Wretched, The

The Wretched (Part IV)

Written by Ogden, a character on the Earthen Ring server, and posted on the Blizzard Earthen Ring Forums

=Chapter One: LEnfant= ''(( I hesitate to put this out here; that is, have hesitated for quite some time. Ogden's story is something -- different. The responses to his story in live-RP have been as wide and varied as the east from the west; there have been some very disparaging and insulting comments; there have been moments of grace. Ogden has left me with little choice, though. I must tell his story or get out of his way to let him tell it.

I only ask your forebearance; Ogden is not what folk think he is; as is very evident in this opening vignette. ))''

 There are some qualities; some incorporate things That have a double life; life aptly made The type of that twin entity which springs From matter and light; evinced in solid and shade. -- Poe, EA; Silence A Sonnet, 1839 

What shall we name him? Glanoia asked her husband.

With deep introspection, Wonton rubbed his scruffy chin, contemplating his wifes question. Glanoia held their newborn son, still wet with birthing juices and shivering from the trauma of being foisted into the real world. She stroked his brow and cooed at him, marveling at the thing she and her husband had made. Testing the sharpness of his tiny tusks, she smiled in satisfaction; they were razor sharp and a good indication he would be a strong addition to their tribe.

Glanoia still lay on the pallet as she had been set by the midwife, still sweating from the effort of childbirth, but gleaming with pride and love under the flickering light of a dozen torches. The interior of the birthing hut was warm and heady with the aroma of childbirth. For exactly fourteen hours she labored with him and now that he was there she couldnt care less about the numeric superstition; he was her son and he was beautiful. Eventually, she would face the tribal council about the preciseness of his birth (fourteen was the most unlucky number in a Trolls life), but until then she would ignore the sign and enjoy her graciously granted motherhood.

Wonton watched his wife with their son while he flowed arcane ley through his flesh. They had decided that they would not name him until born to confound any geis that could be laid upon him; for one that has no name thereupon no magic may be wrought.

Outside the birthing hut, a storm tarried, shedding lightning to the earth and wrenching thunder across the sky. Though the storm raged with gleaming resonance, there was only a steady rain and little wind. It was as though the fume itself knew what transpired within the birthing hut and measured its fury for respect of those proceedings. Talk amongst the village rumored the baby within birthed under a curse; never in the history of the tribe had a baby been born under such a sign; a moonless night in the wintering season, the fourteenth day under a squall that had rolled in from the sea, letting up only in the hour of the birth. Trolls in the village made signs and hexes, cut flesh and let blood for protection; evil spirits or otherwise, little room remained for power of that sort, however veiled its source.

Inside the birthing hut were three persons; even four were found therein. Wonton, Glanoia, and their son were about the business of delivery but the fourth, a most sinister fourth, floated in a torchs flame, observing the new family with a malicious mouth and malignant mind. Diablo hid in the flame, watching the proceedings and already beginning to interleave the Burning Legions profane magic into the babys heart. For a moment the baby became aware of Diablo, though concealed from mortal eyes by the flickering torch. When their eyes met, Diablo spoke into the babys mind, over and over like an echo that never died; it whispered the leash that would keep the baby a minion of the Burning Legion and subject to its sway. In a moment of euphoric bliss, Diablo whispered the leash aloud; sqrt(-4).

A small smile crept to Wontons lips as a moment of cleverness suddenly prevailed. Looking around to ensure their relative privacy, he leaned forward and whispered his suggestion into his wifes ear. She smiled in response and whispered in return, Really? You would name our son after the progenitor of your line? You honor him, and through him my family, with such a name.

Wonton nodded, None in our line have held that name and it's time one did.

Glanoia took her husbands hand in one of hers as he placed his other on the tykes forehead. She arranged him in her lap so he was supported by her legs and placed her hand over his heart. Chanting the naming ritual together, they named their son. A small glow surrounded him for a moment, the world acknowledging its new citizen.

Diablo memorized the babys given name; the Legion would be pleased.

Wonton lifted his hand to his wifes brow and wiped her sweat from it. I am the luckiest Troll to ever have lived.

