Asenath Rattika

WELCOME

This is an art/text ask blog for my Cult of the Lamb OC. Links: @settlement-in-darkwood - Sweet home for Asenath. @solteriin - mod Asenath.

Rules and Warnings:

This is a must-read for everyone! — And for you, Honey! This blog is not recommended for minors. The blog's age restriction is 16+. This blog may contain graphic and textual images of violence, images of blood, cult themes, suggestive and NSFW content, obscene language. Posts intended for adults will be marked as 18+.

— Now you are warned, sweetheart! I'm not responsible for people who ignore warnings and age restrictions. Everything that happens on the blog is fictional and has nothing to do with reality. I don't run 18+ rp with people under 18.

I have the full right to control the fate of my character the way I want.

Show basic respect when communicating with the mod. And we'll get along with you.

Not all questions will be answered. I usually don't answer questions if they've already lost their meaning in the plot or if I don't know how to answer them. Sometimes I need time to think about the answer, so it takes a while. And one important rule: You can't harm Asenath without first discussing it with the mod, meaning me. No matter who your character is, I won't allow them to be harmed. Everything must be discussed with me. — I'm not untouchable, but we all show respect for each other.

Besides this blog, I have my own real life, responsibilities, and other hobbies, so I don't always have time to respond to you. I appreciate your time, you appreciate mine.

English is not my native language, so there may be grammatical and spelling errors. Most of the time I use a translator, which sometimes translates incorrectly what I'm trying to say.

RP Posts:

— The rule is simple: each line of speech starts with an em dash, just like this line does.

Actions will be formatted without any symbols, special marks.

Mod words, meaning my words, will be enclosed in brackets (like this) or highlighted in color like this or italicized like this.

Information about Asenath:

Briefly about the character: Asenath doesn't remember what her family was like — or if she even had one. She is sure of only two things. First, she is a fox with beautiful fur. And second, she will never allow any enemies into her village, least of all those who devote themselves to serving the gods. One of her few clear memories is a bone-deep wariness of anyone who gets involved with cults and the crown.

Facts about Asenath: Asenath's favorite time is night, and her favorite place to lounge is in the bushes. Her mischievous nature may rub many the wrong way, but she is always sincere and would never swear at or insult those she shares her food and home with. Asenath is convinced she's just a sweetheart.

@settlement-in-darkwood

Asenath, who had been sitting motionless in the thick crown of an old pine for several minutes, noticed him first. Her ears rotated like locators, catching every rustle of his steps. Her tail froze, only the very tip quivering faintly with excitement.

— Interesting...

She thought, watching him methodically inspect the bushes.

— Is he looking for me, or did he lose something shiny?

She gave no signs of life, dissolving into the patterns of needles and shadows, becoming just another detail of the landscape. Her scarlet eyes, half-closed, followed his movements intently, as if she were studying the habits of a new, unfamiliar creature. Speak to him? Later. First, she had to figure out his mood.

But "later" arrived sooner than anyone expected. Right in front of him, from what seemed like an empty shadow, a russet muzzle with a grin materialized. It hung from a tree branch, looking down at Finny.

— Looking for someone, darling?

Her voice rang out, slightly husky from recent sleep or long silence.

— I was just conducting an inspection of the spiderwebs. The quality this year is superb. Sturdy, sticky, they camouflage as frost perfectly. But you seem to be looking for something... bigger than a spider.

Her ears slowly turned, her gaze grew unfocused, as if she were pushing through a haze of memories and alcoholic vapors.

— Until late hour?.. Yes, I think I was the one who... was testing the stars for durability. Or maybe the ice was testing me... Or the alcohol... Doesn't matter.

She squints, her tail slowly swirling, as if stirring the memories.

— Did I see something interesting? Oh, definitely. I saw how they — you know who I mean — had a competition. Glass after glass. In sync. Like two pendulums in a strange clock. And both pendulums... eventually stopped the same way. Quite poetic, if you think about it. Pity I didn't get a prize for judging. The highlight of the evening, honestly.

