3. [untitled] (Lycka's journal)

[untitled] (Lycka's journal)


  • A small, plain and unassuming blue book, its pages filled with a sprawling, bohemian handwriting, in blue ink like the book's covers.

    (the following story is largely based on the player of Zoma, Avarice WindSpears farewell tale. I thought it deserved a better fate than remaining hidden amongst my personal PMs)

    The dream keeps haunting me. My mother’s dream, though I recall it as if it was my own, and maybe it was, in part. I was drawn to dreams when young, like a moth to a flame, my shaman told me. It was an ability that almost cost me my life later on, but on this night, on this cold autumn night in the safety of our tent, I like to think my father’s spirit reached out to us both.

    I remember suddenly waking up in the middle of the night, drenched in cold sweat, overwhelmed by the feeling of loss. A last lingering image in my mind’s eye remained – a great snowcat, lost in darkness, achingly alone and crying out. His tears became my own as I whimpered, making my way over to my mother’s bed in the dim light of our tent. She was already sitting up, as if awoken by the same feeling as I.

    She looked like a ghost – pale-faced, ashen even in the faint light from the nearby brazier. I climbed into the bed, threw my arms around her. Her skin was cold, and for some reason, this scared me more than anything else. My mother then was always warm, always welcoming, smiling, caring.. but now she looked gutted, at death’s door. I burst into a flood of tears, knowing with an icy certainty that my father was dead.

    Her strong arms wrapped around me, and we sat there together in silent mourning, clinging to each other. Outside, for the first time I can remember in the camp, it began to snow and on that day, the world felt cold and empty.

    It was only later that Ragnhild put words to it all, and as she told the tale, images swam before my eyes as clearly as if they were my own. This is the dream that still haunts me, that wakes me in a cold sweat even to this day:

    The world is black, white and red, my vision strangely distorted. A sword in my right hand – heavy though it is, it feels like an extension of myself – and a shield in my left. A bastard sword.. I realize with a pang that I am seeing myself through Zoma’s eyes. This is his vision, shared with my mother through the bond that united them.

    Zoma is locked in battle with a powerful lich – a gaunt, robed figure, a staff swirling and pulsing with red, negative energy held in its skeletal hand. I, the unseen passenger, can only watch as his companions fall one by one, and with every one that’s defeated, I can feel Zoma’s smile grow ever wider, his sanity at its breaking point, clearly losing the battle of wills with the lich who sneers cruelly at him.

    The battle is brutal, not in a physical sense but rather I can feel with terrifying clarity my father’s mind being gradually getting torn apart. Sparks fly as Zoma’s sword smashes against the undead sorcerer’s staff. White and red, against a backdrop of blackest shadow. Maniacal laughter can be heard from both sides; one evil, the other simply beyond sanity’s reach.

    A red burst of light flares, and Zoma collapses, falling heavily on his knees, as though resigned to his fate. His limbs are leaden, weariness numbing every muscle, his will broken. The lich’s sneers at me, at Zoma, and begins casting what seems to be the finishing blow. I feel myself drowning, sinking into the darkness overwhelming me, us.

    Suddenly, the world slows down around us. Everything is drawn out, moving as if through syrup – the teeth of the lich chatter in slow motion, the flames surrounding us from the lich’s enchantment dance in a slow adagio pace. In the corner of Zoma’s eye, he sees several ghostly images behind the menacing form of the lich, who suddenly seems unimportant now.

    The ghostly shapes are three wolves. One is a giant, huge as a dire wolf, standing proud and majestic. I know in one look, that is the great Grey Wolf himself. The remaining two images, a wolf and a cub, are much more familiar and close, emitting an aura of warmth, of love.

    I instantly know that Zoma is envisioning the image my mother and myself, in form of our totems.

    The flames slowly die down, the lich’s enchantment finally complete and before my eyes, I see Zoma’s soul successfully extracted into a physical shape – a crystal, burning bright red. The sight is both beautiful and grotesque.

    The crystal floats between the lich and us, still burning brightly in red but now mostly covered by a one eyed monsterous creature, tentacles embracing the crystal, choking the light within.

    The lich grinned its boney grin, confident in its victory. But I, we, Zoma is filled with new-founded strength from the images of the wolves. Grinning as well, I slowly stand up, the spells seeming to flicker and falter at this newfound resolve. Sword and shield lie forgotten on the ground, but I rise to strike one more blow.