Glanoia smiled, blushing deeply from his attentions; though his wife and still his lover, she was always a schoolgirl under his gaze. Changing the subject lest she light up the hut with her blush, she asked quietly, And what name shall we give for the world to know him by? Her husband paused again thoughtfully, musing over a name removed enough from his given one that there would be no association. At that moment, his son made a noise akin to a gurgling cough, raising his hands and cooing in his own baby talk. Both husband and wife heard the sounds and gasped with astonishment.

Did you hear that? she asked her husband.

I did but I dont believe

Their son interrupted his father by making the same noise again. The noise sounded like a word to his parents.

Smiling at each other, they agreed with their eyes.

The midwife and tribe shaman reentered the birthing hut. As the midwife rushed to help Glanoia and shoo Wonton from her bedside, the shaman gruffed, So. Does the whelp have a name?

Grinning the grin only a proud father can grin, Wonton nodded at the shaman, Indeed; he has a name.

Preparing his totems and shamanistic spells of blessing, the witch doctor made ready to complete the birthing of their son. What name shall we know him by?

Glancing once more to his wife, Wonton smiled again when she nodded, glowing under the flickering firelight, radiant in her new motherhood. Returning his attention to the shaman, Wonton spoke his sons public name.

=Chapter Two: Outset of Instruction=  Walking around I hear the sounds of the earth seeking relief; Im trying to find a reason to live; but the mindless clutter my path; Oh, these thorns in my side these thorns in my side; I know have something free; I have something so alive; I think they shoot cause they want it. ~ Creed; Bullets, 2001 

What shall we name him? Reneva asked her Amnan. She called Ogden her Amnan or beloved in the ancient tongue; a blessing under which he could not contain his bliss.

Though they were only teenagers, they had ideas of starting a family. Ogden, still fourteen, and Reneva, sixteen, would often meet in their secret place to study, flirt, or just steal away from the adults and other teens of their village. Their secret place was under a solitary oak, large and regal, aged beyond memory, standing alone in a tiny glen. It was an odd place for an oak to grow surrounded as it was by the mountains and jungle, but grow it did and proudly so. There they reclined, facing each other, their bodies touching discreetly.

Ogden leaned against the trunk of their mighty oak and stared deeply into Renevas eyes. They had spoken of children in the past, the making of them as well the rearing, but they had never breeched the subject of names. Couples were not considered serious until they spoke about their unborn childrens names. Only in those cases where the child was a surprise, as Ogden was, did the name go unconsidered until birth. Ogden remembered the stories his mother told about how her inner parts would twist with desire to name their baby; to name her son. His father told similar tales.

At that moment, his parents, Glanoia and Wonton, sat again once again -- before the Council defending their son from tribal expulsion. It was an annual farce, this defense. The Council would convene for special congress to discuss Ogden and the curse under which they believed him to be and subsequently brought upon the tribe; every year he was granted asylum because there had been no other signs against him. Concluding each defense, the Council would begrudgingly honor the ancestral traditions and allow him to stay. A stern warning always accompanied the decision; the slightest sign against him would bring the full weight of irrevocable expulsion upon his brow.

As the Council held audience before the elders and those not standing watch, another council of sorts was having its own discussion.

and I hate him, Troq seethed, mid-rant, so does Reneva; and so should you!

Diablo, weightless and invisible, stood on Troqs shoulders, whispering into his ear.

Twelve young trolls nodded in understanding and agreement with their leader. The youngest of them was thirteen; the oldest was Troq himself at seventeen. For months almost two years -- he and Reneva had trysted behind Ogdens back, plotting the events and timing of that day. When they werent scheming their scheme, they were entwined under the covers of their embrace.

I say we make it clear, Troq suggested, unknowingly parroting Diablos whispers, I say we show Ogden just where he stands in this tribe and how righteous his expulsion will be.

It was common knowledge that Ogden had been born under dubious signs; the elders sometimes even going so far as to suggest the signs formed a curse. Cruel as children can be there is nothing to stand in the face of someone dissimilar amongst a cabal of similarity. Ogden paid the price for his birth and differences on a daily basis. That day, he would pay more than he had ever paid; it was to be the cheapest of his lifes instruction.

