D'sparil woke within the nest. This clan was split into Hands, they were called - a grouping of stoneborn bound by lood or by friendship. Each would bury into into the earth and with the materials gathered raise a irregular building. Amoung the more ordered human houses of Oakshire, the unruly nests of each Hand was unmistakable. The underground section was cool, and many stoneborn in truth often disliked the heat of the sun. Other stoneborn, Rock Children like himself, lay slumbering in various poses amid a dozen unfinished or broken golems. The tang of magic was heavy in the air from the lifeless creations. One such golem was his, but the magic had been unkind, and the body had shattered like hot glass quenched in ice.
For a moment, he lay still and listened.
The grinding of a mortar and pestle could be heard. Undoubtedly the mother, grinding down the tough karchin roots grown locally. Most humans could not stomach the bitter, gritty texture, but stoneborn cared little about eating for eating's sake. The breathing of the seven other stoneborn was loud in the sleep-chamber, and one muttered as it dreamt of gods-know-what. He tried to shut his eyes again, but the ground held no more comfort, and his eyelids found themselves sliding open again.
Argh. He was restless. He decided to head out, clambering through the dark, winding passage to the surface. He grunted as the sun struck him, and breifly covered his four eyes while they adjusted. He would find others his age, no doubt.
Look for others.
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Topic: Generation Of Destiny: Ded (Read 71204 times)