"-overseen by her daughter. It's Tyrande's ultimatum and, to a lesser extent, mine. I have no wish to fight the night elves. The furbolgs have been allies of them for ten millennia. We may have our differences, but… I won't fight them for you if you trespass in Ashenvale. The opposite. Outside of that, you can wait until she decides." I finished my long-winded explanation of what the ancient priestess had demanded.
My audience wasn't a fan of what I recited from the tense silence I earned as they likely processed my words.
I wasn't fond of it either, and the chance was beyond a day of waiting for Thrall, Jaina, or Tyrande to decide what to do. I knew the latter wouldn't be until it was too late. I would venture into actually productive endeavors.
"This bitch… she demands that we bend the knees?! Who does she think she is!? We may as well dig our grave waiting for her refusal! And you! You…" Grommash, to my opposite, roared, slamming his fist on the table-shaped vines, breaking a piece of it and making everything atop it fall.
"Gro-" He interrupted me, making my frown deepen into a full-blown scowling snarl, "Silence, bear! You speak of peace, but I only hear of submission of the Horde! I knew a life-twisting beast like you was traitorous! You're those purple elves' pet cursing me with this wretched life and desiring the orcs' fate as sacrificial pawns!"
I was stunned by the sheer venom for half a second. Then, my ears folded to the back of my head, my fur stood on end, and my feet pawed at the ground as I stood to my full height. The war tent bent, almost as if it was to collapse.
'Okay… then, ungrateful cunt.'
I had enough of this bullshit, his bullshit particularly. I could blame Medivh all I wanted, but he was just a good-meaning dumbass–nothing more–no matter what he did.
Thrall and Cairne were to blame, too, but that was disingenuous at best, and all three understood their errors.
Grommash? That was different.
This entire situation was the fault of the Warsong Chieftain. If the scraps remaining of his bloodthirsty warband still let him be considered that, at least.
He felt no genuine remorse—just 'woe is me, demons are bady' and 'boohoo, I lost my honor.' It was that, in truth, that got to me. That the Horde–well, the orcs–ate it all up and the minority of trolls and taurens were annoyingly wishy-washy about it didn't help.
"Brothe-" I heard fear and anger in the voice of the strongest elemental shaman in the room, but I ignored him, not that he was talking to me.
"Young Ohto plea-" And it was the same for Cairne. As much as I respected the Bloodhoof patriarch, I wouldn't let this slide. I don't take insults lightly, and those weren't light or from a place of ignorance.
Grommash may have made excellent points; they were meat shields, anger was understandable, and the kaldorei weren't helping, but everything else… I couldn't take that. Who does he think he is? The gall of that orc.
He used his every breathing moment to fuck up our survival.
It had to be rectified. Tragically, murder was out of the question. But alternatives were just as good, if not better. Grommash treated me like a beast; then I will treat him like one. And what do you do to a dangerous beast when you can't put it down? You declaw, you neuter.
With a flick of my will and flex of mana, the living table exploded into motion. Roots entangled the megalomaniac orc hand, clutching its broken edge.
And with an upward then downward yank of the table using my weight, Hellscream flew to me with wide, confused eyes while everything else on it was thrown. He still managed to grasp his battle axe with his free hand, but that was of little use.
It was too short of a distance for the blademaster to do anything but grasp it. Otherwise, I knew the orc could easily escape. But that wasn't the case, so I didn't care.
He landed at my feet like a sack of potatoes, and before he could get his bearings and stand, I slammed a paw on his back. He heaved drily at the impact.
The bladed claws of my stubby digits on the hard ground stopped any chance of escape beyond pressure alone. If he dared to move too much, limbs would go missing.
I bent forward, pushing a little more weight until his ribs seriously strained. A low yowl suddenly left my lips as I lost all sensation in my thumb beyond the now sharp, burning pain and flowing blood. Luckily, I didn't flinch much, or the little shit would have been crushed.
It was his fucking axe. Somehow, he cut straight to the metal-reinforced bone and lopped off my digit. And it royally pissed me off alright.
Vengeance didn't come from me, though. Groot reacted instantly, his roots hidden in my dense fur providing a quick response.
