it's done, and he is gone
posted this on my myspace last night...i guess i do a far far better job keeping it up to date.
------
this evening was one of friends and family gathering together to celebrate the life of a dear one who has left us.
Baron Mischka Ravensfuri, mundanely known as John Booth, passed from this life this evening, after complications from a motorcycle accident on tuesday night. Friends and family surrounded him at his passing.
the gathering at the RHI was...special, and everyone was there for a reason. we had a full bonfire going, rang the bell at the passing, toasted and told stories of our dear, dear friend.
at the request of fiacha/mike earlier today, i read the following passage...though barely making it through.
"A warrior walks forth, trees rustle and move as the smells of spring runs and plays through the light breeze. Small pieces of stone and rock crunch under heavy boots. A smile is on the face of this man, but tears fill his eyes as he walks forward, his armour heavy on his shoulders, he has had a time of battle with good friends and honorable foes.
Friends seperated by distance but not by heart have sent word that another warrior, a true warrior has fallen and is being allowed to go forth, after fighting his last fight on this realm. The helm that rests on the warriors head has ravens wings, for all who know battle, know of loss, and the raven is the symbol for many of the power and pain, and love that brothers of arms share. He knows many understand the loss, of a loved one, but he saddened for few truly know the loss that is felt when a soul forged in battle travels to its next campaign. It would be unfair to say it hurts more, but it is a different hurt, just as the pain of a blade is sharp and the touch of fire is burning. Well did the fallen friend know these pains and these hurts.
For this man that had fallen was not just a man of battle, he was a smith, a smith of metals and of armour and weapons, he was a smith of song and story. There were not the most important things he made or created, though.
A sigh escapes the warriors lips as he kneels at the edge of the water to watch the sky for the lights he will to soon see of the path that is being illuminated this night for his fallen friend. The sore muscles and pained flesh were nothing to the empty feeling that was inside, it never got easier, it was not something that became less with practice, it was a feeling that becomes greater with every spirit that must part for a time, to be met later on the journy.
The small rocks settles, and helm came off and was set aside, as the tears flowed. For it was not the items or the songs that his fallen friend truly made that made this man a smith but it was with the fire, the passions, the forge of his power, and his weakness, that made him a smith for in the battle he fought with himself he forged those around him, he forged them strong, he forged them with sorrow, with anger, and with hurt. These were not easy tools to bring to the anvil of life for these were tools that worked the wielder as well as that being worked.
If these were the only tools used, those who were around his fire, his passion and his heat for life, would be brittle and crack like a miscast chisel at the hammers strike. But the other tools this man held, and used on his greatest works, these were tools that many could only wish to have of such quality and depth. The hammer of Joy and laughter that would be broughtout, the bucket of love and compassion that could quench the most painfull heart. Tools of understanding and love. A great bellows that was used to blow out words of the soul and draw in the noise of speaches as his greatest works gave their pain, to this smith. He had these skills and these abilities because he understood so many of the problems that where faced , for he delt with them and fought... the smith did, withen himself.
His greatest works where created in the forge of his companionship, and they are those that would call themselves his friend, brothers, and companions.
Tears flowed from the eyes of the warrior as he put a small candle on the shore and lifted his eyes to watch the darkening sky, for a bridge of lights to form and the ravens to fly."
i don't know what else to say that hasn't already been spoken/written. you will be missed so greatly, my friend. For those who weren't able to make it to the RHI tonight, we will also be doing the formal full house scotch toasting for Mischka on thursday. Please, please come by if you are able, and share your favorite memories.
the time is late, and i am past the point of being able to cry.
thank you again, to all who were able to come tonight.
i think we did a pretty damn good job of sending you off, Misch. we tried, at least.
much love to you all.
~cheers.
------
this evening was one of friends and family gathering together to celebrate the life of a dear one who has left us.
Baron Mischka Ravensfuri, mundanely known as John Booth, passed from this life this evening, after complications from a motorcycle accident on tuesday night. Friends and family surrounded him at his passing.
the gathering at the RHI was...special, and everyone was there for a reason. we had a full bonfire going, rang the bell at the passing, toasted and told stories of our dear, dear friend.
at the request of fiacha/mike earlier today, i read the following passage...though barely making it through.
"A warrior walks forth, trees rustle and move as the smells of spring runs and plays through the light breeze. Small pieces of stone and rock crunch under heavy boots. A smile is on the face of this man, but tears fill his eyes as he walks forward, his armour heavy on his shoulders, he has had a time of battle with good friends and honorable foes.
Friends seperated by distance but not by heart have sent word that another warrior, a true warrior has fallen and is being allowed to go forth, after fighting his last fight on this realm. The helm that rests on the warriors head has ravens wings, for all who know battle, know of loss, and the raven is the symbol for many of the power and pain, and love that brothers of arms share. He knows many understand the loss, of a loved one, but he saddened for few truly know the loss that is felt when a soul forged in battle travels to its next campaign. It would be unfair to say it hurts more, but it is a different hurt, just as the pain of a blade is sharp and the touch of fire is burning. Well did the fallen friend know these pains and these hurts.
For this man that had fallen was not just a man of battle, he was a smith, a smith of metals and of armour and weapons, he was a smith of song and story. There were not the most important things he made or created, though.
A sigh escapes the warriors lips as he kneels at the edge of the water to watch the sky for the lights he will to soon see of the path that is being illuminated this night for his fallen friend. The sore muscles and pained flesh were nothing to the empty feeling that was inside, it never got easier, it was not something that became less with practice, it was a feeling that becomes greater with every spirit that must part for a time, to be met later on the journy.
The small rocks settles, and helm came off and was set aside, as the tears flowed. For it was not the items or the songs that his fallen friend truly made that made this man a smith but it was with the fire, the passions, the forge of his power, and his weakness, that made him a smith for in the battle he fought with himself he forged those around him, he forged them strong, he forged them with sorrow, with anger, and with hurt. These were not easy tools to bring to the anvil of life for these were tools that worked the wielder as well as that being worked.
If these were the only tools used, those who were around his fire, his passion and his heat for life, would be brittle and crack like a miscast chisel at the hammers strike. But the other tools this man held, and used on his greatest works, these were tools that many could only wish to have of such quality and depth. The hammer of Joy and laughter that would be broughtout, the bucket of love and compassion that could quench the most painfull heart. Tools of understanding and love. A great bellows that was used to blow out words of the soul and draw in the noise of speaches as his greatest works gave their pain, to this smith. He had these skills and these abilities because he understood so many of the problems that where faced , for he delt with them and fought... the smith did, withen himself.
His greatest works where created in the forge of his companionship, and they are those that would call themselves his friend, brothers, and companions.
Tears flowed from the eyes of the warrior as he put a small candle on the shore and lifted his eyes to watch the darkening sky, for a bridge of lights to form and the ravens to fly."
i don't know what else to say that hasn't already been spoken/written. you will be missed so greatly, my friend. For those who weren't able to make it to the RHI tonight, we will also be doing the formal full house scotch toasting for Mischka on thursday. Please, please come by if you are able, and share your favorite memories.
the time is late, and i am past the point of being able to cry.
thank you again, to all who were able to come tonight.
i think we did a pretty damn good job of sending you off, Misch. we tried, at least.
much love to you all.
~cheers.