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Creation Story When the land was taking it's first breathes and the demon eyes were still blinking. Before the time of men and humanoids, when the Spirits were young and still tinkerers, they built from sand, rock, mud and minerals. One turn, the Spirits were baking when the trickster Phantom happe...

Zabka watches the frog, lost in quiet thought as the storykeeper's voice colours softly the night's air. His gaze lifts at the clicking of his name, and likewise, his eyes drift over to Tikitu's hiding place before he tactfully averts them back to Saiuthefas. "I have not seen her this turn,&quo...

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Zab is quick to click his agreement, sparing a glance at the the newcomer as he works at unfastening the pouch at his belt. "True. It is bad enough that you should be here at all, Melina. The pink skins are heathens." The sound of croaking subsides briefly as the shaman tenderly lifts a sm...

Zabka rumbles a low growl, silvery brow knitting in his displeasure, "The metal might be for wooing," he concedes, "They don't wear it and I bitten one to test, it didn't taste good..." The shaman's gaze drifts to the darkening sky, contemplatively quiet for a moment before his t...

"I am grown now, Nohnahm!" protests Zab, sounding the youngling now as well as looking one; cross-legged in the grass and peering up at the old woman. He waves a dismissive hand, nose wrinkling, "The pink skins don't bother me... Tikitu was collecting those strange, metal discs that t...

The marc is growing late when Zabka pads, barefoot, across the soft grass of the Worldbuilder Lawn. The rangy fellow stops to bend and examine the occasional bloom; gently brushing purple fingertips along the plump edges of petals. He picks a spot by the well, sits and waits for his kin. His silvery...