Don't Poke The Bear! (Warcraft/FurbolgSI)

I stared down at the night elf, a midget of a man compared to me, his head full of long, luscious cyan hair barely reaching my haunches at its highest.

Quite the flagrant difference in size, and that wasn't going in weight where the difference was a double-digit multiple. He was quite literally a twig.

My eyes then trailed toward the caravan he was with. My attention focused on a muscular female elf–a sentinel even if not in service–and her cub, the smell of the two first elves mingled on the last.

It was a caravan I randomly caught whiffs of while doing a routine flight around the camp of my tribe.

We left Greenpaw Village. We moved fast, and preparation was done ahead of time, but it still was two days before reaching Hollowmaw—the tunnel counted. We have been a nomadic species since the dawn of our creation and could flip to it if necessary. Hundreds of years of a sedentary lifestyle didn't change this.

Ursa totemics, shamans, hunters, and warriors were prepared and guarding the tribe. My presence was superfluous at best, but I wouldn't take any chances. A clever dreadlord, and all was lost.

"Vandel… by Ursol and Ursoc, you know Ashenvale is anything but safe?" I said coolly to the kaldorei man, "I hope you're aware this needlessly endangers your life and your mate and cub."

"I'm glad you worry, my extra-large friend, but Khariel is safe! My lovely wife and her squadron escort us to our humble village after a family gathering in Astranaar." He put into evidence the twenty sentinels, of which half were riding panthers, each armed to the teeth and on guard. The panthers were sending me nervous glances while at it. as if the kittens were on the menu right now, but they understood their place.

This was a naïve, if not entirely wrong, argument. But I didn't come to argue with my foolish yet clever elven friend when it might be one of the last times we see each other.

Then he went on as if reading my mind.

"Let's not fight though… You always foresee the worst, Ohto. It's a cursed gift for someone so young... Elune, forgive me, but that's why you would be a frankly horrible merchant. And Ashenvale has never been safer. The fiends are indeed dangerously daring as of late, but thanks to Lady Tyrande and her fierce ladies, they are weak and few, targeting only the weaker and fewer." Vandel finished, and I sighed in exasperation, but it came out as a rumble.

'You're far too good for this world, Vandel... When the gravity of the situation hits, it will hit hard.' I thought about this for what felt well over the umpteenth time. The kaldorei weren't as widely conceptualizing how horrible the future was.

Oh, the coming of the Burning Legion was widely known–it wasn't a secret–but somehow, the elves weren't sufficiently prepared in any way, shape, or form. They weren't even particularly agitated, for that matter.

The Sentinel Army and such military forces of theirs were far more active, but anyone who expressed doubt was seen as a melodramatic defeatist.

If it was the fault of arrogance, denial, stupidity, disbelief, artificial draconic manipulations, or a bit of all the above, it didn't matter. I was powerless against it. That's why I never counted on the night elves to help the furbolgs; they can't even help themselves. Intentionally or not.

It was the sad truth.

"Good, but I didn't come for that, but your presence makes it easier. Now…" I trailed off cutting bark from a nearby tree–healing the wound while doing so–and I shaped it under my will.

Two awkward minutes later, with a droplet of blood given by the male kaldorei, I had a bear head-shaped amulet layered by seven Ursine runes, followed by an adequate rope that had grown into it.

"Present this at any Timbermaw Hold's entrance, and you will be taken as an honored guest. Given it's you or your cub holding it." I said, placing the wooden pendant around his neck.

"Thank you, Ohto…?" Vandel was clearly confused, but I wasn't finished; however, these next 'presents' were all done preemptively this time. I grew a small pouch from my backpack and gave it to him.

I lifted an eye ridge as he almost let it fall.

'Right, they're quite heavy.' I realized and watched the night elf's expression as he stared at the five glowing acorns pulsating like a heartbeat with ruby red veins behind the softer glow of runes, both Ursine and druidic, in a lock to neuter growth, increase shelf life, and kill the seed if the first fail.

