(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.”
~ Mark 5:1-9
“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 our next Warlock.”
Stuttering and stammering out his replies, Diablo protested meekly. It had worked very hard over fourteen years to prepare the ‘Legion’s 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 ‘Nether’s 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 Wonton’s 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 Diablo’s 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, “for now. You will have your accomplice.” Diablo felt a sudden wash of relief which was cut short by the strongman’s next words, “I give you Xarn.”
Diablo’s countenance fell; Xarn! Xarn was uncontrollable, independent and totally incapable of rational thought. Formed by the Burning Legion’s 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 don’t 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, it’s 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 Diablo’s tiny mind, pieces started falling into place. It nodded to the strongman and bowed, saying, “I go to prepare a place for him.”
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 Ogden’s 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 Ogden’s 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 rapes, Ogden’s strength failed him. Soon after opening the door into his soul, Diablo, chuckling with malicious glee, welcomed Xarn into the young Troll’s heart.
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 Ogden’s sudden seizure, the tribal shaman fell backwards onto his rump with a muffled *thud*. Clumsily righting himself, the shaman tried to get ahold of Ogden’s body to calm his convulsions. Wonton found himself holding his wife’s 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 shaman’s side to try and help steady his son.
Shortly, it was over; Xarn had wrapped its tendrils around the bulwarks of Ogden’s 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 ‘Legion’s 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 III: Legion [...]