Logos was found as a child on the beaches of Andoran by a group of mercenaries who were preparing for a new job, to clear out the werewolves of Arthfell Forest for a logging magnate who wanted the woods, but not the inhabitants.
One of the mercenaries, whose name was never learned by Logos, insisted on taking the child (who was no more than 5) along. Logos's clothing was odd in the extreme, flowing white robes and sandals. But the mercenaries finally took him along, letting the boy ride in the supply wagon.
Thus it was that Logos had an excellent view of the ambush the werewolves and druids had prepared for the mercenary group. The mercenaries had barely made it a hundred steps into the woods when everything around them exploded in to snarling fur and bites and blood. Soon spells were added to the mix.
The fight was short, bloody, and unwinnable for the mercenaries. Their silver weapons wrought fantastic damage on the werewolves, but they were out numbered, out classed, and out of luck. At the end of the battle, the werewolves began moving amongst the survivors, intent on slaying anyone that was still alive.
One of the werewolves, a younger one who'd not done much during the fight, saw the boy on the wagon, and with glee leaped up to attack. This was the last mistake the young werewolf would ever make. The boy responded with a roar of his own, growing to the same size as the werewolf as he ripped the werewolves throat out with suddenly razor sharp claws. The werewolf stared stupidly at it's killer before tumbling off the side of the wagon to the ground. The young boy then dove off the wagon, ripping into the werewolves nearby with his claws, howling in absolute mad rage, tearing flesh like it was nothing.
After a short time though, the boy fell over, then slowly shrank back to his previous size. The werewolf clan leader, a wizened old wolf, marked the boy's chest with his claws, marking him as one of the forest, and then took his surviving wolves and left.
One of the dryad's who had rallied the forest folk took up the child, and carried him deeper into his new home.
As time went past, Logos grew into a strapping young man, who still had a madness about him. He was normally a gentle soul, he got on well with the creatures of the forest, even the werewolves, although he remonstrated with them for how they treated others, especially for eating people.
He slowly mastered his madness and magic, learning to use his now permanently grown claws, wearing the armor of those that were killed by or for the forest, from his earliest days. It took much effort, but he eventually mastered casting spells while wearing stiff and segmented armor, until he could do so without fail. Over the years, his equipment became better and better as he could 'argue' his share better with the various forest inhabitants.
Things were proceeding normally, until one day a different type of mercenary group came to the forest. A small group, with much power. Dressed in strange white robes and with strange weapons and a foreign (but tantalizing familiar) tongue.
The ambushes did not go well, the werewolves were slaughtered until they ran. It was not until the treants and dryads and druids became involved that the group was pushed to their breaking point.
Logos let the madness take him, slashing and casting spells as needed throughout the battle, claws flashing and throat roaring. Eventually it was only him and the leader left in fighting shape, the treants retreated from fire, the druids out of spells and injured, and the dryads doing what they could to save both.
The fight seemed to last hours, but couldn't have been more than a minute. Logos finally ripped the throat out of his opponent. It was then he let his guard down, but the enemy didn't keel over, instead, he brought up his odd sword and drove it through Logos's heart. Logos felt the pain, and grasp the man, driving his claws into the man's eyes, and the two fell, dead, atop each other.
Logos knew he was dead, he could see his body. Bloody and limp, under the strange man. He sighed, and prepared for whatever was next... when the man's amulet, a golden ankh, although Logos had no idea what it was called, flared brighter than the sun.
Logos awoke in his home barrow, grown for him by his 'mother' the dryad. His chest bore a new scar, a sword wound over his heart that was fully healed. The ankh lay on his chest, placed there by his 'mother'. As the days passed, Logos began to feel a driving need to find out about the amulet, about why it had restored him rather than it's owner after their mutual deaths. To find out why he was alive when he had died.
Saying his goodbyes to his dryad mother, he left most of his belongings behind, travelling light, and set out to find the source of the ankh. His travels led him to Osirion, and finally the city of Wati.
