Cayzle's Wemic Site
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The Tale of Zeoll Leaving Home
Zeoll was born to a pride of liontaurs who were members of the Aene Clan. He was apprenticed to a priest, named Frith, who served as the pride's shaman. Zeoll was hunting alone for feathers from the elusive Haway bird, which have certain ceremonial uses, when the pride was destroyed in a hell hound raid. Zeoll returned to find all his loved ones dead. For a long time he grieved alone.
Then the strangest dream came to Zeoll in the night -- one that disturbed him, and yet gave him hope.
The sky boils with thunderclouds, the wind howling its angry lament as the waters of the Safety Channel churn with unrepentant fury. Up from the sea erupts an island, complete with trees and animals, sandy inlets and a few craggy peaks. In the very middle of this brand new isle there is an idyllic grotto -- in the very middle of the grotto stands a figure of midnight black, indistinct in shape, yet it seems to be a wemic.
The figure's own howl of anguish rises above the sound of the storm. It rips open its own chest. The lances of lightning from the storm explode nearby, revealing that the mysterious figure has naught but an empty, bloody hole where its heart should be.
Suddenly there appear two glowing spots -- one to the north of the new isle, the other to the south. The glowing spots are on the isles of the Centaurs and the Minotaurs! What could this be?
The two points of light glitter with a brightness that outshines the lethal lightning bolts and disperse the storm. Each light rises, arcing in a lazy yet unwavering path towards the dark figure on the central island. As the two glittering globes near each other, they are easy to recognize -- one is the Heart of the Stag ... and the other ... the Heart of the Beast!
The two halves merge, momentarily bedazzling with intense luminosity ... and the ancient artifact of legend is once more whole.
The newly-healed heart lowers gently into the empty cavity of the dark figure, who sighs with relief and happiness. Dark figure? Nay ... it is Tomi, god of wemics, who smiles upon you with gratitude before adopting an urgent look upon his face. He points directly, and he says in a voice that is loud and undeniable:
"*You*...MUST...quest..!"
The young Priest of the Ceaseless Hunter meditates upon it, and he comes to a conclusion:
Having failed to protect his family, Zeoll said to himself, he now had no direction in life, no one to guard. A black time of grief and rage had fallen on him after he returned from a hunting trip to find that ruin and death; shadows still lingered in the recesses of his head.
Zeoll stood on a cliff high above the surf, looking into the rising sun. The dirt was warm under his feet, and sun's rays blinded him. He raised his swords, crossing them, so that the shadow cast by the intersecting blades shielded his eyes from the rays. A golden voice spoke from the east:
Step on the path from the hinterland Follow then where it will lead. Stranger will offer a stranger hand Welcome all that you don't understand Search for an answer beyond the strand Then may the wemics be freed.
The early morning light cast a golden-rosy glow, limning the sails of the small trading ship that was in the midst of preparations to sail east again, laden with the exquisite handcrafts made by the numerous members of the other beleaguered prides of wemics upon this island that had been the home to their race for more than four hundred years.
Zeoll was not a sailor ... but he just knew that this ship could not leave without him.
Zeoll bounded down to the shore as quickly as he could without breaking his neck. He ran to the wharf as fast as his four lion-paws could carry him.
At the ship, the liontaur looked for someone with authority. He thought about how he could convince the Captain to let him aboard. Perhaps the few gold pieces he possessed would suffice for his fare. Perhaps he could sign on as a healer, guard, or entertainer. Perhaps he could work for his passage.
And in the back of his head, Zeoll wondered amazedly at his recent dream and -- what? -- vision? visitation? Yet he welcomed these marvels, which eased his anguish somehow. The deaths of his family and pride were still strong and dark in his heart, but the future did not seem so bleak.
Seagulls wheeled overhead, and their skrees were lost for a moment in the sound of the sea. "And I can't even swim!" Zeoll thought.
Zeoll reaches the trim merchant vessel in time to see a tall human bellowing orders to his crew. A short, wiry half-elf spots the waiting wemic and shouts in Common:
"Oy, Cap'n Parsons -- furface a-lee!"
With this, the human looks to his left, turning as he does so, and regards Zeoll with surprise.
"You wish to trade?" Parsons asks in passable wemic.
When Zeoll heard the sailor say "furface," he half-unconsciously rubbed his jaw, running his fingers through the short, curly, soft hair of his beard. But he suppressed the flare of anger he felt at the clean-shaven two-legger, not wanting any trouble.
Instead, he bowed low and addressed the tall human in wemic. "Yes, Captain Parrsons, I wish to trade -- for passage. I must board your ship and travel away from my homeland-in-exile. I can offer you some gold, but I would rather trade in kind. I am a priest, so you will find me useful to heal wounds, bless the crew, and purify your food. I am also a warrior, as are all wemics, so I will help if you are attacked. And I have a few skills as an entertainer, to relieve the voyage of its tedium."
The liontaur looked expectantly at the human.
Parsons looks Zeoll up and down, his eyes taking on a calculating gleam.
"Priest, you are?" he replies. "And anxious, too, to go upon the sea..." The grizzled captain purses his lips then nods. "We can find a use for your services, I think, yes." Then Parsons wheels about and bellows:
"BUCKO!!!"
Immediately the half-elf who'd called out about Zeoll scampered down from the ship.
"Aye, Cap'n?"
"You show our newest crewmember where the quarters be," Parsons orders in Common, "And mind your tongue -- he'll be either blessin' your food or cursin' it, depending on whether you're of a mind to learn things." The half-elf's face grew ruddy, but his only response was:
"Aye, sir!"
"And your name, my good cleric?" Parsons asks in the wemic tongue, looking expectantly at the liontaur.
The liontaur ducked his head briefly in embarrassment. "Forgive my enthusiasm, good Captain," Zeoll said in wemic. "I am Zeoll, Student to Shaman Frith, Warrior to Pride Nonowla, and Son to Clan Aene. I am pleased to be at your service."
Zeoll went where the captain directed him -- at first, just to the rail to watch his home shrink away.
Zeoll tried to laugh as he heaved his guts over the side of the boat, but all he accomplished was to splash vomit on his forepaws. Still, it amused him to contrast the vision of his dream -- a hero sailing from the isle of his birth on a quest for his people's salvation -- with the reality of the acrid stench in his nose.
"The high shamans say Tomi first brings low those he later elevates," Zeoll thought to himself, "so as low as I am now, he must have great heights in mind for me!"
Stamping his feet and wiping his mouth on his sleeve, the liontaur paced back to the huge pile of rope on which he had been sitting. He thought once more about the hell hounds that killed everyone else in his pride, including his parents and the shaman who had been his mentor. His tail lashed.
But he had dreamed his way back to hope and purpose. He forgot his churning stomach, and the curses of the sailor mopping the deck faded as he entered pondered his visions, dreams, and hopes.
"Then may the wemics be freed." He quoted softly to himself the voice he had heard.
"Perhaps it was merely a phantasm conjured by my wishful mind," Zeoll mused. But he took odd comfort in remembering his dream as the ship tilted back and forth, carrying him far from his island home.