Trials and Tribulations

[BubbaCornbread]

How should I start my tale? What can one impart concerning a life and the journey taken?

My name is Colin O’Doon and I have always been a skeptic. I did not really hold to any solid belief system or passion for art, music, or warfare. I was your basic dissolute youth, living for the moment.

It was easy to be that way, for my father was a rich merchant. He maintained contacts throughout Faerun, making money by shipping gold, silver, and gems. He traded these precious commodities for grain and wine, which he sold for an enormous profit to those cities lacking in a robust agricultural capacity.

We lived in a rather large mansion and everything was tended to by servants. I had my own servant when I turned the age of three, when my wet nurse was no longer necessary. I was given the best cloths, the finest education, and a promising future; taking over my father’s mercantile empire. This I attempted to throw away, through gambling, brawls, and any woman that caught my fancy.

Yes, my father scolded me, took away my allowance on many an occasion. He locked me within my spacious rooms, books my only solace. Did these measures work, did they make me more studious, responsible, or respectful. I would like to say yes, I would like to look back upon my youth and say that I was merely rebellious and at one point a door opened and my lazy and recalcitrant ways were mended, but that would be a lie. No, I continued down the dissolute path, heeding nothing but mine own desires.

That all changed when I turned the age of sixteen. War came to Waterdeep and shattered all my father’s hopes and dreams, which in turn utterly changed my flimsy existence. In three months all our ships had been destroyed or stolen, our warehouses were in ashes, and our many enemies were baying at the moon, having smelt the blood in the water. Two more months and my father was dead, dying on the walls of a city that he had once adored, but had turned on him. He told us it was to turn the tide of disfavor, to bring power back into our hands; I thought it was suicide. After his death, my mother did commit suicide, taking a long hot bath with a companionable razor. My sister was hurriedly married to an armorer’s son. I like to think her life is tolerable, since the lad did have skill with hammer and tong, making a decent living at a trade in demand during the chaotic war.


And what happened to me you might ask. My debts mounted and thugs and bullyboys came to collect. I was thrashed to an inch of my life and then put into prison as penance. Ill-used and near death, I succumbed to apathy, my life revolving around the many beatings meted out by the jailors. I was about to turn my back on life and commit myself to whatever God would take me when Bran entered my life.

[BubbaCornbread]

Can I give justice to my mentor? Will people be able to grasp his relevance to my tale and that of Ilmater?

I looked through the bars of my prison, my eyes almost swollen completely shut from the latest beating from the guards; a sport in which they excelled. At first I thought that my life spark had been at last extinguished, for the man standing before me looked more akin to demon that mortal. The creature had a face marked by hardship and torture, or so it looked, with scars adorning most of his clean shaven face. His eyes were large and bulbous, one the color of mud and the other a sparkling blue. His nose was long and crooked, the many times it had been broken manifest through the numerous knots and craters apparent along its surface. His torso was long and lean, almost to the point of emaciation, the short stick like legs added as if an afterthought. His arms were also long, lean, and corded with muscle, the overly large and calloused hands held tight, as if they were grasping some victim’s throat. To top off the grotesquerie, a large hump adorned the right shoulder, as if an oversized rodent were squatting, leering down upon the weak and afraid.

I at once uttered an oath and tried to crawl away from the apparition. I did desire to end my miserable life, but I did not want to spend eternity with the beast standing before my cage. I did not want my body and soul rent by the fiend’s large hands, my captor healing my wounds so that he could duplicate the effort. Yet, when the beast squatted and caught me in its calm gaze, it gave me immediate pause. And when the thick misshapen lips parted, my unbelieving eyes bulged and my breath caught, for I now beheld angelic beauty! With one smile all that had appeared before disappeared, as if the light had at last penetrated the deep dark night, shedding its life giving light and warmth on an undeserving world. The creature that had caused such intense fear and loathing was now spreading warmth and assurance, the once hated beast was now my closest companion.

