There was a tree.
It stood in the middle of a wind-blasted desert, as it had done since the beginning of recorded time.
No leaves rustled on its branches. Their beauty was lost when the world was burned. Yet, the solid foundations of the tree remained – stalwart and resolute – standing tall in the middle of what was left. There was a different kind of beauty in that.
Beneath the tree, a woman cried out in pain, her pelvis shuddering under the weight of bearing new life. Above and around her stood dark-skinned humans kissed by the watchful sun that blazed above, chanting a song that meant something only to them and the spirits they offered their souls up to.
To the unborn child, these things of the world were not yet known or understood. First came screams and thrusting into the searing, uncaring reality called The Deadlands. The world of nothing but endless desert – a wasteland bearing only the ruins of a civilization long gone.
Old, withered hands reached to caress the child's head when she emerged, and the child's grasping fingers coiled around these aged hands and looked up into the wrinkled face of this human that was older and wiser than all who had ever lived or would ever live.
Beside them, another human spoke:
"Father-Mother," he said. "Laughing-Wolf is gone."
The child's cries were then lost in the wails of the humans assembled, for, unbeknownst to her, the mother that bore her gave one final shriek of pain and then expired. Beneath her, blood seeped from the place that had been the child's gateway into the hands of the elder one, but no longer did the woman's limbs move, and no longer did her hips gyrate under the pains of childbirth.
As the Elder who held the child looked to the skies, they saw something that wracked their old bones: from between two clouds, a spear of lightning tore through the dead desert air and struck the tree, bathing its tip in fire and heralding a deluge of biting rain. The people gathered around and knelt as the storm broke over the Deadlands. Their faces would not look upon the power of the Gods.
The Elder, called Father-Mother, looked down at the child they held in their hands. Her voice had grown silent, but there was a burning flame within her eyes. The same fire that had threaded itself through the heavens and touched the tree above her.
"My Elder," the other human said. "This is an omen of darkness. This child – this thing – it is born of discord."
But Father-Mother did not share the fear of the other human by their side. In their mind, secret cogs were turning, calculating, and reaching new conclusions.
"A child born of lightning," they whispered. "Ushering in a storm."
Ushering in change.
Unbeknownst to the other members of the tribe, Father-Mother smiled.
"Ragged-Brow," they said. "I know the name this one shall bear."