There was a general murmur of assent from the twelve gathered around Troq. Nodding to them in general he took up his slingshot, they their own arms. He led them out of the village and to the place Reneva had spoken of; secret place, indeed.

But weve never Ogden couldnt bring himself to say the words. He and Reneva had never known each other in the way of mates, and yet here she was, speaking to him of names.

Love dripping from her eyes like dew on a virgin stem, Reneva reached for Ogdens face and slowly caressed the cheek around his tusk. We need not she paused, smiling shyly and trying to keep the blush from her face, in order to speak of names. Our love is strong and has faith; one day we will be met with our children.

Taking her hand in his, Ogden kissed her knuckles. His heart pounded heavily and he marveled at the woman his love was becoming; Ogden only hoped he would be strong enough to be her Amnan and make her proud she was his.

Ogden heard the snickering before he heard the words, but could not react before they were spoken.

Ive always been partial to the name Troq, Troq jeered.

Reneva and Ogden stood hastily, shocked someone had found their secret place and rudely intruded on their privacy. But it was Troq; Ogden knew where Troq trod, trouble followed. Trouble followed Troq until they both found solace in Ogdens anguish.

You are not welcome here, Troq, Ogden said, still unable to locate Troqs hiding spot, show yourself so you may leave. Ogden tried to put himself between Reneva and Troq but found he couldnt until he knew from where Troq threatened.

Snickering was the only reply Ogden received. He heard more than Troqs voice, confirming what he already knew; he and Reneva were surrounded. It was so much the way of a bully; strong enough in front of those that backed him up but unable to function without those backing him.

Perhaps you should ask Reneva if she wants me to leave, Troq suggested with a sneer, stepping from the shadows in which he was hiding. As he did so, twelve other young trolls followed suit.

Diablo jumped from Troqs shoulder to Renevas, gleeful in the unfolding of these events. It had watched Ogden, shadowed him in all things, and knew the time was drawing nigh; the Legion would call for their new Warlock and it was up to Diablo to have him prepared.

She has chosen me as her Amnan and allows me to speak for her; we do not welcome you; any of you.

Turning to be sure he was close enough to Reneva to interject himself between her and Troq, Ogden was stopped short when he saw the contemptuous sneer on her face. His start was apparently humorous; she giggled maliciously as he stood with mouth agape; realizing her betrayal.

Diablo whispered into her ear.

Fool, she spat. How could you believe that any will choose you as Amnan?

But

And Diablo whispered again.

Fool, she repeated, cutting him off. If it werent for my mother lusting for your father you would have been expelled long ago.

Ogden was dumbfounded, staggered by the weights piling upon him, unable to defend himself, verbally or otherwise. The world began to blur.

Look, Troq, Reneva taunted, pointing a scornful finger at Ogden, hes going to cry. Then, in a sing-song voice used for babies, she mocked, Is widdle Oggie gonna cwy? Hmm? Dere, dere, widdle Oggie. Cwy and won home to mama.

Unable to stop them, the tears dripped down his cheeks; Reneva sauntered to Troqs side; Diablo chuckled with malicious mirth.

I I Ogden choked, weakly calling after her, I love you, Amnan.

When Reneva and Troq embraced and kissed passionately, Ogden felt his stomach lurch and his knees buckle. As they cooed with each other one of the twelve aimed her slingshot and loosed a smooth stone towards Ogdens head. It hurtled through the air with a slight whistle. Her aim was true; it resoundingly scored her mark upon his head. The first shot taken, the rest quickly followed from slingshot or blowguns or simply thrown; the mob stoned Ogden without remorse and without restraint.

Reneva took her slingshot from Troq and withdrew the stone shed concealed in her robes in anticipation of that moment. Taking careful aim, she waited for just the right moment to strike. Diablo nearly danced with glee as it whispered the stay into her ear. As Ogden, pitiful in his physical and emotional agony, struggled to face her once more Diablo nearly shouted, Now!

She let fly the stone. He saw it coming; his heart splintered as it did, but made no move to protect himself. The stone hit its mark, shattering Ogdens jaw with the impact.