And with one radiant smile my life was transformed. The fiend turned out to be a saint, a man of such utter inner beauty and goodness that when he died, thousands thronged the church in which he was entombed, all singing his praises, all weeping for fear of the darkening void Bran had left. This was the man that chose me from among the throng of miscreants, the man that brought me from the brink of madness and into the light of Ilmater, the Sacred Fist that taught me so much. It was he that gave me purpose, strength, conviction, and an inner peace that I thought only Gods could match. That first smile was the beginning of my true life.

[BubbaCornbread]

The journey to the monastery was long and arduous and for at least the first couple weeks, rather bumpy, since I was too weak yet to walk along with Bran. So I lay there, thoughts of my past flitting about my mind, circling around as would vultures a dying animal. It brought me to perhaps the lowest point of my young life. It was in the depths of my despair that Bran began to nurse me back to health, body and soul.

He started with hardy soups and thick bread smothered in butter. And when I began to eat, my appetite finally awakened, he would talk to me, of my past, of the future, and of Ilmater. At first I had only a desire for material sustenance, my mouth watering as the smell of food wafted about the rickety cart in which I lay. Yet, after a week of talk, I began to crave Bran's wisdom; his word had become a salve that daily spread about my tattered spirit.

At the last, I was able to leave the mule driven cart for brief periods, my legs wobbly as if I were a babe just then learning to walk. It was during these refreshing sessions that Bran began to talk of other things, of the way of the Yellow Rose, the Earth Spur mountains, and the order of Saint Sollar the Twice Martyred. He explained to me of the tenants of Ilmater, that of Endurance, martyrdom, perseverance, and suffering. He showed me the way of the Crying God, the Broken God.

We were in the foothills of the Earth Spur mountains when I decided to accept Ilmater as my God, for my soul cried out for nourishment, my mind boiling with emotion, desire, penance, something worthwhile, something to wipe away the stain of my previous existence. It was then that I knelt before Bran, his angelic smile shedding light down upon me, his work roughened hands about my shoulders, that I took Ilmater into my heart. I never looked back.

[BubbaCornbread]

We traveled to the Earthspur Mountains, along a winding, narrow path a mountain goat would have refused to traverse. By now I was walking behind the cart, my strength returning each and every day. Bran was a font of knowledge, talking incessantly about the fauna and foliage abundant along our route. As we walked, Bran would on occasion become pensive, the demonic visage I had at first encountered sliding upon his face. He would then spy a bird, fox, or flower and his face would break out into a smile. It was as if a stormy night had just passed and the sun, at the last, had broken free from the cloudy confines, shining forth in glory. I still could not work my mind around this disparity, the two faces of Bran, a coin with two heads, one of evil and the other of good.

That is not to say that Bran had an ill-spoken bone in his body. On the contrary, the man seemed to be full of abundant goodness, a cornucopia of wise sayings, lawful entreaties, and Ilmateri lore. It was a rare day that he did not commit his person to healing people, animals, and the occasional plant, all with a smile that could break through the hardest shell erected. It was during this time that I began to glimpse the majesty of Ilmater. It was Bran and the difficulty of the journey that brought back my health and my soul. At this time my rebirth was in its infancy, my dawdling steps slowly taking me closer to Ilmater, closer to salvation.

It was a strange world that I entered, when we finally made it to the monastery of the Yellow Rose. It was there that my education truly began. It was within the time-worn stone walls that my life at last began in earnest. Gone was the self-indulgent youth, the hollow souled being that sought solace in drink and weak women. That first night, Bran brought me to an ancient watch-tower, a narrow stone edifice that looked to have been erected when the earth was yet young and guileless. The narrow walk-way that led to the battlements was careworn and dangerous, yet my mentor glided along the lichen-slick stones as if he were walking upon a well-crafted roadway. I was at first frightened, for heights had always been a bane, bringing weakness and alarm. But when Bran turned and showered me with his smile, the fear dissipated, vanishing as would a mist after the sunrise. It was then that my feet found purchase and my heart soared; the vista was incredible!

How can I explain transcendent beauty? How can words give voice to perfection? What my eyes beheld with always be with me, locked within my heart of hearts. The monastery and the surrounding mountains were spread before me, as would an artist’s palette. Here a bit of rock, there some trees, and over there a rapidly spilling waterfall. It was almost too much to contemplate, to digest, to understand. It was then that Bran taught me to breathe, to focus, to look and actually see. That was the beginning of my training.