He twisted the limb backward. Grommash 'Grom' Hellscream, by his namesake, made a muffled scream as the offending arm was dislocated. His hand suffered the same fate, and his hold on his weapon was broken.
Gorehowl was taken in that moment of weakness by the same roots and tucked on my back for safekeeping. Without missing a beat, my tree friend's root realigned my thumb, and I reattached it with utmost ease, thanks to how shockingly clean the suboptimal cut was.
'Good little sapling…' I internally praised him, and he could feel my internal mana flow, thereby reading my general thoughts, and his response was a purring mana pulse of his own.
As this happened, my ears were constantly twitching. I wasn't deaf to the chaos; I just couldn't care. I wasn't finished.
Then, with bristling fur, my teeth bared, I growled out, saliva spitting at the side of his face, not eating sand, while he tried to do the same to me with little success, "Watch your tongue, orc! I'm trying to avoid pointless violence! I'm choosing to ignore your ignoble act-ah-fu-!"
I was reminded that I wasn't alone as my head was violently tilted by a few degrees right from the hammer slamming into its left side. The electricity coursing through it stilled my speech with the mighty hit, but it didn't do much damage.
It was a warning.
Shaking my head, I glowered at the Warchief's hammer crackling with growing intensity. The smell of ozone thickens in the air. It had been a warning shot. The next would hurt like a bitch and might even be fatal if he went all out.
A growling rumble left my throat as my lips were lifted, showing all my forty-two teeth. And as if reading my mind, Groot was growing the first layer of armor while my paw kept the blademaster pressed on the ground, my claws unclenching.
My gaze traveled down from the Doomhammer to Thrall, his green-skinned face twisted into a bizarre mix of anger, shame, and confusion.
His eyes were glowing with elemental power and ready to use to save the plague under me. A plague I should have left the burned body to the vultures yesterday.
Then my sight landed on Cairne, who was unreadable beyond concern and the flicker of tenseness in his cold expression. Far gone was the grandfatherly aura, for his runic spear, as was his position, was held ready. His muscles were ready to explode into motion.
If I did anything, the engraved blade would end in my face, but if the old tauren attacked, the blademaster under my paw would be squished like a bug. They were stuck, and they knew it.
I shifted my eyes to Jaina. Duke Lionheart was standing defensively at her side while the gnome, high elf, and dwarf representatives who had come didn't dare to keep eye contact with me. Wise of them, and they did a poor job hiding the joy taken from my manhandling of the egoistical warlord.
But all four were secondary to the sea princess. I couldn't quite get a read on her beyond frustration and disappointment…? Interesting. Bah, a problem for later if it's ever of consequence.
My attention cycled through them as the seconds trickled by, feeling like minutes–if not hours–until I huffed loudly. My fur slowly settled, but I wasn't relaxed—far from it.
"I hope for us all that Tyrande convinces her mate fast." I spat, finally relenting, my eyes zeroing on the equally furious ones of Grommash, and then I let him go.
Faster than I could think, let alone react properly, he spun backward with incredible speed and agility, betraying his muscled form's expected lumberingness.
He took a large, jagged knife from the back of his belt and moved in front of his Warchief, showing no strain from what had happened. He was ready to lay down his worthless life.
Then his body flickered, and seven copies of him stood in front of me, not that I couldn't easily discern the real one by smell.
But in the fire of the action, it could probably fool me; besides the smell, they felt real up to the life force in them itself. Well, at first glance, at least, they had no 'life' in them when you paid attention.
I wasn't sure what they were, but light mana constructs based on his body with a Life adjacent energies like Spirit was probably the answer.
Still, I snorted at that as Groot slowly handed Gorehowl to me through his roots on my mental prompting. The master-crafted axe was almost alive and thirsting for blood and carnage, the faint howls of unknown creatures reaching my ears as the blade cut the air.
And it was an utterly useless piece of crap for me beyond being pretty and being unnaturally sharp. But it wasn't only that. I didn't have an exact picture of its value, but the sight of the legendary weapon in my possession caused a particular reaction.
'It has emotional value then.' I concluded unsurprisingly.
