Born of The Broth we string our noodle-nooses tightly round the chunks of meat we call necks. The heretics reward, the underserved good of the soul for those that are gallows-bound. The bottom of the bowl awaits them as the spoons drop. One swift clink in sync with the snapping. Mm, mm, good.
The Broth knows all. It’s holy yellow texture so rich and flavored, that even those hanging can’t help but pay tribute as a similar substance rushes down their hanging legs. They hope to join the faithful Brothites in the great bowl above, to repent for the sins these heretics committed. What fools to think The Broth would forgive their transgressions. Perhaps they hoped that due to its clouded looks that its judgment would be less absolute, but alas that was a sign of the coming storm. The Broth’s rage is unparalleled in the wrath it may brew. Mm, mm, good.
The Broth’s followers are we Brothites: otherwise referred to as ‘Chicken Chunks’. We are devoted to it with our lives, and gleefully watch on when judgment is passed. We smile so widely in hopes that we’ve weeded out the last heretic, though where twenty may fall, a carrot patch’s worth of heretics will spring up in their place. Some may even be inspired by The Broth’s judgments, but if that be so then they also show those of little faith. Mm, mm, good.
The Broth’s judgments last for a single hour, after which we all pray to our patron Saint Campbell for our souls. After this, we Brothites go about our normal routines. We return to our abodes, cook our dinner time meals, and then pray once more before resting in the warm embrace of our sleeping bowls. Our dreams may hopefully be blessed by The Broth’s warmth, a reminder of our birthing and connection. Born of The Broth we are, follow it we shall. Mm, mm, good.