Woundwort

He was born a son of the Icewarden, yet his first breath carried the blessing of the Plaguemother, as his clanmates called her. For the first three days of his life the disease ravaged his body, draining his lungs, scabbing his skin, until his fur fell out and every breath was misery.

Yet he survived.

He was Plague.

When he opened his eyes on the fourth day, and saw clearly, realized the scabs were healing and his running nose had dried to a ticklish crust, he staggered out of the nesting quarantine field alone. Then, and only then, did his mother run to him and tell him that he was loved, did his father smile and celebrate that he had a son, did the clan gather around and welcome this new life into their midst, this new life that was a survivor, like them.

A few hours later, his brother joined him in life.

His sister never did.

Together they grew to learn of life in the clan; how their father guarded the fearsome beasts of Shade-touched Plague, how their duty as sons of the Icewarden and of the Plaguebringer was to survive, and make sure others did as well, unless they were Shade-touched.

"The Necromancer's art is not for us," his father said. "We cannot kill and heal with a touch. Yet our corruption is far deeper and more subtle. If we die, our bodies will live on, continuing to guard that to which we dedicated our selves in the name of the Icewarden our maker, and the Plaguebringer our mother." He gestured with a claw to a remnant, a barely formed shade of dust and ash that swirled near the entrance to the prison.

The child had no name. Far be it from his family, removed though they were, to break the tradition of the elders. "Your name must be earned," said his father.

"How?"

"By finding your calling."

"Is that like the Charge of a Guardian?"

"Yes and no. Your calling may change as you age. A Guardian's Charge never does. But your first calling marks you for what you are, not what you may become."

The child thought. "I am not called to serve here."

"Perhaps not," his father said. "Perhaps you are called to be of the Seeker order, and must travel from place to place. Or perhaps the Icewarden calls you home. Or perhaps the Plaguemother calls you to herself."

The child felt the blessing of the Mother within. "She calls me to herself. But not to the Wyrmwound. She calls me to aid another, in his sacred task, outside the Scarred Wasteland." He shuddered. "Far from home and the Mother's love. And yet I must go."

"Young as you are, you must," his father agreed. He reached out a claw and scored a deep mark in the young antler. "Go with the blessing of the Icewarden, the Plaguebringer, and your father. Your name is Woundwort."