Each acorn bore intricate gold trails along its surface. These followed the red veins that shielded the runic structure from external mana while rendering them nearly undetectable even to my senses as a bonus.

It wasn't countermeasures from fear of an apocalyptic scenario. They were simple fruits of Undrassil, but with how much Life mana I pumped and locked into them–refined or not–they could pop probable World Trees, which wouldn't do. Unlikely as it may be, generally, it was a tree with the potential to become a Great Tree.

Also, it simply wouldn't be good if the tree grew in someone's belly. Chewing wasn't something furbolgs did every time.

"Wh-what are those?" My night elf friend queried in fascinated bewilderment, his mate walking over tentatively to look, and others followed suit. Chief among them was the three-year-old night elf standing on his tiptoes to stare in wonder, a root growing under to give a little push for the missing height.

"Life force in physical form, golden acorns, you may call them." I said, a name shamelessly inspired from that block, game, but it's not apples here, "Eating them heals most wounds in seconds, counting it's not death, a curse, brain-related, a body part or entire organ and that there is something to heal. It's nothing miraculous."

"Incredible… but I can't accept this gift in good heart, my friend, if they are as miraculous as you spoke of. They surely are precious, equal to elixirs and potions of our greatest alchemists!" Vandel exclaimed hastily; his expression was hilarious, shifting between greed and unworthiness, but it wasn't the time for that wishy-washy nonsense.

"Don't care, you keep them. I have more and can make more. May we meet soon enough and preferably in good health. Oh, and take this tiny one." I gave a candied honey drop to Khariel as I waved goodbye and was gone in a flash. I could only hope Vandel used my gifts well, particularly the acorns.

They were extremely complicated, costly, and lengthy to produce. Undrassil's fruits were incredible material to work with, but I had a limited supply. I couldn't force the World Tree to produce them–well, I could, but the quality would sharply decrease–then only I could put Life mana in them, and it was necessary for carving the runes, too, since it was done in parallel.

As such, the life-giving acorns were scarce and were only for emergencies. It was why, among furbolgs, I handed only a few because I only had a few. One golden acorn can take up to three hours to craft. It requires my full attention, especially when I started making them, which took me even longer.

I mostly shared them with ursa totemics to give them a second breath and shamans, but it was for more than health potions in solid form. They could use them as Life batteries–it was why they even existed–for spells or reagents for alchemical concoctions.

Ursol and my family also had some too. I favored my tribe and close ones as anyone in that department should. In the end, it was Vandel's choice. I couldn't force him, so I gave him the necessary tools for him and his family to survive. Whether he used them or not was up to him.

My round went on for another solid hour, and I was back at the camp, my arrival causing a small commotion for the furbolgs awake as usual, if one far more organized and far less dramatic than I got to be faced with in the last three years.

It didn't take long after I walked to my sleeping place for a small–relative to me–muscled ball of brown fur to jump on my back from a tree and headlock me. A smile of fang formed on my snout at that.

"Got you, yay! Were there any monsters, big brother!? Did you rip them apart?! Did they scream in agony under your paws? I hope they did! I want to know all the details!" An overly excited Hukar babbled happily, but after a few sniffs, her excitement deflated.

"Oh, I smell Vandel. No demons, then?" I picked my sister and nuzzled her while her feet dangled in the air.

"No, no, there wasn't. But I would have ripped them a few new assholes just for you." I chuckled and playfully nipped her left ear as I placed her on the ground. I loved her bravery and bloodthirstiness regarding those creatures, but I knew her.

She would do something incredibly stupid if left unchecked.

"Why?!" She whined weakly. Karhu, who had been watching from a nearby tree the whole time, finally decided to join the fun with an amused, if exasperated, expression.

