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View Full Version : The history of Logos as told by Hedron The False Prophet



Logos
12-06-2009, 09:55 PM
Dagaz wandered, he had wandered since the beginning of time. Where he wandered to he did not know, but some force beyond his ability to understand pulled him forward. For as long as he could remember this force had pulled at him. If he stayed in one place for too long, the mysterious force would take over and force his body onward.

He felt that he was near his destination, that his journey would soon come to an end. As he crested the hilltop, he could feel his destination as well as he could see it. A huge keep nestled within barren rock. The nature of the area seemed to be offended by the presence of this keep. For a large circle around the keep was dead, nothing natural grew from the earth. There was something else… As he came nearer, the brightness of the afternoon became somehow distorted, and dimmer. Obviously some sort of magic at work here. Dagaz had never really been all that fond of the magical arts. He hadn’t been interested in anything other than the perfection of his body and spirit, at least that was the feeling that he had, he couldn’t remember much of anyting that precluded this journey.

He wasn’t necessairally alone, there were the voices, voices that came when he slept, voices that interrupted his thoughts, never speaking with clarity, like being in a crowded room. Once in awhile, a voice rose above the rest, a voice that seemed somehow familliar. The strangest part of it was that even though Dagaz understood the language that the voice spoke with, the words cascaded over his brain like a cool mountain stream and were gone. He could never remember the words long enogugh to put them all together. He had no idea what was going on. He just figured this was a quest from the gods, and that they were leading him to his destiny.

His journey had spanned continents, lasted for years, and had been full of adventure. Every time he thought he had reached his destination, his body would take over and move him onward. He had seen many villages, witnessed many wonders, and fought many battles. He had been wounded many times. Some had thought fatally, but he had always healed. He had been shunned from some villages as a demon. He didn’t understand this apparent immortality any more than the villagers did. For the most part he had avoided more populated areas of the lands that he traveled, and only entered a village when his supplies were all but gone. He felt as if he was sharing his body with another being, someone with great power. Sometimes he could feel himself loosing control of himself. He would have helped a village fend off bandits, or brigands, only to lay waste to the villagers as well. It were as if something inside him snapped when he used his arts to defend the weak from the strong.

There was no way to escape himself, he had tried once, as he witnessed the aftermath of his destruction. He tried to take his own life the way of his ancestors. The crimson katana refused to enter his midsection though. No matter how hard he pulled, it would not budge. This was something else that he often wondered about. His tools of destruction. They had as much power over him as he did them. As if they were a part of him somehow.

Well, maybe the answers would be found here, as he approached the great keep, he could feel that it was indeed his final destination. He hadn’t noticed it while he was lost in thoguht, but it had become night. It couldn’t have been that long. He looked up at the shining ball that he first thought was the moon to find that it didn’t shine quite right. It must be the sun. No wonder nothing grew here. He could only wonder why he could see in so clearly, but now that he was near the keep, he couldn’t see the outside.

“Eerie is it not?” Came a voice from behind him.

Startled he whirled on his heels, bringing his staff to bear on the new arrival.

“You have nothing to fear, I have summoned you here, and you have come of your own free will”

“What treachery is this?” Exclaimed Dagaz. “You all but drag me here, and claim that I have come of my own free will?”

“I am Hedron, High Immortal of KAAOS, and you have come of your own free will Dagaz, or Logos…”

The voices rose in unison at hearing the name Logos, then with a smirk and a wave from Hedron, stopped.

“You have led a troubled life, but you have a destiny that you do not yet comprehend. This is now your home” Hedron states matter of factly, as he motions towards the keep. “Come, dine with me tonight, and I shall tell you of that which you don’t remember.”

Dagaz ponders for a moment “Why should I trust you? How do I know that this isn’t some sort of trickery?

“Stay and learn, or go and be ignorant, I care not!” States Hedron as he turns to enter the keep “Either way, I grow weary of your attitude!”

Dagaz finds himslef drawn towards this Hedron of KAAOS, and follows without really thinking about it. He notices the sounds for the first time. A sort of a constant moan, like the wind through the trees. Yet he hadn’t seen a tree since entering this cursed land. Then it dawned on him, this sounded like the voices in his head, only it wasn’t coming from within his head this time, it was all around him. Some were distant, and some were near, but all were incomprehensible.

Hedron led Dagaz through the corridors of the keep, torch light casting eerie shadows upon the walls, the flames of the torches seeming somehow dim, like that of the sun outside. It were as if darkness were trying to swallow the flame, and the flame was struggeling to light the corridor.

“You are quite the observant one, aren’t you?” Hedron asks.

“What do you mean?” Replies Dagaz.