Their sport concluded they left him where he had fallen, bleeding from eyes and ears, from nose and mouth, weeping in physical and emotional agony. As they left, they laughed and joked, jovial as children at a carnival, drunk on the euphoria of their assault, deaf to Ogdens defeat.

His attackers celebrations fading into the distance, Ogden felt his life draining from him. Diablo landed weightless on Ogdens back. Uttering Ogdens true name, Diablo sunk its claws into his mind. Ogden was not aware of Diablos presence, only the broken dreams and memories of betrayal that it flashed before his minds eyes; images of he and Reneva enraptured in an embrace; quiet moments of gentle promises; visions of futures with wife and children and grandchildren. Interspersed with those images, Diablo whispered Ogdens ever-present tether to the Burning Legion; sqrt(-4).

The Council finally adjourned, Glanoia and Wonton returned to the business of their day; he practicing the arcane magic his line was famous for, she training her roguish talents, the same that made her line infamous. Only when night claimed the day did they worry for Ogdens absence.

Skipping the communal first meal (the first of three meals a family shared at night was always with the other members of the tribe), Glanoia and Wonton searched for their son. Troq, Reneva, and the other twelve remained silent and acted the part of concern and worry for theirs and their parents sake.

Fearing the absolute worst, Glanoia and Wonton searched the surrounding jungle well into the depths of the last watch. As the sun neared the horizon to push back the skein of night, Wonton stumbled into a tiny glen, dominated by a solitary oak, standing large and regal. Beneath the oak lay a shadowy form, motionless and prone.

Noting Wontons approach, Diablo withdrew its claws from Ogdens mind, finally bringing the torment to an end.

Carefully approaching, Wontons heart sank as he recognized the form of the shadow; as he recognized the body of his son. Choking back his panic, he bent to his son and rolled him over, seeing the extent of his injuries in the waxing morning light. Desperately, Wonton pushed his ear to his sons chest, daring to hope.

Weakly, he heard the d-thump-thump of a heartbeat.

Thanking the gods, he held his son close and tried to figure out how he could get him to the shaman without Glanoia seeing him like this.

What are you doing, Wonton? his wife asked from behind him, Is that Ogden?. He knew he could not shield her from her sons wounds now. Seeing him, cradled in his fathers arms, his injuries so grievous he appeared dead, Glanoias knees buckled beneath her. She wasnt aware of it, but she wept his name as she fell to the earth.

Ogden!

=Chapter Three: Legion=

~ Mark 5:1-9
 * 1) And they came to the other side of the sea, into the country of the Gerasenes.
 * 2) And when He was come out of the boat, straightway there met Him out of the tombs a man with an unclean spirit
 * 3) who had his dwelling in the tombs; and no man could any more bind him, no, not with a chain
 * 4) because that he had been often bound with fetters and chains, and the chains had been rent asunder by him, and the fetters broken in pieces: and no man had strength to tame him.
 * 5) And always, night and day, in the tombs and in the mountains, he was crying out, and cutting himself with stones.
 * 6) And when he saw Jesus from afar, he ran and worshipped Him
 * 7) and crying out with a loud voice, he saith, "What have I to do with Thee, Jesus, thou Son of the Most High God? I adjure Thee by God, torment me not."
 * 8) For He said unto him, "Come forth, thou unclean spirit, out of the man."
 * 9) Then Jesus said to the man who was possessed, "What is your name?" And he answered, "Legion; for we are many."

What shall we name him?

Diablo stood before the strongman, shivering in terror, barely able to respond. Why why not call him as he is already called? We know his given and public name

The strongman leaned forward, an intense heat radiating from its flaming eyes. Indeed we do, Diablo, and we have you to thank for that. Diablo relaxed a little but was startled back to terror when the strongman added, But you have done nothing else for us in terms of preparing this one to be the first Troll Warlock.

Stuttering and stammering out his replies, Diablo protested meekly. It had worked very hard over fourteen years to prepare the Legions choice for Warlock, but the arrangements were far from concluded. He has a strong family with deeply expressed love and an honorable line, Diablo continued, and he is somehow able to avoid our more baleful methods of persuasion.

