Long had the Tribe of Moro made it's home upon this island, draped in such thick mist spewed forth from vents around the mountain base, a once active volcano, where caverns of water met with hot rock with chasms venting the mist, to protect from the harsh sun, and prying eyes. Long had the blood of Moro been faithful here, shrines to the local loa's giving them protection from all for generations beyond count. The jungle trees concealed several shrines, save for Beth'ekk's who rose to the top of the central mountain, statues of obsidian in her honor. At the base of this mountain, was the entrance to Moro'mar, the realm beneath the mountain, dimly lit to any not native or acclimated to these underworlds.
It was here that the chief resided, deep within, having been blessed to find a mate, though the poor Sin'dorei did not particularly know how blessed she was, or perhaps she just didn't agree. Twice blessed was he now, that his mate had come to be with child, an heir to his ancient blood. Deep within the caverns she stayed with disappointment, however, this was not her story.
Shorak, a fiery maned jungle troll, lean but not without strength, for his own kind, a perpetual grin hidden behind small, upward curved tusks, and deep purple eyes. This, perhaps goofy figure, lanked his way through the caves to offer his services, he had known this woman, and knew that she would not wish to stay here. He came to the mother and offered his services as a zul, or by common term, witchdoctor, to aid her to speed up the process. The woman gladly accepted, and Shorak called forth the spirits, to hasten the growth of the child in her belly, to swell and grow and be born faster.
Shorak succeeded... He succeeded so much that he failed, but he did not know it. The baby grew at an incredible rate, within a month, the baby was born, strong and healthy, the mother, more than happy to leave, she fled back to her life, the father distraught, but had a daughter now, a beautiful baby girl was born, black of skin, heavy, and strong at birth, with brilliant blue eyes.
Kitak thought he had done well, and offered to aid the chief, the chief gladly accepted any aid, and Kitak took the baby when needed to care for it. As fate turns though, it's wicked humor fell upon the shaman, as war broke out, calling away the chief and his warriors, leaving Kitak not in charge, but his daughter in the trusted man's care. It was, in this comical fate that he would notice the child, was still growing at a faster rate. It was remarkable really, her father's blood showing in her size for her age, at first, but after she was walking within a month and getting ready to talk, he uncovered his mistake, but there was not he could do about it. He taught the little girl as she grew at her rate, her mind eating it at a rate to match her growth, her mind growing as fast as her body, if her attention willed it to.
Several months in, she was the same as any girl in the range of 7-8 years of age, waking up in her bed in Kitak's cave, himself sprawled half hanging out of his hammock. Luckily, the maids and mothers were willing to donate or quickly make clothes to keep up with the growing chief's daughter.