The Logdjoflaogdreki: Parts I & II

Something I've been working on for awhile. For /u/Zinitrad2 and the rest of the High Rock is Cool team. I apologize if the coarseness offends anyone, but I was trying to capture the savagery of the Reachmen as good as I could. Hope y'all enjoy. >-

>#The Logdjoflaogdreki: Parts I & II

Publisher's Note: The Logdjoflaogdreki is a set of ancient parables, chronicles, oral renditions, dances, and rituals that detail the eternal conflict between Sheor the Bad Man and the time-spirit known as Aka-Tusk and his brood, as remembered by the Druadach men of Altbal (High Rock). Although neither of these spirits are held in much esteem by the mountain-men, Sheor is considered to be by far the worst, and these eight legends – referred to collectively as the Peralkeluin within the Logdjoflaogdreki – specifically depict his struggles and history with the time-spirit Alkel, who later on became the great fickle demon Pyrite. The Logdjoflaogdreki is believed to have originated during the time of Red Eagle, when the Reach was divided amongst ten kingdoms and ten kings, and the blood of its children was more Nord than Nede.

#Exemplum One, “On The Birth, Death, and Rebirth of Alkel

…it was with the final [stomach-mumblings] of Tharstaag the World-Devourer (who the northern reavers call Alduin, drako-world-lich of [much] rotten tooth and scale itch) that the world was once again [crapped out?] of the dragon's arse, stench-ridden yet renewed, and the [spirits/shamed ones] who had been [farted] out from his bowels yet again made their way back to the dung-hills and blood-rivers of the world, to once again fight and fight and fight until all of the fight had been sweated out of their spirits and their gore and excrement repopulated the land.

But this was [also?] the time of those things we refer to as [demons], those spirits of useless-and-therefore-unneeded cruelty and mischief that served the [Drum] That Beats in the Cave, who escape from Tharstaag's maw every Feasting (for [their ways are evil]) to return to the world as legion, and the first of their number was Sheor the Bad Man, King of Hell. Sheor, of Dagger-Ears and Burly Chests. Once, in a time before [this] world began, Sheor was an ancient hero who had fought for our [mountains and our briars?], but his [heart/briar] was revealed to be a drake and [uprooted?] by our King, and in his madness-laughter he led the [Ice Tribes] in the fall of wicked Saarthal (which why, even now, we [shit-piss?] on those ruins ever still).

This madness-laughter still consumed him, and the Hell-King was [laughing] still, a laugh so terrible that the roots in his chest [deflowered?], spraying blood and briar-thorns into the east (which is why we should not go there). “Here we are again, split-shit and merry, dancing upon the dung ball of Tharstaag once more,” he screeched in delight, using his tricky movements to [slaughter] the lesser beings beneath his feet. “I grow so [?] sick of it! Every [bowel movement?] is almost exactly the same after each [Feasting], and the smell never changes. But this time it [?] will!” And with that Sheor [made] of himself a [bag/sack?], which he used to [scoop] up those things that are best left forgotten after every [Great Fart], for he made an evil deal best left unsaid, to steal and steal and steal until there was more things that were actually needed (for he is [greedy] in his ways).

But it was then that from the [fart-clouds] that remained, enveloped in the light of the Heavens, that a great drake landed in front of Sheor, perched on the [Great Shit] of the World, and breathed much fire. His scales shone like emeralds (or perhaps more like leaves, after the [rain?]), and his teeth were so shiny Sheor had to [blink] between blinks just to see him clearly. And the green drake said, “Oh, you little [?]!”, and we all knew him as Alkel.

Of drakes we have [naught] to say but “[?]!”, as they have moved our [mountains?] since our King [pissed] them off with a finger, which they bit off before sending him to Hell (making them no better than [demons]), but of Alkel we shall say some more since he's [just a bit] good. Aka-Tusk, the [drake-?] of time itself, had [?] himself over bad by banishing our King, as he had been the one [protecting/shielding?] him from the madness of the Drum That Beats in the Cave since [before] the First Feasting, and with him gone he was now becoming as crazy as Majnar (and he had [?] himself over even worse, by falling into the [Sun]). So he took the finger of our King and [flowered] it with his seed so he may [redraw] from the world, and before Tharstaag had time to [roll] himself over into blessed sleep it had birthed Alkel, who we sometimes call Little Finger (and now you [know] why). Although a drake, Alkel had not much love for time [itself] or the games played between [spirits and demons?], and preferred to spend his days making sure the world hadn't [molded] too much or too little, so his brother Tharstaag wouldn't [choke?] on it during a Feasting one day and die (because if that happened, we would all be very much [?]).

