Woolah drifted into uneasy sleep atop Mt. Kirama, the wind lulling him into dreams that carried him far from the jagged peaks to the dark, twisting tunnels of his youth. He was no longer a battle-hardened warrior of the Kaiju Clan, but a young, scrawny hatchling, scales barely hardened, eyes wide with the curiosity and fear of a child.

In his dream, the tunnels of Quazzar stretched before him, winding like the veins of some ancient beast beneath the earth. The air was thick with the smell of damp stone and the faint, acrid scent of fire from the distant forges. The flickering light of torches cast long, dancing shadows on the walls, and the ground beneath his tiny claws trembled with the weight of something ancient and unseen.

"Woolah!" A voice echoed from behind him, and he turned to see the towering figure of his father, a fearsome warrior clad in bone and iron. His father’s eyes gleamed with the hard wisdom of a thousand battles. “Come, it is time.”

Woolah followed, his small body barely keeping pace with the older kobold's long strides. They passed through the familiar warrens where his kin lived—small alcoves carved into the rock where hatchlings played and mothers whispered old songs. But tonight, they didn’t stop there. Tonight, his father led him deeper, into the forbidden tunnels.

The deeper they went, the more the air changed. It grew heavier, filled with the faint hum of power. Woolah felt it in his bones, a low, throbbing pulse that seemed to call to him, pulling him forward. His small heart raced with excitement and fear.

At last, they came to a cavern, vast and open, its ceiling disappearing into the darkness above. At its center was an ancient altar carved from stone so black it seemed to swallow the light. Around the altar, great pillars rose, each etched with symbols Woolah didn’t yet understand. They seemed to move, twisting and shifting in the corner of his eye.

At the foot of the altar stood the elders of Quazzar, draped in robes woven from the skins of long-dead beasts. Their eyes were closed, and their voices were low, chanting in a language so old even the stones seemed to tremble with its power.

And then, Woolah felt it—the presence. It was as if the air itself had become alive, pressing down on him, filling his lungs with the weight of something vast and unfathomable. He felt small, insignificant, in the face of it. His father knelt beside him, pressing his forehead to the ground, and Woolah, trembling, did the same.

“We are in the presence of the old gods,” his father whispered, his voice filled with reverence. “Kra'Zuhl, the Blood God, and Tharukhar, the Warbringer. They have watched over our kind since the first hatching. And tonight, you will feel their gaze upon you.”

Woolah’s heart pounded in his chest as his father began the ritual, chanting in the same ancient tongue as the elders. As the words filled the cavern, Woolah felt the presence grow stronger, coiling around him like smoke. His body tensed, his mind spinning. And then, in the darkness, they came.

First, Kra'Zuhl. The air grew thick with the scent of iron, and Woolah’s mouth filled with the taste of blood. A figure appeared before the altar, towering and terrible, wreathed in shadow and flame. His form was ever-shifting—sometimes a great dragon, sometimes a beast of many heads, each gnashing with hunger. Kra'Zuhl’s eyes burned red, fixed on Woolah with an intensity that made the young kobold’s scales prickle.

"Blood is the price of power," the god’s voice rumbled, like the earth splitting beneath his feet. "Blood is life. Blood is death. I am the flame that consumes, the hunger that never ends."

Woolah felt his heart quicken, as if the god’s gaze alone was enough to set his blood on fire. The urge to fight, to kill, rose in him like a wave, fierce and unstoppable. He understood then why his people worshipped Kra'Zuhl. The Blood God promised strength through sacrifice, power through the spilling of blood.

And yet, before Woolah could fully give in to the hunger, a second presence filled the cavern—cold and harsh, like the edge of a blade drawn across his skin.

Tharukhar, the Warbringer. A shadowed figure stepped forward, cloaked in the darkness of battlefields long forgotten. His face was obscured, but Woolah could see the glint of steel in his hands, the long, cruel sword dripping with the blood of a thousand wars. The god was silent for a moment, his presence cold, calculating. Then, he spoke, his voice a whisper carried on the wind of countless battles.

"War is the only truth," Tharukhar said. "Through war, we are born. Through war, we die. To wield power is to wield destruction. Know this, young one: there is no peace, only the conflict that shapes us all."

Woolah shivered, the cold grip of Tharukhar settling deep into his bones. The Warbringer did not promise power through hunger or vengeance; he promised power through unending conflict. There was no end, only war, an eternal cycle of death and rebirth.

As a child, Woolah had felt overwhelmed in that moment—his small form dwarfed by the presence of the two gods, their power washing over him like a tide. The elders chanted louder, their voices rising in a fevered pitch, and the room seemed to darken even further as the gods pressed closer.

And then, for just a brief moment, Woolah felt something else. Something ancient and deep inside him stirred—a connection, as if the blood of his ancestors was responding to the call of the gods. He understood, in a way his child’s mind could barely grasp, that this was his destiny. He was of the Horde, a child of blood and war. Kra'Zuhl and Tharukhar were not just gods to him—they were a part of him, woven into his very being.

The gods did not speak again, but Woolah knew they had marked him. As the chanting faded and the presence of the gods withdrew, he found himself kneeling on the cold stone floor, breathless, his body trembling from the experience. His father placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it firmly.

“You have been touched by the old gods, Woolah,” his father said, pride swelling in his voice. “Their power runs through you now. You will never be the same.”

Woolah nodded, his mind still spinning, but he understood. He had been chosen. Kra'Zuhl and Tharukhar would watch over him, guide him, push him toward his destiny as a warrior.

Years later, even as he trained under the Tengu and learned the way of Kukan-no-Ki, Woolah would never forget that night in the tunnels of Quazzar. The ivory effigies he carried were more than mere tokens—they were reminders of that moment, of the gods who had touched his soul and shaped him into the warrior he would become.

And no matter how much he sought peace through the void, the blood of Kra'Zuhl and the will of Tharukhar would always pull him back.

Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3