“You were just pondering the eternal question. I could feel that which is you peeking out, and finding understanding”

“I was just noticing that the darkness was attempting to consume the flame, and that the flame is persistent in lighting the corridor”

“Precisely” Stated Hedron.

They came at length to a great hall that held a long table. The servants were busy laying out the feast, and as they walked into the room, the servants seemed to cower a bit more and move a bit faster. Hedron barely noticed them, as one would notice a piece of furniture. They walked to the other end of the room, and through a large archway, then down a long hall. At last Hedron stopped in front of a door, and motioned.

As the door opened without having been touched, Hedron stepped inside, and motioned for Dagaz to follow. The room was huge, it had everything that a modern apartment should have.

“This is your room for as long as you desire. We have few rules here, but one is that you are a productive member. You shall have the respect that you command until such a time that you fail to command it. Dinner is at sunset, you will hear the bell. I shall see you then” Hedron looked Dagaz up and down, then smirked and turned to leave.

As soon as the door closed, and the silence became noticeable, the voices came. They drowned everything else out, vision, smell, taste, touch, thought… The voices raged inside his head for what seemed an eternity. An ocean of voices that wouldn’t stop to take a breath. Then as suddenly as they came, they were gone, and Dagaz could hear a bell, the dinner bell. He sat up and looked around, he had fallen to the floor, and was covered in sweat. He rose and walked to the door. He reached to open it and before his hand could grasp the knob, the door started to swing open on it’s own. As it was opening, he noticed that there was something moving on the surface of the door. Dagaz reached over to a torch on the wall, and pulled it out of the holder. He held it up to the door to see more clearly an eye starting back at him.

In the furthest parts of Dagaz's soul, darkness as deep and muffling as black felt wrapped everything inside of him. Only one sensation broke the nothingness. Somewhere in the folds of his mind, a voice whispered… whispered… whispered…

What it whispered he could never tell. It droned on deep within him, constantly rising and falling in volume, but always below the level of understanding.

There were times when he wasn't sure in what world he lived; the pleasant surroundings of the monastery or that complete and utter blackness inside of him. He had written notes to the Master about these experiences, and the Master had written back that the whisperings were merely a reaction of the physical body to the vow of silence that he had imposed on himself. The master wrote that over time the body would quiet itself and submit fully to his will. And so the monk did not worry much about the whispering. But in the deepest moments of night, it seemed to get so loud. So loud…

Still, no matter. His days were filled with the deepest satisfactions. Even now as he tended the fields outside the temple walls that fed his brethren he felt satiated on the wholeness and goodness of life.

As the monk worked the soil, time passed and the day waned late. The sun began to sink, becoming a dull red/orange ball. It had just begun to touch the tips of the mountains far in the distance. At the exact moment that the sun touched the mountains, he caught the scent of charring and burning.

Dagaz closed his eyes for a moment, feeling as though someone had just poured cold mountain water over his guts. Slowly he raised his head and peered off in the direction of the simple village that lay near their monastery. Ribbons of smoke coiled over the village like a striking snake.

The Ronin were back. In the days of the war with the Shogazi the Emperor had recruited and trained many new Samurai. And not all of them had met the standards of honor and family normally imposed. That practice had spawned the Ronin. Masterless samurai who had turned to banditry once released from the Emperor's service and had traveled far from the center of the empire, seeking unprotected areas to operate freely in. And at this moment they were burning the people he called friends. As he stood there his jaw clenched, and images flashed before his mind of the screaming villagers fleeing through the dirt packed street. Flames tore at their clothing, and the remorseless Ronin rode them down from horseback, swinging their blades and cutting the people down.

The whispering grew louder, reaching up from within him, and entwining itself around his mind. He stood paralyzed for a moment, but the sound never resolved into words. Dagaz gave a violent shake of his head, and sprinted off to the main temple gate to sound the alarm bell. The smoke snakes coiled deeper as he ran, and the screams of the people began to trickle across the fields and into his ears.

As he entered the temple gate, he watched the other monks slowly disperse, no words spoken, as was their vow. Each went to find a spot to meditate, avoiding his desperate gaze. Dagaz knew in a moment that they would not violate the purity of their studies and the temple by attempting to interfere with the outside world.

Dagaz did not find a spot to meditate. As he had watched the monks, the whispering had grown louder. The world was drowned out in the rising tide of whispers. When he next became aware of his surroundings it was night and his feet were taking him across the fields and towards the still burning village. He shuddered in the cooling air, still confused about what he was doing, but unwilling or unable to stop his feet.

His churning legs carried him into the village. Passing the burned out hulks of former homes, and the occasional mutilation, Dagaz made his way to the center. There the ronin had assembled those of the villagers who remained, and the leader spoke to them in harsh tones. From the safety of the shadows, Dagaz heard him chastise the people for failing to have prepared his "tax" for him.