My focus then locked on the Chieftain of the Warsong. And he and his mirror images of some kind of Spirit-infused mana went very still, very fast at the sight. His visage became the painting of catatonic rage, again shown six more times.
"What are you doing? Taunting me?" The true him demanded with barred tusk, clear urgency amid the cold anger in his tone.
He remained where he was like a good guard dog, however. It was the same for his illusion. Not that I was going to harm Thrall. Or that I realistically could do with any modicum of ease.
I lifted the comparatively tiny war axe.
Between the fingers of my left paw was the striking and well-maintained mace-like swell knob of shiny bronze tinted metal from which the haft carefully warped in thick, perfectly preserved old corded leather of an unknown animal.
Then, without a word, I held the ornamented poll–the non-blade part of the head at the back–with my right paw and twisted the two points in opposite directions like I was making cordage. Only I was using far, far, far more strength.
Still, it took shockingly more effort than I anticipated, even if it was obviously enchanted in some form, but ultimately, I got there in a heartbeat. It wasn't indestructible and could endure only so much, and it wasn't built to resist getting twisted.
It probably wasn't all that intact, as well. The wood felt centuries old, if not older, far older, and was petrified. And it was rather fascinating wood. All things considered, it was alien to what I was used to while feeling like mushroom flesh.
But my fixation was no barrier to my action.
"The price of your crimes, Grommash Hellscream." I declared, and then the awaited moment happened.
The handle creaked first. It was followed by the bolted leather tearing up, and finally, the fossilized wood shattered like a brittle twig yet looked like rock shards.
A loud, dry, cathartic snap echoed in the silent room as the haft broke and the faint scream of unknown creatures fled in the wind as if the tormented flicker of spirits were freed.
I carelessly let the remains of Gorehowl fall to the ground beside the tiny fragment of the haft my treant buddy picked up. Gone was the whistling and howl as the red glowing haze of the skull eyesocket opposite the blade fizzled away—closing as if it died.
As for Hellscream, his copies flickered out of existence as he stood frozen. His pupils were pinpricks, and with quivering lips, he stared dumbly at the broken piece of his family heirloom. Disbelief and realization were displayed to me, and it was a priceless spectacle.
Thrall's face wasn't any less surprised, if just sadder; what mattered was that, like the old bull. He wasn't prepared to fight me anymore, making the room's mood somewhat calmer, yet the tension remained. It was merely another flavor. Less aggressive and heavier, and it translated the same to my sensible nose.
"My presence is unnecessary. I will leave you to decide; be quick." At those final words, I exited the tent, my body morphing into that of a giant bat as I took the sky. From that simple action, a commotion erupted, as I was all too used to, be it here or with furbolgs, even if the former fearful smell was distinct. I was out of it in a few short flaps.
I flew for a minute, the powerful leathery beats of my wings carrying my multi-ton body lulling me into a calmer state of mind until I found a large rock to land on. Shifting back into a furbolg, I let out a heavy breath. The hot air invaded my lungs while an uncomfortably warm wind brushed against my fur coat, which was far too thick for this kind of environment.
"Fuck… that could have gone better…" I let out, my finger digging into my back until I got the fragment of Gorehowl's handle. There was nothing better than a distraction from what I had done.
It was light, and I mean not from my strength. But what was interesting was its appearance; it was a pale, almost white-brown with grey spots, and the inside was akin to some kind of muscle fiber.
'I wonder…' Curiosity was winning, and a flicker of ruby light emerged from my claw. What would happen if I infuse-
"I strongly advise you to do that in a laboratory, young prophet. That stone is not as it seems and not as dead as it may appear."
I jumped in fright, nearly dropping the petrified wood in my fumbling. But I understood as the spirits were still translating for me.
"Medivh." I growled without heat, turning to the cloaked not-human, his small stature as was most everyone, forcing me to crane my neck down, "That's better than last time. Have you come to taunt me for my recent failure?"
He chuckled, and I blinked slowly to ensure it wasn't an illusion. Why was he here, and why was he so 'casual'?
"No… and I wouldn't call it a failure. I have come as an equal and not a messenger. I wish to speak. You are… strange. Stranger than I or anything I have encountered. It is subtle," Tensing up and barring my claws was my instinctual response, but I let him talk.
