The Lamb was outside, nearing the healing bay.
Cringing, they said, "I know what the topics for the next week of sermons are. I'll tell you so you can skip out on the ones you don't care about. Please, they're coming!" They held their hand out to him, waiting for him to take it.
Kallamar considered that a moment. So long as Kallamar didn't skip multiple days in a row or more than half a week's worth, The Lamb didn't bother to reprimand him for skipping sermons. Knowing which of the sermon topics would be the worst to sit through would definitely help decide which days he should avoid the temple.
Kallamar shook The Goat's hand. "Deal. I'll cover for you." Kallamar licked his fingers and pinched out the candle flame. He stood, took a blanket from the box, and tossed it over the bed to cover them.
He went to the entrance and leaned against it, looking around.
The Lamb hopped off the roof of the missionary building. They swung their head around before spotting Kallamar.
The Lamb waved their arm, running towards him.
They spoke as they neared, but Kallamar didn't bother to try to understand. The Lamb was—ugh—his god now. They should know he can't tell what they're saying in the dark. The Lamb opened their mouth again before remembering.
They summoned a fiery curse in their hand and held it up in their palm. "Goat. Have you seen them?"
He shrugged. "Maybe I did. Why?"
The Lamb grit their teeth, and Kallamar smirked. When they were flustered, it was too easy to get under their skin.
"I wanted to surprise my spouses with some treats. That asshole came in and ate them!" The Lamb threw their hands up, the curse bobbing and throwing shadows around. "And then they—" The Lamb turned away as they ranted and paced. Even if Kallamar cared about their story—which he didn't—he wouldn't have bothered to try to understand them. It would have been too difficult.
"I think I saw them," he cut in. The Lamb spun on their heels and demanded to know where, so Kallamar pointed towards the steps. "They were heading over there, I think."
The Lamb growled something, their jaw clenched and lips barely moving, before they bolted off towards the stairs.
-- --
Kallamar looked over the list and made a note to skip the sermon in three days. He already knew how sickness was divine, both as punishment and as gift to force reflection. Part of him wondered if The Lamb hadn't taken cues from his own sermons. They had stolen his disciples from him at one point. Baalzebub probably wouldn't spill his secrets, but Saloes had always been a social climber. While Kallamar loved that about xem when Saleos was in his cult, it meant xe would happily tell The Lamb the contents of his sermons if it got xem special privileges.
Folding the paper and sticking it in his pocket, Kallamar went to the window. He pulled the curtain shut then repeated the action at the door. If the Lamb returned, they wouldn't be able to look inside as easily now.
The Goat sat on the bed, one knee pulled up. They glanced wearily at the thick curtain hiding them from The Lamb. More than likely The Lamb would spend the night prowling outside the ground walls and not come back until early in the morning.
If The Lamb did come back earlier than expected, Kallamar planned to say he didn't understand whom The Lamb was asking for earlier.
"Goat? I thought you said 'Float', like a butterfly. That's who I saw wandering off. That blue and red butterfly? You really should learn to speak with your hands. It would make this so much easier," he'd tell them.
Kallamar took the lit candle, now in a candle holder, and walked to the far side of the healing bay where his desk was. He covered the window there as well before settling in his chair.
He took a book from the bottom drawer. It was some sort of romantic, swashbuckling adventure that Narinder lent to him as a 'show of good faith'. In reality, Kallamar knew he was just being an ass giving him a book to read that Kallamar wouldn't enjoy at all.
The plot was cliché, the characters one-dimensional, and it was clear to Kallamar that the author had never once been on a boat bigger than a rowboat given how often port, starboard, and aft were mixed up.
The author also, for some reason, believed that sailors at sea only ate lemons and drank rum, nothing else.
At least, the erotic parts were written well enough, even if he didn't find them tantalizing enough to make use of them in a physical manner himself. Kallamar was honestly impressed by the author and how many words they thought of to refer to the male private parts.
He opened the book to where he left off. The pirate captain and the woman he kidnapped off a trading vessel had just had their first night together. Somehow, the two were in love, though Kallamar didn't remember reading them falling in love.
Lady Liza Turnbank held her skirts up as she tiptoed back to her room. The tapir still felt the starfish captain's lips upon the voluptuous skin of her bosom as he kissed down her body and caress of his suction cup fingers as he stroked her inner thighs. Her loins trembled, begging her to return to him, but she pushed down the need. The rest of the crew would awaken soon, and their captain needed to be ready to lead them. The next port was less than a days trip away.
She began to wonder if she will be able to return to civilized life on land now knowing the pleasure of this seadog rutting inside her. No gentleman would be able to fill her body with as wonderful sensations as the captain and his strong hips.
Lady Liza closed the door behind her. Went to the mirror Captain Nox—no, just Nox, as he had requested her to call him—so kindly gifted her. Her thick, lovely hair was a mess from her and Nox's love making.
She took out the silver hairbrush her mother had given her and began to brush out her long hair. She took the hair oil and put a few drops on her scalp and began to brush it through her raven locks.
But the idea of having hair to play with or style was appealing. He had brushed and plaited the hair of some of his followers' hair before, especially in his younger days when he wasn't busy running most of the trade in and out of The Bishops' lands. Back then, he had all that free time on his tentacles.
Kallamar paused and touched his own head. He had never been envious of those who had hair or fur until he started conjuring the land with Shamura. He knew, of course, he was one of the handsomest creatures in all of The Lands of The Old Faith. He did not need hair to change that. (Though he might have commissioned one wig—or maybe, two…eight…ten—just to see if hair improved his already handsome looks. None of them did of course, since perfection can't be improved upon. )
Kallamar shut the book with a sigh. He missed doing playing with someone's hair. The man he currently attempted to woo was a rooster and had no long hair or feathers to speak of.
His gaze wandered over to The Goat and their mane of messy hair. He hummed a moment then set the book to the side and stood.
"Excuse me. I'm bored and have a request." He walked across the bay to them with the candle.
The Goat looked up skeptically.
"A request?"
"I want to style your hair."
The Goat pulled their hair over their shoulder and clutched it to their chest. "Why? You gonna cut it? My beard, too? Like the you did in my world did?" They bared their teeth at him. The Crown on their head narrowed its eye.
Kallamar frowned. He didn't totally understand how The Lamb's friend worked. He knew they weren't from his world, but their Crown had more or less the same abilities as The Lamb's, somehow. They were a mirror of The Lamb, or so he was told.
It hadn't occurred to him that there might be another 'him' in The Goat's world.
He wondered for a moment if that Kallamar was as handsome he was before deciding probably not. He was the handsomest Kallamar in any world.
"If I cut it, then I couldn't braid it." Kallamar snorted, setting the candle on the cabinet near by.
Besides, he wasn't any good at giving haircuts. More than a few spouses could attest to that. He nearly smiled remembering one of his husbands wearing a large hat for weeks until the choppy messy Kallamar left his hair grew out.
The Goat stayed quiet, fixing their gaze at him, before Kallamar felt something prodding at his mind. A second later, The Goat had their eyes in his head, picking through his thoughts.
Kallamar jumped back in disgust. "Do that again and I'll get The Lamb myself," he snarled. Having anyone peeking through his mind made his skin crawl. It was so intrusive. How could regular mortals stand it?
The Goat held up their hands, palms facing him. "I just needed to make sure. If you want, you can style it. Here." Their Crown left their head and a moment later a boar hair brush fell from it to their palm. "You can even use this."
Kallamar tentatively took the brush and looked it over, half expecting the offer to be a prank.
The brush itself was made of dark, polished wood. The leather cord wrapped around the handle was still stiff and not yet broken in, contrasting the little bit of worn wood that peeked out just before the bristles started. The backside of the brush had symbols that reminded Kallamar of the ones he'd destroyed in Woolhaven carved into the wood, but slightly different.
Squinting, he saw some flecks of paint in a few of the thinner crevices.
Running his thumb over the bristles, he decided, all in all, it was a fine hairbrush.
Kallamar sat down next to The Goat. He took their shoulders and forced them to turn so their back faced him.
"I won't be able to tell what you're saying like this, so don't bother talking."
The Goat raised their shoulders in reply, paused, before they gave Kallamar a thumbs up instead.
Their hair was a little greasy and not as soft as Kallamar had hoped, but at least it wasn't tangled too much. He played with the idea of washing it, but discarded the thought. The soap he kept on hand in the healing bay would be too harsh on The Goat's hair, and the only water was in a bucket in the corner and had been sitting stagnate for at least a day and a half.
Did this tiny place have soapwort growing around? Probably not, or the whole cult wouldn't smell of sweat and body order all the time. The Lamb's followers threw requests at them often. Maybe he could order them to find some. Heket would grow it for him, if he asked nicely—and maybe offered her some of the alcohol he was allowed to keep around for tinctures.
While he was at it, he should ask them to grow rosemary. Rosemary loved rocky cliff sides on his coasts, so it might not grow well here as it did in some places in Anchordeep, but even a small bush would improve the smell.
Or lavender.
One of the trade ships that often docked to sell goods near one of his shrines would sell enfleurage scented with lavender. He had always meant to get some seeds and talk either Leshy or Heket into grow it for him if lavender, like many other plants, did not take well to salty soil.
Shamura had liked the scent too, hadn't they? They won't have had much luck growing it though. Shamura's skills at plant cultivation were greatly lacking. Beets and lichen seemed to be the only things they had much luck with, and even then they left most of the work to their followers.
Kallamar tossed a section of hair he'd finished brushing over The Goat's shoulder before portioning out a new one.
How was Silk Cradle now that the beasties weren't subjugated and kept in check by Shamura? Even when they were lost in their haze of memories and confusion, Shamura still used their great power to quell any uprising or smite those that sought to stir up trouble.
Kallamar dared not even imagine how his wonderful Anchordeep faired without him. The Lamb and their followers may have viewed his use of plague and pestilence as unholy and cruel, but it bridled the worst of the creatures that lurked in the deep from causing destruction and pandemonium.
Without him, that one jellyfish Witness would still be smashing houses and throwing her weight around as if she had a more divine right to Anchordeep than its god did. He was told that The Witness returned not long after his death to attempt to take over, only to be quickly dispatched by The Lamb and indoctrinated.
Witness Astaroth lurked around the grounds and glared at him whenever their paths crossed. She must hold a grudge about her humiliating defeat at his hands. He supposed he would be upset too if he had lost to a Crown Bearer who had earned his full godhood mere decades before.
As Kallamar pulled the brush to the end, he paused to examine the tips of The Goat's hair. He expected there to be spit ends from how rough and tumble and generally barbaric The Goat seemed, but to his surprise there did not seem to be many. Their hair actually was healthy, greasiness aside.
Narinder once explained to him when The Red Crown brought him back to life, it remade his body in peak physical form—no scars, no broken bones, no untidy fur, not even dirt under his claws.
Had The Goat died and brought themself back recently? Was that why their hair seemed so well kept? Or did them actually take care of it?
He glanced at the new leather around the brush handle then back at the long, black hair.
Holding the brush in one hand, he carefully pulled at a snarl of hair with his fingers. A piece of twig had tangled in the locks. Probably from when they rolled on the ground trying to hide from The Lamb.
After prying the twig out and tossing it to the side, Kallamar continued brushing. He let his thoughts wander from old memories to new worries and back several times.
As he was ruminating on his wooing of the rooster, the hank of hair in his hand pulled forward. The Goat's chin lulled to their chest.
Frowning, Kallamar shook their shoulder.
"Are you awake?"
The Goat jerked up right. One of their horn slammed into Kallamar's mouth.
The Goat swung their head around and winced at the scene of Kallamar holding his face, swearing across several dead languages.
Kallamar pulled his hands away, blood seeping from a cut on his upper lip down his chin and oozing from a scrape across his gum. Praying to his Crown, he pressed his thumb against his front teeth. If they fell out, he had a hunch he wouldn't be able to grow them back anymore like when he was a god. Or maybe he could. He didn't fully know how this new, stupid mortal body of his worked, only that it was much different from the body he had as a critter or as a god.
Luckily, all his teeth stayed in place.
The Goat reached out a hand, but Kallamar slapped it away. Their mouth moved. They said something, but he couldn't be bothered to pay attention as he scraped dirt from The Goat's horn from his teeth.
Disgusted, he hopped off the bed and went to the water bucket. What choice did he have but the old water? Using the small wooden cup beside it, he scooped up a cupful to swish around his mouth. He pushed aside the window curtain and spat. He repeated the actions twice more before wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.
Out of spite for the stale water taste in his mouth, Kallamar grabbed the bucket and dumped it outside.
He dropped the bucket and cup unceremoniously on the floor before returning to the bed. The Goat chewed their lip then offered a wad of gauze they must have gotten while he rinsed his mouth.
Kallamar pressed the gauze to his lip, scowling away from them
Out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed their mouth move slightly, but refused to look at them.
When he didn't respond, they stood and stepped in front of him. They held up their hand. The Goat made fist facing him, then a ring with their fingers and thumbs. They started to cross the finger farthest from their thumb with its only neighbor, uncrossed them, then crossed the middle finger with the one closest to their thumb without lower the first finger. They furrowed their brow at their hand.
Kallamar raised an eyebrow before he understood. With an eye roll, he set the gauze aside. He took their hand and folded their fingers and thumb down into a fist before he moved it in a circle over their chest.
"'Sorry,'" he translated slowly, repeating the gesture. "It has a sign. You don't need to spell it out."
