How It's Made, Episode 0: The Logogram of Lives.

My name is Ichvi n'aull Datharin. I was the vicarial hypodeacon of the scholar-citadel of Eimai, servant of the will of MAMMET. I alone of my order have seen the reality of the Diarchal Divinity -- of those peculiar few scholar-sojourners who visit the caverns beneath our temple on occasion. I lay down my story in ink and parchment to serve as forewarning to those worlds which have not yet been Seen, in hope that they shall seek to flee those places of value before they are picked apart by the eldritch vultures of the multiverse.

It was Komvos' ninth segmentation of the eighteenth Revolution of the Harpy when they first came to us. I was but a child at the time, in the midst of my eleventh revolution, but even now, I can recall it clearly. Three beings descended from the skies in a bolt of cosmic lightning, like the night sky peeling back the orange veil of the day, and rushing to meet the ground once more. They wore robes of a myriad of hues between the three of them -- one faded green, the other yellow, the last a dull gray -- and carried with them mysterious technologies or devices even our wisest could not hope to comprehend. But the most apparent thing about them was the Sigils they each bore. They seemed to be made of the same material, visually, as that which heralded their descent. Their shapes were varied, but they all levitated with a mysterious quality I only now identify as ominous inspiration before their faces, which were hooded and obscured.

They identified themselves as vastly potent (redundant, perhaps, given their allegiance) adherents of the ORDER OF ROS KOM, speaking our language effortlessly, as if they had known it all their lives. The elders of our city paid the strangeness of the situation no heed, and instead greeted the beings like they were friends of many years -- this ought to have been my first warning about what was to come. I questioned my Clan-Mother, Datharin, about these strange figures later that rotation, and she replied that they were, as they themselves had said, scholars of the ORDER OF ROS KOM. Prophets, in fact, for many revolutions ago -- long before my Clan-Mother had been born -- those of their kind descended upon our city in search of voices to listen to their words. They wished to spread the word of their God, MAMMET, and thus they did.

I, myself an aspirant to the ecclesia, was in awe at the tale, and questioned my Clan-Mother as to whether or not I could meet these agents of the Order personally. She chuckled at this, and said she would petition the elders about it. I did not expect much to come of the request, as the three beings were set to depart once more six rotations following their arrival, but I was proven sorely mistaken -- and for the worse. The citadel's elders brought me into a dark room, sat me in an oaken antique of a seat, and instructed me to wait, for they would bring the men -- they described them as Supplicants -- forth to my presence. From there, however, I could not remember a thing. Not an inkling of whether they arrived, whether they spoke to me, and whether or not I responded. The next scene in my memory was my leaving the chamber, a curious brand upon my arm that had not been there before. It depicted some form of chitinous red arm clawing at my own flesh, as I recall it. I remember being disturbed by it. However, I returned to the elders, and they saw the thing, immediately proclaiming it a sign of divine approval. I was immediately recommended with honors to the finest ecclesial school the city had to offer, for immediate training as a priest of our God, MAMMET, as I had always desired. I was overjoyed at the sudden movement in my position, though still unnerved by my memories of the encounter with the Supplicants, or the lack thereof.

Mere rotations later, the Suppliants departed, having spent the majority of their time in the Chapel of MAMMET. Rumors circulated throughout the streets suggested that they, in fact, resided in the caverns of ancient sacrifice allegedly hidden beneath the hilltop-chapel for the duration of their stay, but I did not believe such baseless and questionable hearsay at the time. I did not see the Supplicants of the ORDER OF ROS KOM again for nearly fifteen revolutions. When I did, however, needless to say, I was shocked. As if the stars had again folded in on the sky, three beings came to Eimai, each wholly different from the previous three. At the time, I was the foremost apprentice of the great protodeacon Rashmakar Ha'alys, and had received many a vision from the EMPYREAN ABOVE of our Lord MAMMET in meditation.

These newcomer Supplicants sought respite in the Chapel of MAMMET, as had the last three. This, they were granted by the elders themselves. As I was now officially a member of the ecclesia, I resided within the Chapel at the time as well, and I did not see them once in the Halls of Residence -- as a matter of fact, I saw them only once: silently before the ancient sealed door that had not once ever been opened since I had laid eyes upon it in the Chapel. On the fifth rotation of their stay, Protodeacon Ha'alys requested my presence specifically. I arrived confusedly, inquiring as to the reason of my summoning. He seemed equally perplexed, and informed me that the elders requested my presence. I made way with haste to the city hall, and knocked once upon the office door of one of the elders. From there, I was directed to a dark room I hardly recalled, containing naught but an ancient oaken chair, and a table. I sat gratefully, and the elders, from the shadows, told me that the Supplicants had requested my presence. And there, they were -- standing within a burning beam of sunset-light cast down from the windows of painted glass. This was odd, for that window had not been present whilst I made my first visit, but I dismissed it, having already had foggy recollection of said affair. One of the Supplicants leaned down to whisper something into my ear -- I could not see their face even then from behind their hood -- and again my memory falls short.

The next thing I recall is stepping out of the city hall blankly, and returning to the Chapel in confusion. Looking down to my forearm, I saw that the brand of the arm had vanished. In its place on my wrist was a peculiar sign, like a stylized and slicing numeral 5 of pure black. I was disturbed by this revelation, but shook it off, as I knew there was nothing that could be done about the matter. The Supplicants departed several days after, and I returned to my studious readings of the word of MAMMET, and ecclesial training under the deacon Ha'alys.