"Worry not… I bear no threat nor animosity to you, yet you remain an anomaly that is anything but one. You are, and you aren't. Dead and alive, from here and there at once, ever-changing in a state of flux, transforming as I blink and look away. A paradox in flesh and blood." He finished with a purse of his lips and a tone of incomprehension.
"Huh… Schrödinger's cat." My mind supplemented, and my mouth whispered–as much as I butchered the word–it and the Arcane 'spirit' nodded. Shit… well, I fucked up two days ago. The cat was already out of the bag, but I had multiple bags.
But I lacked most of those metaphorical bags, given that I was uncertain about my rebirth—whether it was truly 'me' or just my memories making me believe I was 'me.' I probably would never know, and that was probably for the better with those kinds of rabbit holes.
"I do not know what a 'Shoedicknkert' is or why possessing a small domestic feline is important… but it ties to it all. Young prophet, you are no normal seer." Medivh explained calmly, and I was seeing where he was going.
"It's like two possible outcomes of a singular event happening at once when you don't look, I think. And I know this much I'm odd, but has there ever been a norm for us?" I shot back with a raised eyebrow; well, the rectangular lighter shade of fur mimicking one.
"Ha, no… No, indeed, but you are fundamentally distinct in a way I can't perceive, less so understand. I will pry none, but know that I will seek answers I cannot even hope to glimpse when the time is ripe. For now, farewell, young prophet."
After that stupidly cryptic message that left me more frustrated and confused than anything, he turned into a crow and flew away.
Gnashing my teeth, I breathed out and realized I felt the winds brush my fur again, making my heart fall for one instant at the implication. Whatever Medhiv had done was lifted, and I hadn't sensed anything.
Some parts of me were scared and impressed, while others were humbled by it… and to be honest, I hated that sensation. It made me feel human, weak, and unprepared, but that was the truth.
I was strong compared to the average and a bit beyond, but the pinnacle? No, not even close. And Medivh wasn't even at the top. He was highly skilled and knowledgeable, but he wasn't incomprehensibly strong.
Whoever was at the head of the demon invasion was stronger, and we are lucky he was arrogant to the point of idiocy. Well, that was the only explanation and why I reasoned the not-dead-yet-dead supermage didn't strike for fear of releasing that idiot ball.
"What happened?! I couldn't teleport to you!" Jaina, in a flash of blue light, appeared right next to me with evident distress that I killed soon after.
"The 'Oracle'" The two-word answer was enough to fill entire speeches, seemingly shutting down the sorceress' panic. The flip was almost comical.
"Oh… what did he say then?"
"Nothing I wasn't aware of years ago. Have you chosen? That… was quick." I deflected and asked without missing a beat. She seemed to want to question me by her furrowed brow, but she let go.
"No-uh… Yes! Yes… without the conflicting element, you tilted and then humiliated. Thrall, the bull-man, and I agreed to follow this High Priestess of the night elves' severe terms." And at the sea princess, pleasant news: I was going to take flight and enter the Dreaming to send the message to elves.
"Ohto, wait! Why does she despise my people when we have done nothing to hers?" This was a great question I would have comprehensively answered earlier without what happened.
"We don't have days for story lessons, but long story short... For millennia, their civilization used the Arcane to the point that it attracted the Burning Legion, and their queen started the first demonic invasion. It ended with countless deaths and Kalimdor fracturing into four continents." Her face was a myriad of expressions that showed a wide range of emotions in seconds.
"I see…" Jaina said, and I was sure she didn't. It wasn't a matter of intelligence alone besides that my explanation was worse than subpar. The kaldorei relation with Arcane magic was complicated. It wasn't vitriolic hate like with Fel, but it wouldn't be without disagreements.
"Don't worry too much, sorceress. The hard part would be the orcs. Not yours, people, not even the high elves. If Thrall keeps his neurotic general away from running his mouth, Shandris should keep it amiable." She nodded gravely at my reassurance, and I jumped off.
I was a bat before splattering to the ground, and a high-pitched screech left my throat.
*
Chapters in advance there: patreon.com/thebipboop2003