He was the only reason I was confident she wouldn't slip out at night to fight satyrs. She was scarcely skilled. Way more than I was at her age, but I'm a lazy cheater. Still, all she would do was die; she wouldn't go down without a fight, but she would, and that was unacceptable.

"Because Hukar, you're see-through." My little brother gently said as if it was a revelation of the universe, and I went and immediately did the same to him, a nuzzle and an ear nipping.

He flailed, almost slipping out of my bear hug from sheer technique alone. He was no lousy fighter, smaller size or not. He was feisty and made full use of his agility. Hukar, who had been trying to see through her right paw, the claw of her left rushed at me with fire in her eyes to help her twin.

After long minutes of roughing them up, I suddenly stopped, but it wasn't because I wanted to. A bear spirit in the Emerald Dream through a wood bead attached to one of my necklaces had tugged my attention.

It was a spirit I contracted, and like the majority spirits of this dimension of Nature and Life, it was unbound to a physical location and unreachable by any outsiders. That meant Bronze Dragonflight direct bullshits or the like.

In other words, it was one of the most effective messenger pigeons. Well, bear, technically, pigeons or any fliers would be faster in straight lines, but they didn't obey my every command, and the Dreaming shortcuts generally were underground.

It was one bear messenger corresponding straight up to Magatha. Or, to be precise, a 'druid' directly under her with the matching bead who had sent this spirit to me.

"What is it?" My brother asked, and our sister followed suit with a heavy pout, "Why did we stop? That was fun!"

"Something of likely importance was sent to me. I'm sorry, you two, but playtime is over."

And indeed, it was. Half an hour later, I was in the world of primordial life, reading a text of Kalimag on a large leaf with a heavy frown. Each word seemingly made my grimace grow, and my fury rose with equal trepidation.

The message was recent, half a day counting the entire process behind. My use of the Emerald Dream to send messages was extraneously slow compared to the Internet, which I recalled, but it was the exact opposite on Azeroth.

But it was far from instantaneous and was extremely limited, multiple spirits or not. At the lowest, it took hours to get messages across, and it needed competent shamans–shamans with the Touch of Nature–and distance outside still impacted things.

"The orcs are here," I growled, my emotions almost sending the loyal bear spirit into a rabid frenzy.

Yet, there was a saving grace. I wouldn't have to restrain myself from impaling Fandral Staghelm on my claw and rearranging his body like a clay doll when I see him since I won't need to anymore. And by the ancestors, it was a relief.

Fuck if I know why the Cenarion Circle appointed him as the leading Archdruid while Malfurion slept despite all his… to put it extremely lightly, apocalyptic blunter.

The War of the Shifting Sands and Nordrassil–now Vordrassil–led to the Nightmare later on and, without my intervention, the death of several tens of thousands and Ursoc corruption.

Only the result mattered.

He was the pinnacle of all I despised with kaldorei. But he was very mighty, among the most skilled druids, and the greatest student of Malfurion. Frankly, he might as well be the second strongest night elves druid alive.

If I were correct, he would be a massive problem in the future, too, more of a pain in the ass he already was. Ursol wanted to maul him to death as well; he didn't say it, but his smell and body language screamed it.

And if it wasn't for the Bear Lord, I was sure this exceptionally xenophobic elf would have tried to get me imprisoned if not put down like a dangerous beast.

'May an opportunity for his death present itself.' I silently prayed before refocusing on the present… orcs—plenty of orcs and an entire horde of them. It meant the Horde, the Alliance, and the Burning Legion were here, or the difference was so insignificant that it was the same.

We had even less time than I thought—we had none at all. And it all felt like a game of chess where we were pawns. All of it was orchestrated and forcefully controlled to go in a specific direction.

It was infuriating, but I wouldn't take any chance to rush down to where the orcs had arrived in Ashenvale. The other furbolgs tribe should have started to move and would avoid any confrontation—it was a nonproblem here.