The Goat blinked. "Oh. I did not know that. I thought you spelled everything out when you talked with your hands."
Kallamar snorted a laugh. "No? Do you spell out words when you T-A-L-K?"
They blushed, glancing away. "Yeah, that makes sense."
Despite himself, Kallamar smiled. He supposed if they hadn't been properly taught, they wouldn't know the complexities of signing.
Much like his ability to lip read, Kallamar learned to sign before he lost his hearing. Lip reading made it easier to see what someone was saying about him from across a room, and signing let him gossip to his people without being heard.
He never would have guessed these skills he picked up would make his adjustment to his deafness and chronic tinnitus easier.
The Goat ran their hand through their hair. "Are you finished? With my hair? I won't fall a sleep this time if you're not."
Kallamar hummed before taking the brush from where it landed on the bed. Before The Goat could turn around, he brushed down their unruly bangs a few times. After reach stroke, their bangs flicked back up of their own accord, not unlike the cowlick between Narinder's ears that Kallamar used to tease him about.
"Worth a shot." He shrugged and started to gesture for them to turn around, but stopped. "What do you want me to do with it?"
The Goat tilted their head to the side, raising an eyebrow.
"Do you want a standard three-strand braid? A fishtail braid? A milkmaid braid? I've never actually done it, but I think I could easily figure out how to braid with five strands of hair." He ticked off a few more styles on his fingers.
The Goat held up their hands to him to stop. "I don't know anything about braiding more than the normal one with three pieces all looped over each other. I don't even usually wear my hair like that either. " Their Crown left their head and pulled back their hair into a ponytail. "This is how I wear it when I need it out of the way." They pointed.
Kallamar wasn't surprised to hear that at all, though with the hair away from their face, the Goat did look much less scruffy. Almost handsome, or would they prefer to be called beautiful? Did it even matter if he didn't plan to tell them?
"Fishtail," he decided. Something a little advanced, but not so much that he might have to undo the braid and try again.
Before The Goat turned away from him, they said, "You need to talk. I won't fall asleep then."
"About what?" Kallamar questioned. He could babble on easily. Thousands of years of sermons left him with the gift of gab. Though, unlike Narinder, his sermons didn't put anyone to sleep since his were thought provoking and interesting.
They shrugged. "I dunno. Anything. I never bothered to learn about Lamb-Bam's you. I wasn't going to help fight you, so I didn't care." They snapped their fingers. "Wait, I do remember being told something."
Nerves twisted his stomach. Kallamar doubted any of what they might have heard about him was flattering given whom their best friend was.
The Goat smiled broadly. "You're a slut."
Kallamar rolled his eyes. He stood and snagged some thick thread from his desk. The Goat's Crown seemed unamused as it dropped the ponytail and returned to its normal shape. Instead of settling back down on their head, it lazily dropped into its bearer's lap.
Kallamar sat back down then took the Goat by the horn and forced them to turn away so he could begin.
He pulled their hair back into a low ponytail before dividing it into two sections.
As Kallamar started to plait their hair, he said, "Call me what you will. I enjoyed having a lover or three around when I was going about my business. There is nothing wrong with being admired and adored. Even you should understand that."
Kallamar fell in love easy, especially in his younger days. Finding those people among his followers who loved him more than the rest and rewarding the affection they doled upon him with affection in return was a wonderful feeling.
The memory was fainter now as the years passed, but he could still recall the warmth of his first husband's hand in his and the pure devotion and love that came from their union. The tantalizing memory of taking the loyal reward from him the next day after their wedding rose goose flesh on his arms.
"Marriage makes your followers happy, too. Who doesn't like a wedding? Why, my last wedding before that little usurper murdered me, I…" Kallamar continued to babble.
The braid began to take shape. The strands zigzagging over each other as he recounted his last wedding. How glorious his temple looked. How his husband pressed against him as he sat on his lap, looking up at him adoringly. How the honeymoon would have been better had Narinder's rat vessel not broken into his larders and stolen weeks worth of food.
"Besides, I didn't have that many spouses." He knotted the thread around the end of the braid and tightened it. "At most, during the height of my reign, I had fifty-four."
The Goat swung their head around, flicking Kallamar in the cheek with the end of their fishtail braid, but, luckily, were mindful of their horns this time.
They bit down on their lower lip then let their mouth fall slack before finally speaking.
"Fifty-four?!"
Kallamar scoffed. "Fifty-four spouses out of tens of thousands of followers isn't much. From what I've heard, The Lamb has had a higher ratio of spouse to not spouse followers than I ever did."
The Goat shook their head, and Kallamar wished he had started the braid more to the side. It would look nice over their shoulder instead of straight down their back.
"You must have kept them all around your temple, I bet. They were your spouses, after all." Their eyes sparkled. "That time must have been full of debaucherous sex parties. Orgies as far as the eye can see! " They pointed a finger at him with a smirk.
Kallamar sighed dramatically. "Alas, no. Most of them loathed each other, and I was constantly separating them before they murdered one another." He slumped forward, pouting. "Aside from that, I was also a little too big by that point to indulge in any of the 'seas of orgies' in the way I would have preferred." He paused then added while pointedly eyeing The Goat's Crown, "A word of the wise from your elder, enjoy your spouses' intimate company while you still can, little godling."
The Goat pursed their lips, seemingly mulling something over. A moment later, they nodded to themselves.
With a sly smile, The Goat leaned forward on their arm towards Kallamar.
They spoke slowly and clearly, "So, tell me, squid man, what were the ways you would have preferred." They winked, setting a warm palm on his thigh. "Maybe, I could help you…recreate them."
The blood rushed to his face.
This mirror image of the creature who murdered him, twice, then forcibly subjugated him had just made the offer to fool around with him in any way he preferred.
In his head, he knew he should feel disgusted. It had to be a trap.
This couldn't be a quid pro quo or pleasure for pleasure's sake, not between the two of them.
The Goat must want something more: Blackmail against him or something to lord over him. Maybe they wanted this because it would piss off The Lamb.
Did The Goat even have the anatomy he liked? He might fall in love with anyone, but he preferred partners who had the same anatomy as he did.
However, the alluring idea of being with someone and not having to constantly gauge his strength sent shiver down his spine.
How nice it would be to tangle himself around a lover and not worry about crushing them in his embrace? How freeing it would be to be able to push himself as far inside his lover's orifices as he could without fretting about tearing the muscle and tissue?
Kallamar put his hands on either side of The Goat's head and tugged them forward to kiss, the wiry hair of their bread scraping against the skin of his chin.
His heart picked up its beat in his chest with excitement.
He decided he didn't care what they had. Hands, mouths, and butts worked the same whether Kallamar had any interest in the rest or not.
He would make it work.
The Goat looked stunned when he pulled away, but not revolted by the impromptu kiss. They blinked their surprise away as a blush crossed their cheeks.
"Guess that was a 'yes'."
— - -
The sun warmed the wood wall he leaned against the next morning. Kallamar rubbed an eye with his free hand while holding a cup of willow bark tea in the other.
His body already began to ache. He'd forgotten the immense well of stamina a Crown gave its bearer. Last he remembered from the night before was collapsing onto the bed and muttering to The Goat to give him a few moments to rest. When he opened his eyes again, the sun peaked through the small crack in the curtain.
The Goat had left sometime after he fell asleep, and Kallamar wasn't sure he how he felt about that.
He, as the gentlemen he was, always woke his partners to tell them if he had to leave for more than a few moments. The look of appreciation in his spouses' eyes as he treated them respect made the devotion he would soon collect from them even sweeter.
On the other tentacle, the idea of looking The Goat in the face after giving in to their obvious manipulation made his stomach twist and his chest ache with shame.
He put a hand against the middle of his sternum. Was this what it felt like to create sin? Gods didn't make sin nor did critters. One was above concept of morality and the other below.
He shuttered at the thought of letting sin corrupt him. Loathe as he was to do it, he'd might have to go to confession. If he worded it carefully, The Lamb wouldn't know what he and The Goat did together, just that he fooled around with someone and felt shame for falling into lust so easily.
He sipped his tea, watching The Lamb's followers go about their morning rituals.
Was The Lamb still looking for The Goat outside the walls, he wondered.
A moment later, Kallamar got his answer as The Lamb came down the steps with The Goat trudging behind them.
The Lamb had their arms raised and their expression angry as they, presumably, shouted at The Goat like a parent reprimanding a child. The Goat's shoulders hunched, and they scowled at the dirt.
Since they were too far away to even guess what they were saying, Kallamar instead just watched their body language as they passed the missionary building.
The Goat looked away from The Lamb towards the healing bay. When they caught sight of Kallamar, they stopped. The Lamb, still ranting, did not notice and kept walking. The Goat looked to their friend then back.
Turning to face Kallamar fully, they made a fist with their hand and moved it in a circle over their chest.
"Sorry."
Kallamar took a drink of his tea and nodded in acknowledgment. If they wanted an actual acceptance of their apology, they needed to do better than that.
Instead of following The Lamb, The Goat suddenly leapt forward, splashing into the inky black ether. A heartbeat later, they jumped out of it next to him, their loose hair waving behind them with their fleece.
All his work with their hair came undone, and he felt a little disappointed—even if it had been his pulling that loosen it.
The Goat snagged the tea from his hand and took a gulp. They cringed.
"That tastes terrible!"
Kallamar grabbed the tea back with a scowl. "It's pain medicine, horn head. It's not supposed to taste good."
They winced and signed "Sorry" again.
"My bad." They said, rubbing their neck. "I overdid it. You were just a lot of fun." They tapped through his robes to one of the many tender spots on their teeth left on his chest, but he held his composure against the sting.
They continued, "More fun than I thought a blasphemous, old man god would be."
"I'm not old. Don't call me old," Kallamar snapped, pushing their hand away with his pointer finger. He been called 'blasphemous' by Chosen Gods for centuries, so that insult did not bother him. But old? He was not old!
"Fine. I won't." They held up their hands, palms facing him. "But only if you forgive me for leaving. Lamb-Bam came back and was prowling around. Since I still had plenty of energy," pumping their arms, they chuckled, "I thought it would be fun to lead them on a wild goat chase." The Goat flashed a lopsided smile. "I hope leaving didn't damage my chances of fooling around with you again."
Kallamar snorted. He still had people he planned to woo into his arms, starting with the rooster, but if The Goat wanted to play around with him, who was he to deny a god such a simple request?
"I will allow it to pass this one time," he smirked at them over his cup, "but next time, you'd better wake me."
— - -
AN: inspired by my favorite type of asmr role play videos being the hair styling ones.
Should have used that otherworldly rizz on him when he was a smelly murderous god, I guess. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
I shall never get over my self-imposed irony that I headcanon The Goat having a tentacle kink but my version of Kallamar not having tentacles as a follower.
Anyway, I don't view these two as having a committed, romantic relationship. So theirs is….it's more like they bang but try to avoid having deep conversations to varying degrees of success.
Summary: Kallamar agrees to hide The Goat in the healing bay for the night after they run afoul of The Lamb. Out of boredom, Kallamar asked to style the Goat's hair.
Ships: KalGoat
Rating: Older Teen for adult themes for swearing and innuendo
Read On Ao3
—
After a long day of dealing with the petty woes of that usurper's followers, Kallamar could finally go to his shelter.
He stood in the entrance to the healing bay. Hands on his lower back, he stretched.
He couldn't wait to be in the quiet of his shelter and writing the day's complaints down in his journal. While Kallamar was happy to no longer be suffering in purgatory with his skin half-peeled off and skull split open, he would still rather not be assigned as this sad excuse for a cult's doctor.
Day in and out was the same parade of whines and moans with the same answers.
"My stomach hurts."
Then don't eat five-day-old food.
"My legs hurts when I do this."
Then don't do that.
"I have a hangover."
Then drink more water and less bog brew.
The worst comments, however, were the questions about his ears.
"Are you sure you don't need a doctor?"
No, he did not need a doctor.
"Do they hurt?"
Yes, they hurt.
"Can I touch them?"
Only if you want to lose your hand.
That day, one particularly rowdy child had grabbed hold of his bandages and yanked one side off when Kallamar was checking the lymph nodes in their throat.
He rubbed the replaced bandage with a scowl. Just because he had mastered how to dress the wounds dearest brother Narinder left at the base of his ears didn't mean he liked doing it.
Something caught Kallamar's attention out of the corner of his eye. In the dimming light of the evening, he turned his gaze to see a figure diving behind an offering statue. The figure crawled along the ground before leaping and rolling into a bush.
He tilted his head to the side, watching as the figure continue to stealthlessly creep across the grounds.
Could it be a spy? Kallamar hoped it was, if just so he could laugh at that lamb for letting such a pathetic spy slip past them.
Leaning against the wall, Kallamar waited to see if the figure would dash for the shadow by the stairs and cover a lot of open ground, or take the longer route behind the missionary building, which had more hiding spots.
To Kallamar's surprise, the figure chose neither. Instead, they bolted from between the drum circle and towards the healing bay.
Instinctive, Kallamar reached to his side for his sword, but grabbed nothing but air. He swore. That damnable lamb refused to allow him or Shamura to keep a blade on their persons anymore. The two of them had been carrying swords at their hips since before that creature's great-great-great-great grandparents were born! It was another of that lamb's humiliating punishments, he knew, to leave him so defenseless.
Instead, Kallamar stood his ground, his legs spread and hands gripped into fists, ready.
