Her baby is dead.

Ragash Skull-Cleaver stares down at the small altar to Luthic, reaches out to adjust one of the carefully carved figures of the goddess; this one is her warrior facet, clad in armor and holding her deadly club high. There are other figures, showing different sides of the goddess, from battle to defending caves, to sickness, to the one foremost on the altar now. Motherhood. Softer and carved of darker wood than the others. This one she has prayed to for months now, near a year, since discovering her pregnancy. Since the birth. Since the child…

Her prayers have not been answered, but she is not angry with her goddess.

The child was sickly, she thinks. Weak and pale, his cry pitiful, unable even to latch onto her breast to drink. She had known then that he would not survive, but the instinct to care for him, to protect him, the possibility that he might recover, might grow stronger… A futile sort of hope, Ragash thinks. The life of her clan is trying at times, and strength is needed from everyone of they are to survive. The sickly can be nursed, the old cared for, but a child so weak that he cannot even feed…

It is a blessing he is gone. Held now in the embrace of Luthic, he is safe. She cannot blame her goddess for that. She lights incense that smells of fresh pine.

It hurts all the same, this loss. However much sense it makes.

She hunches her broad shoulders and closes her eyes, and prays silently.

“We leave soon.”

She is drawn from her thoughts by the sound of a voice, and she turns to see Glasha at the mouth of her small bedcave. She is dressed for battle, wearing armor and carrying her maul. Her war paint is freshly applied, but her expression is one of sorrow, of gentle understanding. Ragash knows the fierce warrior understands. They are sister-friends, and Glasha has lost a child before.

Ragash exhales slowly, and bows her head to the altar, and then stands, her armor shifting as she does. Reaching over, she lifts up her club, and her shield, and steps out to join Glasha.

“Let your sorrow turn to anger for the weak fools, sister.” the other orc says, gently gripping her shoulders and squeezing, before she turns. “Spill the blood of our enemies. Luthic is fair. She will give you another chance, I believe.” she smiles, and Ragash takes comfort in the familiarity of her face, the curve of her tusks, the smell of the oil she works into her skin.

She nods, squares her shoulders, and the two walk out to join the ranks of the raiding party, the evening sun warm and red on mottled green skin.

==

The village is too small to have a proper name, too miniscule to have a standing army. They do not expect the raid, indeed, are woefully unprepared. Their weakness is their own undoing.

As a horde of orcs descend upon them, many attempt to flee. Those who do are left to it, disappearing into the forest nearby. The clan is here to take, to spill the blood of those who fight, not to needlessly slaughter cowards. Those who stand and defend are cut down; there is hardly a proper fight in them, but Ragash gives them credit for bravery. Simple farmers, and yet they try to fight, to give the others time to escape, perhaps. It is noble, in a sense. And futile.

She and her squadron have carved their way into the heart of the village. The sounds of fighting have faded away now, most of the locals either dead or escaped, and the task now becomes sifting through the buildings to find what they came for. Food, cloth, precious metals. As a farming village, their supply of seeds, of vegetables and grains, is impressive and useful. The quiet after the battle is somewhat disconcerting.

It does not help that her squad mates will not shut up.

Glasha is well and good, but Sharn and Yotul are younger, full of fire and energy, but without experience to temper their attitudes. The foursome are taking a small break on the steps of the main village house, and Ragash is quickly growing weary of their voices.

“Hogug says he admires my strength. He brought me this as a gift.” Yotul boasts, throwing out her arm to display the bleached white bone of her carved bracelet. Sharn murmurs in appreciation of the trinket, and Glasha looks to Ragash and rolls her eyes. Neither of them care to tell the prideful woman that her precious bracelet is likely stolen from another. Hogug has no talent for making such things.

Ragash sighs, and stands up, stretching until her back pops. She shoulders her club and sniffs, then turns. They have yet to scour through the three houses next door, and though she doubts they hold much of value, she will do anything to be free of this inane chatter.

“I’ll return.” she tells Glasha, spares a glance for the two still caught up in their conversation, and steps off to continue their work. It keeps her mind from wandering to the image of her babe, waxy and cold and dead in his wrappings.

