Earth Bet: House of the Sun (Cultist Simulator/Worm)

Winning Vote:
[X] Plan: Hidden training.
-[X] On work and the challenges it entails.
--[X] You'll work your hours and no more (Gain no extra actions, default)
-[X] On the goal. (All of the following options are suspicious. This only applies if you are caught)
--[X] Do some research, watch some tapes of the fighting (Minor suspicion)
-[X] On furthering the cause.
--[X] Train the fodder, get them up to snuff
-[X] On learning the Lores.
--[X] You Master is willing to teach, request a lesson
---[X] Moth
-[X] The Mansus, a place of contradictions. It calls to you, reach out.
--[X] Explore the Woods and it's many secrets

There weren't that many people here. Your Cult was small, no more than a handful of people who could actually hold their own in a fight. But you were determined. You weren't just going to let them flounder in their weaknesses; you were going to mold them, shape them into something resembling fighters. However, it was going to take time and effort; you could easily tell that just by looking at them.

"Are you ready to learn?" you boomed, your voice filling the gym with a commanding presence. The group of unconditioned members nodded, their expressions ranging from nervous to vaguely determined. It wasn't much, but it was something to work with.

[Training the Fodder: Breakpoints 20/50/80]

[Roll: 36+17(Martial)+1(GRAIL) = 54]

"Drop down and give me five!" you roared, watching with satisfaction as they scrambled to the floor. The gym echoed with the sound of bodies hitting the ground and strained breaths as they began their pushups. Some could barely manage, their arms trembling under their own weight, gasping for air like fish out of water. You kept your expression neutral, though internally, you were already calculating who would need the most work.

This gym had been a lucky find, and you wouldn't waste the opportunity. You'd secured access to it for the sole purpose of turning these ragtag cultists into something more, something that could fight. You scanned the line as the men and women rose shakily to their feet after completing their meager five pushups.

One person in the back was slower than the others, but you held back from calling them out just yet. You couldn't afford to break them too soon. Not yet. Numbers were scarce, and you needed every warm body to stick around. You weren't quite sure how they were recruited, but scaring them away wasn't an option.

"Follow me!" you shouted, setting off at a slow, deliberate jog around the gym's inside. Laps were simple, basic, but effective. Stamina was the foundation of everything else, and if they couldn't handle a few laps, you'd know where to start. Their feet shuffled behind you, a clumsy rhythm of sneakers hitting the floor, but at least they were moving.

"Do you remember what we've been told?" you called out over your shoulder, your voice loud and booming, reverberating off the gym's walls. "Things end. Things are destroyed. And today, we're going to destroy your weakness!" Your words hit them like a jolt of electricity, and you could see some of them pick up the pace, spurred on by the promise of breaking free from their limitations. They were cultists, after all—people already primed to follow, to believe in something larger than themselves. You were simply directing that belief toward self-improvement. You'd let the others figure out the bigger goals, and your job here today was to get them somewhat in shape.

As you glanced back, you noticed the fat man trailing behind the rest, his face red and slick with sweat. He was already flagging, his steps slowing as doubt crept into his eyes. You could see it—the fear, the temptation to quit. This was where you had to act.

"You!" you shouted, pointing directly at him. "Speed up!" You watched him flinch, his feet stumbling as if your words had physically struck him. You could see he was on the verge of giving up, but you weren't going to let him. Not yet. You jogged back toward him, slowing your pace until you ran alongside him, close enough to catch the stink of his sweat and exhaustion. Beneath that, though, you sensed a spark. A tiny ember of potential, waiting to be fanned into something more.

"Do you want to just sit on your ass forever?" you demanded, your voice low but biting. He kept his eyes forward, but you could tell your words were sinking in. His breath came in ragged gasps, and his body was screaming for rest, but you weren't about to let him off the hook.
You leaned in closer, letting your voice drop to a cruel whisper. "Do you want to lay there like a tub of lard, wasting away while you slowly die? Is that what you want?"

His reaction was immediate—his face twisted in anger, his body stiffening as if bracing for a physical blow. Your words hit him like a hammer, jabbing at his insecurities. But instead of crumbling, he snarled. It was barely more than a wheeze, a croak of defiance, but it was there. The spark.

"No!" he rasped, the word guttural and full of raw emotion. It wasn't loud, but it was enough.

You allowed yourself the faintest hint of a smile, something just for him to see. He caught it, and you saw the flicker of hope ignite in his eyes. That tiny acknowledgment—no matter how small—pushed him to dig deeper. He picked up his pace, his legs pumping harder, sweat pouring down his face as he fought against his body's limits.