Dagaz clutched his robes about him, shivering physically and emotionally as he listened. As the ronin's words ended, he raised one hand, and brought it down. Three men walked out of a hut behind the leader each holding a woman.

These were the three most beautiful women from the village. Their features were like finest china, their bodies were curved and smooth like the waves of a river. But now their souls were dead, torn from their bleeding vaginas. It was clear that every man among the ronin had raped these women. Their skin once shone with their innocence and perfection, their eyes sparkled with happiness. Now those eyes stared out from bruised and swollen faces like patches of mud in a swamp.

Dagaz was drawn from his hiding place and he stumbled blindly towards the women. His soul cried out to comfort them. Tears streamed down his face as he walked.

As he reached the front of the crowd, unaware of how he was exposing himself, the lead ronin noticed. A sneer crossed his face, and he reached out one hand and grabbed Dagaz by the long and black top knot that grew from his otherwise shaven head. Dagaz was oblivious. The ache in his soul from looking at the ruination of these women drowned out everything else.

"Aaah, one of the monks has come to visit. The purity of your temple too dry for you, wise one? I see by your top knot that you were nobility before you became a monk. I will never understand the rich," he said, laughing. Laughing. Laughing? This pompous fat toad could laugh standing next to what he had done to these women? Dagaz felt sick. He leaned over, and vomited on the shoes of the lead ronin.

Anger filled the face of this man, and he jerked Dagaz off his feet by his top knot and dragged him to the women. He roared, "I see you would like to save these three, wouldn't you, monk? Well, we shall see how far your philosophies carry you. You may save them, monk." The ronin's teeth clenched together, and his unshaven foul face jutted itself before Dagaz. "The price is one finger for each life, monk. How is your compassion now, monk? One finger for each life!"

In reply, Dagaz raised one hand, closing his thumb and forefinger into a fist. He laid his other three across a rock. The ronin's face filled fast and hard with a look of fire, and he tore the sword from its sheath, with one motion slamming it down across the extended fingers. Dagaz screamed hard, and the whispering climbed up into his brain in a violent rush. He fainted.

The monk woke slowly. Smoke filled his lungs. Pain filled his head. He was crusted in blood, and could barely move. Minutes went by, but move he did. Slowly he sat up. Sitting on the ground, his head bobbed and wove as he tried to steady the world. He reached out with his right hand to rest himself on the ground, but as his hand touched the soil, a pain as bright as a red hot nail in a forge jabbed up his hand and his arm, into his heart. The breath was slammed from his body by the flare of pain. In that moment of pain, his head snapped up and his vision snapped into crystal clarity.

That was when he first saw them. The three women. They lay on the ground near him, each one with their necks almost severed through. Their heads hung onto their bodies by mere shreds of skin. Mouth agape, Dagaz raised his hand before his face and stared at the missing fingers. That was when he noticed it. The fingers had been jammed - obscenely - inside the women, one in each, ragged bloody stumps hanging out of them.

Dagaz… Dagaz broke. Inside his head, it was an almost audible snap as everything that Dagaz had known and felt and lived for simply cracked like a twig before this sight and this pain. A silence more profound than any explained by his vow rose up around him like walls. The world stilled. It was not just he who was soundless now. The world was robbed of its expression as well. In this purest of silences, the whispering began to rise. This time it rose higher than it ever had, for his mind was like an empty vessel. Nothing of himself remained to hold back the whispering. And in this purest of silences, for the first time, he began to hear words. The monk's face held a small, humble, calm smile. It was clear that where ever his mind was, it was not here.

The monk rose to his feet, all traces of pain or disorientation gone. He walked to the burning flames that still licked at some of the buildings, and with a beatific smile, slid his three-stumped hand into the fire. It curled up around his hand, crackling and popping as it scorched across the wounds. Dagaz just smiled. And…

And… the whispering? Yes. The monk's lips were writhing over some almost inaudible set of words. Those few alive to witness it watched as the monk pulled his severed fingers from the corpses. In a daze, the man threw each finger in the fire and let it boil the flesh from them. When they were stripped clean, the monk reached into the flames and removed the bones, laying each one on the ground in front of him. His eyes were lost. His mind was lost. Who could say what controlled him now? Nothing in his actions looked like those of the man who had been. This was something new. And always the whispering. The lips of this new man worked over and over again through some bizarre set of mumbling.

The monk reached into the ashes of the flesh that had burned off his fingers, and as his lips whispered, the single remaining finger of his right hand, and his thumb sprinkled ashes over each fingers' bones. Power was coursing into the man somehow, and from him into the bones before him. Three flashes.