So when Alkel looked down and saw Sheor, enemy of his [finger-father], shoving pieces of the world into a bag made from his [nasty bits], he was rightly pissed and the Hell-King knew it; the Bad Man wasn't afraid of anything of course, except for perhaps [the Drum That Beats in the Cave] itself, but Aka-Tusk would slap him [cross-eyed] and summon the [Ghost?] of our King from Hell to rip off his [head] this time if he knew of his deal with the [Leaper], which made him nervous, and before Little Finger could even finish [growling?] he had already begun his usual [remorseless] begging. “Oh Alkel, the cousin I hate the least, please do not look upon [me]!”

“Oh no,” Alkel interrupted, sending a flame towards the sun. “You do this [every] time, and I grow tired of it! As soon as Tharstaag [shits] us all out, you either eat a new [spirit] or raise another back from Hell! And now you're [uprooting] pieces of the world to plant somewhere else? Imagine what that might do to Tharstaag when he [chomps] on it! Are you trying to [kill] him?”

And this caused Sheor to really [think], not about himself, but about everything else (and he [hated?] doing that) and this gave him an idea. “Of course not, dear cousin!” he exclaimed most [indignantly], which made him shudder, as that was not his [nature]. “In fact, I am [trying] to save him!”

“Save...him? You...are trying to save...[somebody else]?” Little Finger looked down upon the [Burly Chest?] below him, which was smeared with much [shit] and blood, and squinted a squint that made the mountains [quiver].

Sheor nodded his head, as he was unable to actually [speak] unselfish words (but Alkel knew of this not). “This dung ball that we [play] on has become much too [fat]! So fat, I swear I heard Tharstaag [gag] as he was swallowing us whole this Feasting. This is the work of that [Leaper], who hates Aka-Tusk more than [death]!”

“Well, yes, but so do you. And [besides], he [?] himself over already by trying to salmon-jump out of Tharstaag's [maw], and now he [burns/rots] forever in the sun. All that remains of him now are [embers] cursed by the Drum Inside the [Hole].” And after saying this Alkel yawned before [passing] wind, which blew the northern reavers all the way back to [Old Mary] (and to that we say two words, good riddance).

“And it is those embers I have been removing,” Sheor said slyly, holding up his [sack] to show how full it was to Alkel. “Majnar's burnt pieces have [molded] the world, as his [rage] for Aka-Tusk knows no bounds, and threaten to [burn] our little dung ball away. With my [bag] I have caught them all, even the [skanky] bits, so they may be [cleansed] lest Tharstaag gets [heart/briar?] pain from [gnawing] them. Care to take a look?” And the Bad Man opened his sack, just a little bit, [grinning] rows of dreugh-teeth that were meant to be [humble] and inviting.

Now, we shouldn't call Alkel dumb (as far as [drakes] are concerned, being the [finger-child] of our King Druadach himself), for he was naive in the ways of [demons], especially the Hell-King, and saw no harm in taking a peek at Sheor's [sack]. But we Druadach men can smell a [demon] lie almost as good as our King can [mountain-fart] in his hell-sleep, and when the Little Finger flew down to [peer] into the bag it is of no surprised that Sheor (with a great [belching]) opened his [briar-hole] and swallowed poor Alkel whole.

“Ha!” the Hell-King screamed so loudly [Nareyth] had to stop the rain (as it always rains after [each/every?] Feasting) in order to hide away, leaving some [arse-blood] in the rivers and streams of the world (which is why some bank-dirt is still crimson, and we use it for [salt]). “Foolish Alkel, I sunder you, for I am Sheor and even Aka-Tusk fears m-” And with that Sheor found himself sliding down Tharstaag's mighty [gullet], realizing to late that he had been screaming for [far too?] long and the World-Devourer had grown hungry again in his [death-sleep], signaling the end of the [world] (which is a [shit-egg]). And once more the dung ball was [shitted] out of Tharstaag's arse yet again (as it always is), but this time Sheor came out with it, [weak] and angry he did not escape it the last time. And with a mighty [squint] he relieved himself of Alkel right then and there, before gathering his sack to [finish] his plans whether Little Finger liked it or not.

