Chains of Vengeance

Chapter 126: Extracurricular Activities

After the kiss with Lambert, Narinder waved him off with a smile, watching as the lamb headed back to the kitchen to help with the preparation of the meal. Narinder, though not needing to eat due to his divine nature, felt the need to clear his mind. He stood up from the ground with a slight stretch and decided to walk around the cult, letting the overly warm breeze caress his fur. His thoughts wandered, enjoying a moment of solitude as his steps took him towards the summoning area, where adepts came to the call of the cult.

As he approached, the summoning altar suddenly glowed, activating in response to his presence. A raven emerged from the portal in a flash of light, its black feathers contrasting with the rags he wore. Without hesitation, the raven knelt before Narinder, bowing its head in reverence. "Ah... yes, that's right... I'd forgotten about that raven," Narinder muttered with a light sigh, as if it were just another formality in his day. He snapped his fingers nonchalantly, immediately indoctrinating it. The raven was instantly dressed in the standard cultist uniform, which replaced his worn clothes.

Narinder crossed his arms as he looked at the new adept. "Let's see... your name will now be Edgar, and your job will be in the mines. That's what you'll do to contribute to the cult." His tone was neutral, like a teacher assigning tasks to a student, but the raven raised its head with a peculiar, defiant smile. "Thank you very much for accepting me into your cult, my lord, I will follow your doctrine faithfully. But... I'm afraid I refuse to work." Narinder narrowed his eyes, blinking slowly as he tried to process what he had just heard. Refusing to work? It was unheard of in his cult.

Without saying a word, Narinder used his power to read the crow's mind. His thoughts unfolded like the pages of a book: he was resistant to disease, devoted to the new faith... and a poet? Narinder arched an eyebrow, wondering how such an individual had gotten there. "Why aren't you going to work?" he finally asked, in a tone that combined patience and bewilderment.

The crow, with a dramatic flick of its wings, stood up and posed with exaggeration. "Me! I am a poet, an artist in language, an architect of words. My delicate feathers are not made for physical labor! I must only put my ideas into a book and with my beak narrate my poems for the glory of your divinity." His voice was theatrical, as if he were performing on a stage in front of an audience.

Narinder looked him up and down, clearly confused and slightly exasperated. "Look, I only give special treatment to special beings, and I'm afraid all those spots are already taken. So you work... or I'll kick you out of my cult." His tone was firm, making it clear that he had no time for the crow's nonsense.

Edgar didn't give up, though. He struck an even more ridiculous pose again, spreading his wings toward the sky as if imploring the gods. "But, my lord! If you allow me to stay, I will make you joyful with my beautiful poems! My words will transform the soul of your cult, my voice will be an eternal song in your honor."

Narinder closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath to calm the growing irritation the crow was causing. In a more neutral, yet firm tone, he said, "Fine. How about working worshipping my statue? You'll spend the whole day praying, without physical effort, and you can write your poems in your spare time."

The crow, as if its life depended on it, spread its wings and struck a theatrical pose. "But if I do that, my creativity will be blocked! I will become a useless artist, deprived of the divine muse that drives my art!"

Narinder opened one eye, noticing a nervous twitch beginning to form on his eyelid. He sighed and suggested, "So, how about cook? You work three times a day during mealtimes, and the rest of the day is free for your own things."

However, the crow did not budge. He adopted another, even more exaggerated pose, as if he were acting out a Greek tragedy. "What if inspiration comes at an inopportune moment, right between shifts? It would be devastating for my poetic soul!"