The first hut yields little, a few tools of poor make, parchment and bottles of ink, a bed of straw and patched blankets that Ragash ignores. The second hut proves more fruitful, and Ragash is pleased to find a stock of dried herbs in what she assumes to be the kitchen storage. She thinks this must be where their healer lived, for the place smells of medicines. There is a basket of linens in the corner, half-cooked bread at the edge of the oven. On the bed she finds a well-made quilt, which she throws over one shoulder, content to take this with her and call the others to help her take the herbs.

She is turning towards the door when she hears a soft noise, a faint snuffle and huff she recognizes instantly as the sounds of a child. Startled, she turns, and casts about the room, and focuses on the basket of linens in the corner. She stares for several long moments, and then exhales sharply as the blankets move, some. Eyes wide, she steps heavily over and crouches down, reaching in to lift the cover of cloth out of the way.

Her first thought is that the child is ugly, but not as ugly as human children, because it is not human. The small creature cannot be more than several days old, not unlike Ragash’s own child before his death, she thinks. It is shaped oddly at the legs, like an animal, clawed toes, and it has a tail sticking out from its dirty napkin. It is also red, and has a short covering of black fuzz atop it’s head. It snuffles, wrinkles it’s nose, opens its eyes blearily. Clear and blue; she sees no pupil.

It is wholly unlike and creature she has ever seen, and it startles her some. She is relatively certain that this village was composed mostly of humans, perhaps a handful of gnomes or dwarves, but nothing so… Vibrantly out of place as this babe. Indeed, she cannot imagine how anyone might come into possession of it. It is… Different, indeed. It cannot be related to the humans. And to be left behind, hidden or not… A child might smother in heavy linens. Perhaps they were intent on seeing it dead? Ragash snorts. As if their clan kills children without need. This little one has offered no offense. Although she is somewhat unsure what to do with it.

She supposes that the Matriarch might decide what will be done with it. Likely, she thinks, it will be left as an offering to Gruumsh, or abandoned in the forest for the parents to collect if they so choose. She shakes her head, and reaches into the basket to lift the child up.

Pain shoots up her hand from her finger, and Ragash stares in stunned amazement at the child. Though it is young, it has teeth, tiny fangs that is has sunk into the offending digit as it approached. The bleary blue eyes stare up at her, and it releases a tiny growl. Something inside of Ragash stirs.

“…you are a fierce little thing. Aren’t you?” she murmurs, softly, perhaps with more fondness than is appropriate. She chalks it up to her unresolved maternal instinct, shakes her head to clear it. Still… Still to so boldly protest movement, such ferocity for such a small thing… It reminds her of an orc child, of what her own child should have been. This one is nothing like her own, even beside the difference in species. Chubby and healthy and energetic, releasing her finger to shift and kick it’s legs out, grab it’s tail and gnaw on the end of it, teething in the spaces of its gums it has yet to grow tiny fangs. It cares little for the fact that an unknown person is standing close by. Bravery, perhaps.

Or simple infant carelessness. It leaves off teething to shift, and Ragash watches in fascination as it scrunches up it’s face, heaves in a breath, and releases a wail. It’s lungs are strong, a further testament to it’s health, and part of her… Wonders.

It is strange that she is the one to find this infant, so soon after her own child is dead. Luthic is not always kind, but she is fair, and so… So, perhaps this is her recompense. One child taken, but another given, a boon for the many years of service in her name. Perhaps it is foolish to think it, but… The gods work in mysterious ways, and Ragash is not one to question it. The signs are there, or she is a fool. And Ragash has never once been called a fool.

The babe’s wailing grows louder, and Ragash detects the hint of a gurgle in it’s stomach. She wonders when last it ate, and before she can consider further she is scooping the child from the basket, pulling aside her armor and tunic and binding to bare her breast. Her milk still flows, wasted with no child to feed from it, and this… This she considers another test. If the child will eat, if it will-

It takes only the faintest brush against it’s mouth before it turns and latches on, focused entirely on the task of feeding itself. It is healthy and strong and it growls when she shifts it as she disrupts it’s feeding. She is overcome with emotion, and she fights the tears in her eyes. Lifts her face to the ceiling, thinks of the sky beyond.