Leaning back, the strongman sighed in disgust. Our will shall not be confounded; he is to be a Warlock of our fold or you will be enchained amongst our enemies, here in the Nether. It added ominously, For the rest of eternity.

Diablo blanched at the suggestion of his entrapment within the Nether. Though a construct of and living because of the Nethers command, the prospect of eternity in that place caused valleys of terror to split its wicked mind; true evil lived there; overpowering torment dawned each day; and spake unspeakable things designed for the singular purpose inflicting indescribable pain.

It cast about for some morsel of good news, some matter trivial or no to show that in fourteen years, it had not failed the strongman; that it was capable and willing to prepare the seed of Wontons line to be a Warlock; that it would succeed given the proper tools.

Diablo closed its mouth, previously unaware its jaw hung slack in terror as a daemonic idea slithered through its mind. An evil seed, pregnant with disdain, sprouted and brought forth what was to be the next chapter of scorn. Assured its insight would be met with approval, Diablo reigned in its fright and smiled the spiteful smile of sin. If I may, O great one.

The strongman nodded, idly toying with small tendrils of flame flickering from its fingertips. You may, it paused dramatically, and it had best be worthy of our authority.

We should send an agent into him, Diablo quickly suggested, so that my efforts will be redoubled if not tripled by an accomplice.

The strongman considered Diablos words silently, save the growls of its hungry flames. To Diablo, it felt as if aeons passed while the strongman considered, and it dismissed the notion soon as it crossed its immoral mind; the Nether lay outside the dimension of time and thusly, was not held accountable to its passing.

Your idea has saved your hide. the strongman finally answered, you will have your accomplice. Diablo felt a sudden wash of relief which was cut short by the strongmans next words, I give you Xarn.

Diablos countenance fell; Xarn! Xarn was uncontrollable, independent and totally incapable of rational thought. Formed by the Burning Legions repugnant resolve, it was a single daemon with bits of entities cobbled together to form an unholy patchwork of consciousness; it constantly warred against itself to conquer and preside over all the other parts; leaving the possessed a battered and broken shell. There were tens of thousands if not millions of consciousnesses in that patchwork, all vying against the rest and the host -- for control.

You disagree? the strongman addressed Diablo.

I dont disagree, Diablo responded, terrified, I am confused. Xarn will tear the Natural asunder and leave nothing with which to work once our measures are complete. Too, its entirely possible that Xarn could kill him before we have him fully prepared.

I thought we were interested in making him our Warlock; what good is him that is insane; or him that is dead?

Smirking without humor, the strongman maliciously replied, Who said it was our will for the Warlock to remain -- alive?

In Diablos tiny mind, pieces started falling into place. It nodded to the strongman and bowed, saying, I go to prepare him for Xarns arrival.

Wonton gently laid his son on the pallet in the healing hut while Glanoia tried to stifle her sobs from across the room. No sooner had Wonton stepped to comfort his wife did the tribal shaman burst into the hut, disheveled and disorganized. Word had spread quickly of Ogdens condition and most of the adults in the village gathered outside the healing hut. Wonton held Glanoia close as the tribal shaman leaned over Ogden to more closely inspect his injuries.

Moving silently and invisibly, Diablo landed at the head of the pallet. Muttering Ogdens true name, it once more sunk its claws into his mind. Ogden had a strong will and fought Diablo, but after repeated emotional and spiritual #@!&s, Ogdens strength failed him. Soon after opening the door into his soul, Diablo welcomed Xarn into the young Trolls heart, chuckling with malicious glee.

As Xarn began to seep its tendrils into the keystones of his soul, Ogden convulsed, his natural body trying to wrest away the painful, daemonic invasion by seizing in fits and starts. Startled so badly by Ogdens sudden seizure, the tribal shaman fell backwards onto his rump with a muffled *thud*. Clumsily righting himself, the shaman tried to get ahold of Ogdens body to calm his convulsions. Wonton found himself holding his wifes dead weight after she fainted from the strain of seeing her only son writhing in a paroxysm of suffering. Gently laying her to the ground, Wonton hurried to the shamans side to try and help steady his son.