You've fought beasts a hundred times that thing's size. You can handle some puny mortal, Kallamar thought, trying to pump himself up, despite the pounding of his heart. If any of this younger siblings found out he let a fleeing spy topple him over, they would mock him relentlessly.
As the figure neared, more details became clear. They were smaller than Kallamar. They had long hair and horns. They wore a cloak. They–
The figured jumped an impressive distance to land in front of him.
The Goat grabbed his shoulders and shook him. Their mouth moved quickly, but Kallamar couldn't make out what they were saying in the dim light. The Goat looked over their shoulder before making a beeline behind Kallamar into the healing bay.
"What the..." Kallamar tried to see whatever The Goat had been staring at, but found nothing. When he turned to the healing bay, a faint light glowed out the door. He considered just going to his shelter. This didn't have to be his problem, but the idea of some stranger in his workplace made him antsy. It took weeks to get that place organized to his standards!
With a sigh, he walked back inside. The Goat held up a candle without a holder, looking around wildly. They opened the medicine cabinet and used their free hand to remove the bottles and tins that Kallamar had spent hours combing through, relabeling, and replacing.
Huffing, he marched over and grabbed The Goat's hand.
"What in the world are you doing?" He demanded. "Put those back!" Kallamar wrinkled his face up at the thought of this simpleton messing up his excellent system and instead pushed them aside. "Nevermind. I'll do it."
As he swiftly replaced the bottles and tins, The Goat scrambled to their feet. They waved the candle around. The light reflected off the amber glass in a way that Kallamar almost found pretty—if not for the context of a smelly mammal bursting into his space.
Once the tinctures and salves were safely back inside, he stood and spun around. This time, The Goat had pushed the boxes of supplies and extra blankets from under the bed and crawled to take their place. They licked the tips of their fingers to snuff out the candle, but Kallamar grabbed them by the wrist and shoulder.
He yanked them forward. He would have to concentrate, but if he paid close attention, he could read their lips well enough.
"What are you doing in here?" He hissed.
The Goat pulled their wrist free. "Hiding. What else does it look like?"
Kallamar resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Why are you hiding and why here?"
"I kind of pissed Lamb-Bam off, and I figured no one would be here. I told you that a second ago."
Kallamar pointed to his bandaged ears with a scowl. The Goat's thick eyebrows raised in surprise, as if they had forgotten one of Kallamar's defining trait. Besides his good looks and charming personality, he was deaf.
"Oh. Right." The Goat blew out a breath. They continued, enunciating every word painfully clearly, "Lamb. Made. Cupcakes. For. Their. Spouses. I. Ate. Them. Lamb. Is. Mad. At. Me. I. Want. To. Hide. Here. So. Go. Away." They waved him off with their free hand.
Kallamar dragged his hand down his face. The Lamb was bad enough. They killed him, they subjugated him, they forced him to heal their followers, and they made him to interact with Narinder, but this goat was rapidly climbing the ranks to take The Lamb's spot as the most annoying creature in Kallamar's life.
Since they clearly weren't going to leave, Kallamar had no choice but to stay. He was not about to let them stay here without supervision. He could just imagine the broken glass and half-dried herbs scattered across the healing bay should he leave them alone.
Also, knowingly keeping The Goat there would make The Lamb irate, and making that horrid beast irritated would make Kallamar very pleased.
He rocked back to his heels and held out a hand. "I will make a deal with you. You can stay here in with me, and I'll cover for you, but you have to do something for me."
"Do what?"
"What do you have offer, Goat?" Kallamar smirked at him.
The Goat narrowed their eyes, glaring. They opened their mouth to speak but jumped. They looked warily towards the door. He wondered if The Lamb was outside, nearing the healing bay.
Cringing, they said, "I know what the topics for the next week of sermons are. I'll tell you so you can skip out on the ones you don't care about. Please, they're coming!" They held their hand out to him, waiting for him to take it.
Kallamar considered that a moment. So long as Kallamar didn't skip multiple days in a row or more than half a week's worth, The Lamb didn't bother to reprimand him for skipping sermons. Knowing which of the sermon topics would be the worst to sit through would definitely help decide which days he should avoid the temple.
Kallamar shook The Goat's hand. "Deal. I'll cover for you." Kallamar licked his fingers and pinched out the candle flame. He stood, took a blanket from the box, and tossed it over the bed to cover them.
He went to the entrance and leaned against it, looking around.
The Lamb hopped off the roof of the missionary building. They swung their head around before spotting Kallamar.
The Lamb waved their arm, running towards him.
They spoke as they neared, but Kallamar didn't bother to try to understand. The Lamb was—ugh—his god now. They should know he can't tell what they're saying in the dark. The Lamb opened their mouth again before remembering.
They summoned a fiery curse in their hand and held it up in their palm. "Goat. Have you seen them?"
He shrugged. "Maybe I did. Why?"
The Lamb grit their teeth, and Kallamar smirked. When they were flustered, it was too easy to get under their skin.
"I wanted to surprise my spouses with some treats. That asshole came in and ate them!" The Lamb threw their hands up, the curse bobbing and throwing shadows around. "And then they—" The Lamb turned away as they ranted and paced. Even if Kallamar cared about their story—which he didn't—he wouldn't have bothered to try to understand them. It would have been too difficult.
"I think I saw them," he cut in. The Lamb spun on their heels and demanded to know where, so Kallamar pointed towards the steps. "They were heading over there, I think."
The Lamb growled something, their jaw clenched and lips barely moving, before they bolted off towards the stairs.
-- --
Kallamar looked over the list and made a note to skip the sermon in three days. He already knew how sickness was divine, both as punishment and as gift to force reflection. Part of him wondered if The Lamb hadn't taken cues from his own sermons. They had stolen his disciples from him at one point. Baalzebub probably wouldn't spill his secrets, but Saloes had always been a social climber. While Kallamar loved that about xem when Saleos was in his cult, it meant xe would happily tell The Lamb the contents of his sermons if it got xem special privileges.
Folding the paper and sticking it in his pocket, Kallamar went to the window. He pulled the curtain shut then repeated the action at the door. If the Lamb returned, they wouldn't be able to look inside as easily now.
The Goat sat on the bed, one knee pulled up. They glanced wearily at the thick curtain hiding them from The Lamb. More than likely The Lamb would spend the night prowling outside the ground walls and not come back until early in the morning.
If The Lamb did come back earlier than expected, Kallamar planned to say he didn't understand whom The Lamb was asking for earlier.
"Goat? I thought you said 'Float', like a butterfly. That's who I saw wandering off. That blue and red butterfly? You really should learn to speak with your hands. It would make this so much easier," he'd tell them.
Kallamar took the lit candle, now in a candle holder, and walked to the far side of the healing bay where his desk was. He covered the window there as well before settling in his chair.
He took a book from the bottom drawer. It was some sort of romantic, swashbuckling adventure that Narinder lent to him as a 'show of good faith'. In reality, Kallamar knew he was just being an ass giving him a book to read that Kallamar wouldn't enjoy at all.
The plot was cliché, the characters one-dimensional, and it was clear to Kallamar that the author had never once been on a boat bigger than a rowboat given how often port, starboard, and aft were mixed up.
The author also, for some reason, believed that sailors at sea only ate lemons and drank rum, nothing else.
At least, the erotic parts were written well enough, even if he didn't find them tantalizing enough to make use of them in a physical manner himself. Kallamar was honestly impressed by the author and how many words they thought of to refer to the male private parts.
He opened the book to where he left off. The pirate captain and the woman he kidnapped off a trading vessel had just had their first night together. Somehow, the two were in love, though Kallamar didn't remember reading them falling in love.
Lady Liza Turnbank held her skirts up as she tiptoed back to her room. The tapir still felt the starfish captain's lips upon the voluptuous skin of her bosom as he kissed down her body and caress of his suction cup fingers as he stroked her inner thighs. Her loins trembled, begging her to return to him, but she pushed down the need. The rest of the crew would awaken soon, and their captain needed to be ready to lead them. The next port was less than a days trip away.
She began to wonder if she will be able to return to civilized life on land now knowing the pleasure of this seadog rutting inside her. No gentleman would be able to fill her body with as wonderful sensations as the captain and his strong hips.
Lady Liza closed the door behind her. Went to the mirror Captain Nox—no, just Nox, as he had requested her to call him—so kindly gifted her. Her thick, lovely hair was a mess from her and Nox's love making.
She took out the silver hairbrush her mother had given her and began to brush out her long hair. She took the hair oil and put a few drops on her scalp and began to brush it through her raven locks.
But the idea of having hair to play with or style was appealing. He had brushed and plaited the hair of some of his followers' hair before, especially in his younger days when he wasn't busy running most of the trade in and out of The Bishops' lands. Back then, he had all that free time on his tentacles.
Kallamar paused and touched his own head. He had never been envious of those who had hair or fur until he started conjuring the land with Shamura. He knew, of course, he was one of the handsomest creatures in all of The Lands of The Old Faith. He did not need hair to change that. (Though he might have commissioned one wig—or maybe, two…eight…ten—just to see if hair improved his already handsome looks. None of them did of course, since perfection can't be improved upon. )
Kallamar shut the book with a sigh. He missed doing playing with someone's hair. The man he currently attempted to woo was a rooster and had no long hair or feathers to speak of.
His gaze wandered over to The Goat and their mane of messy hair. He hummed a moment then set the book to the side and stood.
"Excuse me. I'm bored and have a request." He walked across the bay to them with the candle.
The Goat looked up skeptically.
"A request?"
"I want to style your hair."
The Goat pulled their hair over their shoulder and clutched it to their chest. "Why? You gonna cut it? My beard, too? Like the you did in my world did?" They bared their teeth at him. The Crown on their head narrowed its eye.
Kallamar frowned. He didn't totally understand how The Lamb's friend worked. He knew they weren't from his world, but their Crown had more or less the same abilities as The Lamb's, somehow. They were a mirror of The Lamb, or so he was told.
It hadn't occurred to him that there might be another 'him' in The Goat's world.
He wondered for a moment if that Kallamar was as handsome he was before deciding probably not. He was the handsomest Kallamar in any world.
"If I cut it, then I couldn't braid it." Kallamar snorted, setting the candle on the cabinet near by.
Besides, he wasn't any good at giving haircuts. More than a few spouses could attest to that. He nearly smiled remembering one of his husbands wearing a large hat for weeks until the choppy messy Kallamar left his hair grew out.
The Goat stayed quiet, fixing their gaze at him, before Kallamar felt something prodding at his mind. A second later, The Goat had their eyes in his head, picking through his thoughts.
Kallamar jumped back in disgust. "Do that again and I'll get The Lamb myself," he snarled. Having anyone peeking through his mind made his skin crawl. It was so intrusive. How could regular mortals stand it?
The Goat held up their hands, palms facing him. "I just needed to make sure. If you want, you can style it. Here." Their Crown left their head and a moment later a boar hair brush fell from it to their palm. "You can even use this."
Kallamar tentatively took the brush and looked it over, half expecting the offer to be a prank.
The brush itself was made of dark, polished wood. The leather cord wrapped around the handle was still stiff and not yet broken in, contrasting the little bit of worn wood that peeked out just before the bristles started. The backside of the brush had symbols that reminded Kallamar of the ones he'd destroyed in Woolhaven carved into the wood, but slightly different.
Squinting, he saw some flecks of paint in a few of the thinner crevices.
Running his thumb over the bristles, he decided, all in all, it was a fine hairbrush.
Kallamar sat down next to The Goat. He took their shoulders and forced them to turn so their back faced him.
"I won't be able to tell what you're saying like this, so don't bother talking."
The Goat raised their shoulders in reply, paused, before they gave Kallamar a thumbs up instead.
Their hair was a little greasy and not as soft as Kallamar had hoped, but at least it wasn't tangled too much. He played with the idea of washing it, but discarded the thought. The soap he kept on hand in the healing bay would be too harsh on The Goat's hair, and the only water was in a bucket in the corner and had been sitting stagnate for at least a day and a half.
Did this tiny place have soapwort growing around? Probably not, or the whole cult wouldn't smell of sweat and body order all the time. The Lamb's followers threw requests at them often. Maybe he could order them to find some. Heket would grow it for him, if he asked nicely—and maybe offered her some of the alcohol he was allowed to keep around for tinctures.
While he was at it, he should ask them to grow rosemary. Rosemary loved rocky cliff sides on his coasts, so it might not grow well here as it did in some places in Anchordeep, but even a small bush would improve the smell.
Or lavender.
One of the trade ships that often docked to sell goods near one of his shrines would sell enfleurage scented with lavender. He had always meant to get some seeds and talk either Leshy or Heket into grow it for him if lavender, like many other plants, did not take well to salty soil.
Shamura had liked the scent too, hadn't they? They won't have had much luck growing it though. Shamura's skills at plant cultivation were greatly lacking. Beets and lichen seemed to be the only things they had much luck with, and even then they left most of the work to their followers.
Kallamar tossed a section of hair he'd finished brushing over The Goat's shoulder before portioning out a new one.
How was Silk Cradle now that the beasties weren't subjugated and kept in check by Shamura? Even when they were lost in their haze of memories and confusion, Shamura still used their great power to quell any uprising or smite those that sought to stir up trouble.
Kallamar dared not even imagine how his wonderful Anchordeep faired without him. The Lamb and their followers may have viewed his use of plague and pestilence as unholy and cruel, but it bridled the worst of the creatures that lurked in the deep from causing destruction and pandemonium.