But something had happened to poor Alkel when he was [eaten] by Sheor (who in turn was eaten by Tharstaag), something [bat-shit] strange. His scales had grown dull, and were [covered] in oozing scratches and holes made by the [briar thorns] inside of Sheor's chest; his eyes were now as red as the [blood boils] within his elder brother's bowels, and his teeth and breath were now as sickly as [his newfound farts]. And as Tharstaag began to snore Little Finger (no, not anymore) reared his [maw] to the sky and cursed his father in [names beyond] names.

“Aka-Tusk! As I was [abandoned], so shall I abandon you! I am my own drake now, [reborn] through serpents, and now see you for what [you are], which is an [eternal] tragedy within itself. I curse you and Sheor and Alkel [itself], for I am Pyrite!” And with that, Little Finger-no-longer flew into [Hell], finally [entranced] by the [curses] that bellow out from the Drum That Beats in the Cave.

#Exemplum Two, “How Sheor Became a Farmer”

Now, the belches between [Feastings] are never too long (except for that [last one]) but they do smell worse than a [troll's?] arse in heat, and eventually the mountains and [rivers?] and [clouds?] found themselves resettled by the [slave/free?] peoples of the world, who realized with a [grunt] that Tharstaag was snoring pretty [damn?] good and wasn't waking up anytime soon. But demons still [haunted] the earth, and chief of their number was Sheor the Bad Man himself, who [stumbled] into the village of Yufridek [drunk] and mad as the sun. Ever since the Hell-King had been [gobbled] up by the World-Devourer he hadn't been all there, as that had been the [first/only?] time that had ever happened to him, and now he was as weak as old [Dagger-Ear] herself (we do not name her, for she is a [?]). Even worse, he still had [fleshy bits] of old Alkel still [rumbling] in his briar-hole, and that caused all sorts of [fart] pains.

“Curse you Alkel,” Sheor mumbled as he [rock?]-walked towards the shaman's hut, unaware of the [mass] panic he was causing amongst the mountain-men. “I better get [healed] quick, or father will drag me back to Hell.” And this was one of the [few] times that Burly Chest was serious, as he never mentioned his father (who was the only being he really feared), and avoided his [drum-beats] as often as possible. And with a great [fart] Sheor collapsed in the dirt, sick from pain and [drake-bits?], and entered an uneasy sleep, his [drool?] seeping into the earth and poisoning [yam]-fields.

This was almost too much for the mountain-men of Yufridek, for while kind of [stupid] in their ways, [despair-hated] Sheor as much as the rest of us and were much [displeased] that he had collapsed in their village of all places to kill their crops. And so their shaman, a young half-ork lad named Timuk, decided to [pray/sneeze?] to our King so he could [beat] Sheor silly and make him leave. But foolish Timuk (for he was a fool) forgot that only drakes can [cough] Druadach back into the world from Hell (and even then, only his [Ghost]), not us little old mountain-men, and so his [prayer/snort?] went all kinds of bad, and from a big [fart-hole] slid out the drake Pyrite (for he was still finger-child of our King) in his place.

“What the [?]!” Pyrite grumbled, looking down his [snout] to gaze upon poor Timuk, who had [wet] himself in fear. “What kind of mountain-man are you? It isn't one of my [summoning] days, and even then, you didn't do it [?] ri- wait, is that Sheor? What is he doing here?”

“Oh [vomit]-drake,” Timuk cried, collapsing to his feet (all of the other men of Yufridek had [split-shit] and ran smartly, leaving him all alone). “Oh great demon that is Pyrite! I only wished to [summon] our King back from Hell to [chase/banish] off Sheor, but my spell brought you in his place!”

