Cayzle's Wemic Site
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Zeoll
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.
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.
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 his vision again.
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, and Zeoll remembered again what it said:
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."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.