Good. You had him now. And you knew this was just the beginning. You'd have to do this with every single one of them, find their breaking points, push them past it by just a smidge, and then rebuild them stronger. It wouldn't be easy, but nothing worth doing ever was. At least now you could see a foundation taking shape—a weak one, but a start nonetheless.

You sped up again, catching up to the rest of the group, your voice sharp as you barked out more commands. "Move it, maggots! You think you'll improve by wandering around like a bunch of slugs?" This would take time and effort, but you were never one to shy away from that.

You have improved the Cult followers' combat skills. +1 on tests that require physical strength, and personal combat

---

You were a bit surprised that the bar was actually open today. You had assumed the place was just a front for the cults business, a perpetually closed bar due to the economic turmoil the United States was facing. Then again, a source of income was good, and hiding in plain sight was a valid strategy. Most of the crime here was loud and flashy to attract attention from the heroes. A small bar that was on the edge of failing wasn't something to notice.

Your eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim lighting. The bar was mostly empty, save for a handful of patrons scattered about nursing drinks and lost in their own worlds. Their tired, hollow eyes suggested that they were here to drink and forget about the wider world for a time. This was not a place for the happy. You could also smell the faint aroma of stale smoke and spilled bears, the kind of aroma that clung to these sorts of places.

You hesitated at the entryway, your eyes turning to the bar counter. You weren't a heavy drinker, but a faint numbing of alcohol would likely be very useful when dealing with your Master. You could also take a few minutes to chat with Anatoly. He likely wouldn't say all that much, but a few words could go a long way.

So, you made your way to the bar and took a seat on the worn-out stool; the leather cracked and faded from years of use. You raised a hand, catching Anatoly's eye from across the bar, signaling him to come over. His expression was unreadable as always, that eternal stoic face that had probably seen too much to react to much of anything anymore.

"Morning," you said, your voice cutting through the low hum of the bar. "Something light, please."

Anatoly gave you a brief nod, his movements efficient as he filled a glass from one of the taps. The drink was foamy, a pale amber color swirling in the glass as he set it in front of you. You took a small sip, feeling the faint burn as it went down your throat, followed by a mild warmth settling in your chest. It was good—smooth, with just enough bite to let you know it was working, but light enough not to fog your mind too quickly.

That was the important part. You were here to talk to the Master, and a little fortification would help with the nerves, but getting drunk would be a mistake. So you took another sip as it traveled down your throat, warming your chest.

"How are things going?" you asked casually, glancing at Anatoly as he wiped down the counter, his hand moving in practiced, rhythmic motions. He paused for a moment as if considering how much to share. Then, he gave you a noncommittal shrug and wiggled his hand in a so-so motion.
"Same as always," he replied gruffly, his accent thick. "People drink, complain. Nothing new."

You nodded, not really expecting anything more than that. Small talk with Anatoly was always like this—minimal, to the point, but you could understand him easily. You took another sip of your drink, letting the warmth spread through you as you prepared for the conversation to come. Although that might not be the best word, it would be a lesson. You were going to sit at the feet of your Master and learn one of the nine Lores she had spoken about.

"Well, it's best I head up," you remarked to nobody in particular, but Anatoly reached out and stopped you as you went to pull out your wallet.
"On the house," he told you, and you weren't one to turn down free drinks as you put your wallet away.

"Thank you."

"Good luck," he replied as he returned to wiping down the counter while you started climbing the stairs past the employee's only door. The stairs creaked under your feet as you entered the area where your body shivered and your skin prickled with goosebumps, but you knew that if you checked the temperature, it wouldn't have dropped a single digit. This was just your body's reaction to the dominion of one who is great, one who could end you.

You entered the room, pushing open the door before closing it quietly behind you. Your footsteps were quiet on the wooden floor; despite its appearance, there wasn't a single creak from the seemingly old wood. Without anybody else in here, the silence was almost oppressive, seeming to bear down on you with an almost physical weight.

You ignore that, though, and take your place on the floor, crossing your legs as you breathe in deeply. Meeting the Master always required preparation, and while the alcohol downstairs had given you a bit of a kick start, it wasn't going to be enough. You focus on the rhythm of your breath, the in and out as you breathe. In and out. Steadying yourself. Centering yourself. The room feels cold, but not from any physical chill—something deeper, more unsettling.