She pauses, tapping a claw on the edge of the table, as if tapping out the rhythm of that night. And also trying to remember what else she saw.

— Then... yes, then Finny went off somewhere. With Otto. Together. Toward where it smelled of pine resin and... iron. The sawmill? Maybe. I was busy with important research at the time — figuring out if you could write a name with your tongue by licking the frost off a bottle.

Her gaze suddenly sharpens, but only briefly, like a flash in the fog.

— And then... later, when the moon was high and the shadows long... I saw him again. Finny. He was walking. Not like usual. More firmly. Or less confidently? Hard to say. And on his muzzle... was a new pattern. Crimson-red, under his lip. Fresh work. He carried it like a trophy, or like a question. And he wasn't heading home. He was heading to Servil.

She leans back in her chair, her voice growing quieter, more thoughtful. Asenath shrugs, and her usual, slightly detached mask returns.

— But maybe it was just the drunken haze playing a nasty trick on me. Or a kind one. Who knows. The only thing I'm sure of is that the bottle with the wax seal, the one I liked, was gone by morning. Completely mysteriously. Interesting coincidence, right?

— It was… brilliant!

Her tail swayed broadly, and her ears quivered with excitement.

— First, the music! The drums, such a magical thing! They beat rhythms right into my ribs, urging me to move, reaching straight to my heart. I was ready to dance for a long time, but I remembered a more important mission…

Asenath pressed her ears slightly to her head, but her tail betrayed genuine delight. And her eyes burned with scarlet fervor.

— Second, the drinks! I conducted a grand investigation. That drink envelops you like a summer breeze. And the wine, sharp as a dagger's thrust, but the aftertaste… mmm… like warm fur. I kept detailed notes. In my mind. And on my fur with a claw.

She fell silent as if the story had ended, but then continued almost just as suddenly. She lowered her voice to a happy whisper, leaning closer.

— And third… The lake! There, beneath the glassy surface, lives an amazing creature! A perfect copy of me, only… watery. And what a fighter! — She proudly showed the small scratches on her paw pads. — We had a duel. Me — on top, her — below. Mirror-like! She repeated every one of my strikes with perfect precision. It was beautiful! I barely came out on top — had to use my signature jab. She yielded, but with dignity. We're now… almost friends. Through reflections.

She leaned back, sipping something from her nearly empty glass with a blissful expression, which had somehow ended up in her paw again. Her gaze grew dreamy and slightly unfocused.

— And also… I saw Giovanna and Servil in the distance, away from everyone after the celebration. And they were silent. At least, their backs were definitely silent. I even stopped drinking for a whole… well, for a few breaths. Because sometimes what's left unsaid smells more interesting than the oldest wine. And looks… more reliable than the thickest wall.

She suddenly perked up, setting the glass down with a ringing clink.

— By the way, about the wine! Do you know where they put that bottle with the wax seal? The one that was right on the edge of the table… I want to study its aftertaste in the moonlight. For science.

— The stars? Yes. I think I like looking at them… But if you stare at the stars for too long, they start staring back.

She looked upward, and her scarlet eyes, usually sharp and focused, softened and grew deeper, as if drawing in that very cold light. Her tail began to sway faintly, almost in time with her breathing.

— Sometimes they're a map. An old, reliable one. That blade in the north that points to Giuseppe's hut. Those three sisters lower down — the turn to the old hollow, where you'd better not go alone. It's an alphabet I learned earlier than reading. Without it in the forest, you're like a fox without fur in winter. But sometimes…

She fell silent, and the corner of her mouth twitched into something like an embarrassed smile. As if the stars had turned their attention to her.

— Sometimes, when the night is so black you can't even see your own tail, I play a game with them. A staring contest. I pick one, the most stubborn one, and watch it without blinking. Longer, longer… Until everything around me starts to swim, and it begins to feel like it's not me looking at it, but it looking at me. And it whispers something very quiet, in the language of distances and ancient ice. About what was here before our trails. Before our walls.