“Thank you.” she breathes out to her goddess, so grateful she cannot speak beyond that. Instead she turns her attention to the child, and moves to sit on the edge of the bed, to let it finish it’s meal.

==

The others are waiting for her when she returns, carrying a bundle in the quilt from the second hut. Glasha gives her an odd look as she approaches, perhaps noting the way her armor is faintly disheveled. That quickly turns to shock as she realizes that her sister-friend carries a baby in her arms. She walks forward, leaving Yotul and Sharn to stare. “What is this, Ragash?”

“A gift, from Luthic.” she reports solemnly, but cannot temper the edge of excitement in her words. “A boon. A healthy babe, for the sick one which was taken. I know She meant her for me, Glasha.” a cursory inspection under the soiled napkin revealed that the child is female.

Glasha stares, for a moment, at the red face and closed eyes, pointed ears and red skin. Not a human, or a gnome. Not an elf, gods forbid such a thing. She looks to Ragash, and wonders for her friend’s mind. She knows what the sorrow of losing a child can do. Perhaps it is only a trick of her emotions. But… But she seems so much more at peace than she has been, since her loss. Perhaps Luthic does mean for this to be so. Neither of them have any right to question the ways of a goddess, after all. Indeed, not even the Matriarch would ever dare claim such a thing.

“We will have to tell the others.” Glasha says, quietly. The other warriors, the War Chief, and the Matriarch, too, when they return to the home caves. She doubts that they will argue much, at least before the Matriarch and the priestess have a chance to discuss. No one wishes to anger Luthic, or risk her wrath, as well as that of her husband.

Ragash nods. “I know.” she responds, because there’s no need to argue. She knows she is right, that this child is a boon. She will not be swayed.

They turn and walk back to Sharn and Yotul, and the two are staring, silent, for once, at the bundle. “What is that?” Sharn asks, something vaguely disgusted in her tone. Ragash narrows her eyes.

“None of your business, worm-tooth.” she snaps, protective, and draws the babe closer to her chest, ignoring the indignant look on Sharn’s face at the insult. She shoulders past them, intent on ignoring them. Their opinions matter little enough to her. “There are medicinal herbs in the second hut. Bring them.” neither Yotul nor Sharn have the seniority to rightfully ignore her command. They move away, murmuring between themselves.

Glasha follows her, instead. “The War Chief will be at the meeting point.” she informs her friend. “We should go now, and not waste time.”

Ragash nods, and the two of them, with the babe comfortable in Ragash’s arms, head off towards where their fellow warriors are gathering.

==

The War Chief is uncertain what to make of the situation, but he is a reasonable sort, with a proper amount of respect for their gods and Their wishes. He allows Ragash to tote the child back to the home caves with them, and then present her to the Matriarch. The trek back to camp is peaceful, hampered only by the faint murmur of rumors beginning at her back. Ragash notes the voice of Sharn, specifically.

When they return to the home caves, she leaves the group to the celebration of a successful raid, and goes to seek audience with the Matriarch. It isn’t difficult; her name is known. The Matriarch is the one who burned the corpse of her lost child.

Soon, they sit in the warmth of her bedcave, a larger expanse of carved stone walls and flickering firelight, paintings on the walls, writing, stories recorded physically, although the Matriarch knows them all by heart.

The history of their clan, recorded here. The Matriarch remembers it all without aid.

She is an old woman, but not ancient, sitting with her back hunched and dressed in ceremonial garb. Her impressive tusks are pierced, as are her ears and face, and she keeps her staff at her side as she examines the odd baby in her lap. The child is unafraid, though the Matriarch is a fearsome sight; indeed, she seems almost as if she might fall asleep soon, and Ragash, seated across from them both, feels her chest swell with pride. An orc in spirit, if not body.

