Brother Deverall returns

[TheFarsight]

For the last few days I have spent hours and hours pouring over my book of prayers, the book of my Lord. No prayer of mine is answered, no plead, no beg for his touch is responded too. His words are absent, his presence is. . .*

. . .Like a light house in the distance; with a flame that dwindles slowly while it guides me through the dark and just as I get halfway--it goes out, leaving me more lost than before. And, as I scramble to stay a float in those pitch waters another flame ignites in the distance: a flame of green, a flame that threatens to bring fear into my heart. I have never known such fear before, the power and faith given to me by my Lord always stayed it's hand, till now.

It is all that has been on my mind. . . This struggle in the waters of faith, of religion. I know I have not lost my faith, but the faith the Lord of Crying placed in me, is gone. It vanished just like that, at a snap of his fingers. No warning was given, his hand nor his words came down to sway me. This leaves me to believe, did he ever have faith in this old wandering soul? Did I ever matter to his plans of lifting the burdens, the suffering of others? Or, was I simply a pawn of weight?

I have never had such doubt till now. Till my return to this valley.

I close my eyes to collect myself, and all I see is that flame of green, all I hear are the words of the Exarch. And, I am left stunned.

Give your head a shake Keegan.

[TheFarsight]

A dream came to my eyes
in the deep mists of sleep,
it placed a feverish kiss,
like a black cats hiss. . .
Foretelling the foreboding future:
that no suture of mine
could fix.

Brothers and sisters sat
with their mother who smothered
the others to full bellies: while the father regaled
old veiled tales sailed long ago.
A pleasant feast for the peasants:
one that brought a trot of joy for;
no suffering was caught
in the moment.

A knock at the door,
snaps me from the tocks of time,
and shocks those of the feast:
to the stranger docked outside the door,
who rises a roar, as rude as a snore;
demanding entrance in the name
of --- I could not hear over the cheering cries:
that had rung the tears of joy from my eyes.

The man not invited, rapped again with force
aimed to maim the corse oak to splinter;
and that it did, the sisters hid:
the brothers fell,
hell broke loose -- in some deities name;
proclaiming his claim over these evil souls.
It was for the better the killer said; lopping fathers head,
hopping in a roll along the floor: the mother tried
to soar away and was sacked of life upon her back.

The man of bloodied sword,
took his horde of food
an' treasure to be sold,
not trinkets of gold or shine;
but flesh for others to dine - the sisters:
slaves for the deprave
that would not be saved. . .

I woke,
in a shudder, a croak to throat
an' choke at such vision of mind:
Alas; meaning escapes grasp,
and I am left to heft the weight,
of what may pass: now alone.

Recorded in the journal of Keegan Deverall

[TheFarsight]

This old flesh, these old bones,
lay weathered by the seasons,
forever stiff by the cold – lesions burnt from heat,
they long for release, only found when the
hold that grips my feet:
drifts away.

This place upon the ground –
my soul wishes to bound,
above the bluster that drowns those below,
blow by blow I see them suffer as their coffers:
get robbed;
robbed they get –
till the end is met.

Upon this ground I could do nothing
no standing act of good stood against it,
the brushwood only continued to catch fire,
so I ask – what should I do?

A voice vision’ed in flames green,
whispered into my sleep,
something for me to keep:
as a key,
in heart an’ mind;
or toss in hate.

Snatch the pain, instead of soothing it:
use it to break the latch that makes them,
take ill-gain from hard toil in the plain of life.
No longer can you feign ignorance
to the solution – the people you fight for:
can only be in the gain when their
holder is slain and the blood rains
upon their faces.
That is when you will have won
an’ the suffering will be gone,
this is the new dawn
the flame proclaimed.

I find my self stuck
ducking a choice
at the cross-roads:
unsure what path to take,
take what unsure path?
for the peoples sake,
I must wake an’
cease my falter.

'Recorded in the journal of Keegan Deverall'

[TheFarsight]

A weight; you see,
has become my fee
exacted from my knees – extorted from my glee:
cracked is my back,
from collectors attack,
weak are my shoulders
that once stood proud;
I am no longer the solider of crutches
the path I wandered; my polder however
is now reclaimed:
by flame green.


So,
I stand about to be— avowed:
to the forest I must march,
through marsh an’ bogged:
where mud will cling an’ horrors
will shine; to a place I once considered
darker than dark, considered once:
a shrine of evil, now
a vine to hold;
or this old soul
will plummet below.