She blinked slowly, becoming herself again — a fox on the ground, not a creature chatting with the stars.

— Silly, right? But it's a useful kind of silly. After talks like that, my head feels… clearer. As if they don't just shine, but cleanse the darkness. And look — they always return to their places. Unlike everything else. There's something… reliable in that.

She turned to the speaker, and the familiar predatory glint returned to her gaze, now seasoned with that stellar silence.

— So yes. I like looking at the stars. Sometimes as a compass. Sometimes — as old, silent friends who are too far away to visit, but close enough to feel. Want me to show you which one is the most talkative?

— New villagers?

She turned her gaze toward the window, or perhaps toward the forest, as if checking her answer against what lay beyond the walls.

— They're like an unfamiliar enemy that's wandered onto my trail. Until you learn their ways, you don't know whether to hunt them, avoid them, or just ignore them. They make noise. They smell of foreign smoke and unfamiliar dust. They take up spaces by the fire that used to be empty, and ask questions I have no answers for. The patrols now keep watch not only outward, but inward too — and that's right. Fresh snow always hides pits beneath it.

She paused, her ears twitching slightly as if catching an echo of that conversation.

— But one of them… the one with the quiet voice and all those ornaments… Sa'iri.

Asenath’s tail stilled for a moment, then swept in one smooth, deliberate arc — a gesture that could almost be mistaken for genuine interest.

— She stopped when the north wind rose. Listened. As if waiting for it to whisper something in a forgotten tongue. And when I spoke of how the wind braids fur, she didn’t look at me like I was mad. She… nodded. As if she already knew. Or wanted to.

Asenath turned back to the questioner, and in her crimson gaze there was a rare, detached clarity, free of her usual mockery or aloofness.

— The rest are just shadows for now. Noise in the periphery. Furniture that hasn’t been placed yet. But that one… she might turn out to be more than just another mouth to feed. She might turn out to be… a listener. And in our world, that’s rarer than a warrior. And sometimes — more useful.

Someone asked, likely expecting to see a graceful leap and a soft landing. Asenath, her gaze fixed on the treeline, slowly turned her head. A faint, barely perceptible smile touched her muzzle. The light snow promised to soon become a blizzard or a full-fledged storm.

— And can a fox jump into the snow?

She repeated, as if pondering a riddle. No immediate danger. There's only a beautiful hill, beyond which lies the forest. It's peaceful there. They are near the settlement.

— It's like asking if the wind blows. Watch.

She took two quick, light steps back, gathered herself, and shot forward in a russet blur. The jump was elegant, powerful — a perfect predator's leap, calculated not to cover distance, but to gain access to what the snow conceals. But she had misjudged the depth and density of the drift. Instead of a graceful landing, she plunged through the brittle crust and vanished into the soft, deep powder with a muffled whump.

For a moment, there was silence. Then, a faint rustle. From the snow emerged the fluffy, russet base of her tail, twitching. Then her whole tail jerked and straightened out. The fox tried to brace her paws or even her knees against the snow, but to no avail. She didn't struggle or panic. She simply… stilled, half-buried, resembling a strange winter plant more than a fox.

— Hmm…

Her voice came, slightly muffled by the snow. The snow could be seen shifting slightly, but she couldn't get out from under it on her own.

— Tactical miscalculation. The crust was deceptive. Promised support, offered… none.

She shifted slightly, only to sink a little deeper. She continued calmly, as if giving a field report.

— So it turns out, the answer is 'yes, a fox can jump into the snow.' The more pertinent question now is… can a fox get out?

— And go get Giuseppe. (@the-mad-owl-giuseppe)

Asenath slowly turned her head, her ears tilting forward and her tail freezing mid-air. For a moment, confusion flickered in her crimson eyes — her gaze darting over her own paws and shoulders, as if checking for some oddity stuck to her fur. Satisfied she was still herself, she relaxed: her ears splayed to the sides, and her tail gave a single, sharp, abrupt flick, as if shaking off the awkwardness.

