Traveling Levesque & the Compulsion

A phantom will bores into
the Vulmandr - spread thin and broad -
and speaks with a swollen tongue.
Words, so barely discernible,
withhold assault and comfort
with pristine images of home.

Fed by desertion - made cruel;
the Scar reeks of fierce Compulsion.

Over weary legs and feet,
under placid-yet-shifting sky;
Levesque continues seeking.
Whilst his brothers in warfare wage
in turbulent, scuttled droves,
he attunes himself in tandem
with this livid pulse and swell
that demands his full attention.
Implicit in him, dormant:
a small gateway through which a claw,
malformed and bent at the wrist,
gestures at his second vision.
He then wonders to himself:
What of my brothers and sisters?
Do they not feel their depths plunged
by this agent of turmoil?

Unbeknownst to young Levesque,
many Vulmandr had fled.

Absent in times of great need,
some remain and delight in their
fierce, yet trite retribution.
Others, engulfed by blind panic,
tore the very Earth to shreds
in their frenzy for an escape.
Rogue and rampant, yet so lost;
the Vulmandr were like fire;
constantly hungry and scared -
consuming in a pitch to live.
In their zigzagging pattern
of burnt, desiccated terrain,
they had spelled out some strange word
in some scribe none had claimed to know.

This great mark shone like a light
on an already-darkened land.
None too great a distance off,
Levesque, alarmed, would find new zeal.

There was yet time to rally.

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