>Strike a menacing pose.
>Find more breeches.
Ha, they think your a cultist! Well, it's probably a good idea to act the part then. You muster your strength and strike an evil darth-vader pose. This wierd act earns you a few strange looks from your fellow cultists. The fires have started to die, and your nether regions are cold.
You scout around for some new breeches, but cant find any. You spot a cultist robe instead - you put it on. The crimson cloth is surprisingly comfy. I guess eating people does have it's perks.
We are now OSKUR WIYOLDE, author and cultist.
And we need to pick that corpse's arms and armor.
Hmm... The cultists thing you are 'Oskur', so I guess that means if you don't want to end up like the red armored man... You gotta go by the name of Oskur. If it is a name. You decide that it would be wise to take the armored man's gear... You look at the fire that the bald man kicked it into, but for some reason, you can't find anything. It almost seems to be that the man... dissapeared. Strange. Maybe it was a really hot fire?
Collect all the best cultist bits and sew them together to create a super-cultist!
Then try to find some way to make it less dead...
You pile a bunch of cultist corpses together. Nothing you could really do here - you don't have a cutting instrument or a sewing machine. The bald man has walked back into the square, carrying a couple of dead babies in his arms.
"Good, you've piled the corpses together. Easier to light a pyre."
He fixes you with his steely gaze. For a second, you think you've been ratted out... Then his glare softens every so slightly.
"Well done for showing initiative. You may not be an Oskur much longer... No, you might be heading somewhere."
He claps you on the shoulder and walks off.
Sing drunkenly.
Unfortunately, you can't sing, nor are you drunk.