The shaman flipped the sheep onto its back, opened its belly, and began to sift through the entrails, murmuring incantations as he did so.Kharlacht gripped his spear and watched, taking care to conceal his distaste. He disliked omens, he disliked consulting the spirits, and he hated Narrakhan, the old shaman. But the customs of the orcs of Vhaluusk were clear, even if Kharlacht had chosen to follow his mother’s religion instead, and so he stood in silence with the tribe's elders as Narrakhan rooted through the sheep’s entrails. He refused to shame himself in front of Lujena, Narrakhan's daughter. "Behold!" said Narrakhan, brandishing the sheep's liver. "I have spoken with the blood gods, and they have answered!"The old orc hobbled closer, bloodshot eyes narrowed, his sallow, green-skinned face scored with countless lines. Kharlacht did his very best to keep the disgust from his face. Narrakhan stank of congealed blood and rotting meat and strange herbs. And Kharlacht did not care for the cunning glint in the old shaman's eyes.He suspected that the blood gods often said what Narrakhan wished them to say. "You go now upon your blood quest," said Narrakhan, his foul breath washing over Kharlacht's face.
