Brother Deverall returns

[TheFarsight]

'From the Sonnets of Deverall'

From its perch, proud to purge the dark that hides

Among the obvious shroud of night: settles the first lantern on its post

A host that holds a toast, to those that boast to take steps; bets cast into the unseen.

Below their mate they gamble, putting trust in the lookout;

That never forgets the date: an’ plays a ghost most ignore,

Shrugged off as common sight . . . but some adore.

However; this luminary ally is like the weather,

Forever fickle an’ favoring none.

Like the sun it can leave some stunned when caught in the spot; while others smile.

Those found to be in fraught, wish to take back what was bought.

Alas, when the lantern spills; the bill must be called

An’ now it is live and let live; play the captive or’

Let the fear and hate flow life to death, under the glow. . .

Cast from above, to set the tone of streets below.

[TheFarsight]

The road before my old feet has never been so clear . . . that I now find myself looking to the past.

It feels like I was a man lost at sea. I would gaze into the fog that blanketed the water and not know what way land was. I would struggle to keep the boat a float as the wood was old and cracked under my weight. My lips would go dry, and my throat would ache from the lack of fresh water to refresh me. My stomach would growl out in pain for it felt like I had not eaten in days. I was but an old man lost at sea.

Every so often my boat would come across another in the fog. Another poor soul lost at sea would greet me weakly and I would share his pain, his suffering. If my drifting upon the murky waters had granted me any fish or rain from above, I would hand it to the stranger. If they said no, I would insist and even sneak the gifts into their boat before we drifted apart. I can admit that this act caused my heart to glow, but it also caused my body to grow weak. I was more than happy to take the suffering of others unto my shoulders thinking that it would ease their pain. I was wrong.

When we parted ways their boat would only spring yet another leak or the food I had spared would never fill the hole in their stomach. Perhaps it slipped from their hands and spilled into the water, never making it down their gullet or perhaps . . . just perhaps their hunger was just too great. But either way they were left to drift lost and in pain; sinking under burden and I was left to be the old man, drifting lost on the sea.

When the current died and the fog was blown by the wind to reveal a blazing heat, I would only lay in my doomed boat and pray to my Lord above. The sun would scar my flesh and steal what moisture I had left. Leaving me but a husk, a pathetic shell of a man drifting lost on the sea muttering his crazy words. My bare feet ached from the splinters from the old wood, my head pounded from thirst and heat, my stomach became twisted and knotted, and this old man was fading away. But, I continued to huff out the words to the one of Crying above, only to be answered with a storm that threatened to capsize me.

Again I would spot another lost in this sea, his boat tipping from the assaulting winds and wailing waves. I would pull what little strength I had left and dive in to save the poor soul, most of the time I failed. I was either too late or they would be too stubborn to accept help from a weak old man . . . having too much pride to be helped by someone, like me. So they would drown under their burden and my heart would sink. My lips would lift upon high and the only answer received was more—suffering.

This continued for sixty or so long years. I truly had lost count and barely even know my own age or how long I had wandered that path, drifted on that sea. Until one foggy day on that water, I saw something so beautiful and so bright that the fog was burnt into clarity. A pillar rose from the water ahead of me. A blazing fire of green was on top of that pillar, revealing my true path.

[TheFarsight]

I now gaze out towards the ocean, an’
In the distance I see anger spraying out like frothed spit,
Swelled by lack of praise; an army of rage that marches,
Storming in fury the wave acts the cage, barring land:
Offering those of earth and stone—no escape.
There is a chill in my bones, a sense of lone rumbling
In a loud tone-- that blankets my ears an’ grips my heart.
Nay, it is not a hold of fear, for the leer of this Queen of Waves,
Does not sear my resolve, or bring my knees to fold.
I turn to my Father for aid to absolve this town from her clawing talons;
For the crown of the ground called Sestra:
Is found to settle only on my Lords head,
an’ we will frown towards the Bitch Queen.
With down turned lips, she will be shown
That she steps out of turn and with blazing fear from the green flame on high,
Fear will turn the tides of her fury from the stones and earth,
That only my Lord above holds the right of claim.


'Recorded in the journal of Abbot Deverall'