[BubbaCornbread]

The days began to blur, the hardship extreme, exhaustion always hovering, like the numerous buzzards that soared among the thermals above the mountain peaks, watching for dying prey. We ran, we walked, we climbed stone monoliths, our hands bleeding from the sharp rock of which we grasped, holding for dear life, the dark maw of canyon and valley calling for us to release and gain our freedom. One month, two, and then three passed in quick succession, my body craving sleep and sustenance, my soul screaming out for succor as another torment, or so I thought at the time, was heaped upon my shoulders.

At least twice a week I would sit upon the battlements, my legs crossed, my mind focused, my breathing slipping into a silent cadence only my heart knew. It was during these times that I was truly at peace, the beautiful vista before and below giving me an inner peace that I had never before encountered. It was then that I would begin to mend, my mind and body coalescing, a healing balm cascading through my tired and stretched limbs, the many cuts, bruises, and twists disappearing. It was a skill that seemed to come naturally, but was of course part of the journey we all took within the monastery. It was one of many skills that I would learn during my training.

The fifth month of my stay brought Ilmater manifest. The Broken God appeared to me in a vision during one of my peaceful moments upon the battlements. He spoke to me and his words were nectar to my starving soul! The words I will never share with another being, they are mine to savor forever. Let us say that from that day henceforth, my entire existence revolved around Ilmater and whatever mission he so chose for me. At the moment, it was the intense training and devotional time; the future was yet to be determined.

My body and soul became as one atop the battlements, during my meditational period. I was sitting as I had for months on end, legs crossed, hands resting upon my thighs, head slightly bowed. My breathing had slowed to a thin wisp of its normal cadence, my heart beating only occasionally. It was then that my mind at the last became attuned to not only my inner self, but the world around. It was then that I not only heard the song of the cricket, but felt its presence, its life essence. And there flew a falcon, majestically riding the wind above the monastery, its savage glee piercing my inner sanctum. Over there, a small brown mouse, cowering in fear of the falcon’s fell shadow, its body immobile, its hope a darkened cloud passing. The world was alive, abundant, and glorious, and it was all mine to savor, to sip, as would a connoisseur partake of a rare vintage. It was then that I knew my place in this dark and torn world, knew that I would proceed and succeed in any and all tasks or training directed, knew that I would serve Ilmater until the last rasp of breathe escaped my dying lungs!

[BubbaCornbread]

The days proceeded and my training increased. The runs up and down the steep slopes were punishing, my lungs starving, my legs quivering, and my mind awhirl. Yet, over the many months and up to the first year, my strength increased exponentially. My breathe coming in a measured cadence, my legs swiftly moving over the harsh terrain, and my mind clear and focused; it was exhilarating!

Punch, dodge, block, strike, kick, duck, leg-sweep, roll, and repeat; that was my mantra as I began my combat training, well into the first year of my residence upon the eternal mountain. Each and every day, I would sit atop the watchtower and learn again how to breathe, how to control my inner core. It was then that the many bruises left by the wooden trainers would ease and then disappear. It was then that I learned what my body could endure, my limits, and the resources hidden within me that I could tap to increase my strength, speed, and even healing. However, my training was about to take a turn for the worse.

The spots that lay about my body were black pustules, filled with some form of malice that my body was attempting to combat. My body ached like never before and my form was wracked by the occasional tremor, the disease spreading ever so slowly through my system. It was as if a parasite was insidiously working its way through my organs, using its inherent abilities to destroy each necessary life-giving tool one at a time. Bran, ever vigilant, squatted next to the reed mat I had been laid upon, his bright eyes watching every movement, every breathe taken. On occasion he would check my forehead and then dribble a bit of water down my parched throat. He would then shake his head and say, “You must focus Colin. The disease is nothing and can be expelled by your will alone. Focus and be healthy.”

