After a year of trying, Bauwls finally realized that getting people into a small startup cult is not as easy as it sounds.

The first few months had the feeling of newness you get when you start any creative project, to be sure. Hope for the future, a real drive to complete the thing, and a sense that even if it’s slow to start, it’ll start soon enough. It did not start soon enough.

She’d gotten a few people in early, but they were long gone. Creative differences, some of them. A couple of them worshiped Bring Me the Bugs more than they worshiped Moosa, a fact which implies the real root of the problem: people in Rattwater tended to believe in things they could see, like polka bands and magic. The type of stuff that affected their day to day lives. The furthest thing from their minds was some monkey god who hadn’t been seen in two thousand years.

But this type of self-doubt had no place in the life of an up and coming cult leader like Bauwls. The only things she had time for were getting money and getting power so she could get more money. The underlying theme of it all was still Moosa, though.

One day I’ll prove them all wrong, Moosa, she thought. One day, they’ll all believe in you and we’ll be rich!

It was a simple dream.

One fine spring day, the city was absolutely packed with weary travelers ripe for the converting. Bauwls could hear them from inside her condo, which was a good sign. Mouthy people’s people always make the best street preachers, which is great for a small independent cult. Or so the Guide said.

She’d bought it, The Beginner’s Guide to Cult Growth, on a whim one day and never looked back. Bauwls always considered it a respectable hobby but only got into it after reading through the opening chapters of the Guide. There’s a particular excerpt from it that changed her outlook on the whole thing, which goes like this:

Inspirational stuff. Bauwls tried to follow the wisdom of the Guide word for word where she could. The problem was that she couldn’t reach the Smooth Sailing step of the plan it laid out. Smooth Sailing refers to the point when there are enough people in your cult where you can effectively fake your death and let them do all the work. The issue of course being that Bauwls’ cult only had one member at the moment: herself.

But that was all about to change.

Bauwls hopped up out of bed and put on her custom fitted black cloak w/ hood, which covered her horns and most of her red, devilish skin. She stumbled through the condo trying to do her vocal warmups while searching for her prop holy book (a tool in the belt of any good aspiring cult leader). The moment she found it, she ran out the door and down the stairs of the condo, right into the street.

There, she found the crowd she’d heard from the window. It was about as big as a Rattwater city crowd could get before it devolved into a hoard or riot. Most of its members sported muddy, weathered boots and the look of someone who’d almost forgotten there were other people in the world besides skeletons and goblins. Bauwls breached the swirling mass of people and got to the other side of the street, the location of her favorite preaching spot: the seasonal meats market. It was outdoors and made up of various stalls, each holding a sizable queue. “The best audience is a captive audience,” sayeth the Guide. And so, jumping onto an old crate from a local soap company, she began:

“Faithless, unwashed masses of Rattwa- of Earth!” The Guide teaches generalization whenever applicable. “The time has come to repent your misdoings and return to your creator, Moosa!” Groans sounded from the crowds. “He is good! He is really, really good! He’s better than most, I’d say. He’s so good that he’ll even accept you!” She pointed at a particularly gruff man in the deer hunter’s line. “Even with all the evil acts that you may have committed, he will-” The man started to sob. Loudly. The people around him patted his shoulders and comforted him the best they could.

“I didn’t mean to!” he wailed. He had to sit after his legs began to give out.

“Classic preacher, guilt tripping people into their damn cult! You should be ashamed!” The acid tongued shout came from farther down the line, with a flying tomato following shortly after.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” The shouts from the lines overpowered her now meek voice.

She hopped off the box dejectedly and shuffled back through the crowd in her now tomato-stained cloak. As she came to the middle of the street, she felt a tug on her shoulder.

“Excuse me,” came a voice from behind her.

“Yeah, what is it?”

“I’d like to hear more about this Moosa fella,” it said. Bauwls turned around and saw a great orc smiling down at her. On his shoulder sat a gnome.