— "Frightening" and "beautiful"… don't usually go together, darling.

She said, drawing out the words as if tasting them.

— Unless you're talking about a dagger in the moonlight. You see how the blade catches the gleam — cold, sharp, ready. Or about a poisonous flower… the kind that lures you with its colour, but its roots go deep into something dark.

She stared intently at the speaker, her voice growing quieter, more thoughtful.

— Am I something like that? Or perhaps… both? Or maybe everything at once — a weapon dipped in venom, then polished to a shine?.. Or is my beauty different? Not like a flower's, but like… the pattern on a moth's wings. You only notice it when it's already flying away.

She looked away, her attention now fixed on a leaf trembling in the wind or her own shadow on the ground — it was hard to tell. The fox seemed both embarrassed and deeply lost in thought, as if presented with a complex puzzle unrelated to patrols or survival.

— I don't usually think about this.

She finally admitted, a hint of apologetic bewilderment in her tone.

— Appeal… that's something that works on others. Like the scent of bait or the gleam of steel. A useful tool if you know how to use it. But to be that tool in someone's eyes… It's a strange feeling, my dear. As if I'm being valued not for where I can go, but for how I look while walking.

She suddenly turned back, and her gaze regained its usual sharp attentiveness, now mixed with genuine curiosity.

— Do you like daggers in the moonlight? Or poisonous flowers? Or… night moths? I wonder which of those is the most dangerous, sweetheart.

They made camp where the shadows were deeper and the ground drier. Asenath slowly, mechanically chewed another strip of jerky, her gaze sweeping the edges of the clearing, never lingering on what was in her paws. The question about favorite food hung in the air between the crunch of dry pine needles underfoot and the distant cry of a bird.

She didn't have a favorite food. She had fuel. Something that didn't distract. This grey strip wasn't for taste, but because you could chew it for half an hour, stretching the feeling of fullness, and it left no scent on your hands. Flavor was a simple signal: salty meant protein, slightly sweet meant carbs, bitter meant there was something invigorating in it, and it was edible. No nostalgia, no anticipation. Food was like checking a blade before a mission: it wasn't about whether you liked it, but whether it was sharp and sat securely in its sheath.

She picked up a piece of dried root, tough and earthy. It was like her routes — uninteresting, direct, efficient. The perfect food for a sortie. Everything else was excess weight, whether in a pack or in the mind.

If she had answered, that's exactly what she would have said. But no reply came — only the quiet, almost imperceptible movement of her jaws and the attentive, crimson eyes that continued to scan the forest. Taste was somewhere around twentieth on her list of priorities. Right after "don't get eaten."

— Why not? It just… popped out. Like a mushroom after rain — unexpected, but right where it belonged. I saw him once, fixing a trap near the far birches… and there it was, already on my tongue. As if it had been waiting. “Hello, Finny.” And off it went.

Asenath twitched an ear, as if speaking about something she’d never considered. She rubbed her chin, eyes drifting shut.

— Names aren’t nailed down, are they? They’re like fur — they stretch over time, take the shape of who wears them, gather memories. “Finn” is like formal harness: handsome, stiff, for everyone else. “Finny”… is more like a worn shoulder strap. Softer. Doesn’t pinch. Try it sometime. Whisper the other shape of your own name to yourself. Feel that? Easier to breathe. Shoulders loosen. Less weight on you… almost none.

She chuckled softly, turning the same game over in her own mind. Where had “Asenath” even come from? It felt as if she’d always had it. But it must mean something. Though the thought of another name for herself… that just made her smile.

— It’s almost a nickname, but… not a mockery. A gentle one. Warm. Like a spot by the fire after a long walk — not the main place, but yours. And you know what? If it ever stops fitting… toss it aside. Think up a new one. Names should serve us, not the other way around. But for now… for now, I think “Finny” suits him.