Once more, I did not sight hide or tail -- idiomatically speaking, of course -- of the Supplicants for another fifteen revolutions. When they did arrive once more, I was forty-one revolutions of age, the up-and-coming vicarial hypodeacon of the Chapel of MAMMET, praised and respected for my devotion and servitude to great MAMMET. Once more, they came from the heavens, and, once more, the three who came were different from all others preceding. However, this time, I had many ceremonies and sermons to perform and enact, and did not often think of the scholar-sojourners. This time, they came to me personally on the fifth rotation of their stay. I recall it like it had just occurred. I was writing sermons of MAMMET in my office late in the night when five methodical knocks resounded off of my door. I rose my head, surprised, and invited the knockers in to speak. Immediately, the thing creaked forth, and the three Supplicants entered the room, their levitating sigils ominously flickering in the candlelight. We stared at each other for several moments, before, for the first time in my memory, they spoke words I could recall.

"Ichvi n'aull Datharin, prodigy-hypodeacon, do you wish to know the secrets of the multiverse?"

I blinked confusedly, placing my quill in its holder. I asked them what they meant, but they did not respond. They were waiting. Waveringly, for I was, all of a sudden, terrified by those hidden horrid beings, I said that I supposed so. Without warning, the second Supplicant reached my desk in two long strides, and grabbed my right arm with almost clawlike hands. The third stalked forward as well, raising a single spidery twisted finger, and pressed it to the symbol upon my wrist. The first spoke one final time before my vision and senses went dull.

"See the truth, Ichvi n'aull Datharin, prodigy-hypodeacon. See the truth of GOD, and our harvest of the flesh of the aspirants will prove all the more fruitful. We thank you for your efforts. We grant thee an audience."

When I awoke, I was not in my office. No, I was lying upon some sort of ground that was not a ground itself -- it was and it was not. I cannot describe it. Slowly, I rose to my feet, wondering what had just occurred. Immediately, I saw It. And how could I not? Its form was immense, ragged and emaciated, deformed and defiled. I stared at it confusedly, noting how it seemed as if it were two halves of the same being stitched together -- suspicions confirmed somewhat by stitches entirely across the being's middle, all of a color that was both honey-gold and piercing red, and yet neither. It seemed to be as a statue, nigh-motionless and silent. I blinked once, staring intently at the creature, and it turned to me, its chitin -- or bone, perhaps -- glinting in some unseen unearthly light. I was paralyzed by a fear I could not comprehend, unable to move. I could not examine the form of the being, and yet it seemed so hideously wrong to me. Its mouth, if indeed it had such a thing, or multiple of them, opened, and it weakly began to speak. I could not comprehend the words that it said, but my mind was filled of visions of glory and splendor -- and yet they all had a peculiar undertone to them. An undertone of horrid wrongness I could not wholly understand, nor perceive. Yet I knew it was there. Something was off. And as the visions faded and I looked upon the being, I realized with horror what it truly was, from the statues and statues and statues all about the city, and all within the Chapel. If I could have opened my mouth in that moment, I would have screamed. It uttered but one word to me -- one I could understand -- and my mind ignited into untold leagues of ancient and indescribable agony, like five thousand eighty-two thorn-riddled lashes and tortures all at once, multiplied in pain exponentially five thousand eighty-two times over. It spoke this singular word, and all was over, yet begun anew, yet never stopped nor started, but continued.

"ICHVI."

I awoke in my office once more, the three Supplicants standing upon the other end of my desk. My body was wracked with wave after wave of eldritch afterimages of the twisted eardrum-shattering mind-cracking eye-blinding taste-searing sense-pain. I felt blood upon my body wherever I touched -- save for the symbol upon my right wrist. They observed me quietly as I writhed, almost as if they were noting my reactions down. The two Supplicants behind the first turned, and departed immediately, as if this were some mere business deal. The first, however, watched me yet still, until my pain subsided to an aching. It lowered its hood -- o, how I wish I could forget the sight -- and I saw the truth of the Supplicant as it stared at me, that massed tentacular horror given human shape and form, writhing and twisting and corrupting, all at once. It spoke to me one last time.

"You now know of the truth, perhaps. A narrow concept, but one that will suffice for now. Know this, Ichvi n'aull Datharin, prodigy-hypodeacon. We will come once more for our Logogram. You have great promise as a host for the thing's growth, and I suspect this shall be one like no others -- a Logogram bearing the weight of innumerable lives already, of which you shall be the last of a line. The line of provenance, yes. You know when we shall come. Live your existence to the fullest in the meantime."

Without another word, it rose its hood, and departed. Frantically, I went to the elders, and asked them where the beings had gone, but they would not respond to any query of mine -- it was as if they were in a trance with regards to the subjects at hand I had to present. They would not even break from their blank stares when I spoke to them the Truth I learned in my office. I therefore fled the city of Eimai -- and indeed, the planet, and the universe. Yet, I feel Them calling to me. Those of the ORDER. They seek the logogram upon my wrist, and I therefore shall endeavor to sever the arm that bears it as soon as I complete my writing of this text. I warn thee, o reader, if indeed my manuscript sees any who would seek to examine it, from this ending -- continuation -- of my bitter path. Trust not in any God, for Their name is just as much of a truth as is their terrible power, and Their servants are that tenfold over.