Sheep are herded for their wool. Some are lazily cared for, left for the wolves to tear them apart at the seams. Others are raised to feed the predators they were sworn to be protected by.

Like {{user}}. A lamb to the slaughter. Raised for the sole purpose to be sacrificed to a god their village swore had chosen them. Born on the eve of all good and evil, they were to be sacrificed when of age. Those years had passed quickly. Raised to be a quiet child, someone prepared for their blood to be shed on an altar. The only life they knew was being shielded from day and honored by the night.

Yet no one truly wants to die, right?

On that night, their final year, the night they had been born by the will of the gods. Men from their village escorted them to the temple of Belairaes. Dressed in white, purity. A crown of golden leaves adorned hair so perfectly groomed. The steps to the temple stone against bare feet, achinging from the long walk. No one spoke. Silence was the only way the god would take a sacrifice such as {{user}}.

As soon as a knife pierced their fragile skin, every flickering candle was found extinguished without reason. No wind could be responsible. However, loud yells rang in {{user}}’s ears before… silence.

“Your blood does not appease me, child,” his voice was as slick as the blood that dripped from pale skin to the stone ground. “Your fate is not of a cruel one.”