'Recorded in the journal of Keegan Deverall'

[TheFarsight]

I am hungry for the meal; not the deal,

that leads to daily routine, between the caffeine

and whiskey sipped from canteen, before we all convene,

to dine again. No, I hunger for satisfaction-- 'similar' to:

what was found in younger years:

between the covers with another

that rings the bell of nerves to utter collapse,

that fall into deserved state of utopia,

where I look in wait, straight into her eyes:

feeling the weight of her heart push into mine,

filling it-- to the brim. That is the source of my starvation,

an empty glass, that the masses have passed by

skipped over in haste, fearing that they may trip

over this old man, and chip or rip themselves in the tumble.

As I just lay there, my stomach rumbles with a growl that numbs,

crumbling my strength-- Oh!

How my strength crumbles, with each

painful hunger roar, I yearn, I burn an'

I turn the pages of my days in: hope

for that filling touch; that brings ecstasy shiver,

which acts the river: carrying the current of divine power

through my blood, to my stomach, to my heart:

filling me eternally:

I hunger.

'Recorded in the journal of Keegan Deverall'

[TheFarsight]

My lords faith in me is lost; the absence of his presence has left me crippled, the limping dog. But, like the dog with a thorn buried in his paw unable to remove it, he continues on despite the pain. . . As I do now. My purpose, the goal I strive for in the years I have left must be completed, or at least the torch passed on.

The church shuns me, and Sestra. . . Well I---, find this place a source of confusion: offering many paths. But, I proclaim in my heart, at the mountain in my mind, that I will not falter from my duty. There is a task, a road I must wander regardless of my place in the world around me. . .

The suffering must be managed. The burdens of those around me, must be lifted. And, I will do what ever is required, to do so. The people need a tending hand. Not just the people of Sestra, where I currently reside-- no, the whole valley of Sundren does. As I ponder this, I think of where I should go next. Where should my hands pull weeds? Where should my hands offer grace and charity? I don't know why I ask the sky-- when his back is turned.

I know,
I have heard of great poverty, great pain in a town; the port. The streets are littered with beggars, with trash, and orphans. Pain and burden abounds. So, I guess I will pack what things I can carry, what coin I have. . . What food I have, and venture in good will, in charity to the Port.

Hopefully, I am received and not turned away. I am not sure how much more rejection these old bones can take.

So as I grab my things, my old fists clench as my thoughts think about what may come. . .

The purpose I must continue to pour my labour into.

[TheFarsight]

I am amazed, stunned, flabbergasted. . .
At the arrogant ignorance,
That guides and directs hands I thought:
Played the Seekers,
Searching the dark for torches to light,
Blazing a signal of hope,
To those lost.
Instead: with long faces, and lips grim
Shoulders of brittle thorns,
They lock their doors, in hopes to gather warmth;
Friends are gathered close,
While the commoner, the peasant is left cold
Lumped-in with whoever
Holds the reigns.
Where are the pillar champions,
Shoulders of iron:
Hearts filled with the fire of grace
And not the bite of ice,
With hands that will tend, and mend:
Past bias and personal conflict,
Feet that will go outside the locked door,
And huddle in the dirt,
Exchanging their sword an’ armor,
For extra clothes, bread an’fish
To fight darkness,
With the light,
Of deeds
Not those bathed in blood;
Of revenge:
Vengeance.

Where, are the true champions?
Champions that stand above chaos,
and wade through the dirt
With--- An' for the common man. . .


'Recorded in the journal of Keegan Deverall'

[TheFarsight]

I have walked the streets,
Till my feet wished to retreat to the seat:
I have wandered the dirt roads,
Till my bones hurt, an’ the smirk of youth faded:
I have journeyed past those I had called brothers,
Till I was further than the reach of their bother:
I have embraced others, no matter the shade of their heart,
Till the plagues of their guilt faded from burden:
I have hefted such weight on my shoulders,
Till my shape could no longer wait to collapse:
I have given my all to lifting the light,
Till I lost my swift pace, an’ drifted in the night, tired of the sights:
I have never lost my faith,
Till I was tossed under the clever, severed from warmth; put into the frost:
I have chosen what road at the crossroads to take,
An’ will wander it till fate rakes the breath from me.


'Recorded in the journal of Keegan Deverall'

[TheFarsight]

I was turned away.

Perhaps in my younger years I would have been shocked, or upset by such. But, I guess it is because I have heard such. . . Excuses, such. . . shoo'ing lines before.

For 'diplomatic' reasons -- the danger it could bring -- because of 'who' you are also helping.

All of them merely excuses. Because of my actions to help the people, the commoner of Sestra. . . I have been turned away by many.

I am still not surprised.

