Chapter 1: The Casting of Bones
The hut was a storm of noise, light, and pain. Outside, in the vast deadpan of the desert, a wicked wind tore through the night, kicking up dust, stirring the coyotes into a howling frenzy.
Between pushes, between panicked breaths that did nothing as the sweat and dust congealed and slipped down her neck and chest and bursting belly, Veda caught glimpses of the surroundings. Of the wolves and the scorpions and the boars painted on the dry skin canvas surrounding her. Of the heat lightning blazing through animals' eyes, throwing their charcoal outlines in harsh contrast. Of the fire sputtering out in the center of the shifting shadows as the bone charms clattered from the ceiling and nature's horror howled in through the snapping door flap. Of the witch doctor—a slender, young troll called Muzunji, face painted in the ways of his ancestors—chanting to the Loa but mostly just looking terrified that a baby was coming and his medicine bags and incantations probably weren't doing much of anything to ease Veda's pains.
Don't think of it, the Orc tells herself. Don't think of it. Unbidden, her clan stirs in her mind. Frostwolves, once. They had converged on the Dark Portal decades ago with the other Draenic orc clans. She was barely a child, then. Her father had carried her through that immense monolith of magic. It had felt like breaking through an icy lake and stepping into a blazing sun. Her father had died shortly after their clan was exiled to Alterac, and she and others had journeyed to join the New Horde some time later. So many had been lost along the way. She didn't know who they were. Who any of them were. They didn't know themselves, anymore. They were Frostwolves wandering in the desert. The First War had come and gone, and it had taken more than the beloved—it had taken their identity.
Who would her child be? Who were any of them? Who was left to tell them who they were?
She heaved. It was like nothing she could remember, like she was splitting apart, like every nerve was firing at once. Her mind spun. She couldn't scream or she would have no breath. Spots scattered in her vision. The lightning blared through the hut. The animals spun and ran, maybe. The wolf chased the boar chased the scorpion. The bone charms rattled. Darkness and light danced and life and death and myth and reality were all the same.
When relief came, it was only the pain that left. A chemical thing, maybe. The witch doctor's wide eyes looked up unflinchingly as he lifted the child, still slick with birth fluid and blood, umbilical cord a glistening snake in the dark.
The pain left, but the doubt remained.
"Congratulations, you be a mother, Veda."
She smiled weakly, tusks baring, head lolling to one side as the cool air of the night whipped in on the storm's wind. Her hands shakily took her child into her arms. "It's a boy, isn't it." She knew. In a way, without looking, she knew.
"Brave new world dis one born into," he said, collecting his payment from her things without asking. Veda didn't say anything. "He'll be needing protection, good raising. You do that."
Muzunji reached his long arm up and stroked the bone charms without looking, an old habit. Asking for good luck and protection from the spirits, the Loa, the ancestors. Whatever you believed in.
He stopped, turned his face without looking. "I'd normally cast da bones for ya, but this sack is kinda light." He tossed the sack of coins in his hand, weighing it.
Another flash of lightning. The wind ripped into the hut with a vengeance. The fire sputtered again, its flame going out. In the dark that remained, only embers glowed in its depths, casting an otherworldly hue to the walls. Shadows stretched like fingers to the ceiling, splayed over Veda's face, over the child of her newborn son.
"Hm," replied the witch doctor, looking out into the desert storm. "Maybe da Loa be tellin' me to take another thought." He laughed worriedly. "It be nasty out there, anyway."
Veda said nothing as he slowly returned, drawing a leather pouch from his belt. He cleared a table in the dim light and set a tallow candle alight with an ember from the fire. The warm glow spread across the table, and he spilled his pouch of knuckle bones on its surface. They rattled, and he looked down, frowning, when they went still.
"Hm," he said, gathering them and throwing them again.
Veda held her child tightly, looked down into his puffy face. Slowly, gently, she dabbed it clean. His eyes wouldn't open for a few minutes. His tiny hands were tightened into fists as he quietly tasted the breath of his new world.
Muzunji was attempting to see the child's fate, a cheap future. A destiny. Most orcs would end up warriors or shamans or hunters. Fewer would seek the other dark trades, like rogues and warlocks. Others would be craftsmen or leaders.
He had cast the bones several times before he gave up and sat on his haunches, scratching his head. "This…not be a common thing."
"What is it?" she asked, rubbing her child's cheek with a thumb.
"He will not be like tha others. He will struggle as you have struggled. What will ya name ya child?"
It was a strange thing to name an infant until some time had passed. Bad luck, some thought, in case it died in infancy. But Veda remembered her clan, remembered their journey. Remembered the man that had carried her into this new world, that had held her tiny hand as she tasted her first breath of Azeroth. He had died of some insect-born disease shortly after they arrived.
"My father was called Sargar Quickhand." She tucked her hand under her child's head and bottom and scooted him closer to her face, nuzzling her tusks against his. "He will be Sargrim."
"Sargrim," the witch doctor repeated, tasting the name. "Sargrim will be different from da others. He will follow da path of de arcane." He quickly gathered up his bones and tucked his bone bag away, leaving his medicine pouches as he made for the door again.
"That…can't be right," she said, confused.
Muzunji shrugged. "It be what it be. Da bones have spoken."
Lightning flashed. The wolf chased the boar chased the scorpion. The tallow candle burned to its stump.
Sargrim would be an orphan by sunrise, and on another continent by the time he was six.
