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Don't leave me, baby! Middle of winter, I'm freezin' baby! - It's cold, and Gucci Mane lyrics work for most any context when slightly edited.

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The Rise of Kul

Smor’Gen’Blok


Intuition--that was what the Kul had above the larger and myriad tribes of Smor’Gen’Blok. To read a body before acting was how he and his people had not been crushed by the tribes above them. Now, with precious time fading, Za’Kul had saw an out; he had gotten the remainder of the Wor Lok’Sha behind this aggressor to budge. The screams of Wor’Da’Li could not be abused as a point of sympathy, though; no, the Wor would see right through that. Whether she could actually be saved was beyond Za’Kul’s capacity for comprehension right now.

“Fighting? This is not time for fight. Kul cannot crush Wor even now, never could" a little appeal to the fiery warriors in these Wor tribesman always helped, "but Wor own people dying because of stupid feud. I help one of yours, you help me.” Za’Kul turned and looked over his shoulder,

“She saved if quick. More talk, and she die. I try helping her, will keep helping Wor if Wor let Kul go.”

His offer for help held no deceit.
The Rise of Kul

Smor’Gen’Blok


Wor’Da’Li was falling, Za’Kul could not stop to rescue her and try and save himself. A hearty and heavy sacrifice he would learn from if he got out alive. One had to take risks, whether or not these risks payed off were what differentiated warriors from cowards, and apparently the youthful and wishing like Za’Kul from the wont wisdom of Ja’Kul who fled.

In his path were a crowd of Lok’Sha. Wor survivors at that. Now, he had to think quick on his feet as the Hearth site was collapsing rapid around him.

“You not like darkskins, but darkskins only help. Gave workers, gave tools. You stop me, but then stop rest of yours from getting out.” more Wor were scattering, some who had taken Za’Kul’s idea and headed for the nearest tunnel.

“Kul low, but not enemy. Wor live on but will be small,” it was their entire home collapsing; not just some section of it. Thousands of Wor had or were going to lose their lives here today, and would be reduced to little less than a meandering clan, now devoid of their leader’s son and with no idea of where their leader was, “Wor going to need Kul help if Wor want to stay alive. Kul know low and high tunnels. Kul have protection still.”

There were no lies this time. He only hoped they bit his bait; he had plans for himself and these remaining Wor if he could convince them to put aside their differences with his kind and his tribe for but a moment.
we in it
Azania, East Africa
A Bunker
July 7th, 10:30 a.m.

”Morality is the first step toward cowardice.”

- Ulysses Klaue



A plume of cigar smoke trekked through the entire room. Full light made it clear to each man to whom they were speaking: one Ulysses Klaue, physicist and Nazi son, the other a veteran of war and former army man turned dictator. General Magnus Moore nestled his little nation on the southeastern tip of Africa near the Cape Coast, and it was the only nation in all the 55 countries of Africa with a predominantly white population. Moore, like Klaue, were here today with a single interest: a hermit kingdom’s metal.

Behind Moore stood his Supremacists: Voortrecker, Captain Blaze, Barricade. Across from Moore was Klaw, the origin and cause of the smoke-filled room. As host of this meeting, Moore took the involuntary pleasure of speaking first,

“Ulysses, is it? Yes, son of the renowned Colonel Fritz Klaue--Baron Strucker’s bulldog.” at the insult, Klaue stopped puffing his cigar, his legs remained propped atop the round table.

“Something foul come from your mouth about my father again and I may have to get unfittingly violent, General. Understood?” he blew smoke in the General’s face. As bodyguards do, Moore’s meta-men moved to attack, Moore waved a hand at his trio dismissively.

“Mr. Klaue jests, vriends. Let us address our business, Mr. Klue. I am told you are the finest, ehm, contractor in these dark lands. Is that correct?”

A gruff laugh escaped Klaue, he drew from his cigar again and puffed the ensuing smoke from his nostrils. Klaue plopped his head back on the chair, eyes closed as he soaked up the euphemism. Contractor. How nice of the General to dally. Klaue had no time for his nicieties, there was money to get, and the General’s love for language was too above Klaue for him to care.

“I kill people, General. People like you hire people like me--” a prod of his own chest, “to get rid of people like the Wakandans. That is why you brought me here, right? Problems with the cat man?” Moore smiled, a little flustered at how callous Klaue was. How rushed he wanted everything; that was not a quality of a thinking man. Moore wafted a hand at Barricade, his resident brute, who retrieved a silver metal case and laid it on the desk.