The forces I would have claimed as pure and as good, have so quickly disregarded the people of Sestra just because of their new tyrant ruler. I think that those. . . I had called my brothers, my friends-- the rest of the valley, already considers them dead. Their lives already forfeit. The only one that does seem to show care, is the Exarch.

This thought is the thought that shocks me! That grips my heart, forcing it to pause. And, flips my ideals, my beliefs on its head. My return to the valley of Sundren has brought such. . .

Illumination.

My entire lives journey, my passive tending to the suffering of others finally clicks in my brain, and I now know what must be done. What the greater purpose is. The true way to lifting the burden.

I am no longer standing at the cross-roads, for I have chosen my path and it is time to-- wander forth.

[TheFarsight]

What was it one of them said; one of the Broken had said years and years and--- years ago.

What was it he said. . . About my path? Remember Keegan, shake your head till it rattl--- OH!

My future was one of lifting great burdens from a great many. My future was one of faith, of wandering, of blood shed for the Crying. My own and that of heretics, of those seeking to inflict suffering. I was not meant to stay with the clergy, to become one of them. No, I was to be turned loose onto the Wandering Path; but unlike others who took to this road, I was to be trained as a warrior. A warrior of fists, feet, of prayer, and of shining faith that would rebuke the darkness. If holding my lantern to the dark did not work, I was to pound it back with flesh and bone. I was a monk, a warrior, and a priest, that gave his fists to Ilmater.

And his soul.

So, I was trained in the arts of healing, in prayer, and in combat. When I had proven myself and passed each rite of faith, each rite of suffering. . .

I was set upon the path. I now clench my fists and dig my nails into my palms at the mere thought of what I was in my younger years. The righteous fury I had held. The blazing wrath I inflicted upon those that branded pain and suffering into others.

I was too violent, too uncontrolled. Or so I believed as each year ticked by. As I look to the sky now, remembering my return to the church asking for forgiveness for the pain-- the suffering I had inflicted on others. Many forgave me, some did not. Some wished to release me back to the path of fury, of blazing fists. But, in the wisdom that came through wandering years, and wrinkled skin. I bowed to the majority, to grace. I vowed to never be. . .

That wrath again.

Now I stand and look in the mirror and what do I see?

I see an old man, a candle almost out of wax. I see blonde hair fading to grey. It is a miracle that it has retained color for so long. . . I am not surprised however; that it now started to grey faster. The fair color was a sign of the grace I once stood in.

I see an old soul begging to collapse. Wrinkles that weigh him down, memories that plague him. And a life devoted to what? Acting the bandage but never the cure? Perhaps he was right. Perhaps I should have never strayed from that path of righteous rage he saw. Perhaps. . .

My fists clench as I wrap them in cloth. Pulling the bones tight.

I look in the mirror again and I see. . .

A man that was lost, but now is found.

[TheFarsight]

'I have spent many years wandering the path---

Only to find that. . .

The path I was on led to nothing but the continued pain and the continued suffering of this world. I have found that the endeavor of my last forty five years of life, were a waste. . .

No, give your head a shake Keagan. Without those years spent laboring under false light; you would not have found the true lighthouse in the dark, the true path to end the suffering of this valley. You would not have been equipped for such-- true ways of carrying the burden.'

From the steady accumulation:
of a faith rekindled to blaze; an appellation given
from a friend of wisdom broke the damn,
an birthed a new revelation,
that tore the seething of loss,
the loathing of pain, an replaced it;
with the comfort of nothing, a stillness
of heart: that of which
the convert finds,
when he steps out of the desert of absence;
free from the effort spent
on his tremendous hike:
he collapses upon the ground, gripping
offered canteen to quench his thirst;
the blessed water of the true path
pours free and fills the heart,
with the absolute will of him;
my will stands
now absolute.

'Recorded in the journal of Keagan Deverall'

[TheFarsight]

A fact of life these old feet
have pondered upon loose dirt:
it is curt, full of hurt, and will leave many
burnt; cleansed of false truths believed when young,
grown from tending that repeats
born through the watering of age:
the difference between the sage an’ novice,
one bagged with frustration never altered,
but the one who halts, and pulls the halter
in direction of change, finds a crop
once dead, now flourishes under care:
learned from mistakes.

His garden has granted:
my garden to–
now spring vibrant, wide in leaf
bright to direct others to learn;
from mistakes made by this man:
so that the other may
suffer less in process,
an’ kiss the path walked,
instead of curse with a hiss.

I proclaim: turn that fork–
an’ hork to spit at those that say stay,
leave that light, that leads leaf to blight,
of hardship under what is claimed just
look upon my garden, that does not bar them:
but welcomes all, see where I walked,
an’ now where I harvest, it is green here:
it is life here under guidance of those wiser,
that will direct and guide, your garden
to such flourish– so that you
don’t have to suffer the burden
of wrong or right decision walked in life:
we will direct,
guide,
an’ teach you to breach:
through hardship.