The Matriarch murmurs softly to herself, words Ragash cannot hear, and she pulls away the quilt from around the child to better examine her. The baby grumbles and shifts unhappily, kicks her odd legs and lashes her tail. The Matriarch reaches down with one finger, perhaps intent on inspecting her mouth, and Ragash cannot warn her before the child has latched onto her finger with those small, sharp teeth in much the same as she had done at their first meeting. Silence stretches.

Then the Matriarch inhales, and looks up, and Ragash wonders if she is imagining the faint gleam in her eyes.

“Luthic is fair.” she says, in her cracked voice. “That She offers you this in exchange for what you have lost… it is keeping with Her nature. I believe you, Ragash.” she smiles, piercings jingling some as she does. “I believe what you feel. This child is healthy, strong. Fierce, even.” she is chuckling as she tugs her finger from the fangs. “She is not our kind, in body. In spirit, she is as much a fighter as any orc child. I believe it will please the goddess that you raise her.”

She twists at the waist and pulls a bowl of white paint closer. “Your clanmates may not see it as such. How they talk.” The Matriarch chuckles softly. “But no harm will come to her. She is one of us now.” she dips two fingers into the thick paint and lifts them out, and draws them down the child’s forehead vertically, leaving her mark.

She bundles the child and offers her back, and Ragash takes her. It warms her heart when the child turns into her chest, evidently already used to her scent and nearness. “Go now. Settle her into your bedcave. When the first moon of her life passes, name her.” she pauses. “I will be keeping an eye on you both.”

Ragash nods, then bows her head respectfully before she stands. She makes her way out of the cave, and she carries herself lightly now, full of happiness, of pride. The rest of the clan is celebrating, as the stars sparkle overhead, but Ragash thinks she will skip the festivities for now. She wants only to put her new child into her bedding and let her sleep.

This plan is interrupted by the faint sound of her name, murmured by a small gathering around a fire. She pauses, and squints, and sees Yotul with several other warriors, Sharn seated beside her. At first, she thinks they are simply retelling the story of their battle this day, but as she draws nearer, she hears otherwise.

“…some freakish red child, too small and weak to even leave alive, and she brings it back here, for the Matriarch! As if it will even be considered.” Yotul is giggling softly. “Her mind is ruined from losing her first baby. She is pathetic! Her blood is too weak to bring a proper orc child into the clan, so she must find the scraps of the weaker races and bring them instead. That tiny imp will not survive the winter.”

The others murmur, or laugh, and Sharn cackles her agreement. They haven’t noticed her yet, and Ragash knows she could simply walk away and leave them to their inane prattling and spreading of rumors. They’re wrong, anyway. But-

Well. She isn’t one to back down from a challenge. And that is nothing if not a challenge.

With the babe in her arm she stalks forwards, and the small crowd parts for her as she moves. Yotul looks up and her eyes go wide, and she hesitates for a moment, eyes flicking from Ragash’s face to the bundle, and back. She doesn’t seem quite sure what to say. Fitting, Ragash thinks, for a brazen warrior not yet grown into her tusks.

“You speak with confidence for one so young, and inexperienced.” she growls out. “I see no babe on your hip. I see no mate, only some stolen trinket from a male who will likely only string you along. If you wish to challenge me, do it proper, and we’ll meet on the god’s moon in the ring. Is that your wish?”

Yotul is a young fool, but she is not inherently stupid. She knows her chances of defeating a seasoned warrior like Ragash are slim. It’s likely she never expected to back up her bold words. She shakes her head, lowering her eyes in submission. “N-no, elder sister. I do not. Forgive me.” humility, at last. Ragash thinks it will not last forever. She snorts, and leans in closer.

“The only reason I do not demand satisfaction is that I would not sully this night with your foul blood, worm-tooth.” she says, low and dangerous. “Keep away from me and my daughter. Your stench offends me.” she turns, and walks away, head high, shoulders set, leaving the young warriors to nurse their injured pride. For the first time in a month, Ragash feels peace settle in her chest, and the face of her dead son does not haunt her dreams that night.

==

One moon later, when the child is still strong and healthy and fat, Ragash names her Lash. One day, when she is older, stronger, she will add more names to this. Ragash is certain of it.