Shortly, it was over; Xarn had wrapped its tendrils around the bulwarks of Ogdens soul and entrapped his essence in a dark and tiny box near the corner of subconscious. Ogden was alive and fully aware of the war that raged but he was made impotent by the authority of the Legions piebald minion.

With a flash of bright light and preternatural strength, Ogden threw Wonton and the tribal shaman from himself and to the floor of the hut. As they righted themselves, they found Ogden sitting upright, somehow changed, and fully healed. The tribal shaman immediately spoke a hex of protection and was left immobile by his fear. Wide-eyed and himself shaken, Wonton leaned towards his son.

Ogden?

=Chapter Four: Febrile Gauntlet=  What we actually learn, from any given set of circumstances, determines whether we become increasingly powerless or more powerful.

~ Blaine Lee 

What shall we name him?

Glanoia knelt near Ogdens knee; a Green Wing Macaw perched upon her wrist.

Diablo landed weightless and soundless on Glanoias shoulder, whispering into her mind foul and profane things about her son; about how to kill her son.

Glanoia watched expectantly, willing him to answer. Ogden ignored her and continued staring out his bedroom window, watching the sea consume the sun. The silence lengthened and Glanoias jaw clenched with frustration.

For nearly four years, Ogden had neither spoken nor moved to speak, his soul imprisoned by the piebald demon, Xarn. The demon was too busy corrupting the Trolls chakras and fighting itself to do else. To those looking on, Ogden appeared to have retreated into himself and simply refused to let any other within heavy emotional barriers. While the rest of the youth in the village carried on as though the incident in the glade never occurred, Ogden hid away from the tribe, preferring for solitude and forsaking all others, including kith and kindred. When forced from the familys hut for some gala or ritual observance, Ogden would watch the event with dead eyes and still tongue, quickly returning to his second-story room as soon as allowed.

It was his habit when not compelled to leave the hut; he slept on his pallet for a couple hours each night, rising with the moon and watching it circle from horizon to horizon; he would watch the sun rise and fall; he would not move from his chair but to return to his pallet, relieve himself, or to stand by the window; all of it done with the same detached, emotionless expression that just then frustrated his mother. If he were not fed by hand, he would not eat and even then he ate as toothless whelpling.

Reneva took her slingshot from Troq and withdrew the stone shed concealed in her robes in anticipation of that moment. Taking careful aim, she waited for just the right moment to strike. Diablo nearly danced with glee as it whispered the stay into her ear. As Ogden, pitiful in his physical and emotional agony, struggled to face her once more Diablo nearly shouted, Now!

She let fly the stone. He saw it coming; his heart splintered as it did, but made no move to protect himself. The stone hit its mark, shattering Ogdens jaw with the impact.

Ogden had to eat soft foods; Renevas aim had been true. The impact from the stone flung from her slingshot ruined Ogdens jaw; it could no longer support the ligaments and tendons required to steady muscle and bone. Even the Shamans healing magics were not enough to repair the damage. Though his jaw remained in place it was already dead. His tusks were beginning to discolor in ways that showed they too were dying; at some point they would become brittle and fall away.

Come, Glanoia, Wonton called gently from his doorway, leave him be.

Diablo continued whispering into Glanoias mind.

A frustrated growl escaped Glanoias throat, rising from the spot near Ogden as her husband bade. We should kill him now, she suggested, not bothering to lower her voice, her mind regurgitating Diablos words, he is lost to us.

Wonton looked at his wife with heartrending eyes. Until that day four years ago when they found their son broken and dying, she had been his most stalwart defender, even inspiring Wonton in moments of despair. Her patience had finally collapsed under the weight of his affliction and the reaction from their family and rest of the tribe; he knew there would come a time he would not be able to stay his wifes blades; Wonton hoped Ogden could find a way from his self-imposed prison.

Xarn had completed its work. Though it took four years of squabbling and bickering amongst itself, the Troll was finally ready to have Arcane usurped by Fel. It took much effort -- a Trolls chakras were not suited to channel Fel; Ogden was to be the first. The Strongman and Diablo would be pleased. Unhooking its wicked tendrils from the bulwarks where Ogdens soul would be anchored, Xarn began to withdraw.