And at that the vomit-drake breathed [fart-flames], and it took a full minute for Timuk to [realize?] he was laughing, and by then he had already begun [talking]. “Oh, you are such an [idiot!], little mountain-man. You thought old [Mountain-Fart?] would stop Sheor? Druadach is too busy [roaming] Hell and hunting the Drum That Beats in the Cave, his [father?]. But since you somehow summoned me, although [foolishly], I will help you. Just this [once].”

Pyrite walked to where Sheor laid [snoozing], Timuk in tow, and [spat] in disdain near his ugly head. “Old Hell-King here got [?] over something good when Tharstaag [ate] him whole. His [heart/briar] hole has rotted away, and his father grows restless. Although you should send the [?] back to Hell, that's what the Drum wants, and we [can't have that]. Give me your thorn-stick.”

Timuk almost spat in [anger] before realizing who he was talking to, but rightly so. Thorn-sticks are the [souls?] of mountain-man shamans, forged from the very [heart-bones] of old Druadach himself (his banishment was not a gentle one), and still contained bits of his [power/voice?]. Giving it to someone, especially the [demon-drake] himself, was asking for a big old [mountain-fart] to come knock you heads over dead. But when a demon tells you to do something, with Sheor himself [slobbering] all over your village, you do it. So Timuk handed Pyrite his thorn-stick, and the vomit-drake did [gnaw] on it before etching runes in the dirt.

And it was when he was doing this that Sheor did [snort] out a [fart], and awoke with a start, before noticing the mountain-man and vomit-drake before him. “What the [?]! Pyrite, what are you doing here? It isn't one of your summoning days!” And of summonings and the Hell-King we [must] say this, that he has [none?], for our King ripped it out (which is why he [forever] drunk-walks the world, playing his cruel [tricks/pranks]).

“No, it isn't. But this mountain-man here,” Pryite glared at foolish Timuk, who hid behind his [tusk], “Summoned me by [purposeful?] accident, to kick your [arse] away in the name of my finger-father, whose lands you have so [defiled].”

“Why do you even [?] care?” Sheor burped angrily, swaying [this way] and that, his blood making [hell-metal?] where it landed (which is why we do not [mine?] it, for it is evil). “Of drakes and demons Mountain-Fart is [neither], which is why we [hate] him, you included!”

But Pyrite had turned his [back/arse?] on the Hell-King, which enraged him even more, to speak to poor Timuk, who this [story/legend] almost forgets (for he is not much for [talking], which is the chief [game] of drakes and demons, and besides, he was too scared [shitless] to speak anyway).

“There are things that even demons [can't/won't do], and now you know one. Back before the [First] Feasting Druadach claimed the [mountains] as his own, and even in hell, they still are. To spoil them is to [grow] his ire, and of that Sheor has done,” the vomit-drake mused, before taking a whooping [bite] out of the thorn-stick and tossing it back to poor Timuk. “By sleeping in the moutains the Hell-King has submitted [once again?] to the Bloody Hand of your King, by way of [hospitality] and not war, and for that must work this land until Tharstaag [swallows] us again.”

And at this Sheor blinked [confusion], then horror, as he realized he had [?] up good this time indeed. “But my [thorn-blood] is poison, and my touch is [lies]! No crop will grow under me, so I can never be free from this [unholy?] [service]! Not to mention Tharstaag is [snoring] pretty damn good, and hasn't even [sleep-walked] yet, so who knows when he'll [fart] himelf awake!”

“Then you better [hope] he does soon,” Pyrite chuckled, “Because otherwise, you're going to be [Crop]-King now.” And at that the vomit-drake [flew/sprinted?] back to Hell, with the speed of a [farting] tempest, leaving an angry Sheor with poor, foolish Timuk. And the shaman of Yufridek (who this story already [paints/smears?] as a fool) thought it would be a good idea to [gift] the Burly Chest himself a [hoe] to make his new job [easier/better]. But that only served to piss of Sheor even more, and in [drunk-rage] he ripped off poor Timuk's skin and from his [bones] fashioned a scythe (which is why now when we [paint] him, even though we hate to, the Bad Man always carries a hoe in his [shit-hand] and a scythe in his [blood-hand]), before [slinking] off into the mountains to work the land (lest old Druadach came back and [farted] him to the moon), poisoning it as he went.