Come, walk this path:
they will tell you it is dark,
but hark!
Such words are false,
he is the light house,
flame lit a green,
green as life, as the beauty
of a masters garden.

'Recorded in the Journal of Keagan Deverall'

[TheFarsight]

So much has changed. . .

Has it? Really has it changed Keagan? Walk to the pit, that crater that marks the abaddonment of the Legion, the Triad, and the City from this valley: ask yourself-- how is this any different then before?

The valley has always been in chaos, under strife. From when you were birthed into the streets and left oprhaned; to the day you were brought into the church, and then sent to wander the path. This valley has always been under burden and pain. I am old but I am no fool, I know life is not without suffering. But the weight the people of this place have had too endure. . .

Has always been greater than the common burden of life. So give your head a shake Keagan and ask yourself again, what has changed?

Simple I would say, the people I once walked with and called brothers have shown their true intent and colors. Those I pursacuted and wagged my finger in scold too-- have been revealed to me: by the great light house of flame green that shines the true path, as those that actually strive to make a difference.

So what has changed Keagan-- old man?

Well-- my path has altered: for I now see the only way to calm this stressed pain an' suffering, to transform it into the common burden that we should endure in life. This valley, Sundren must be shoved to it's knees and given the chance to submit to one rule, one teacher, one father. The laws and rules that differ from the Legion, to the Triad, to the Hands, to-- all others that lay claim to their way being the best. . .

Need to be scattered into oblivion by the hand of Bane, and bent into submission. Only when one power remains; the power of my Lord on high, may peace settle in the valley.

I pray, that in the-- perhaps, few years I have left to walk these roads. . .

That my fists strike for him and break the bones of those that refuse to submit. I pray that I may act as a hand for Bane. My Lord above.

[TheFarsight]

'Found recorded in the pages of Keagans Journal'

I have woke in a fever, sweat drips from my forehead and my heart pounds in my chest. A vision came to me. . .

I saw an old man standing before a ruined church:
birthing before the mans eyes was a pillar high,
it broke from the old racked stone roof,
cracked by time an' the lack of tending folk;
folk now came with tending arms
offered to the man to serve-- they came to the light.
As untop of the pillar high, was now a tinder
of fine splinters sparking to a cinder
a beautiful flame,
as green as a lush garden of life,
playing a sweet melody like a fife,
piper to ears of the lost, tired of high costs
their shoulders broken by the weight,
and their will spent.
The old man turned still in mind-- an' no longer blind.
The folk bowed before the pillar high,
an' began to sow seeds in worship:
strict deeds performed to train body an' thought,
deeds of the their fists blessed;
kissed by the flame, led to bliss of servitude:
with no doubt held,
guided by the man
directed by the flame.

I now know that my work, my servitude is long from over. Their are sheep to shepherd, sheep that need guidance to the true path. Just as the Exarch led me along the path and continues to do so; I now must return the favor by training the fists of these people, to be hands for our father.

[TheFarsight]

All though the path I now walk veers from where I was, I still keep to my wandering ways.

I will walk Pioneers Way, down to Tyr's folk, to the Pit. . .

I will stop at the Second Wind, and talk with those that hold no ill judgement and wish to hear the words of truth, I have even found myself close to the gate, and to the city above.

I will walk the paths to Aquor, and up the mountain high.

I will walk journey to the old burnt camps on the Virdale, the over run farms at the crossroads, and the hills littered with goblins.

Only the way I preach has changed, I no longer cater to the false, to the lord that will allow you to continue on in pain; taking on more than your shoulders can carry, no . . . I will show you the true road, a path that leads to service, a path that leads to only the suffering that you can endure. And should endure. Those that stop to listen, or just to talk with this old man will find my joy spilling over in hopes of sharing the words, to give the food I carry and the tending hands trained by years of practice. But. . .

Now instead of just patching the wound or passing a loaf, I will give them the opportunity to learn how to never be hungry, how to hold fear for their lives in their hearts-- and use it to fight with tooth and nail for their survival. To give up their self pity and whining, with the knowledge that their hands; fists, can lighten their burden. I simply show them the truth.

I will forever wander the valley, shining the light of my Father, my Lord above, into the hearts of those that will submit.

I will forever struggle with those that do not bend a knee, and force them-- if need be by a break, to bow and give in to the truth.

The path I walk, the path revealed by the Exarch . . . Is the only way to cap the suffering, the pain of the valley, Sundren.