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 Ogden’s knee; a Green Wing Macaw perched upon her wrist.
Diablo landed weightless and soundless on Glanoia’s 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 Glanoia’s 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 Troll’s 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 family’s 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 she’d 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 Ogden’s jaw with the impact.
Ogden had to eat soft foods; Reneva’s aim had been true. The impact from the stone flung from her slingshot ruined Ogden’s jaw; it could no longer support the ligaments and tendons required to steady muscle and bone. Even the Shaman’s 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 Glanoia’s mind.
A frustrated growl escaped Glanoia’s 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 Diablo’s 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 wife’s blades; Wonton hoped Ogden could find a way from his self-imposed prison before then.
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 Troll’s 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 Ogden’s 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 Ogden’s 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 Ogden’s 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 Ogden’s soul. As Ogden moved his soul back into place, Xarn faded as the sea’s mist does when hit by the sun’s first light. When Ogden’s 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 day’s labor.
Ogden’s eyes returned sight to his mind and he was stunned; before him was Renawa — Reneva’s 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 Wonton’s 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. 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!”
[...] Chatper IV: Febrile Gauntlet [...]