During those four years, Ogden had pried and prodded, challenged and dared Xarn. It became evident that he could play one part of Xarn against another of its parts and learn as he needed in that fashion. Xarn would never tell of its purpose though, no matter how clever Ogden became it would not speak of its tasks or why Ogden was the one chosen to receive it.

Ogden also discovered that Xarn was not permanent; it was not going to stay forever. On the one hand, he wanted it out instantly so he could have his life and body back; on the other, he was intrigued by what he was learning of this force that called itself Burning Legion; there was an unspeakable and overwhelming evil there and it was coming for Azeroth.

However unspeakable and overwhelming, with the right knowledge it could be thwarted; it could be undone. As Xarn worked whatever work it did over Ogdens chakras, he had already begun learning things of the Legion it wished to keep concealed. He did not know how much there was to know; or how much of it he would ultimately learn; but he knew there was strength in this knowledge there was purpose and he would not deny it. The Legion had picked a fight with him, as it were; it had thrown a burning gauntlet to Ogdens feet. Though he was not yet capable of defending himself Ogden would study; he would discover; he would understand; the fight would then be found on common ground between matched foes.

Fully detached, Xarn released its hold on the prison that contained Ogdens soul. As Ogden moved his soul back into place, Xarn faded as the sea mist does when hit by the suns first light. When Ogdens soul was firmly seated within the ramparts of his body his physical senses slowly returned.

It was a clear, muggy night; the air, laden with the sea, was thick and clung to any surface it found. There was a simple rhythm, a cadence beating on a drum in the distance; it was the nightly thanksgiving ritual where the females would dance and the males would chant around a tall and raging bonfire; all giving thanks for another days labor.

Ogdens eyes returned sight to his mind and he was stunned; before him was Renawa -- Renevas mother -- dancing in time with the thumping beat. She was scandalously dressed and her flesh glistened in the grey moonlight; her own exertions and the heady night air coating her skin with a thin layer of sweat and brine. She was not dancing a thanksgiving dance, however; she danced a mating dance. Her eyes were closed as she swayed and twisted with the drumbeat pulse, moving her body in ways that made it clear to an observing male that she was ready; shameless; aroused. Ogden did what any male in his position would do just then; he panicked.

Renawa, he gasped.

Ogden stood so suddenly he knocked the chair from its feet. The legs of the chair twined between his legs, tripping him and sending him heavily to the floor with a grunt from the impact. Startled from her dancing reverie Renawa lurched; her mouth agape and eyes wide; she was aghast like the dead itself had returned to life and was fumbling for balance before her.

Embarrassed for more than seeing her dance, Ogden then staggered to his feet and tried to get around the upended chair. It tripped him again and he fell with another resounding thud. Back pedaling and trying to put some distance between him and Renawa, Ogden slipped on the smooth wood and made no backwards progress for all his efforts, tumbling instead flat to his back.

Renawa had been so lost in her dance that she did not notice Ogden kindle until he called her name and crashed his chair to the floor. It had been her practice to come in the evenings with Wontons consent; there she would watch over Ogden while his parents attended the thanksgiving fires. Some months prior, lost in her heat and before she could catch herself, she had danced a mating dance in front of Ogden. At first she was mortified that her body would simply respond and move of its own accord before his wakeful but silent form. As she danced, she thought it all right; perhaps on some level or other it would help free him from whatever prison in which he appropriated himself.

Of course she did not know of Xarn or that Ogden had been sequestered in a tiny, spiritual cell so the unholy angel could wreak a terrible work relatively undisturbed. Since that heat, she danced for him nearly every night, usually starting with the thanksgiving dance, but invariably finding her way back to a mating dance. It was fine practice and he was a safe audience; she had become bolder and moved more sensually over time. But she like the rest had given up hope that he would rouse!

She did not mean to speak as loudly as she had but when the drums stopped mid-stroke Renawa knew they would soon have company. Unnerved by his sudden cognizance then confused and concerned for his off-kilter attempts to stand, she called out his name in surprise.

Ogden!