You suppose that one day, you will be a mage.

For now, you are still an orc, still Daimd. Still so sensitive a creature as to wear a sword on your hip. You run your smooth, dry fingers over its hilt—no longer hard with caluses as they once were—and keep your self-adjudication to yourself; you practice an identity whole, complete, and unquestionable. But as you wake, before the sun's reach extends into the sky, and move through the practices that mark you as one with violent arcane potential, you wonder.

You wonder what, not if, they will take from you. You wonder how many of their demands you will find distasteful, the same way you find the warchief's Orgrimmar distasteful. You wonder, wonder, wonder if they will assume themselves the right to kill you.

When you are a mage, you wonder if you will remain his, or become something else entirely.