Asenath remained seated by the lake. She stopped fiddling with the berries and looked at her companion with a look of sincere, dawn-lit bewilderment. She glanced down at herself, as if checking for stray leaves or clinging snow. Her tail gave a flick; her ears pricked forward.

— Uncovered?

She ran a paw over her forearm, where the thick red fur tapered into smoother, shorter hair.

— It is covered. By my own fox fur. Fine, red, proper fur. What else is meant to cover it? Someone else's pelt? Should I shear another to dress myself? Change coats? She shook her head, whiskers twitching. — That's odd. And impractical. You'd end up smelling like a rag chest.

She made a faint grimace, as if the very idea left a bad taste, and reached for her basket.

— Cold is just air that's forgotten how to move. You don't fight it by piling on more things. You outsmart it. See this?

She pulled out the cloak—not some coarse wrap, but a tightly woven thing of waxed threads and thin leather ties, remarkably light. She used it so seldom, most in the settlement weren't sure it truly existed.

— This isn't for covering what isn't there. It's for deceiving what is. If the fog's too wet, or the snow too clinging, they'll turn my fur into a sponge. Then I'm not a fox—I'm a walking icicle. Loud. Heavy. Slow.

She drew her fingertips across the cloak's fabric, demonstrating its smooth, almost repellent texture.

— But this? It sits on top. Like a leaf on a pond. Dampness sticks to it, not to me. Underneath, I stay dry. My own warmth does the rest. I can run, climb, hide. And when the sun finally shows and the deep cold breaks…

She shook the cloak out once, then deftly rolled it into a tight cylinder.

— …I shed it. And I'm just a fox again. Dry. Light. Quiet. The chill never even reached my skin. I don't get cold in the snow. I stay warm. But I'm not a fool, sweet thing. It's a nuisance on patrol—catches on every branch—and in daily life… She tucked the roll back into her basket. — …in daily life, I need it so rarely, I nearly forget where I keep it. Because the real secret to warmth isn't what's on you. It's never letting the cold realize you're a target at all.

Asenath sat facing the frozen lake. Beside her was a basket packed with an assortment of items. It was still early morning. The sun had just risen, gradually lighting up the settlement, and the fox was already there by the ice, having rolled in the fresh morning snow. She gazed warily into the dawn glow and made an effort not to move a muscle. Even her tail was perfectly still.

In the basket lay a pouch of frozen berries, a comb she'd found at Giuseppe's, and what looked like a warm cloth. She seemed to be in a trance — motionless, barely breathing — as the snow or perhaps it was hoarfrost slowly melted into her fur, leaving it glossy.

Hearing a voice, Asenath turned, narrowing her eyes as she assessed the newcomer. Could such a thing be trusted to him? The fox twitched an ear and looked back toward the lake.

— You ask about care? "Care" is a weak word. I negotiate with the morning. See, the frozen lake isn't sleeping. It's dreaming. And its dreams rise at dawn as hoarfrost — the purest water, the kind that has forgotten all about mud. I come here while the stars are still blinking. I let it cover me, crystal by crystal. It doesn't cleanse. It… erases. Erases yesterday's smells, the smoke, the worry. It melts right into the fur, not on it, and carries it all away in a sigh of steam. That's the first pact. But purity is fragile. It must be sealed. That's where the berries come in.

Asenath took out the berries, crushed them right into the snow, and gently rubbed the resulting mash into her fur.

— The result? She ran a paw over her coat, and it fell perfectly into place with a faint, nearly invisible sheen. —My fur isn't just clean or soft. It's prepared. It doesn't smell of lake or berry. It smells of nothing yet. It's fur that has already forgotten me and waits for the day's new scent. The best camouflage isn't to blend into the forest. It's to become a blank page. So, how do I care for it? I don't. I make a pact with the dawn and seal it with the memory of summer. Everything else… is just washing.