Without him, that one jellyfish Witness would still be smashing houses and throwing her weight around as if she had a more divine right to Anchordeep than its god did. He was told that The Witness returned not long after his death to attempt to take over, only to be quickly dispatched by The Lamb and indoctrinated.
Witness Astaroth lurked around the grounds and glared at him whenever their paths crossed. She must hold a grudge about her humiliating defeat at his hands. He supposed he would be upset too if he had lost to a Crown Bearer who had earned his full godhood mere decades before.
As Kallamar pulled the brush to the end, he paused to examine the tips of The Goat's hair. He expected there to be spit ends from how rough and tumble and generally barbaric The Goat seemed, but to his surprise there did not seem to be many. Their hair actually was healthy, greasiness aside.
Narinder once explained to him when The Red Crown brought him back to life, it remade his body in peak physical form—no scars, no broken bones, no untidy fur, not even dirt under his claws.
Had The Goat died and brought themself back recently? Was that why their hair seemed so well kept? Or did them actually take care of it?
He glanced at the new leather around the brush handle then back at the long, black hair.
Holding the brush in one hand, he carefully pulled at a snarl of hair with his fingers. A piece of twig had tangled in the locks. Probably from when they rolled on the ground trying to hide from The Lamb.
After prying the twig out and tossing it to the side, Kallamar continued brushing. He let his thoughts wander from old memories to new worries and back several times.
As he was ruminating on his wooing of the rooster, the hank of hair in his hand pulled forward. The Goat's chin lulled to their chest.
Frowning, Kallamar shook their shoulder.
"Are you awake?"
The Goat jerked up right. One of their horn slammed into Kallamar's mouth.
The Goat swung their head around and winced at the scene of Kallamar holding his face, swearing across several dead languages.
Kallamar pulled his hands away, blood seeping from a cut on his upper lip down his chin and oozing from a scrape across his gum. Praying to his Crown, he pressed his thumb against his front teeth. If they fell out, he had a hunch he wouldn't be able to grow them back anymore like when he was a god. Or maybe he could. He didn't fully know how this new, stupid mortal body of his worked, only that it was much different from the body he had as a critter or as a god.
Luckily, all his teeth stayed in place.
The Goat reached out a hand, but Kallamar slapped it away. Their mouth moved. They said something, but he couldn't be bothered to pay attention as he scraped dirt from The Goat's horn from his teeth.
Disgusted, he hopped off the bed and went to the water bucket. What choice did he have but the old water? Using the small wooden cup beside it, he scooped up a cupful to swish around his mouth. He pushed aside the window curtain and spat. He repeated the actions twice more before wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.
Out of spite for the stale water taste in his mouth, Kallamar grabbed the bucket and dumped it outside.
He dropped the bucket and cup unceremoniously on the floor before returning to the bed. The Goat chewed their lip then offered a wad of gauze they must have gotten while he rinsed his mouth.
Kallamar pressed the gauze to his lip, scowling away from them
Out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed their mouth move slightly, but refused to look at them.
When he didn't respond, they stood and stepped in front of him. They held up their hand. The Goat made fist facing him, then a ring with their fingers and thumbs. They started to cross the finger farthest from their thumb with its only neighbor, uncrossed them, then crossed the middle finger with the one closest to their thumb without lower the first finger. They furrowed their brow at their hand.
Kallamar raised an eyebrow before he understood. With an eye roll, he set the gauze aside. He took their hand and folded their fingers and thumb down into a fist before he moved it in a circle over their chest.
"'Sorry,'" he translated slowly, repeating the gesture. "It has a sign. You don't need to spell it out."
The Goat blinked. "Oh. I did not know that. I thought you spelled everything out when you talked with your hands."
Kallamar snorted a laugh. "No? Do you spell out words when you T-A-L-K?"
They blushed, glancing away. "Yeah, that makes sense."
Despite himself, Kallamar smiled. He supposed if they hadn't been properly taught, they wouldn't know the complexities of signing.
Much like his ability to lip read, Kallamar learned to sign before he lost his hearing. Lip reading made it easier to see what someone was saying about him from across a room, and signing let him gossip to his people without being heard.
He never would have guessed these skills he picked up would make his adjustment to his deafness and chronic tinnitus easier.
The Goat ran their hand through their hair. "Are you finished? With my hair? I won't fall a sleep this time if you're not."
Kallamar hummed before taking the brush from where it landed on the bed. Before The Goat could turn around, he brushed down their unruly bangs a few times. After reach stroke, their bangs flicked back up of their own accord, not unlike the cowlick between Narinder's ears that Kallamar used to tease him about.
"Worth a shot." He shrugged and started to gesture for them to turn around, but stopped. "What do you want me to do with it?"
The Goat tilted their head to the side, raising an eyebrow.
"Do you want a standard three-strand braid? A fishtail braid? A milkmaid braid? I've never actually done it, but I think I could easily figure out how to braid with five strands of hair." He ticked off a few more styles on his fingers.
The Goat held up their hands to him to stop. "I don't know anything about braiding more than the normal one with three pieces all looped over each other. I don't even usually wear my hair like that either. " Their Crown left their head and pulled back their hair into a ponytail. "This is how I wear it when I need it out of the way." They pointed.
Kallamar wasn't surprised to hear that at all, though with the hair away from their face, the Goat did look much less scruffy. Almost handsome, or would they prefer to be called beautiful? Did it even matter if he didn't plan to tell them?
"Fishtail," he decided. Something a little advanced, but not so much that he might have to undo the braid and try again.
Before The Goat turned away from him, they said, "You need to talk. I won't fall asleep then."
"About what?" Kallamar questioned. He could babble on easily. Thousands of years of sermons left him with the gift of gab. Though, unlike Narinder, his sermons didn't put anyone to sleep since his were thought provoking and interesting.
They shrugged. "I dunno. Anything. I never bothered to learn about Lamb-Bam's you. I wasn't going to help fight you, so I didn't care." They snapped their fingers. "Wait, I do remember being told something."
Nerves twisted his stomach. Kallamar doubted any of what they might have heard about him was flattering given whom their best friend was.
The Goat smiled broadly. "You're a slut."
Kallamar rolled his eyes. He stood and snagged some thick thread from his desk. The Goat's Crown seemed unamused as it dropped the ponytail and returned to its normal shape. Instead of settling back down on their head, it lazily dropped into its bearer's lap.
Kallamar sat back down then took the Goat by the horn and forced them to turn away so he could begin.
He pulled their hair back into a low ponytail before dividing it into two sections.
As Kallamar started to plait their hair, he said, "Call me what you will. I enjoyed having a lover or three around when I was going about my business. There is nothing wrong with being admired and adored. Even you should understand that."
Kallamar fell in love easy, especially in his younger days. Finding those people among his followers who loved him more than the rest and rewarding the affection they doled upon him with affection in return was a wonderful feeling.
The memory was fainter now as the years passed, but he could still recall the warmth of his first husband's hand in his and the pure devotion and love that came from their union. The tantalizing memory of taking the loyal reward from him the next day after their wedding rose goose flesh on his arms.
"Marriage makes your followers happy, too. Who doesn't like a wedding? Why, my last wedding before that little usurper murdered me, I…" Kallamar continued to babble.
The braid began to take shape. The strands zigzagging over each other as he recounted his last wedding. How glorious his temple looked. How his husband pressed against him as he sat on his lap, looking up at him adoringly. How the honeymoon would have been better had Narinder's rat vessel not broken into his larders and stolen weeks worth of food.
"Besides, I didn't have that many spouses." He knotted the thread around the end of the braid and tightened it. "At most, during the height of my reign, I had fifty-four."
The Goat swung their head around, flicking Kallamar in the cheek with the end of their fishtail braid, but, luckily, were mindful of their horns this time.
They bit down on their lower lip then let their mouth fall slack before finally speaking.
"Fifty-four?!"
Kallamar scoffed. "Fifty-four spouses out of tens of thousands of followers isn't much. From what I've heard, The Lamb has had a higher ratio of spouse to not spouse followers than I ever did."
The Goat shook their head, and Kallamar wished he had started the braid more to the side. It would look nice over their shoulder instead of straight down their back.
"You must have kept them all around your temple, I bet. They were your spouses, after all." Their eyes sparkled. "That time must have been full of debaucherous sex parties. Orgies as far as the eye can see! " They pointed a finger at him with a smirk.
Kallamar sighed dramatically. "Alas, no. Most of them loathed each other, and I was constantly separating them before they murdered one another." He slumped forward, pouting. "Aside from that, I was also a little too big by that point to indulge in any of the 'seas of orgies' in the way I would have preferred." He paused then added while pointedly eyeing The Goat's Crown, "A word of the wise from your elder, enjoy your spouses' intimate company while you still can, little godling."
The Goat pursed their lips, seemingly mulling something over. A moment later, they nodded to themselves.
With a sly smile, The Goat leaned forward on their arm towards Kallamar.
They spoke slowly and clearly, "So, tell me, squid man, what were the ways you would have preferred." They winked, setting a warm palm on his thigh. "Maybe, I could help you…recreate them."
The blood rushed to his face.
This mirror image of the creature who murdered him, twice, then forcibly subjugated him had just made the offer to fool around with him in any way he preferred.
In his head, he knew he should feel disgusted. It had to be a trap.
This couldn't be a quid pro quo or pleasure for pleasure's sake, not between the two of them.
The Goat must want something more: Blackmail against him or something to lord over him. Maybe they wanted this because it would piss off The Lamb.
Did The Goat even have the anatomy he liked? He might fall in love with anyone, but he preferred partners who had the same anatomy as he did.
However, the alluring idea of being with someone and not having to constantly gauge his strength sent shiver down his spine.
How nice it would be to tangle himself around a lover and not worry about crushing them in his embrace? How freeing it would be to be able to push himself as far inside his lover's orifices as he could without fretting about tearing the muscle and tissue?
Kallamar put his hands on either side of The Goat's head and tugged them forward to kiss, the wiry hair of their bread scraping against the skin of his chin.
His heart picked up its beat in his chest with excitement.
He decided he didn't care what they had. Hands, mouths, and butts worked the same whether Kallamar had any interest in the rest or not.
He would make it work.
The Goat looked stunned when he pulled away, but not revolted by the impromptu kiss. They blinked their surprise away as a blush crossed their cheeks.
"Guess that was a 'yes'."
— - -
The sun warmed the wood wall he leaned against the next morning. Kallamar rubbed an eye with his free hand while holding a cup of willow bark tea in the other.
His body already began to ache. He'd forgotten the immense well of stamina a Crown gave its bearer. Last he remembered from the night before was collapsing onto the bed and muttering to The Goat to give him a few moments to rest. When he opened his eyes again, the sun peaked through the small crack in the curtain.
The Goat had left sometime after he fell asleep, and Kallamar wasn't sure he how he felt about that.
He, as the gentlemen he was, always woke his partners to tell them if he had to leave for more than a few moments. The look of appreciation in his spouses' eyes as he treated them respect made the devotion he would soon collect from them even sweeter.
On the other tentacle, the idea of looking The Goat in the face after giving in to their obvious manipulation made his stomach twist and his chest ache with shame.
He put a hand against the middle of his sternum. Was this what it felt like to create sin? Gods didn't make sin nor did critters. One was above concept of morality and the other below.
He shuttered at the thought of letting sin corrupt him. Loathe as he was to do it, he'd might have to go to confession. If he worded it carefully, The Lamb wouldn't know what he and The Goat did together, just that he fooled around with someone and felt shame for falling into lust so easily.
He sipped his tea, watching The Lamb's followers go about their morning rituals.
Was The Lamb still looking for The Goat outside the walls, he wondered.
A moment later, Kallamar got his answer as The Lamb came down the steps with The Goat trudging behind them.
The Lamb had their arms raised and their expression angry as they, presumably, shouted at The Goat like a parent reprimanding a child. The Goat's shoulders hunched, and they scowled at the dirt.
Since they were too far away to even guess what they were saying, Kallamar instead just watched their body language as they passed the missionary building.
The Goat looked away from The Lamb towards the healing bay. When they caught sight of Kallamar, they stopped. The Lamb, still ranting, did not notice and kept walking. The Goat looked to their friend then back.
Turning to face Kallamar fully, they made a fist with their hand and moved it in a circle over their chest.
"Sorry."
Kallamar took a drink of his tea and nodded in acknowledgment. If they wanted an actual acceptance of their apology, they needed to do better than that.
Instead of following The Lamb, The Goat suddenly leapt forward, splashing into the inky black ether. A heartbeat later, they jumped out of it next to him, their loose hair waving behind them with their fleece.
All his work with their hair came undone, and he felt a little disappointed—even if it had been his pulling that loosen it.
The Goat snagged the tea from his hand and took a gulp. They cringed.
"That tastes terrible!"
Kallamar grabbed the tea back with a scowl. "It's pain medicine, horn head. It's not supposed to taste good."
They winced and signed "Sorry" again.
"My bad." They said, rubbing their neck. "I overdid it. You were just a lot of fun." They tapped through his robes to one of the many tender spots on their teeth left on his chest, but he held his composure against the sting.
They continued, "More fun than I thought a blasphemous, old man god would be."
"I'm not old. Don't call me old," Kallamar snapped, pushing their hand away with his pointer finger. He been called 'blasphemous' by Chosen Gods for centuries, so that insult did not bother him. But old? He was not old!