"You've come for knowledge?" The voice that sliced through the silence is cold and harsh, sharp like a blade. It sent a jolt through you, making your heart race as your eyes slowly opened. The tone doesn't match your Master's youth; it never does. There's something wrong with the sound—too hard, too cruel. You steady your heart, forcing your breathing to remain calm and even.

You focus on her, looking her in the eyes. She is short, less than an inch taller than you, even while you are seated. Her physical body doesn't matter, though. Her presence is looming and fills the room with an almost malevolent cold that stings your throat as you breathe.

Her eyes are what you focus on; it's a mistake, but you had been raised to do that. They burn with a cold flame, not the sizzling warmth of a campfire but a cruel flickering fire that consumes everything it touches. You slowly move your gaze away, a motion that feels both relieving and painful, like part of you is happy to stop looking at that fire while another part fears taking your eyes off her.

You have spoken to her one-on-one before. Each time, you come away feeling raw, like you had stood on the edge of a precipice as howling winds scraped over your skin. However, you know that feeling, you've felt that feeling before, so you reply.

"Yes," you manage, your voice soft but firm, though your throat feels dry. "I wish to know more of Moth."

The reaction is instant, and it makes you flinch. There's a low sound from the Master, something primal and guttural. For a second, you think it's a growl, like some wild animal about to pounce. But no, it's worse. It's a laugh—a deep, dark chuckle that seems to crawl out from her throat and echo in the cold room. The sound sends a shiver down your spine, your skin prickling with goosebumps. She begins to pace, her small feet making no sound as she circles you, her eyes raking over your form, scrutinizing every inch of you.

"That is your first mistake," she says, her words carrying a weight that lands like a physical blow. It rings in your ears and reverberates in your mind. You swallow hard, forcing yourself to keep breathing, even as you feel the cold chill of fear creeping up the back of your neck. It's a normal fear that you tell yourself.

"You don't learn Moth," she continues, her voice lowering into something almost hostile, though still so high-pitched it should have sounded childish. It doesn't. There's nothing innocent about it. "You don't sit down and study it at a desk like a schoolchild. You live it. You let it consume you, let it wash over you and carry you in its wake, helpless and without resistance." Her pacing quickens, circling tighter around you, and though you don't dare turn your head to follow her movements, you feel her presence looming closer, especially when she passes behind you. Your whole body tenses, instincts screaming that she could tear out your throat in an instant if she wanted to.

"And instead," she continues, her voice dangerously soft, "you must listen."

She stops pacing. You can feel her presence directly behind you, even though she's out of sight. Your heart is hammering in your chest, but you keep still, barely holding back the urge to flinch. Then, suddenly, she barks, "Lie down!"

Your body reacts before your mind even processes the command. In an instant, you're flat on your back, staring up at the ceiling, your breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. Your pulse thunders in your ears, and it's all you can do to remain still, to not leap up and run. You feel fear, like a physical presence in the room, sitting heavy on your chest, but you do as she commands.

"Listen to me," she commands, her voice softer now, almost a whisper, but no less intense. "Do nothing but listen. Hear the house cry out. Feel its yearning, feel the want, let it take you away."

And then, the sounds begin. Inhuman sounds. Words, if they were even words, spill from her mouth, but they aren't meant for human ears. They twist and writhe, filling the space like a gust of wind tearing through the rafters above, as if the house itself is alive and crying out as winds course through its arteries and veins. The sound seems to move around you, pressing down on you from all sides. You feel the vibration in your bones, and your skin tingles with the overwhelming sensation of being pulled under, like you're sinking into something dark and bottomless.

A tear slips down your cheek without you realizing it. Your fingers twitch involuntarily, spasming as though they've been disconnected from your will. The urge to get up and flee rises in you like a wave, but it crashes uselessly against the iron grip of fear that holds you in place.

You're unsure how much time passes—it could be minutes, hours, or a lifetime. But eventually, the sounds fade, leaving behind only the ringing silence. Slowly, carefully, you push yourself back up into a sitting position, your body weak and shaky from the ordeal. You look around, and the room is empty. Your Master is gone, leaving behind nothing but the faint ringing echo of her presence and the lingering chill in the air.

You slowly rise back into a sitting position, breathing in and out as your heart rate slows and the hair on the back of your neck settles back down. Then you rise to your feet, a bit stranger and a bit more knowledge before you depart.

There are still things to do.

Your Master has spoken of chaos and the change it brings. You've listened to the sounds that wild yearning makes and learned something about the dark and fluttering aspect of Moth. Gain 1 scrap of Moth Lore

Moth lore has reached level 1