    Time at that instant shifts to the present, no longer slowed. In a flash of blinding speed, with the last of my strength, I pull an old blood soaked rusty dagger from my belt, thrusting it right into that accursed eye embracing the crystal like it was its own.

    I hear screams, of shock, and then of despair, which eventually turn into a shrilling death cry. My own scream echoing too, of defiance. The one eyed monster releases it’s choke hold, lashing out its tentacles before disintegrating right before me. I slowly look up at the lich, only to find there is nothing left of it but its robe and staff dropping on the ground and its ashes scattered across the room.

    My vision reverts back to normal, no longer just the black, white and crimson world. And I shift this newly restored gaze back to the crystal, no longer clutched by the beast which obscured its true form.

    The crystal now glows a gentle blue, but is damaged and missing chips by its edges. The cracks on its surface are deep and to my alarm, I notice that it is continuing to crack, a deep crevice growing along its midst. By this time, the whole room, which I only now realize is the lich’s throne room shifts and shakes, random lightning striking out from the empty air.

    I hear screams and suddenly see a woman I know is called Liselsia running towards me, only to disappear from view as a column falls in front of her. Trapped in the chaos of the crumbling throne room, there is nothing left to do but to approach Zoma’s crystal, his soul.

    The crystal is small and fragile, cradled in my hands, his hands. It feels warm to the touch, but brittle as the cracks keep growing on its surface. Suddenly, the room is filled with blinding light and I feel myself sucked into a swirling black vortex, a maelstrom of magic released by the lich’s fall.

    I’m swirling in the darkness, the light of the crystal my only source of light. I swirl and swirl, helpless and trapped in the whirlpool.

    As we fall into darkness, I can sense Zoma’s last thoughts in the shape of thousands of images, dancing and flickering before me.

    I see images of children, locked in mortal combat. White hair, stained by blood. I see the same child, again in battle, nearly grown now. His eyes are cold and hard, his face as scarred as his soul. He moves in a deadly dance, blade flashing, but it’s a joyless and bitter skill. Anger. Vengeance. Sorrow.

    I see Kara, scarlet hair dancing in the wind as she smiles, love shining in her eyes. I see that same face turning away as she strides further on another path. Regret. Pain. But also love.

    I see a cave – Zoma, Horbag and a blonde man I know to be Damarcus, seated near a fire. The birth of the Guardians, handshakes and smiles of comradery.

    I see Elena, I see kindness, caring and adventure shared. The bitter taste of defeat as Horbag pours a bowl of stew, steaming sinisterly. The faces of other Guardians; Wren, Yarchum, Rianna, Natasha, Merin, Tontou, Wog, Yolanda and many others. A sense of family, of purpose.

    I see the sisterhood – Nicahh, women in black and red, children running past in happy, screaming glee.

    But most of all, I see my mother – her golden curls falling down around her face as she leans over Zoma, his head resting in her lap. She’s young, so very young, and smiling like the sun. I feel the ice in his heart melting.

    Another scene – a tower overlooking Norwick’s south gate, a starlit night. A revelation, a endless moment’s waiting – and a first kiss. She tastes of ale and life. A fire lit within.

    Ragnhild, eyes wild in the heat of battle. Ragnhild, skipping over rock and stone in the vast gypsy woods. Ragnhild, laughing, wrestling, raging, bleeding, blushing, shining. Everywhere, Ragnhild.

    And then a stream, her face streaked with tears, a small bundle in her arms. He takes the child, takes me in his arms, kissing the white downy hairs on my head. Love. Healing. Redemption?

    Tears fill my eyes as we plunge deeper into the vortex and the last image I see is the crystal Zoma is holding breaking apart into a million, razor-sharp pieces. The images shatter with the crystal itself, diamond prisms, shimmering shards swirling down, down down into oblivion. The dream itself shatters, sending me hurtling back through space, to wake up in the same cold sweat, feeling that same cutting loss, every time.

    He is no more, he will not even exist in the afterlife.

    Zoma is gone.

    Aelthas stirs beside me, a comforting arm tugging me back to the bed’s warm embrace. Our bedroom door creaks open, and a small, white-haired boy pads in, clutching a mangy toy wolf.

    “Mama, I have bad dweam.. can I sleep wiv you tonight?” Zoma asks, teary-eyed.


  • ((claps! amazing story… thanks for that. I wish we had a FB style "like" button for posts like this.))