"Fine. I won't." They held up their hands, palms facing him. "But only if you forgive me for leaving. Lamb-Bam came back and was prowling around. Since I still had plenty of energy," pumping their arms, they chuckled, "I thought it would be fun to lead them on a wild goat chase." The Goat flashed a lopsided smile. "I hope leaving didn't damage my chances of fooling around with you again."
Kallamar snorted. He still had people he planned to woo into his arms, starting with the rooster, but if The Goat wanted to play around with him, who was he to deny a god such a simple request?
"I will allow it to pass this one time," he smirked at them over his cup, "but next time, you'd better wake me."
— - -
AN: inspired by my favorite type of asmr role play videos being the hair styling ones.
Should have used that otherworldly rizz on him when he was a smelly murderous god, I guess. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
I shall never get over my self-imposed irony that I headcanon The Goat having a tentacle kink but my version of Kallamar not having tentacles as a follower.
Anyway, I don't view these two as having a committed, romantic relationship. So theirs is….it's more like they bang but try to avoid having deep conversations to varying degrees of success.
Summary: Kallamar agrees to hide The Goat in the healing bay for the night after they run afoul of The Lamb. Out of boredom, Kallamar asked to style the Goat's hair.
Ships: KalGoat
Rating: Older Teen for adult themes for swearing and innuendo
Read On Ao3
—
After a long day of dealing with the petty woes of that usurper's followers, Kallamar could finally go to his shelter.
He stood in the entrance to the healing bay. Hands on his lower back, he stretched.
He couldn't wait to be in the quiet of his shelter and writing the day's complaints down in his journal. While Kallamar was happy to no longer be suffering in purgatory with his skin half-peeled off and skull split open, he would still rather not be assigned as this sad excuse for a cult's doctor.
Day in and out was the same parade of whines and moans with the same answers.
"My stomach hurts."
Then don't eat five-day-old food.
"My legs hurts when I do this."
Then don't do that.
"I have a hangover."
Then drink more water and less bog brew.
The worst comments, however, were the questions about his ears.
"Are you sure you don't need a doctor?"
No, he did not need a doctor.
"Do they hurt?"
Yes, they hurt.
"Can I touch them?"
Only if you want to lose your hand.
That day, one particularly rowdy child had grabbed hold of his bandages and yanked one side off when Kallamar was checking the lymph nodes in their throat.
He rubbed the replaced bandage with a scowl. Just because he had mastered how to dress the wounds dearest brother Narinder left at the base of his ears didn't mean he liked doing it.
Something caught Kallamar's attention out of the corner of his eye. In the dimming light of the evening, he turned his gaze to see a figure diving behind an offering statue. The figure crawled along the ground before leaping and rolling into a bush.
He tilted his head to the side, watching as the figure continue to stealthlessly creep across the grounds.
Could it be a spy? Kallamar hoped it was, if just so he could laugh at that lamb for letting such a pathetic spy slip past them.
Leaning against the wall, Kallamar waited to see if the figure would dash for the shadow by the stairs and cover a lot of open ground, or take the longer route behind the missionary building, which had more hiding spots.
To Kallamar's surprise, the figure chose neither. Instead, they bolted from between the drum circle and towards the healing bay.
Instinctive, Kallamar reached to his side for his sword, but grabbed nothing but air. He swore. That damnable lamb refused to allow him or Shamura to keep a blade on their persons anymore. The two of them had been carrying swords at their hips since before that creature's great-great-great-great grandparents were born! It was another of that lamb's humiliating punishments, he knew, to leave him so defenseless.
Instead, Kallamar stood his ground, his legs spread and hands gripped into fists, ready.
You've fought beasts a hundred times that thing's size. You can handle some puny mortal, Kallamar thought, trying to pump himself up, despite the pounding of his heart. If any of this younger siblings found out he let a fleeing spy topple him over, they would mock him relentlessly.
As the figure neared, more details became clear. They were smaller than Kallamar. They had long hair and horns. They wore a cloak. They–
The figured jumped an impressive distance to land in front of him.
The Goat grabbed his shoulders and shook him. Their mouth moved quickly, but Kallamar couldn't make out what they were saying in the dim light. The Goat looked over their shoulder before making a beeline behind Kallamar into the healing bay.
"What the..." Kallamar tried to see whatever The Goat had been staring at, but found nothing. When he turned to the healing bay, a faint light glowed out the door. He considered just going to his shelter. This didn't have to be his problem, but the idea of some stranger in his workplace made him antsy. It took weeks to get that place organized to his standards!
With a sigh, he walked back inside. The Goat held up a candle without a holder, looking around wildly. They opened the medicine cabinet and used their free hand to remove the bottles and tins that Kallamar had spent hours combing through, relabeling, and replacing.
Huffing, he marched over and grabbed The Goat's hand.
"What in the world are you doing?" He demanded. "Put those back!" Kallamar wrinkled his face up at the thought of this simpleton messing up his excellent system and instead pushed them aside. "Nevermind. I'll do it."
As he swiftly replaced the bottles and tins, The Goat scrambled to their feet. They waved the candle around. The light reflected off the amber glass in a way that Kallamar almost found pretty—if not for the context of a smelly mammal bursting into his space.
Once the tinctures and salves were safely back inside, he stood and spun around. This time, The Goat had pushed the boxes of supplies and extra blankets from under the bed and crawled to take their place. They licked the tips of their fingers to snuff out the candle, but Kallamar grabbed them by the wrist and shoulder.
He yanked them forward. He would have to concentrate, but if he paid close attention, he could read their lips well enough.
"What are you doing in here?" He hissed.
The Goat pulled their wrist free. "Hiding. What else does it look like?"
Kallamar resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Why are you hiding and why here?"
"I kind of pissed Lamb-Bam off, and I figured no one would be here. I told you that a second ago."
Kallamar pointed to his bandaged ears with a scowl. The Goat's thick eyebrows raised in surprise, as if they had forgotten one of Kallamar's defining trait. Besides his good looks and charming personality, he was deaf.
"Oh. Right." The Goat blew out a breath. They continued, enunciating every word painfully clearly, "Lamb. Made. Cupcakes. For. Their. Spouses. I. Ate. Them. Lamb. Is. Mad. At. Me. I. Want. To. Hide. Here. So. Go. Away." They waved him off with their free hand.
Kallamar dragged his hand down his face. The Lamb was bad enough. They killed him, they subjugated him, they forced him to heal their followers, and they made him to interact with Narinder, but this goat was rapidly climbing the ranks to take The Lamb's spot as the most annoying creature in Kallamar's life.
Since they clearly weren't going to leave, Kallamar had no choice but to stay. He was not about to let them stay here without supervision. He could just imagine the broken glass and half-dried herbs scattered across the healing bay should he leave them alone.
Also, knowingly keeping The Goat there would make The Lamb irate, and making that horrid beast irritated would make Kallamar very pleased.
He rocked back to his heels and held out a hand. "I will make a deal with you. You can stay here in with me, and I'll cover for you, but you have to do something for me."
"Do what?"
"What do you have offer, Goat?" Kallamar smirked at him.
The Goat narrowed their eyes, glaring. They opened their mouth to speak but jumped. They looked warily towards the door. He wondered if The Lamb was outside, nearing the healing bay.
Cringing, they said, "I know what the topics for the next week of sermons are. I'll tell you so you can skip out on the ones you don't care about. Please, they're coming!" They held their hand out to him, waiting for him to take it.
Kallamar considered that a moment. So long as Kallamar didn't skip multiple days in a row or more than half a week's worth, The Lamb didn't bother to reprimand him for skipping sermons. Knowing which of the sermon topics would be the worst to sit through would definitely help decide which days he should avoid the temple.
Kallamar shook The Goat's hand. "Deal. I'll cover for you." Kallamar licked his fingers and pinched out the candle flame. He stood, took a blanket from the box, and tossed it over the bed to cover them.
He went to the entrance and leaned against it, looking around.
The Lamb hopped off the roof of the missionary building. They swung their head around before spotting Kallamar.
The Lamb waved their arm, running towards him.
They spoke as they neared, but Kallamar didn't bother to try to understand. The Lamb was—ugh—his god now. They should know he can't tell what they're saying in the dark. The Lamb opened their mouth again before remembering.
They summoned a fiery curse in their hand and held it up in their palm. "Goat. Have you seen them?"
He shrugged. "Maybe I did. Why?"
The Lamb grit their teeth, and Kallamar smirked. When they were flustered, it was too easy to get under their skin.
"I wanted to surprise my spouses with some treats. That asshole came in and ate them!" The Lamb threw their hands up, the curse bobbing and throwing shadows around. "And then they—" The Lamb turned away as they ranted and paced. Even if Kallamar cared about their story—which he didn't—he wouldn't have bothered to try to understand them. It would have been too difficult.
"I think I saw them," he cut in. The Lamb spun on their heels and demanded to know where, so Kallamar pointed towards the steps. "They were heading over there, I think."
The Lamb growled something, their jaw clenched and lips barely moving, before they bolted off towards the stairs.
-- --
Kallamar looked over the list and made a note to skip the sermon in three days. He already knew how sickness was divine, both as punishment and as gift to force reflection. Part of him wondered if The Lamb hadn't taken cues from his own sermons. They had stolen his disciples from him at one point. Baalzebub probably wouldn't spill his secrets, but Saloes had always been a social climber. While Kallamar loved that about xem when Saleos was in his cult, it meant xe would happily tell The Lamb the contents of his sermons if it got xem special privileges.
Folding the paper and sticking it in his pocket, Kallamar went to the window. He pulled the curtain shut then repeated the action at the door. If the Lamb returned, they wouldn't be able to look inside as easily now.
The Goat sat on the bed, one knee pulled up. They glanced wearily at the thick curtain hiding them from The Lamb. More than likely The Lamb would spend the night prowling outside the ground walls and not come back until early in the morning.
If The Lamb did come back earlier than expected, Kallamar planned to say he didn't understand whom The Lamb was asking for earlier.
"Goat? I thought you said 'Float', like a butterfly. That's who I saw wandering off. That blue and red butterfly? You really should learn to speak with your hands. It would make this so much easier," he'd tell them.
Kallamar took the lit candle, now in a candle holder, and walked to the far side of the healing bay where his desk was. He covered the window there as well before settling in his chair.
He took a book from the bottom drawer. It was some sort of romantic, swashbuckling adventure that Narinder lent to him as a 'show of good faith'. In reality, Kallamar knew he was just being an ass giving him a book to read that Kallamar wouldn't enjoy at all.
The plot was cliché, the characters one-dimensional, and it was clear to Kallamar that the author had never once been on a boat bigger than a rowboat given how often port, starboard, and aft were mixed up.
The author also, for some reason, believed that sailors at sea only ate lemons and drank rum, nothing else.
At least, the erotic parts were written well enough, even if he didn't find them tantalizing enough to make use of them in a physical manner himself. Kallamar was honestly impressed by the author and how many words they thought of to refer to the male private parts.
He opened the book to where he left off. The pirate captain and the woman he kidnapped off a trading vessel had just had their first night together. Somehow, the two were in love, though Kallamar didn't remember reading them falling in love.
Lady Liza Turnbank held her skirts up as she tiptoed back to her room. The tapir still felt the starfish captain's lips upon the voluptuous skin of her bosom as he kissed down her body and caress of his suction cup fingers as he stroked her inner thighs. Her loins trembled, begging her to return to him, but she pushed down the need. The rest of the crew would awaken soon, and their captain needed to be ready to lead them. The next port was less than a days trip away.
She began to wonder if she will be able to return to civilized life on land now knowing the pleasure of this seadog rutting inside her. No gentleman would be able to fill her body with as wonderful sensations as the captain and his strong hips.
Lady Liza closed the door behind her. Went to the mirror Captain Nox—no, just Nox, as he had requested her to call him—so kindly gifted her. Her thick, lovely hair was a mess from her and Nox's love making.
She took out the silver hairbrush her mother had given her and began to brush out her long hair. She took the hair oil and put a few drops on her scalp and began to brush it through her raven locks.
But the idea of having hair to play with or style was appealing. He had brushed and plaited the hair of some of his followers' hair before, especially in his younger days when he wasn't busy running most of the trade in and out of The Bishops' lands. Back then, he had all that free time on his tentacles.
Kallamar paused and touched his own head. He had never been envious of those who had hair or fur until he started conjuring the land with Shamura. He knew, of course, he was one of the handsomest creatures in all of The Lands of The Old Faith. He did not need hair to change that. (Though he might have commissioned one wig—or maybe, two…eight…ten—just to see if hair improved his already handsome looks. None of them did of course, since perfection can't be improved upon. )
Kallamar shut the book with a sigh. He missed doing playing with someone's hair. The man he currently attempted to woo was a rooster and had no long hair or feathers to speak of.
His gaze wandered over to The Goat and their mane of messy hair. He hummed a moment then set the book to the side and stood.
"Excuse me. I'm bored and have a request." He walked across the bay to them with the candle.
The Goat looked up skeptically.
"A request?"
"I want to style your hair."
The Goat pulled their hair over their shoulder and clutched it to their chest. "Why? You gonna cut it? My beard, too? Like the you did in my world did?" They bared their teeth at him. The Crown on their head narrowed its eye.
Kallamar frowned. He didn't totally understand how The Lamb's friend worked. He knew they weren't from his world, but their Crown had more or less the same abilities as The Lamb's, somehow. They were a mirror of The Lamb, or so he was told.
It hadn't occurred to him that there might be another 'him' in The Goat's world.
