Ogg and Trog, tired of the cold, overcast skies of their native lands, slowly migrated their motley tribe across the hills and the plains to a place with fairer skies. Arriving late (cross-continent treks are long, don’t-cha-know), it was already far past evening twilight when they arrived at a lake, so they curled up to sleep underneath some trees that looked familiar enough to not be worrisome.
Several hours of slumber later, Trog is awakened with a slap on the head (Ogg is not known for his subtlety). Grumbling, moaning, and cursing in some long-forgotten language, Trog hurls himself to his feet, butting chest to chest with a panting Ogg. Irritated that his first new morning in a new land was cut short so unexpectedly, Trog eyes Ogg with a look that could now only be interpreted as something like, “you’d better have a steaming hot mastodon burger to give me.”
Sensing Trog’s mood, Ogg hands him some berries he’d just collected, but also gestures for him to follow as he bounds off up the nearest hill. As normally Ogg isn’t the excitable type, and he did bring him some new berries that seem to be edible, Trog pulls his mammoth pelt cloak snug about his body and slowly starts to make his way up the steep incline. While the terrain wasn’t particularly challenging, but the fact that it was still night-time made everything just a little rounded-off in the darkness. About half-way up the hill, he thought he could make out some type of glow coming from what seemed to be the top of the mountain; with each step it became a little lighter, sometimes a little orange, some a little red, even slow shifts towards purple. It was a good thing that Trog had finished his handful of berries as he reached the top of the mountain, because he surely would have dropped them in amazement of what he saw. “Cool huh?” asked Ogg.
He was of course, referring to a sunrise to beat all other sunrises, spread out before the two of them and reflected in the lake below. Now, while this was indeed a fine specimen of a sunrise, impressing Ogg and Trog wasn’t particularly difficult. In the cold and shadowy land they’d both left, a heavy cap of clouds clung with a depressing inevitability to the sky, night and day. Though it did forestall the necessity for sunglasses, it also ensured that Ogg and Trog had never seen anything but a “warm glow” in one direction in the sky, and certainly nothing so colorful. “I just love the gradients from orange to red, then back into purple on the right there,” Ogg pointed out, gesturing with an outstretched finger. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” Still reeling from the hike, some exotic berries, and a few fewer hours of sleep than he’d wanted, Trog stood still and soaked in as much sunrise as he thought he could handle at that hour. “I also love the reflection of the muted tones in the water down there,” Ogg continued, “isn’t it just awesome?”
“Indeed, I am inspired to awe,” Trog replied slowly, “therefore, it would be awesome.” The two admired the slowly progressing colors painting in the sky, ever-watching the horizon grow brighter as they watched. A squirrel chattered at them from a tree above.
“OH, and check this out,” Ogg suddenly declared, picking up a rock of appropriate size to bean the squirrel off his branch. Shuffling a few steps forward, Ogg pitched the rock off in a graceful curve with all his might, finally splashing down and creating a racing ring of circles in the otherwise pink-tinted, mirror-flat water below. “Instant feedback,” Ogg declared proudly.
“Aren’t you glad I got you up for this?” Ogg asked with an excited grin.
“Well, yeah,” admitted Trog, “but what do you call it?”
“That’s the best part,” Ogg stated proudly, “I call it Web 2 point Oh.”
Rolf Skyberg - pattern hound 
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