In the first flash, the longest finger became a staff. The staff was bone white, but somehow, beneath the white one could see what looked to be a blood red core. And the staff seemed hungry.

In the second flash, the ring finger became a sword. Its blade was crimson, and its hilt obsidian black. And the sword seemed thirsty.

In the third flash, the smallest finger became a throat collar. It shone of the purest gold. And the collar seemed to vibrate.

The monk picked up and donned each item, never a pause in the whispering.

Suddenly the whispering stopped. The monk rose to his feet, gripping the staff with his one fingered hand and leaning on it. His wild eyes fastened on the villagers for a moment. His hand reached out and grabbed the blade, and he finished the slaughter of the villagers that the ronin had begun. Then he turned and strode off.

Late that night, this… thing that had been Dagaz caught up with the ronin. The carnage was complete. Each of the dark Samaurai died beneath his blade. The screams that arced from their bodies as the black-handled crimson katana pierced them were unnatural. One with knowledge would recognize the sound of souls being torn from bodies. The scene was bizarre as this monk with the gentle face tore through the ronin, whispering the whole way.

As each died, the monk would slam the butt of his staff hard through their chests and into their hearts. The bodies would feed into staff. With each death, the monk seemed to become more powerful. The forces fed into him, filling his own body with life, leaving no trace of the body that had been, except in each case leaving 3 fingers lying on the ground. No counterpart now existed in the monk's body for those to absorb into.

Finally the monk reached the lead ronin, and he smiled as they faced each other. The ronin knew he would die. "Monk. What are you before you kill me?"

The monk smiled, and broke from a whisper into speech, truly breaking his old vow for the first time in twenty years. "I am what was Dagaz. I am here to whisper into your soul the words that I have learned from deep within me. I am here to spread the comfort of the truth, ronin. You have brought from the black tar of my innermost self the truth. Do you want to hear it?" Somehow the expression on the monk's face was kind and caring, like a parent comforting a child. But with that last question… when he asked "do you want to hear it?" there was a change.

Suddenly, with no warning the monk was screaming.

"DO YOU WANT TO HEAR IT YOU PATHETIC MORTAL?! DO YOU WANT TO HEAR THE TRUTH?! THEN I WILL GIVE IT TO YOU, ALL OF IT!"

The monk's blade lanced outward and was buried hilt deep in the bone of the ronin's forehead. The ronin screamed a horrible, turgid scream.

Just as the scream started to fade, the monk leaned forward and whispered to the ronin, noticing as he did that a tear rolled down the evil man's face. With his single fingered hand, he wiped it away.

"I am not the endless babbling that rolls from mens' mouths. I am not the echo in your heads of your own thoughts. I am not the chattering chattering chattering." The monk's face was gleeful and satisfied looking as he spoke. Such a strange contrast, this gentle faced monk happily explaining things to a man with a sword buried hilt deep in his forehead.

"I am Logos, the true spoken word. Listen for it, ronin. Listen within yourself. Now at the moment of your death, do you hear the true spoken word?" The ronin's eyes widened as he listened and heard.

"A power beyond your comprehension lives in the spoken words of the abyss, ronin. And the spoken word is this. There is no life. There is no death. There is only the spoken word. So do not cry, sad man. What you think you are losing was never yours. It never existed."

This thing named Logos screamed out the last of these words, and the golden collar that he wore that was once a finger, which had slowly been amplifying his words as they'd grown louder and stronger ended by echoing these words like thunder. They rolled off the mountains. "IT WAS ALWAYS MINE! LOGOS!" bounced again and again across the valley.

With a convulsion, the monk reared back with the staff and impaled the ronin through the heart, absorbing his body into the bone staff, leaving only three fingers from his right hand.

The monk chuckled, and set about the field of battle gathering fingers into the folds of his robe. It was a gruesome sight.


As told by Hedron the False Prophet.

Logos
12-06-2009, 10:01 PM
Logos tosses Hedron a bag full of middle fingers...

Enjoy...

Logos

Hedron
12-06-2009, 11:15 PM
Well, as told by me starting about here anyway:

In the furthest parts of Dagaz's soul, darkness as deep and muffling as black felt wrapped everything inside of him. Only one sensation broke the nothingness. Somewhere in the folds of his mind, a voice whispered… whispered… whispered…


;)

Logos
12-08-2009, 10:55 PM
Interesting, I don't recall adding to it, it was so long ago I suppose I could have, but I would consider that writing beyond my ability, so the great soul of KAAOS must have added to it when I wasn't looking...

Either that or I had some really good sticky purple troll weed that week... ;>

Yeah, now that i look at it again, it doesn't really flow. Your iInfallibility remains intact.

Anarchy,
Logos