Deep within the unfathomable black there stirred another, a heart who's shade
vexed even the imposing void in its darkness. This Other stretched its
consciousness forth, tendrils of thought feeling blindly through the black, its
alien presence spreading like an impossible ink blot across the perpetual night.
As It probed the depths of space it portioned some small fraction of its mind to
the task of rumination, humouring Itself with memories of the long eons...
It had always been a stranger, even in the first days... though it could not
clearly remember that time, or simply did not wish to. The First World. Origin
of the Elder Gods, Its home and now Its destination, outset and conclusion - It
had sought it longer than It could remember, perhaps forever, emulating the
serpent that It had once borne as Its sigul. It had departed that place in
terror all those ages past, hounded by Its once-siblings for the evil It had
committed. It and eleven others. There were twelve, It was sure. It tried to
recall their names, their faces...
...a great armour-clad figure, swathed in stately garb about its gleaming mail,
kneels on the hard ground. A man. His face is maimed and streaked with black
blood, and with tears running down his face and a look of utmost revulsion
contorting his features he raises a crimson masque above his head. He brings a
sleeve across his ruined face, washing away his tears and his blood, before
slipping the masque over his features. Thus hidden for all time he rises and
turns, bidding the First World farewell...
...another figure, this one in red robes slashed with shimmering blue
pentacles. Other shapes stride through the void beside him, though they are
fuzzy and blurred. He casts his gaze left, then right, before finally letting
his eyes settle on the sight before him. Through the tenebrous haze there looms
a shape that stretches out unto infinity, dominating the bleak forever. Between
the wisps of churning void can be seen a wall of scaly green flesh, punctuated
by writhing tentacles and grotesque clawed appendages. In the middle of it all
is a mouth that is, itself, the void, a maw that stretches back farther than
the eye can glimpse, lined by countless thousands of rows of teeth. He stops a
good distance from that maw with all of the others, falling to his knees as the
fate of the First World is given over...
...a field of swaying golden roses, and amidst them a woman draped in robes
sewn from flowers. She raises her pale arms skyward, beckoning to the winged
shape coasting in the skies above. The shape descends, its blurred form
solidifying into that of a feathered man. He takes the maiden in his arms and
plants a passionate kiss on her lips...
...craters as far as the eye can see, dotting the blasted landscape. The soil
is purple and thick with luminescent green weeds that wriggle about feverishly.
Four suns hang low in the sky, though they are black and seem to absorb light
rather than give it. A tribe of four-armed humanoids scuttle across the ground
between a series of craters, whooping in celebration...
...beneath a sky of boiling blood a slab of alien metal lies basking in the
heat of a thousand flashing stars, its surface carved with the markings of a
race dead a million years...
...on the rim of the void there is no black or white, no up or down, it is
without light or darkness and is deafening in its silence, for none have
treaded here in all the history of creation, it is the very outer edge of
...dancing children waltz hand-in-hand with cherubs...
...a flash of steel and his sword comes down...
...brushing away the fallen leaves...
...he turns to watch her...
...the river flows...
NO! These were not its memories! The Beast felt a great surge welling up within
him and snapped back to the present, suppressing the souls that churned with
him. They were strong, but their strength was his. For he was Legion, one from
many, the sum of all. His latest acquisition struggled particularly hard, a
figure resplendent in golden mail. He had a name, but He who was Legion cared
not for names. He had a name once too.
He forced down the golden one's presence and shifted about, having taken stock
his surroundings. Infinity in all directions, but that was nothing new. One
thing irked him, though, one errant aspect in the otherwise flawless fabric of
the void. It was moving closer, this force, he could feel it tugging at him...
no... tugging at part of him. A languid smile flittered across his mouth as the
beacon reached him, and extending his senses across its length he detected that
which lay at its other end.
After eons of searching they had revealed themselves to him, nil, even given
him a path to follow home. He summoned his strength and brought forth the image
of the golden one, intending to give them a bit of a surprise. Hajamin was his
name, yes... and he?
He was Morgfyre. He was Legion.