A solitary, salty tear formed in her one good eye and began its journey down her cheek, traversing the ebony contours of her face until it reached the strong ridge of her jaw. Once there, it hung precariously for a brief moment before hurling itself free, plummeting down and peppering the page of the wrinkled parchment she gripped tightly in her hands. Emboldened, more tears likewise followed suit and they soon fell upon the letter in a soft rain.
Memories of her “Uncle Ipsin” washed over Lyric in a flood: his hearty laugh and quick smile; the delight he took in the littlest of things; his giant bear hugs that swept her up to the ceiling with its gusto. Her stepfather turned his unbelievable stories into rousing bar songs that kept the patrons singing along and clamoring for more. Even her mother, aloof and secretive and severe, would beam a bright smile whenever Ipsin came to visit and – while she never spoke of it to anyone, not even Lyric – after a few pints of sour mead she would tell him of her former life and subsequent escape from her homeland in hushed whispers; always changing the subject abruptly when she noticed curious young ears trying to listen in.
So many of her childhood memories revolved around this man and now he was gone, somehow peacefully in his sleep and not ending up as “owlbear poop” as the man had often joked was sure to be his fate. It was Ipsin who had bestowed her with her current name, stating that the one she was given at birth was too complex for his “clunky human tongue to sound out without butchery.” It was also he who had encouraged her to seek the training of the White Robes after she had made faint glowing orbs of light dance in the corners of the room behind him, a gift of her mother’s strict tutelage and the blood flowing through her veins.
But more than anything, Ipsin had instilled in Lyric a desire to see the world and soak up whatever life had to offer. “All of life is story, good or bad; and the meaning of life to collect as many stories as you can,” he had told her once in her stepfather’s bar after a couple pints of sour, as Lyric’s father performed another of his Greenshield Ditties for the crowd on the small tavern stage. Ipsin’s words had danced around in her mind when she was offered the chance to accompany her mentor, the esteemed wizard of the White Order, Belwyck Samuels, on an expedition to explore an ancient tomb that had just been unearthed far to the East. This tomb was a place where the wizard believed that the Redeemers had visited during their time upon earth and the site of the possible origination of the “Day of Two Dawns.” Not his brightest or most clever student, Belwyck had seen promise in Lyric nonetheless, and she was honored by his inclusion of her on this momentous expedition and she jumped at the chance.
Buried memories of that ill-fated voyage washed over her and she felt the air go cold around her as Lyric was ushered back into those dank, dusty halls beneath the earth. As powerful as he had been, Belwyck was no match for the darkness that dwelt in that place, and the powerful wizard had fallen quickly as the creature’s mighty jaws closed in upon his neck with a horrifying crunch. She could still hear the screams and feel the terror that overtook her as she turned and ran, trying to block out the sounds of death that echoed in the catacombs behind her as she tried to make her way back towards the entrance to the tomb.
She had gotten turned around in those dark halls and found herself with two others of their small expedition in a dead-end hallway with no escape and death at their heels. Whimpering, Lyric turned to face her fate and watched in horror as the creature’s face had emerged from the shadows in front of her, a scaly monstrosity with eyes that glowed with a cold blue fire and fresh blood dripping from its fanged maw. To her surprise, the creature spoke to them, its voice icy and low. “Like fire to dry grass, my hunger burns out of control.” There was almost a hint of regret layered behind those words it had seemed to her in that moment, though it kept inching slowly forward towards her. As its pale, scaly clawed hand reached out to her, Lyric closed her eyes and awaited the inevitable darkness.
But it did not come.
“What is this?” the voice asked, but Lyric did not open her eyes. She felt the creature’s clawed hand grip her cloak tightly and she was yanked forward until the tips of her toes barely touched the ground as she found herself face to snout with this monster, the sweet sickly metallic stench of death wafting over her as the beast repeated its question. “What. Is. This?” Lyric opened her eyes as the creature released its grip on her, buts its clawed hand still held on to the small copper symbol of Habbakuk she wore around her neck, a gift from her stepfather who prayed regularly to the God of Nature for good grain and apple harvests.
Lyric croaked in a small voice, “Hab.. haba.. kuk.”
The blue fire in the creature’s eyes had seemed to die down a little as he turned his attention from the necklace and back to her face, as if trying to read the words written upon her mind. “Haruk?” The frost seemed to have entirely left the voice and it now sounded almost soft and contemplative.
Yes, some called Habbakuk the Nature God Haruk, Lyric remembered, and she nodded her head vigorously. The beast looked back at the necklace in its hand and stared at it for a long moment before speaking. “As water erodes the stone, so too have I been eaten away, now little more than sand upon the seabed than the granite that once stood. We were…Dragonsbane…at one time. How we have changed.”
The creature looked back at her and then to the two companions cowering paralyzed with fear behind her. “I will spare you, for the memory of the one that I once called friend,” it said, looking back down at the symbol in its hands, before letting it go. “And for the gift you have given to me, of the memory of who I was, so too shall I bequeath a gift unto you three. A piece of me to carry with you out in the world above…” Lyric felt herself grow lightheaded as a clawed finger reached forward towards her face…
Fortunately, the memories of what had transpired next were fragmented and garbled, with only pieces dimly remembered and wholly surreal, existing in her mind now like a nightmare faded into forgetfulness shortly upon waking.
The dark tomb walls crumbled away, and she found herself back in her dorm room in the Davidian Spires as the memory of that terrible day burned away like shadow exposed to light, and she rubbed her eyepatch and shuddered softly. Try as she might to forget, she would carry a trophy of that fateful day with her while she still drew breath, as it…he…was a part of her now.