“Calling them a problem is an insult to our people, Mr. Klaue. They are simply a nuisance. A nuisance” the suitcase clicked and its lid opened, "which will be swiftly dealt with this time." Inside the velvet inseam of the suitcase lie a Vibranium coated bullet. Barricade spun it around so it was visible to Klaue. Klaue swept his feet from atop the roundtable and leaned forward.

“Well haven’t you just outdone yourself today, hey!” a boisterous laugh which turned to a cough, mucus and phlegm rattled his chest. Too much smoking. He would give it up soon is what he always told himself.

“I tend to.” smug and arrogant Moore was, he had masterminded the first ‘invasion’ of Wakanda in 1941. He had masterminded self-experimentation, siphoning and manipulating the DNA of his people to keep himself young.

“Your orders,” Moore continued,

“Orders?” Klaue objected,

“Forgive me. Your… payment... will come after you have assassinated their King. You will meet my man in the States for the specifics of your assignment.” a picture passed his way,

Klaue raised an eyebrow and scratched his head in confusion, “are you sure this is the right, uh, ‘guy’? He’s, y'know. . . white.” Moore let on another of those smug smiles,

“Yes, of course I am sure, Mr. Klaue, I am always sure. They call him the White Wolf.”

The Rise of Kul

Smor’Gen’Blok


His dreaded compassion put him here. Now he had to find a way out; first, he had to make sure he was not crushed by the massive boulder rolling his and Wor’Da’Li’s way. He pulled her to the side and let the massive boulder roll passed the two of them; other Lok’Sha suffered for his decision, but not everyone could be saved. Even fueled by four hearts, he was but one being. Death was imminent, anyway--it is still unfortunate that some, yes, even those he would on any other day call his enemies, had to meet their ends this way.

“Where exit?” Za’Kul inquired,
“Closest one in south.” A long trek, each cave system had a series of exits, but with the respective tunnels collapsing slowly there would be little time to reach one before Za’Kul and his new companion were trapped in the rubble.

All he could do was run. Shattering rock was no easy feat, but it was one the smith’s son was all too acquainted with. As the ground beneath began to cave and the cave’s axis began to tilt, Za’Kul hopped and leapt across ever growing depressions. Where consistent floor became sloped, Za’Kul made a point to move himself away from the center of the collapse where the seismic activity was strongest.

His companion had mostly kept up, only a few steps behind him as the duo went. He only needed to reach the southern exit before it caved in, and he was close. Narrowly avoiding collapsing debris, Za’Kul hadn’t stopped. If he was going to get out alive, he would use all the advantages afforded him by his body.

Or with the help of Rajaka.
I like everyone except myself.


A big mood.
The Rise of Kul

Smor’Gen’Blok

Hi'Wor Hearthstone Site

10:16 a.m.


With his life, Za’Kul escaped. Had Ju’Kul not warned him to the peril, he would have ended up in the same ditch Hi’Wor was in. Much as he loeathed Hi’Wor, an endless plummet into the unknown was a fate he wished on no one. No thought of trying to save Hi’Wor ever crossed his mind, though. Scattered Lok’Sha everywhere, Za’Kul soon joined their number in tow behind Ju’Kul.

As he clambered in steed of Ju’Kul, he bumped into a young Lok’Sha and what appeared to be an elderly grandfather. Her grandfather had gotten trapped between a falling rock, nearly flattened beneath it. Za’Kul heard the wails,

“Help! Help!” Wor’Da’Li cried, Za’Kul paused. The tunnels continued their collapse; his hate for the High Wor tribe resisted a similar fate. Lok’Sha were only ever rewarded for their sacrifice in battle, not for aiding enemies. What difference would Za’Kul’s heroics make? It would give him no great name, no prestige for his clan; that it was the ‘right’ thing to do mattered not. The only right was made by blade in Smor’Gen’Blok.

Still, something inside him relented.

“Ju’Kul, go! Make sure no other collapse! Find pa!” a crash. Za’Kul was separated from Ju’Kul; he, Wor’Da’Li and Ko’Da’Wor, her grandfather, and a host of other Wor Lok’Sha were cut off from the fleeing parties. Would time be gracious to them?
Now see....

I only know Jon Stewart through the Justice League cartoon. ducks!


Madness, but that's fair since it's where he got popular lol. He shines in the current Hal Jordan & the Green Lantern Corps run, anyone who is interested in learning more about him should read that.
<Snipped quote by Byrd Man>

Naw, I just didn't like the character. John Stewart is my Green Lantern and Static has always been a long time favourite character since the animated series.

I just hate Miles Morales.


John Stewart should be everyone's guy. Hal Jordan is interesting as lightly toasted white bread with no butter.
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