And So, I Pray
Oh boy... here comes the eagerly awaited Haborym lore. I'll put it below the cut to spare random individuals from having to scroll past a wall, because it will be a wall.
Haborym. Devoted Disciple of the Bishop of Pestilence. A preacher of hope, of fealty, of pure faith. Who better to spread the word than one who had been granted a most precious mercy from the blue crown himself?
Haborym was a sickly child. Born into the cult of Pestilence, they were met early on with an unknown plague. There was no known cure for it, and it had ravaged their village for years. Surely it was something conjured by the blue crown to punish them. It pushed those afflicted to produce offspring faster in hopes of even a single child being able to survive. Haborym was one of these desperately born.
Illness and it's symptoms was all Haborym ever knew. Childhood innocence was gone before memories could capture it's fleeting moments, and all it left was the husk of a child desperately trying to survive. Each night the collective fear was if Haborym would pass in their sleep. Perhaps their heart would give out from exhaustion. Maybe the fevers would burn them away, or they simply would lose the will to fight.
When the young Haborym was able to understand the words of their kin, they were taught one thing. One thing more important than anything else.
Prayer.
Haborym was stripped of their strength, their body barely able to rise most days, but when their form could no longer move they still could pray. Pray that the blue crown would come and free them from their torment. Pray for mercy. Pray for a body no longer suffering. It was the one thing Haborym could manage even during the worst days. As long as they were conscious, they were locked in a prayer.
The statue of Kallamar was one that Haborym visited often when they able. Standing was difficult, so much so that others would often find their frail body dropped to their knees, back hunched, and their hands locked together. It was the only bit of control they had left. And as they neared adulthood, the village grew fewer and fewer in number. Extinction was imminent, yet still Haborym called for the crown to come and save them.
Their faith was unwavering throughout their life, even as they grew more and more alone. Houses grew vacant as the residents succumbed to their illness, yet Haborym never faltered. They were sure their prayers would be answered even after over a decade of silence. As they drug themselves once again to the statue and fell to their knees, the moment that had asked for all their life came to fruition.
The raw devotion Kallamar gathered from that statue was more than he had seen from a village so small. Haborym couldn't even rise to bow to the bishop, but instead begged with the last bit of their energy for mercy.
Kallamar granted it.
For the first time in all their life, their body felt light. The blue crown drew out the ailment, and while it didn't restore Haborym to a healthy state, they were finally free to live instead of just survive. The only survivor of their family, being preceded by their mother, father, and an unknown amount of siblings. Haborym didn't know how many, or their names, but it didn't matter now. They were free.
They spent quite some time gathering their strength through eating somewhat more proper amounts of food and drink. While it succeeded, the damage from their upbringing remained. Haborym's growth was stunted, leaving them to be rather short and exceptionally thin. But that didn't matter to them. They were a survivor, and now one with an even grander mission.
Haborym traveled all throughout Anchordeep to preach the word of Pestilence and spread their prayers. They spoke of hope, of faith, of the miracle they had received. Their words worked to increase the devotion of every soul they met, and as the years passed their work was recognized. For their acts, they were granted the status of Disciple.
When the Lamb had finally come, it was up to the disciples to defend their Bishop. Haborym was no fighter, but the eldritch gift insulted them with strength they could never have imagined. Fire surged through them, a way to cleanse sickness, and so they fought. It didn't matter in the end. As with every disciple before them, they too were put down and taken.
Life under the Red Crown was thankfully not cruel. It was an adjustment, yes, but one that Haborym quickly fell into. It was simply a new chapter of their life. They found work to do with making textiles and clothes for others, keeping mostly to themselves. They didn't think themselves above others, but rather simply didn't know how to interact with others around them.
As night fell and work drew to a close, they would find themselves drawn to a new statue. The motions were instinctive as they fell to their knees once more at the base of the massive stone Lamb before them. Hands clasped together as they had thousands of times before, their head lowering.
And so, they prayed.
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