He wondered for a moment if that Kallamar was as handsome he was before deciding probably not. He was the handsomest Kallamar in any world.
"If I cut it, then I couldn't braid it." Kallamar snorted, setting the candle on the cabinet near by.
Besides, he wasn't any good at giving haircuts. More than a few spouses could attest to that. He nearly smiled remembering one of his husbands wearing a large hat for weeks until the choppy messy Kallamar left his hair grew out.
The Goat stayed quiet, fixing their gaze at him, before Kallamar felt something prodding at his mind. A second later, The Goat had their eyes in his head, picking through his thoughts.
Kallamar jumped back in disgust. "Do that again and I'll get The Lamb myself," he snarled. Having anyone peeking through his mind made his skin crawl. It was so intrusive. How could regular mortals stand it?
The Goat held up their hands, palms facing him. "I just needed to make sure. If you want, you can style it. Here." Their Crown left their head and a moment later a boar hair brush fell from it to their palm. "You can even use this."
Kallamar tentatively took the brush and looked it over, half expecting the offer to be a prank.
The brush itself was made of dark, polished wood. The leather cord wrapped around the handle was still stiff and not yet broken in, contrasting the little bit of worn wood that peeked out just before the bristles started. The backside of the brush had symbols that reminded Kallamar of the ones he'd destroyed in Woolhaven carved into the wood, but slightly different.
Squinting, he saw some flecks of paint in a few of the thinner crevices.
Running his thumb over the bristles, he decided, all in all, it was a fine hairbrush.
Kallamar sat down next to The Goat. He took their shoulders and forced them to turn so their back faced him.
"I won't be able to tell what you're saying like this, so don't bother talking."
The Goat raised their shoulders in reply, paused, before they gave Kallamar a thumbs up instead.
Their hair was a little greasy and not as soft as Kallamar had hoped, but at least it wasn't tangled too much. He played with the idea of washing it, but discarded the thought. The soap he kept on hand in the healing bay would be too harsh on The Goat's hair, and the only water was in a bucket in the corner and had been sitting stagnate for at least a day and a half.
Did this tiny place have soapwort growing around? Probably not, or the whole cult wouldn't smell of sweat and body order all the time. The Lamb's followers threw requests at them often. Maybe he could order them to find some. Heket would grow it for him, if he asked nicely—and maybe offered her some of the alcohol he was allowed to keep around for tinctures.
While he was at it, he should ask them to grow rosemary. Rosemary loved rocky cliff sides on his coasts, so it might not grow well here as it did in some places in Anchordeep, but even a small bush would improve the smell.
Or lavender.
One of the trade ships that often docked to sell goods near one of his shrines would sell enfleurage scented with lavender. He had always meant to get some seeds and talk either Leshy or Heket into grow it for him if lavender, like many other plants, did not take well to salty soil.
Shamura had liked the scent too, hadn't they? They won't have had much luck growing it though. Shamura's skills at plant cultivation were greatly lacking. Beets and lichen seemed to be the only things they had much luck with, and even then they left most of the work to their followers.
Kallamar tossed a section of hair he'd finished brushing over The Goat's shoulder before portioning out a new one.
How was Silk Cradle now that the beasties weren't subjugated and kept in check by Shamura? Even when they were lost in their haze of memories and confusion, Shamura still used their great power to quell any uprising or smite those that sought to stir up trouble.
Kallamar dared not even imagine how his wonderful Anchordeep faired without him. The Lamb and their followers may have viewed his use of plague and pestilence as unholy and cruel, but it bridled the worst of the creatures that lurked in the deep from causing destruction and pandemonium.
Without him, that one jellyfish Witness would still be smashing houses and throwing her weight around as if she had a more divine right to Anchordeep than its god did. He was told that The Witness returned not long after his death to attempt to take over, only to be quickly dispatched by The Lamb and indoctrinated.
Witness Astaroth lurked around the grounds and glared at him whenever their paths crossed. She must hold a grudge about her humiliating defeat at his hands. He supposed he would be upset too if he had lost to a Crown Bearer who had earned his full godhood mere decades before.
As Kallamar pulled the brush to the end, he paused to examine the tips of The Goat's hair. He expected there to be spit ends from how rough and tumble and generally barbaric The Goat seemed, but to his surprise there did not seem to be many. Their hair actually was healthy, greasiness aside.
Narinder once explained to him when The Red Crown brought him back to life, it remade his body in peak physical form—no scars, no broken bones, no untidy fur, not even dirt under his claws.
Had The Goat died and brought themself back recently? Was that why their hair seemed so well kept? Or did them actually take care of it?
He glanced at the new leather around the brush handle then back at the long, black hair.
Holding the brush in one hand, he carefully pulled at a snarl of hair with his fingers. A piece of twig had tangled in the locks. Probably from when they rolled on the ground trying to hide from The Lamb.
After prying the twig out and tossing it to the side, Kallamar continued brushing. He let his thoughts wander from old memories to new worries and back several times.
As he was ruminating on his wooing of the rooster, the hank of hair in his hand pulled forward. The Goat's chin lulled to their chest.
Frowning, Kallamar shook their shoulder.
"Are you awake?"
The Goat jerked up right. One of their horn slammed into Kallamar's mouth.
The Goat swung their head around and winced at the scene of Kallamar holding his face, swearing across several dead languages.
Kallamar pulled his hands away, blood seeping from a cut on his upper lip down his chin and oozing from a scrape across his gum. Praying to his Crown, he pressed his thumb against his front teeth. If they fell out, he had a hunch he wouldn't be able to grow them back anymore like when he was a god. Or maybe he could. He didn't fully know how this new, stupid mortal body of his worked, only that it was much different from the body he had as a critter or as a god.
Luckily, all his teeth stayed in place.
The Goat reached out a hand, but Kallamar slapped it away. Their mouth moved. They said something, but he couldn't be bothered to pay attention as he scraped dirt from The Goat's horn from his teeth.
Disgusted, he hopped off the bed and went to the water bucket. What choice did he have but the old water? Using the small wooden cup beside it, he scooped up a cupful to swish around his mouth. He pushed aside the window curtain and spat. He repeated the actions twice more before wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.
Out of spite for the stale water taste in his mouth, Kallamar grabbed the bucket and dumped it outside.
He dropped the bucket and cup unceremoniously on the floor before returning to the bed. The Goat chewed their lip then offered a wad of gauze they must have gotten while he rinsed his mouth.
Kallamar pressed the gauze to his lip, scowling away from them
Out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed their mouth move slightly, but refused to look at them.
When he didn't respond, they stood and stepped in front of him. They held up their hand. The Goat made fist facing him, then a ring with their fingers and thumbs. They started to cross the finger farthest from their thumb with its only neighbor, uncrossed them, then crossed the middle finger with the one closest to their thumb without lower the first finger. They furrowed their brow at their hand.
Kallamar raised an eyebrow before he understood. With an eye roll, he set the gauze aside. He took their hand and folded their fingers and thumb down into a fist before he moved it in a circle over their chest.
"'Sorry,'" he translated slowly, repeating the gesture. "It has a sign. You don't need to spell it out."
The Goat blinked. "Oh. I did not know that. I thought you spelled everything out when you talked with your hands."
Kallamar snorted a laugh. "No? Do you spell out words when you T-A-L-K?"
They blushed, glancing away. "Yeah, that makes sense."
Despite himself, Kallamar smiled. He supposed if they hadn't been properly taught, they wouldn't know the complexities of signing.
Much like his ability to lip read, Kallamar learned to sign before he lost his hearing. Lip reading made it easier to see what someone was saying about him from across a room, and signing let him gossip to his people without being heard.
He never would have guessed these skills he picked up would make his adjustment to his deafness and chronic tinnitus easier.
The Goat ran their hand through their hair. "Are you finished? With my hair? I won't fall a sleep this time if you're not."
Kallamar hummed before taking the brush from where it landed on the bed. Before The Goat could turn around, he brushed down their unruly bangs a few times. After reach stroke, their bangs flicked back up of their own accord, not unlike the cowlick between Narinder's ears that Kallamar used to tease him about.
"Worth a shot." He shrugged and started to gesture for them to turn around, but stopped. "What do you want me to do with it?"
The Goat tilted their head to the side, raising an eyebrow.
"Do you want a standard three-strand braid? A fishtail braid? A milkmaid braid? I've never actually done it, but I think I could easily figure out how to braid with five strands of hair." He ticked off a few more styles on his fingers.
The Goat held up their hands to him to stop. "I don't know anything about braiding more than the normal one with three pieces all looped over each other. I don't even usually wear my hair like that either. " Their Crown left their head and pulled back their hair into a ponytail. "This is how I wear it when I need it out of the way." They pointed.
Kallamar wasn't surprised to hear that at all, though with the hair away from their face, the Goat did look much less scruffy. Almost handsome, or would they prefer to be called beautiful? Did it even matter if he didn't plan to tell them?
"Fishtail," he decided. Something a little advanced, but not so much that he might have to undo the braid and try again.
Before The Goat turned away from him, they said, "You need to talk. I won't fall asleep then."
"About what?" Kallamar questioned. He could babble on easily. Thousands of years of sermons left him with the gift of gab. Though, unlike Narinder, his sermons didn't put anyone to sleep since his were thought provoking and interesting.
They shrugged. "I dunno. Anything. I never bothered to learn about Lamb-Bam's you. I wasn't going to help fight you, so I didn't care." They snapped their fingers. "Wait, I do remember being told something."
Nerves twisted his stomach. Kallamar doubted any of what they might have heard about him was flattering given whom their best friend was.
The Goat smiled broadly. "You're a slut."
Kallamar rolled his eyes. He stood and snagged some thick thread from his desk. The Goat's Crown seemed unamused as it dropped the ponytail and returned to its normal shape. Instead of settling back down on their head, it lazily dropped into its bearer's lap.
Kallamar sat back down then took the Goat by the horn and forced them to turn away so he could begin.
He pulled their hair back into a low ponytail before dividing it into two sections.
As Kallamar started to plait their hair, he said, "Call me what you will. I enjoyed having a lover or three around when I was going about my business. There is nothing wrong with being admired and adored. Even you should understand that."
Kallamar fell in love easy, especially in his younger days. Finding those people among his followers who loved him more than the rest and rewarding the affection they doled upon him with affection in return was a wonderful feeling.
The memory was fainter now as the years passed, but he could still recall the warmth of his first husband's hand in his and the pure devotion and love that came from their union. The tantalizing memory of taking the loyal reward from him the next day after their wedding rose goose flesh on his arms.
"Marriage makes your followers happy, too. Who doesn't like a wedding? Why, my last wedding before that little usurper murdered me, I…" Kallamar continued to babble.
The braid began to take shape. The strands zigzagging over each other as he recounted his last wedding. How glorious his temple looked. How his husband pressed against him as he sat on his lap, looking up at him adoringly. How the honeymoon would have been better had Narinder's rat vessel not broken into his larders and stolen weeks worth of food.
"Besides, I didn't have that many spouses." He knotted the thread around the end of the braid and tightened it. "At most, during the height of my reign, I had fifty-four."
The Goat swung their head around, flicking Kallamar in the cheek with the end of their fishtail braid, but, luckily, were mindful of their horns this time.
They bit down on their lower lip then let their mouth fall slack before finally speaking.
"Fifty-four?!"
Kallamar scoffed. "Fifty-four spouses out of tens of thousands of followers isn't much. From what I've heard, The Lamb has had a higher ratio of spouse to not spouse followers than I ever did."
The Goat shook their head, and Kallamar wished he had started the braid more to the side. It would look nice over their shoulder instead of straight down their back.
"You must have kept them all around your temple, I bet. They were your spouses, after all." Their eyes sparkled. "That time must have been full of debaucherous sex parties. Orgies as far as the eye can see! " They pointed a finger at him with a smirk.
Kallamar sighed dramatically. "Alas, no. Most of them loathed each other, and I was constantly separating them before they murdered one another." He slumped forward, pouting. "Aside from that, I was also a little too big by that point to indulge in any of the 'seas of orgies' in the way I would have preferred." He paused then added while pointedly eyeing The Goat's Crown, "A word of the wise from your elder, enjoy your spouses' intimate company while you still can, little godling."
The Goat pursed their lips, seemingly mulling something over. A moment later, they nodded to themselves.
With a sly smile, The Goat leaned forward on their arm towards Kallamar.
They spoke slowly and clearly, "So, tell me, squid man, what were the ways you would have preferred." They winked, setting a warm palm on his thigh. "Maybe, I could help you…recreate them."
The blood rushed to his face.
This mirror image of the creature who murdered him, twice, then forcibly subjugated him had just made the offer to fool around with him in any way he preferred.
In his head, he knew he should feel disgusted. It had to be a trap.
This couldn't be a quid pro quo or pleasure for pleasure's sake, not between the two of them.
The Goat must want something more: Blackmail against him or something to lord over him. Maybe they wanted this because it would piss off The Lamb.
Did The Goat even have the anatomy he liked? He might fall in love with anyone, but he preferred partners who had the same anatomy as he did.
However, the alluring idea of being with someone and not having to constantly gauge his strength sent shiver down his spine.
How nice it would be to tangle himself around a lover and not worry about crushing them in his embrace? How freeing it would be to be able to push himself as far inside his lover's orifices as he could without fretting about tearing the muscle and tissue?
Kallamar put his hands on either side of The Goat's head and tugged them forward to kiss, the wiry hair of their bread scraping against the skin of his chin.
