Dawnscroll — Roleplayer Guild

He had been dying. Dying in the emptiness. He had been reborn. Devouring himself in to begin anew. But his mind was Lost, a great emptiness claimed all that he was. The Price had broken everything that there was left to break. 

That was when the power had come upon him. It was like being submerged in a vat of pure light. Involuntarily, Logos's broken body buckled and shook in the void. Suddenly he realized what he had done. Clever. He was back in the immortal game.

The power came to him wrapped with a thought that was not his own, much like a ribbon tied around a parcel. From each them came tribute; though none had given it willingly. For as each of them schemed and gave their power and essence to the Great Work, they too gave to him. The very concept of the Great Work was one of Order, to which each had subscribed too. His core seized each of their offering, devoured it, and made right the wrongs of their nature. Their being changed into  his, for it was has design and his will that they now followed.

A foreign voice sounded in his mind, perfectly clear. “Brother. We seek to build more from this world. Please see that we do not break your code lest our designs spiral into destruction.”

Those words were enough to tell Logos what he dreaded. Or perhaps it was just the lack of one word—Brother. He doubled over again and heard a series of snaps as his bones began to reshape themselves.

“Order is needed. I can only do so much, and the Chaotic one has damaged this design in such a way that only you may repair!.”

The sentence was fit to burst with new information. Others were tampering with his design—not all of them obviously. Chaos still existed and now saw fit to spoil his design. As though it thought themselves equal. 

And Logos would rectify it.

His back split open, and newborn wings of ethereal white blood and sinew tore their way out of his form. Blood ran down his chest in rivulets as new limbs pushed from his torso. If there was pain, Logos didn't feel it. He was busy drowning in his power.

Vowzra resided nearby, and to him Logos looked as his powers returned. His essence was that of looking upon the shadow of a dream on a still lake. Time flowed from him like a river, and within it, Logos felt a familiar ebb and flow.

He was getting larger, he had been from the start. His hair was growing back in, and the injuries of over an eternity were healing in moments. Logos gave a deep sigh as feathers blossomed over his newborn wings. Had he always been this strong? A eternity of being nothing certainly put things into perspective.

Zephyrion. Fickle change without purpose or cause. Erratic and unwieldy, abrupt and sudden. It was bitter but he took the great power all the same.

Deagon and Vakarlon. Disappointment clouded Logos’s mind as they dipped their efforts into the design. Trickery: where Logos could be use it as a tool to his ends, these two used them for amusement. The powers of divine squandered. Sour and insignificant power.

The God’s body suddenly recoiled as the acidic power of Vestec flowed into him, and his eyes flashed dangerously. Chaos. Pure, unbridled chaos. His anathema of power, his essence set to work cleansing the might of its filth, putting order to the corruption inherent in the offering. His very soul screamed for one thing:

Kill Chaos. 

The order—for that was most definitely what it was—confirmed his fears about the Design.  It has been changed. This ends today. He had suspected it with Zephyrion, but now it was undeniable. This was no mere whim, but anarchy. Now the complacent God felt anger, and the order burned within him. Logos would carry it out. He felt like stretching his new muscles anyway.

Ends today. The wording was not lost on the God. He found Toun’s suggestion, whose power was so much like his own, agreeable, and rend asunder the last of the poison with it. They were but children, and he would correct their ways with firm hand.

Teknall. Within his hands held the Great Work and much of this new world would be his and Order’s. Structured and precise, his essence was relief in comparison to the bile that had flowed through him only moments ago.

Niciel’s was next, little as it was, but it was taken for it was offered. The niceties of beauty meant little, but her design offered some merit. But that was for later...

Astarte, Mammon, and Belaruc. They had tainted the purity of his design, the fundaments of his Law, with laws of their own. They did not obey the inherent fundaments. A variable, a flaw, an error. Whether done out of ignorance or malice, he would suffer neither. Their power was strange and unfamiliar, and Order twisted it to his own design and swallowed it without remorse. Vulamera had softened their blow, and the blows of the others, but they were still there.

A mild respect was had for her. She knew his place and saw as he did; that the vileness of chaos would do corrupt all that they had intended. Such variables could not be allowed. She sought knowledge, and she would soon learn the fundamental truth.

At last came Jvan’s, and with it, Logos’s eyes widened ever so slightly. Wrong. All of it was wrong. What loathsome specter had followed him from the Road, he knew not.  But it did not belong her. With a burst of white light he purged his connection to the engineer, cleansing himself of her taint before it could reach him.

The fact that irrevocable damage had most likely been done to the Great Work was almost enough to dampen Logos's mood. Almost.

He threw himself into the void, spinning as he felt All through his feathers for the first time in over an existence. He tapped into his power, and was almost overwhelmed by the flood of energy that offered itself to his will. Another beat of his wings sent him downward, and he smashed through the distance between himself, Zephyron, Veztec, and Jvan like it was made of fog.

Order held back the seeds of sedition planted by Change, Horror and Chaos, as his Laws sought to purge their essence from the Great Work. The designs on the scroll squirmed and shifted as it tried to correct itself, only to have the foul alteration elude their machinations.
 
He would need help.

 The flung the three gods away from the Gathering, propelled forth by a wave of energy. It would do little to them; Logos knew himself both outnumbered and outmatched, even with his newfound strength.

It would not matter.

He had no royal regalia, so he had to improvise. A small thought, and upon his brow burned a crown of liquid light. Logos spoke with the unsuppressed voice of a god, and it resonated throughout the entire plane.

“Desist,” came the command. Logos spread his great wings, blocking the view of the Gathering from their sight. He was a figure of shapeless absence, eyes burning white in the Void.

“Toun. Teknall. Niciel. Vullamera – I will keep them at bay,” Logos spoke as though all was of great unimportance to him. It was to those four that he knew would side closest with him. “Undo their corruption. Finish the Design and enact the Great Work.”
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