dragon
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Some days, the sun seemed to rise as if in an old film, blatantly rendered frame by frame. With more than just a pleasant morning glare on today's horizon, the sun rose in this abnormal fashion, slow, monolithic in its girth. Each ray, like an ancient and wispy finger, reached infinitely away, and Logain basked in the warmth, the only warmth he could find in this frost-bitten dawn.
He had been like a hawk, peering into the depths of Bren, for more than a month now. He had gained what knowledge he could from various, often barely audible, passing whispers. He knew not only of what lay in wait for him at the great complex in the distance, but he could recall every figment of fear, every virtually undetectable hint of nervousness that hid behind those quaint syllables. He hadn't spoken a word, his only communicative actions being the soft pounding of his heart and the rustle of leaves in the night, during those long hours of practice and self-torment. There were spots in the woods where only large, gaping holes now existed in the canopy, the empty branches like the veins running across a chasm, a deep void of the heart, spots where his magic had whirled furiously through the crisp midnight bell tolls.
All of that was behind him now. For the first time since its weaving, he threw on an black cloak, the hood resting gently atop his bald, ghastly scalp. The hood extended far past his brow, into the sweeping bow of the approaching day, so that his mask was cast fully in a looming shadow. His coat was now hidden beneath the crude wool cloth, and it would remain that way through the town. Slipping nonchalantly beneath the cover of the cloak, the 3 foot long Seraphim staff sank into the texture of the fabric and became like a wraith beneath the weave of the physical world. Logain was now entirely immersed in the large and kingly cloak, and without a moment's hesitation, he stepped quickly towards the large structure splayed out before him, enthroned in the distant hills, waiting for him, rising to meet him as the shining sun had done so little time ago.
With long and intentional strides, Logain swept across the landscape. Every step was a catalyst for a dusty breath from under foot, dirt catching on the currents of the gentle breeze that was moving lightly through the blades of grass. The dust didn't settle right away as it should have, but lingered in some call to glory, a magical web enticing them into a prolonged flight in the early air. Behind him, Logain left a long, winding path, one the seemingly refused to wither for the time being, an eternal marker of his former presence.
"What do you command m'Lord?"
Logain had not spoken to the figure in decades, and spoke now only to forgive himself of this trespass on the code of worship. In his omniscient place amongst the stars, the Great Wind had always been a guiding hand, but nothing more than a gentle touch, this way or that. It was now that a brief gust blew across the hills, silent save for a whistle, gaunt and faded.
"Your will be done m'Lord."
What could he promise but victory or failure? He was no agent of destiny or fate, nor was the almighty wind of the heavens, nor were the cardinal spirits, and so he asked himself, was there any heart but his beating within his torso? Was the muscular pump of his future self, and the driving force of his younger persona beating in rhythm, in harmony. What was his melody? Could he even live for the future when the future was a moment undiscovered?
These thoughts were ushered out, his confusion drained with a new, hanging realization draped upon his shoulders. It hung so low as to brush his ankles, whisper against his toes, this new focus and understanding that as he dropped his silent footfall unto the road, only the meager city lay between him now. Between him and the vertical rise, the godly, forsaken gate to tomorrow. To a strength untapped. He knew it was time to reach deep within, and spread his arms to the stars, to discover what was given to him so many years ago. He didn't hesitate for a moment, although he was sure he knew what would come next.
"What do you command m'Lord?"
The world fell into a deafening quiet. There was no movement, no pulse of life, no roar of death. There was no pain, no sorrow. No strength, no happiness. There was only a rushing wind, a gale of serene power. There was no answer here, simply chaos, a disturbed order.
"Your will be done m'Lord."
And so Logain Dedracio stepped not in a direction on faith, but relative to what lie ahead. He stepped not forward, or back, left or right, but towards the arena complex, a life of its own, something distant from what he had done, where he had been thus far.
His steps no longer brought dust to a standing ovation, but tussled the hair of onlookers. His wake was a windswept world, and the shadow hiding his mask began to shudder with the gusts swirling unexpectedly off the cloak. Many were curious, but his look was unassuming and while mysterious, nothing particularly spectacular, save for his sheer height. The only consolation he could take as he glided through the city was that it was not unheard of to see competitors of his size or of some comparable, towering position at this time during the year, and no one could identify his mechanical additions through his multitude of clothing.
By the time he had reached the other side of the city, he had saved himself considerable notice through his disguise, but knew that his true identity was due a breath of air, that it was no longer his place to be a hooded stranger. Instead, he would step into the world as a masked one. Without braking stride, he shed his black garb onto the path behind him, revealing his majestic long coat, a sweeping, unique canvas of a brilliant white coloring, pinstriped to its lower seam, adorned with a silk white lapel. Beneath he wore a pure white shirt and pants of the same shade, with a black the color of deep night painted upon a vest which he wore over his button down shirt. He resembled a modern rendering of a 1920's Earth gang member, even wearing a cloud white, formal glove on his left hand. This similarity met its demise in moments once one encountered the mask set upon his face. A hideous, yet pristine and awe-inspiring mask of a sleek silver metal, it was a tribal depiction of the joyful and sorrowful masks of drama, a demonic expression written in the meeting of the two contradictory pieces of the puzzle. All he could remember of Earth, he wore upon his body. It seemed ridiculous, and absurd it was. But he could not let these fleeting images pass him by. Here they were, established in a fantastical world. He almost laughed to himself as he thought, perhaps Earth is the fantasy land of the elves.
Even now, it was impossible to distinguish that he had any kind of metal mutation beneath his clothing, and he intended to keep this facade until the time was right. He felt the gold latches on the back of his mask throbbing with power, with hunger. This feeling was from some origin past his buried memories of Earth, his grainy recollections of a former life. It was instinctual, born of some beast within him. He felt it in the air. It was within them all. The smell of blood had never wafted into range as such a sweet perfume, the relished scent of a blooming flower. He knew it. Death was birthed here. The irony of such a though did not escape him, but only half of his mask would deliver even a smirk to the outside world. On the inside he grimaced. There would be no mistaking this for what it truly was. A sick game. He would not settle as a pawn, a knight, or a castle. Not a bishop, a king, or a queen. He would be the player. They would all be players. This was far beyond a simple game of chess. Checkmate never sounded so much like a clashing sword, or a final, hollow, desperate breath.
He stepped into the arena, slowing on his entrance, quickly acquainting himself with his surroundings. Immediately he felt a series of energy pulses rippling towards him, and he tried with momentary, intense concentration to identify his opponents. He felt power flying towards the top levels of what he had felt in his encounters in the world of Lore prior to this moment, elemental affiliation ranging across the spectrum. Light, dark, and...energy, a blooming wave of power dispersing from a point of mana use. Someone was attacking. It didn't take long to see the commotion at the center of the arena, a set of gears moving in unspoken agreement for now, but a wrench was being tossed in the mix. He would steer clear for now. He noted the combatants on the outside edge of the room, before taking a deep breath and taking in the most obvious threat.
The spikes bore an odd resemblance to the mask perched so humbly upon his burned face. A bright metal composed the spikes, as if to taunt their perfection. As if asking, no, pleading with the competitors to mar their surfaces with blood. The entire room was like an innocent child with a secret guilt, begging forgiveness, a rose that wanted only recognition for a beauty, and an intentional forgetfulness about its thorns. Logain just to the right of the room's threshold, grounding himself, realizing every movement, every breath, every whisper. He simply eyed the competitors, taking deep breaths as he moved from one to the other, feeling their power radiating through the cold, heartless chamber.
< Message edited by dragon -- 7/18/2009 12:18:05 >
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