The round wooden hut called the Boiled Bone belched out smoke, perched on stilts at the edge of the Valley of Spirits next to the dusty canyon road where orc warriors patrolled under the hot sun, enduring the calls of dried meat vendors. Polished crocolisk skulls gaped from the rafters, urging customers to bring appetites equivalent to such worthy beasts.
“Ah, one thing I do miss about the old island. Lots easier to get a man in those days, just cook something and give it to him when he came back from the hunt. Now there’s so many trolls everywhere, many of them strange to our ways,” sighed Mala’ha.
“Doesn’t that give you more choice? Not much to choose from on the old island,” remarked Daj’yah, feeling more self-conscious with each step.
“Most men are the same, just get a live one and you’ll be all right,” she laughed.
Daj’yah rolled her eyes, feeling her body shrink into itself. What was she doing? She didn’t like the Boiled Bone and its eternal stench of spoiled palm wine, the drunk clients and their ridiculous boasts. Mala’ha expected her to find a man here, of all places? She wished she was a heroine in a Lordaeronian comedy of manners where suitors pursued their loves with grace and poetry, expecting a fine lady able to appreciate it. Daj’yah almost laughed; she knew those novels didn’t reflect the reality of old Lordaeron. But it was fun to believe.
She grimaced as the stale air wrapped around her face like a sponge, an evening crowd already filing in. Two old trolls with Skullsplitter markings slapped bone dominoes on the table by the door, the sharp percussion still audible over the laughing flirtations heard elsewhere.
“This isn’t such a good idea,” muttered Daj’yah, her eyes adjusting to the darkness.
“None of that! Sit yourself down and have a drink. I swear, I’ve never seen someone as nervous as you. Have a little faith in yourself!”
“Lacking faith in myself isn’t the problem,” she said, as she watched a young Darkspear chug down a keg of banana beer. Her life’s endless longing dissipated in that instant, the way it always did in such situations. She knew it would return all the stronger once she went home.
“They’ll like you fine,” Mala’ha scoffed, completely misunderstanding what Daj’yah meant.
Mala’ha bought two mugs of palm wine to the grimy table, along with a coconut shell filled with sticky rum. She poured most of the sickly-sweet drink into her cousin’s palm wine, Daj’yah recoiling in alarm at the sight.
“You need to ease up! This helps. Always does.” Mala’ha downed the rest of the rum in a single gulp.
A withered Bloodscalp with a kettle drum in hand ambled up to the bar, wrinkled hands pounding on the hide. He wore wooden bracelets studded with tiny metal rattles that jangled against the wood, the sounds creating a fierce and steady heartbeat for the proceedings. Almost unseen in the shadows, a younger island troll began blowing on a brass horn, the seemingly aimless rhythm dancing in between the beats. Daj’yah noted the valves on the horn, a hint of Forsaken or Sin’dorei influence.
Maybe I should mention that to him, considered Daj’yah.
She didn’t. Beside her, Mala’ha began clapping, her sculpted body swaying to the rhythm. Troll men chuckled in appreciation, whistling at her to get fierce smiles in return.
Daj’yah scowled, her cousin’s sudden generosity explained. She chided herself for the thought; Mala’ha alone had been kind to her, the possessive and bullying kindness an older sister might feel for a wayward younger sibling.
Night wound on in the Boiled Bone, words and notes slurring as the palm wine flowed. Admirers flocked to Mala’ha until the creaking hut seemed to tilt to one side. She returned their entreaties with clever barbs, the crowd reeling with laughter and desire. Daj’yah continued to sit, her drink untouched. Sometimes Mala’ha motioned for her to rise but she refused, not knowing what to do.
“This fine lady here is my cousin, Daj’yah. Silent like the hunting jaguar and ten times as fierce, too much for you puny whelps,” she sneered.
“If we wanted a jaguar we’d be dancing in the forest right now! But we’re here, with you!” bellowed an inebriated warrior.
“If you were in the forest right now you’d be in some monster’s belly for sure.”
They laughed and clapped to her every word.
Finally, a young warrior who looked as if he’d come right out of his mother’s house sat down before Daj’yah, the smell of fermented bananas clinging to his pores. He wore a tousled blue mohawk on his scalp, the hair starting to droop in the sweaty air.
“So who’s the quiet one, eh?”
Someone who knows better than to talk to fools.
“Daj’yah, like my cousin said.”
“Ah, I’m already forgetting what she said. I like it more when women talk about me. I’m young, sure, but strong in the arm,” he boasted, flexing his admittedly well-muscled right arm.
Pity you can’t say the same about your brain.
“But this arm isn’t the only place I’m strong.”
Thank the Loa, I was worried the left arm didn’t match.
“That’s good,” said Daj’yah.
The warrior blinked, and then look to the ground.
“I guess I didn’t say that very well. What I meant—”
“I know what you meant,” she interrupted, partly to spare him embarrassment.
“Oh. Look, I don’t know a whole lot about women, you know? I mean, I just go by what my brothers tell me. So maybe you could tell me something.”
“I don’t know much either. Maybe you should ask my cousin.”
“Ah, I wouldn’t know what to say. I mean, if a real lovely like you isn’t interested, I doubt she’d be.”
He got to his feet, defeat writ large on his face.
“Wait! What’s your name?” asked Daj’yah.
“Ven’ghol. My father was Hoto’jan, he died fighting the murlocs.”
“He must have been in a different village from me. Um, very brave of him though.”
“Everyone in my family is brave. You see it even in the babies.”
He seemed to waver in the hot air, and Daj’yah’s heart caught in her throat. Suddenly the dense room seemed to press in on her, the heat thick enough to kill.
“Let’s go outside.”
Jumping up from her seat she went to the door, too afraid to look back and see if Ven’ghol followed. She feared her heart would burst, her head spinning from a single sip of the mix, a primal song in her veins. The cold air of the desert night washed over Daj’yah, her blood still running hot. She seized up in panic when she heard the bare feet on the walkway behind her, and she turned to see Ven’ghol, lean and strong in the torchlight.
“It’s a good night. Good for many things,” he said.
“For sure.”
Leave. Now.
She stayed rooted to the spot, not sure what to say.
“Don’t be shy, Daj’yah. You and I both want some fun, eh?”
He moved forward, his uncertain gait belying his confidence. Arms outstretched, he reached towards a strand of Daj’yah’s hair, plastered by sweat to the side of her face. His smell flooded her nostrils, alcohol thick on his breath. Her eyes darted all around, not sure where to look, her hands fluttering useless by her sides.
And then, anger. Anger towards the drunken fool leaning in, and to Mala’ha, and to the whole damned world that had no room for her. Her pride, the one thing she had for herself, flared up at that moment and she turned away.
“Wait! Let’s see if you really want me.”
“What?”
He watched in confusion as she knelt down by the water, dipping her hand in the foul stuff and splashing it across her face. Daj’yah flung the beads to the ground and threw her hair back. Running back to the door of the Boiled Bone she pulled the torch from its sconce and held it up next to her face.
“This here is what I look like, Ven’ghol. They say I could have human blood in my veins, with my ugly round face, my tiny little tusks! You want to kiss this?”
“Fine by me,” he muttered.
“And then you go back and tell your friends about this ugly lonely girl you had fun with? You know nothing about me!” Can you love me? Can you? I want you to, but can you really? her mind shouted.
“Yeah, and I don’t want to anymore! Crazy woman!”
Daj’yah slammed the torch in its place and shoved Ven’ghol out of the way, storming back to the Darkbriar Lodge alone, thoughts of arcane fire burning in her mind.