[center]9:20 A.M.[/center]
[center]Smor'Gen'Blok[/center]

Ebony waded through the deep caves perpetually. Low light was no obstacle for Ha’Kul and his ilk; the same applied to his firstborn, Za’kul’s eyes pried open with a conscious of their own. Falling into his eyes was as much illumination his eyes could muster. A grunt, a hard exhale. Transitioning from sleep into the waking world was as jarring from Lok’Sha as it was for normal humans. When he gathered himself, he rose.

Strapped to his chest was his bandolier. On the cave wall some feet above where he slept were his three weapons of choice: twin battleaxes and his two handed greathammer. The work of the morning had not to do with weapons of war, but greeting his father and then forging. That was the course of most of his days. Not long after Za’Kul awoke, so did the other members of the tribe. It did not take long before Za’kul had made his way toward his father.

Ha’Kul--chief and patriarch of the Low Kul tribe, among the weaker and more disgraced tribes in this land of rock--sat by the Hearth Stone which was the heart of his people’s protection. In his father, Za’Kul saw himself, a flash of greed; in this way he was more his mother, a taker. His father was a good man, cunning; good, cunning men did not survive long without relying more on their cunning than their goodness in Lok’Sha. Goodness had to be snuffed, buried--and that his father did well, at least the members of his tribe knew no different. Outside, however, Ha’Kul the Low could not fool the other chieftans. They knew he was weak, they just didn’t bother to stamp out the Kul because they were--in the words of the Great Shaka tribe--”ant.”

Za’Kul had intentions to change all their minds, whether it be war or peace. Finally in front of his father, he put one fist over his heart and spoke,

“Pa.”