His heart picked up its beat in his chest with excitement.
He decided he didn't care what they had. Hands, mouths, and butts worked the same whether Kallamar had any interest in the rest or not.
He would make it work.
The Goat looked stunned when he pulled away, but not revolted by the impromptu kiss. They blinked their surprise away as a blush crossed their cheeks.
"Guess that was a 'yes'."
— - -
The sun warmed the wood wall he leaned against the next morning. Kallamar rubbed an eye with his free hand while holding a cup of willow bark tea in the other.
His body already began to ache. He'd forgotten the immense well of stamina a Crown gave its bearer. Last he remembered from the night before was collapsing onto the bed and muttering to The Goat to give him a few moments to rest. When he opened his eyes again, the sun peaked through the small crack in the curtain.
The Goat had left sometime after he fell asleep, and Kallamar wasn't sure he how he felt about that.
He, as the gentlemen he was, always woke his partners to tell them if he had to leave for more than a few moments. The look of appreciation in his spouses' eyes as he treated them respect made the devotion he would soon collect from them even sweeter.
On the other tentacle, the idea of looking The Goat in the face after giving in to their obvious manipulation made his stomach twist and his chest ache with shame.
He put a hand against the middle of his sternum. Was this what it felt like to create sin? Gods didn't make sin nor did critters. One was above concept of morality and the other below.
He shuttered at the thought of letting sin corrupt him. Loathe as he was to do it, he'd might have to go to confession. If he worded it carefully, The Lamb wouldn't know what he and The Goat did together, just that he fooled around with someone and felt shame for falling into lust so easily.
He sipped his tea, watching The Lamb's followers go about their morning rituals.
Was The Lamb still looking for The Goat outside the walls, he wondered.
A moment later, Kallamar got his answer as The Lamb came down the steps with The Goat trudging behind them.
The Lamb had their arms raised and their expression angry as they, presumably, shouted at The Goat like a parent reprimanding a child. The Goat's shoulders hunched, and they scowled at the dirt.
Since they were too far away to even guess what they were saying, Kallamar instead just watched their body language as they passed the missionary building.
The Goat looked away from The Lamb towards the healing bay. When they caught sight of Kallamar, they stopped. The Lamb, still ranting, did not notice and kept walking. The Goat looked to their friend then back.
Turning to face Kallamar fully, they made a fist with their hand and moved it in a circle over their chest.
"Sorry."
Kallamar took a drink of his tea and nodded in acknowledgment. If they wanted an actual acceptance of their apology, they needed to do better than that.
Instead of following The Lamb, The Goat suddenly leapt forward, splashing into the inky black ether. A heartbeat later, they jumped out of it next to him, their loose hair waving behind them with their fleece.
All his work with their hair came undone, and he felt a little disappointed—even if it had been his pulling that loosen it.
The Goat snagged the tea from his hand and took a gulp. They cringed.
"That tastes terrible!"
Kallamar grabbed the tea back with a scowl. "It's pain medicine, horn head. It's not supposed to taste good."
They winced and signed "Sorry" again.
"My bad." They said, rubbing their neck. "I overdid it. You were just a lot of fun." They tapped through his robes to one of the many tender spots on their teeth left on his chest, but he held his composure against the sting.
They continued, "More fun than I thought a blasphemous, old man god would be."
"I'm not old. Don't call me old," Kallamar snapped, pushing their hand away with his pointer finger. He been called 'blasphemous' by Chosen Gods for centuries, so that insult did not bother him. But old? He was not old!
"Fine. I won't." They held up their hands, palms facing him. "But only if you forgive me for leaving. Lamb-Bam came back and was prowling around. Since I still had plenty of energy," pumping their arms, they chuckled, "I thought it would be fun to lead them on a wild goat chase." The Goat flashed a lopsided smile. "I hope leaving didn't damage my chances of fooling around with you again."
Kallamar snorted. He still had people he planned to woo into his arms, starting with the rooster, but if The Goat wanted to play around with him, who was he to deny a god such a simple request?
"I will allow it to pass this one time," he smirked at them over his cup, "but next time, you'd better wake me."
— - -
AN: inspired by my favorite type of asmr role play videos being the hair styling ones.
Should have used that otherworldly rizz on him when he was a smelly murderous god, I guess. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
I shall never get over my self-imposed irony that I headcanon The Goat having a tentacle kink but my version of Kallamar not having tentacles as a follower.
Anyway, I don't view these two as having a committed, romantic relationship. So theirs is….it's more like they bang but try to avoid having deep conversations to varying degrees of success.
Summary: After hearing from several concerned Crown Bearers, Kudaai goes to check on his sister, only to find her collapsed on the ground of her home.
Rating: T
Ships: N/A
Content Warnings: Non-explicit suicide ideation.
Read it on AO3
----
Why did he have to be the mature one, Kudaai wondered, marching away from his home to the small stone building across the field.
Every time something happened with Chemach, he ended up being the one to go check on her. Why couldn't the concerned Crown Bearers go bother Clauneck? It seemed high time that it was his turn to make sure Chemach hadn't made a mistake she was scrambling to fix.
Kudaai slumped his shoulders forward.
Who was he kidding? Clauneck, more often than not, was useless in situations such as this. With his tenancy to be lost in the past and future, he would lose focus on where he was going or believe he had already done it.
So the duty of keeping both his siblings on track fell squarely on Kudaai's sturdy shoulders.
Kudaai knocked on the thick hardwood and metal door of the stone building. He hadn't liked the change Chemach made from her past home to this strange boxy thing of gray bricks.
Her dwelling, a quaint wooden shelter with a thatched roof and flowers crawling along the walls, had been as welcoming and airy. It was open and inviting to mortals that wandered by or a god seeking a moment of respite from the struggles of divinity.
Her new home reminded Kudaai too much of a fortress desperate to keep everyone out.
Moments passed with no response, so he knocked again, louder this time.
If not for the circumstances that pushed him to come check, Kudaai would have left then, but when three different Crown Bearers tell him Chemach seemed 'off,' what choice did he have but to wait at her doorstep?
"Sister!" He shouted. "It is I, Kudaai. Open your door if you are here." He strained his ears, listening for signs of life from within. Finally, he heard a faint groaning. Clenching his bill shut, Kudaai pushed the unlocked door open.
The stench of sweat, rot, and defecation hit Kudaai so hard, he took a step back.
"Chemach?" He called, covering his nostrils with his hand. The groaning came again from within the darkened brick box. Kudaai reached into his pocket and took out a piece of coal. Cupping it in his hands, he blew magic into it. A flame sprang to life around the coal. Holding the warm coal in his open palm, Kudaai stepped inside.
The inside of her home was a mess. Papers scattered across the floor. There were dark red and brown stains on the disheveled rug and several loaves of stale or moldy bread sat half-eaten on various surfaces. Something that had once been alive now rotted on the table with a knife sticking out of it, and in the middle of all the mess lay Chemach, sprawled out on the floor.
Careful of the papers and bread and stains, Kudaai picked his way to his sister.
"Chemach?" He tried to put more concern in his voice than he felt.
Chemach enjoyed being around mortals. She liked talking with them, working with them, and partying and dancing with them. More than once recently, Chemach had wandered towards his forge, stumbling over her feet, giddy and tipsy not just from drink, but the atmosphere of a rambunctious gathering.
She had even tried to drag him along with her to the festivities, despite Kudaai's repeated requests not to do so. He did not care for large parties. A small gathering of a handful of friends congregating together was the kind of social merriment Kudaai enjoyed.
A long departed friend, rest his soul, once called Chemach 'an extreme extrovert', and Kudaai had to agree. He never understood how she could enjoy such frivolity.
Chemach moaned, rolling over to reveal a puddle of vomit. Vomit also coated the side of her face and her dishwater blonde hair. She squinted at him.
"Koo-Koo?" She muttered with a voice that sounded faraway.
"I have requested that you not call me that childish nickname anymore, Chemach." Kudaai tossed the flaming coal into the nearby fireplace. The half-burnt logs and leaves inside caught alight instantly.
She rubbed her eyes, blinked hard, before moving her hands around her to search. Kudaai sighed and tapped his forehead.
"On your head," he told her. Chemach touched her head to find her glasses tangled in her hair. She untangled the temples then settled the glasses on her bill.
The First Ones made Chemach farsighted so she could judge mortals on their character, not their appearance. Only after Chemach held a half-hour conversation speaking towards an oxen-shaped rock instead of the Crown Bearer beside her was she allowed to wear glasses to improve her vision.
"What are you doing here, Kudaai?" She asked as she hauled herself up to her feet.
Kudaai held back a wince. She looked crumpled while on the floor, but now that she stood with the light from the fire and the open door on her, Kudaai had no choice but to admit his sister looked positively terrible. Not only did she have vomit on her face, but the feathers of her blue tunic were in disarray and covered in unknown filth. Her own body feathers did not fare much better. The ones Kudaai could see, too, were in disarray and dull. Her messy hair shone with grease. The whites of her eyes were red-rimed with predominant veins.
Kudaai ignored her question for one of his own. "What is that?" He gestured to the half-rotted thing on the table.
"Was, ah, dinner, I guess," she muttered, taking the knife out of it. Kudaai eyed the knife with a frown. It didn't look like any of the butchering knives he had ever seen. Its jagged edge reminded him of a sacrificial dagger, a knife not for clean cuts but for pain.
Now that he was closer and in better light, he could tell whatever the something was, it probably hadn't been a regular critter. It had fingers and toes and wore shredded clothing.
He sighed. He knew what had happened now and why Chemach had been acting so strange.
"Did they try to hurt you?"
With the power and duty to assign Crowns to worthy mortals, Chemach had plenty of rumors about her floating around. All three of the siblings did, in fact. Kudaai still had mortals come to his forge under the impression that if they bested him in a duel, he would award them a godly weapon. Mortals thought that if they returned one of Clauneck's misplaced cards, he would change the course of fate in their favor.
And, of course, Chemach now had one that said she would present a Crown to anyone who broke into her fortress-like home.
Whomever this person had been must have broken in to Chemach's home. When they attempted to threaten Chemach into giving them a Crown, she defended herself.
Chemach did not meet his eyes. "Something like that. I…I didn't mean to go that far." She set the dagger beside the putrid corpse before drawing half the tablecloth up to cover it. "Now, what are you doing here?" She repeated her earlier question.
He shrugged. "I was nearby. I wanted to check in on you."
"Well, you have. Now you may leave."
When Chemach took a step to shoo him out, she wobbled and fell. Kudaai moved to catch her. The malodourous scent wafting off his sister made him choke back a gag as she landed against his chest.
"When was the last time you bathed?" He asked, helping her stand steady with his hands on her shoulders.
She raised her shoulders in response. Still, she did not look at his face. Kudaai sighed and took a step behind her. With firm but gentle hands, he pushed her towards the door. She resisted, trying to keep her feet planted, only to fall to her hands and knees. Rolling his eyes, he ducked down, slid his arm under hers and around her back, then hauled her to her feet.
Chemach grumbled at him, but allowed herself to be half-dragged and squinting into the sunlight.
----
Chemach sat nearby in the grass as Kudaai prepared the bath. The large wooden tub usually only saw use twice a year when Kudaai took a day off to scrub the six months' worth of sweat and soot from his body.
The smaller bucket of soapy water sat near by. Usually, it was what Kudaai used to clean the soot and dirt from his hands and face on a day-to-day basis, but Chemach, he felt, needed a full soak to remove the smell from her.
He dumped another bucket full of boiling water inside the sealed tub. He dipped a finger in and frowned.
As came with holy nature, Kudaai was more or less fireproof. The heat of the hottest flames could not harm him, but his siblings did not have such a luxury, so he needed to make sure the bath would not scald Chemach.
"It will need to cool for a few moments," he told her.
Chemach plucked a blade of grass and then dropped it.
"You can put your tunic in that bucket there and wash it too. I have a spare you can borrow."
Chemach plucked a blade of grass and then dropped it.
"I will…I will go start lunch while we wait."
Chemach plucked another blade and then dropped it.
As Kudaai went into his own home, a wood-and-canvas lean-to built onto the other side of the wall that ran behind his forge, he wondered why that intruder's death bothered Chemach so much. If a mortal was impure and wicked enough to attack a child of The Last Of The First Ones for power, then they were a heretic. Heretics against The First Ones were not the kind of mortals their creators would have wanted around a Crown in the first place.
Besides, it would not have been the first time she had to defend herself from mortals who sought power. He could even remember the first time, since he had been with her.
They were mere ducklings back then, still with a few tufts of downy feathers, when a mortal much older than they were approached and demanded that Chemach give them a Crown. The First Ones had not allowed Chemach to carry Crowns at the time. When she found a mortal that possessed the special something Crown Bearers needed to have to make a proper match with a Crown, she was tasked with bringing the mortal to The First Ones to ensure her choice was correct.
This mortal picked up Chemach by her tunic and shook her, ordering her to give them godhood. Kudaai tried to defend his sister, but the mortal was stronger and pushed him away. He was about to turn and flee. If he called loudly enough, one of The First Ones would be likely to hear and come help.
Before he could, Chemach swung out her leg and kicked the mortal square in the jaw. Their head snapped back at an unnatural angle with a CRACK before they crumpled to the ground.
Chemach and Kudaai didn't check to see if the mortal was alright before the two fled.
