…could help teach him to defend himself. He soon found out from the locals that there was such a man that could help him. A man of great strength and great power. This man’s name was Emeron, but he was said to be crazy and belligerent. Forced out by the people he was now considered to be an outcast, and had been so for many, many years now. Ocieleoz sought to find him and found a man unfamiliar to him in the woods and followed him back to his house. After a week of watching him daily, and finding out this was indeed Emeron, Ocieleoz approached him only to be shut down by threat of death. Ocieleoz continued to watch and spy on Emeron for a few weeks, learned his habits and routines, until one evening Emeron did not show up to his house. Ocieleoz took this opportunity to sneak into Emeron’s house, but was soon caught in a trap just inside the back door that roped his foot and flung him upside down. Hitting his head on the ground during this knocked him out. He was woken by Emeron later that night. Recognizing Ocieleoz to be the priests son, he fetched Arwén to come retrieve his boy. Ocieleoz was forbidden by his father to never speak to Emeron again….
In aire, dost–poise thou in His image–fly
Perfection! bronzed against Hyperion’s blaze;
Exalted! at thy nadir by His rays;
With mastery! dost thou hold thy piece of sky.
In aire, for thee, hath stopt all time; on high,
At perfect flexion, as His Son displayed:
Retract, and tense, ’til once thou deign obeyed
His gravity, that deign thou not defy.
Down! by His unseen force, to Earth art thrown;
Descend thou! as I gasp–thy devotee.
Thou! slicing air! perfection still outshone!
And twist! and roll! and turn! to all degree!
As fly thou through devoted hands alone
With thee, who hast so Godly kist the sea.
Here, these colours in secret dost thou touch;
Here, in reddest violet I thou pursue;
Yet only black as night, and yet as blue
That thou, my bright, my shadow, painted much.
And here, the spectroscopic span is such;
And here, chromatics some might misconstrue;
Unknown, such hues have painted far too few;
As whitest white is not so grey a crutch
To magnify protection’s light of worth.
And worthy light, prismatic as the sun,
Shall stream as bright toward golden compass points;
And venerable shades shall then unearth,
When newer hues are finally outdone,
Our touch as art–as colours–us, anoints.