I failed the first time, my body only a pale image of what it once had been. At the last, a cleric had to cast a blessing to rid me of the blight, healthy vigor replacing emaciation almost at once. I was up and running, training, meditating within the week. Yet, my confidence had been shattered, for the true test of my burgeoning abilities had been an utter failure. I cast about for the reason, for a clue to success, but nothing came to mind. I began to sleep badly and my stays upon the battlements became a battle between mind, body, and depression; turmoil swept through me, as would a tempestuous storm roar across the landscape, sweeping all before its might.

It was a smile that brought me from the brink, a rope lowered into the gloom in which I resided, letting me climb forth into the light. Bran, his ever-present mood lifting those around him, gave me such a radiant smile and confident nod, that I felt ashamed at my meager doubts. I at once ran to the battlements, once again seeking the inner peace that had always descended upon me; and there it was! I sank quickly into my normal meditative state and saw with such clarity my failure and what had caused it. I was not meant to combat the disease, but nurture it, let it run riot, let it run its course so quickly that it burned out, like a raging firestorm suddenly bereft of fuel. I would purge the contagion by acceleration.

I sat upon the same reed mat that had provided succor that last time I exposed myself to the disease. The pustules ringed my face, hands, and chest. Yet, they were a shadow of their former glory, mere rings without substance or power. My chest rose and fell in rhythm to my heartbeat, my vision clear and undimmed. This was my body, my mind, my soul; nothing could intrude. It took me two days, but the disease had been conquered, burnt out, swept away by the power within me. Never again would a disease be able to grip me, invade, and sweep away my defenses to make me weak and defenseless.

[BubbaCornbread]

I lay upon a reed mat, my body coated in sweat, my eyes unfocused, breathing rasping in my throat. The world had receded, a mere pinprick when I was able to open my eyes and look about. A fever gripped me as would a drowning man hold onto a wooden plank; the poison that I had voluntarily ingested working its way through my system. What was I thinking when I took the proffered glass vial? Why did I think I could combat liquid death? Was it Bran’s confident smile or hubris? My training had gone well thus far, my mind and body working as one; disease was but a distant memory. Why could I not conquer all?

I coughed and a thin stream of blood leaked from my open mouth, the scarlet in dread contrast to my pale skin. I looked about my small cubicle and saw Bran standing by the entrance, his usual smile replaced by a demonic visage. He looked down upon me and then shook his head as if dismissing me from his thoughts, his life. I attempted to cry out to him, to ask his forgiveness, to tell him that I would do better, but all that came was a mute cry, the barely perceptible noise a mere hiss that traveled no further than my nose.

It was then that I thought upon his demeanor and saw the cast of his features in a new light. No, it was not delirium, but knowledge gained. My mentor was chastising me for my weakness, for had I not defeated all before this? Had I not conquered fatigue, injury, and disease? So what was poison, but another intruder to block, grasp, throw, or punch?

I gritted my teeth, pulled my quivering fingers into a fist, and rolled to my side. Breathing heavily, my mind swimming, I pulled myself into the lotus position, my legs crossed and hands laid onto my thighs. I first concentrated on my breathing, in, then out, in, then out. Once I had that under control, I focused on my mind, which was cluttered with the detritus of delirium, faces, locations, and fantasies all swirling about in chaotic profusion. With a determination that startled me, I wrenched my thoughts into order, building scattered blocks into a solid and organized wall. I stared at my imaginary wall, letting my mind float and when this was accomplished, I seized the void, the all-encompassing darkness that led to my most intense meditative state.

I looked in upon my body and there it was, insidiously invading, its black pulse echoing throughout my body. It was traversing my bloodstream, striking my various organs, causing waves of pain and nausea I could no longer feel. Slowly, I focused on each line of attack, using all my will to heal, pushing the advancing army back. The poison did not give up easily, but launched counter-attacks, ambushes, and all-out assaults, at times causing my concentration to almost slip.

I know not how long it took for me to expel the poison. To make it inert and powerless, just another foreign body that was expelled through normal processes. All I remember is opening my eyes and seeing Bran standing before me, his smile radiant, his approval apparent. He nodded once and then laid a pitcher of water and some hard bread upon the ground. One last look and he was gone, as if he had never been. Water and bread never tasted better.