Now that he thought about it, Chemach had been quiet after that event, too, but she recovered and returned to her normal self soon enough.
Admittedly, despite being a weaponsmith, Kudaai had never taken a life. He had defended himself before, but once a ten-foot-tall duck pulls out a sword, even a poorly-made mortal sword, most would-be attackers disengaged. Those who still wished to fight gave up after one good hit with the side of the blade.
Still, though, he did not understand why Chemach felt such guilt over it. She said she hadn't meant to do it. It was an accident while trying to defend herself, same as the first time. There was no reason to be so hard on herself for it.
Kudaai opened one of the baskets he kept his food stores in. He winced.
He'd been asked to make a weapon for Laplace recently. That gambling-addicted fool wanted something that would either hurt or heal their enemies at random. Kudaai was up to the challenge, of course, and had sunk days into the urumi. The whip-like blade would do exactly as Laplace desired. No matter how foolish that desire was. When he got hungry while creating the urumi, instead of cooking, he just reached into baskets and ate whatever was inside, raw or quickly browned over his forge's flames.
He hadn't realized all he had left was a half-basket of flour and a sprouting potato.
Tossing the potato outside, Kudaai put the lid on the flour basket. If he didn't have food, Chemach probably did. Since he was making lunch for them both, she wouldn't mind if he went and borrowed some.
As he walked towards her home, Kudaai looked over at Chemach. She had a large pile of plucked grass blades by her, but hadn't moved otherwise.
If her new dwelling had the same layout as her old, then Chemach kept her food stores in the back, on and near some shelves.
He eyed the rotten intruder, covered in its makeshift burial shroud. The delicate hand stitching and embroidered flowers on the tablecloth had been stained an ugly brown. Maybe he would offer to help bury it once Chemach was cleaned up.
A proper burial for the intruder would help her feel better.
Stepping over the vomit and a few other sticky-looking puddles, Kudaai went to the back of the room. As he suspected, Chemach kept her food in the same place. After opening the nearby window, he looked into the first basket only to be greeted with flour. As he went to put the lid back, he noticed something moving inside. He scooped up a handful and let the flour fall through his hands.
Several small, yellow-brown beetle larvae wriggled in his palm. With a shrug, he popped the larvae into his mouth. He had always liked the taste of worms and insects in his bread and other baked goods. The crunch was satisfying and the food more filling, but Chemach had never been a fan.
"Bread is a desert! It's not supposed to be filling," She would say, picking out any insects that made it through her shifter into the mixing bowl.
Good to see she changed her tune on that topic.
In the next basket, Kudaai found long, leafy stalks. He took one out to identify it. The large leaf was a rounded fan shape and dark green, while the thick stalk was a reddish color. Kudaai took the plant to the window and held it to the light.
It seemed familiar, but he couldn't place it. Kudaai took a nibble of one of the leaves and spat it out almost instantly.
Now he remembered it.
Rhubarb.
Once, long ago, Clauneck had either been gifted by a farmer or stolen from a farm—Kudaai never got a straight answer—a bushel of rhubarb, which he then ate half of over the course of a whole day, completely raw. Clauneck liked sour and bitter foods. He claimed the strong flavors helped him stay in the present instead of off in the past or future.
Chemach and Kudaai took turns nursing their brother through the stomach pains and lethargy over the next few days.
Later, the three would learn from the Yellow Crown's Bearer at the time that eating a lot of rhubarb leaves was dangerous to one's health.
"An occasional leaf wouldn't hurt anyone, especially you three, but anymore and you've got yourself trouble. Just because you are immortal doesn't mean you can't hurt yourselves. Either cook these properly or don't touch them, you young ones understand?" He'd chided them, taking the rest of the bushel away from Clauneck, much to his disappointment.
Kudaai turned the stalk over before tossing it back with the others.
After searching, Kudaai finally found some sad, shriveled peas and dried corn. He took a large container and put a scoop of each inside. He went back to the flour and sifted out a few handfuls of larvae and beetles and added them to the container.
It wouldn't be the best soup, but it was better than nothing.
---
When he returned, Chemach lay on her back, eyes shut, in the sunlight. She was relaxing. Kudaai nodded to himself. Maybe they didn't need to do an entire funeral ceremony and could just toss the intruder into a hole.
All Chemach really needed was some fresh air, warm sunlight, a nice bath, and a good meal to get over her unnecessary guilt.
Kudaai stuck his hand in the tub. The bath felt a little cool to him, but steam still rose from the water. He assumed that would be a good enough temperature.
To Chemach, he said, "It's ready."
Chemach didn't respond.
He repeated himself, louder, "It's ready."
Nothing.
With a huff, Kudaai went to her and tapped her shoulder with his foot.
Chemach cracked open an eye at him to glare.
"The bath. Get it in." He nodded to the tub. She groaned and pushed herself to a sitting position, but didn't stand up.
Taking a breath, Kudaai tried the diplomatic route one last time.
"It's ready. Get in yourself, or I'll put you in, just like you did to me when we were children." He held out his hand to her.
Many eons ago, Chemach regularly had to be the one to remind her brothers to bathe.
The reminder was all Clauneck usually needed, but Kudaai had to be wrestled with. She would ambush him when he left his forge and drag him towards the nearest river, shouting, "You're a duck, Koo-Koo! Act like it!"
When he, enviably, grew too strong for her to wrestle away, she recruited Clauneck to help throw buckets of soapy water at him.
It wasn't that he hated bathing, of course. He felt it was a waste of time that he could be using to sharpen his skills.
Chemach snorted something Kudaai thought was a laugh before she took his hand and allowed herself to be pulled up.
Satisfied, Kudaai took the container of ingredients and left Chemach to the bathe.
----
After some searching, Kudaai was able to scrounge up some herbs and spices and a few dried fish to add to the soup.
It wouldn't be great, but it would help ease her mind once Chemach was done scrubbing herself.
He wiped his hands on his tunic, then realized he'd forgotten to bring Chemach anything to wear once she was clean. Kudaai went to the chest by his nest and dug around to find her something.
He and Clauneck might be the same height, but he had spent eons swinging his smithing hammer and strengthening his muscles, so he was wider and well built than his brother. Chemach wasn't as thin as Clauneck or as wide as Kudaai. She wasn't that much shorter than her brothers, either.
Once, Chemach elbowed him in the side and joked, "It's not fair. You have a bigger chest than I do."
Not understanding what she meant, he had replied that if she wanted large pectoralis muscles, she should try moving her arms and chest more. "You only ever exercise your legs by walking from place to place. I can make you weights to lift if you'd like."
Chemach had just rolled her eyes at him.
Kudaai took out a soft cotton nightshirt from the chest and held it up.
It was a gift from an old friend, a former student who, though talented, could never handle the heat of Kudaai's flames. In the past, whenever Kudaai settled near his home, the friend would come and see him.
Kudaai made a mental note to stop by his grave next time he visited the area.
The nightshirt had short sleeves and tiny weapons embroidered on the neck and sleeve hems by his former student's wife.
Most nights, Kudaai flopped down in whatever he had on. Sometimes he didn't even remove his hooded cloak. After finishing a big project, Kudaai would indulge himself by wearing the soft nightshirt and sleeping until two whole hours after the sun rose.
With the nightshirt over his arm, he headed out to the tub.
"Sister? Once you are done and have shaken yourself off, you may put…Sister?"
Chemach was nowhere to be seen. Her tunic lay in a heap, well away from the bucket it should be soaking in. Even from where he stood, Kudaai still could easily see her home. She hadn't left with it in the siblings' usual fashion.
Perhaps mid-bath, she needed to relieve herself?
With a frown, he wandered towards the tub and peered inside to see if the water was dirty or not.
Under the surface, Chemach floated, her bill open and eyes half-shut.
Kudaai plunged his hands into the warm water. He yanked Chemach's naked body out and over the side of the tub.
Taking part of the nightshirt that hadn't gotten wet, he wiped her face. He should have known better than to leave her. He remembered how lethargic and tired Clauneck had been. Just because Chemach was older didn't mean she wasn't affected the same way.
Gently slapping her cheek, he cried, "Chemach? Chemach!"
He knew she wasn't dead. Clauneck and The First Ones confirmed that all three, he, Chemach, and Clauneck, would live until the day the world let out its final, gasping breath.
That day, Kudaai was certain, it was not going to be today.
Finally, Chemach coughed. She rolled over and hacked until water flooded from her bill.
She cringed at the puddle she threw up.
"What was that?" Kudaai demanded.
Chemach didn't look at him, instead forcing herself to sit up and fixing her gaze on the grass.
"I fell asleep," Chemach mumbled.
"You fell a…" Kudaai trailed off, exasperated.
He wanted to pull his hair out. Kudaai nearly threw back her own childhood taunt that she was a duck and needed to act like one.
And ducks don't drown.
He held his tongue and said instead, "You've been eating those rhubarb plants, haven't you? I saw them in your home."
A look of panic flicked across her face, confirming his suspicions.
Chemach swallowed hard, then coughed again, before she muttered, "Those were given to me by…They were a gift. I couldn't just toss them out. I suppose I wasn't cooking them as properly as I thought."
Kudaai put the nightshirt over her shoulders.
"Dry yourself with this. I will get you something else, and you are going to stay here so I can make sure you recover from your folly." He paused, then added, "I'll help you pick up your mess in your home, too. We'll bury the person you mistakenly killed. Don't worry. It won't burden me at all."
Chemach flinched before glaring daggers at him. She threw the nightshirt at his face, then patted around until she found her tunic and glasses.
Pulling the tunic on, she growled, "I'm fine, Kudaai. Let me go home. I just need more sleep, and all my problems will go away."
"Sleep?" Kudaai gestured to the tub. "How was sleeping just now going to make your problems go away?"
Chemach stood shakily, bracing herself against the tub. "You wouldn't understand. You never understand. I'm just tired of it all. I'm tired of waiting to see if I'll ever get what I deserve."
"And what is it you think you deserve so much?" Kudaai clenched his bill.
"Recognition! The same as you get!" She shouted. "Everyone knows the great blacksmith Kudaai. To have a weapon you discarded halfway through making is considered an honor." She laughed dryly. "Or even Clauneck. Kings and chiefs search the world over to hear him ramble about the future and draw their cards. But me? No one cares who gives out the Crowns, only who gets them. "
Kudaai began to argue she was wrong, that wasn't true, and she knew it, but Chemach continued to rant.
"I want praise and recognition for being able to tell the best mortal for a Crown! I want mortals to look at me with awe! I want their devotion, their loyalty!" She slapped the water with her open palm, splashing both her and Kudaai. "Mortals only care about me if I have a Crown to offer—and I would make a better goddess than those greedy fools who come asking anyway!"
She let out a quack of frustration. She started to speak again, but her voice cracked. Chemach wiped her eyes.
"It's not fair. It's just fair. I didn't choose this…"
Kudaai's stomach twisted as he slowly stood.
This topic of recognition and praise made him nervous.
None of them were supposed to want those things. They were to fulfill their purpose without expecting gratitude or praise. They were to be happy with continuing The First One's ideals and take pride in what only they can do.
Though it did not sit well in his crop, Kudaai couldn't find himself totally surprised that Chemach was jealous of his accidental accomplishment.
"Clauneck and I didn't choose this either. We accept our duties and fulfill them without question, as we were created to do. That we gained fame is simply a side effect of doing so." He frowned, clenching his fists. Why couldn't she just be happy that she was so blessed? Why did she want more?
Chemach searched his face for an awkwardly long moment. She sighed, but must have found whatever she was looking for since she sent him a tired smile the next moment.
"That's about what I thought you'd say." She shook her head with a sniff. "Thank you for the bath. You said you had lunch earlier, didn't you, Koo-Koo?"
"I do, but come with me for some clean, dry clothes first." He looped his arm around hers.
The knot in his stomach began to untwist itself. He knew all Chemach needed was fresh air, sunlight, food, and a dose of good sense from her brother.
----
AN: Anyway, Kudaai has the emotional intelligence of a brick.
I was talking with DarkGaiaBishop / @extraterrestrial-jackal about my interpretation of her and just Chemach in general, and they brought up a deliciously angsty and amazing idea.
The ducks are destined to live and do their jobs until the world ends—Chemach hands out the Crowns, Kudaai hands out the weapons, Clauneck hands out the cards.
So, extraterrestrial-jackal pointed out that Chemach going so far against her design to no longer be able to do what she was created for was like she committed suicide to escape her binds in an ego death kind of way.
And thus I now headcanon that the lead-up to Chemach making her crown, she was passively suicidal and dealing with a lot of suicidal ideation.
Originally, I considered writing part of this from Chemach's perspective, since I wasn't sure it would clear what she was doing, but I trust you guys are able to put on your thinking caps and figure it out.
Though if you've read this far or just the content warnings, you probably can put two and two together anyway…
Sorry, no refunds for mass murders on the consequences of your sins. ┐(シ)┌
@saltedclovers' post reminded me I needed to finish this. It's actually the very last comic from that poll I did last year.
Leshy's clearest visual memories are of Narinder just before he tore his eyes out and The Lamb as they killed him the first time. the trauma of the events keeps them clearer than other memories.
The memories he has of the 1,000 years after the schism are fuzzy at the edges and green-tinged by default from seeing through his crown, add in that mortals are notoriously bad at remembering things and he's kind of screwed about keeping his memories from farther back untainted by time.
But Kallamar is in the same boat.
Bonus:
If he can't see how they look now, he can feel how they look now!