That didn't mean many wouldn't die. It was a given, but it was inevitable, maddening as the reality was. Only a few tribes would succeed in making this hasty retreat unscathed, and my tribe took priority. I was a Greenweald, first and foremost.

I would go either way to meet the Horde and see the furbolgs left behind, but not now. Regarding Cenarius' potential death... it was a problem for later. He knew it was coming and should take it seriously. Far too many things were happening at once for me to concern myself over it all.

Then, my mood marginally improved at the plan Magatha wrote or what she wanted me to believe was such. To 'help' the night elves and, if possible, instigate 'peace,' a rough translation of an already straightforward wording. She didn't even try to hide it.

'Manipulative old cow she may be, but she understood the situation.' It was where my mind went regarding the Grimtotem matriarch. I couldn't care less about her political shenanigan if she proved her worth through her competence and critical thinking skills.

I would happily work with her as long as she didn't push her luck too far.

•••••

Three days later, hidden under the leafy shadows of Southern Ashenvale on the border to the Barrens, a tauren was kneeling to a strange creature in front of him. One deeply similar to the centaurs, for he was the father of this plague's father. Yet, no comparison existed beyond morphology.

He was no filth polluting the Earthmother; an almost divine grace emanated from his every action as he stood under the broken beams of moonlight. His great antlers were akin to the crown of the oldest tree, and his body was a perfect symbiosis of flesh and bark.

This creature was a demi-god, one of the legendary Wild Gods, and one of the most powerful, Cenarius, the Lord of the Forest and patron god of the Cenarion Circle.

"That is a daring demand, Ton Windbow. But I allow it." The half-stag half-kaldorei demi-god rumbled, "You have given precious information and offered help. We will wait so you may have time to attempt… diplomacy with those demonic curs. They are to be our 'allies' even if I do not see it. My judgment remains unchanged, and I foresee little success in your endeavor."

"Thank you, Lord Cenarius." The first tauren druid in twenty generations said gratefully with utmost ease, his eyes discreetly studying the kaldorei surrounding him. The tension was almost palpable.

After all, the Grimtotem tribe and kaldorei's relationship improved daily by leaps and bounds, but it was in its budding stage and strenuous. Ton almost got shot hours ago when he arrived. Indeed, it was after a lost battle, but he wasn't an unknown figure.

The presence of kodos–animals commonly used by the Grimtotem tribe–among the greenskins and trolls that had chosen to ravage Ashenvale painted an unfortunate picture of misconceptions that could shatter this fragile balance.

His mistress had foreseen this and why these false equivalencies had been rectified in short order, but truth hardly mattered in the face of emotions. More so when confusion already existed about how the tauren tribes operated.

Yet they couldn't refuse the help of the mightiest tauren tribe. The outlanders had decimated them. Their disadvantage from numerical inferiority and ill preparation for such an attack changed little to their wounded pride and the situation at large.

Waiting for more reinforcement was no option the elves wished to partake in. Some have arrived already, but the rest will take time, and they will have to wait. But doing so encouraged the demons' thralls to advance deeper and continue ravaging their sacred forest.

It was unacceptable, and even with the Son of Elune, such assistance couldn't be ignored. An assured victory didn't lend to needlessly throwing life away.

"And if I fail to convince, then my action wouldn't be in vain," The Grimtotem diplomat smiled faintly–a dark and cold smile–as he put into evidence the seeds in the palm of his hands. They looked as innocent as any seeds, but that couldn't be farther from reality.

"And those are, tauren?" A sentinel asked–the highest ranked present, her name Shandris Feathermoon–with distrust, but the mild shift of Cenarius' gaze calmed her heated demeanor down.

There was no point in fighting; it was one of the qualities he found strange with the children of the stars and mortals in general, but it was what it was.

It was neither inherently good nor bad, but it could do both, and right now, it was landing on the latter.

"Stormvine seeds, they are all male, a favorite of my teacher and a strain of his. I will spread them in the greenskin camp," The tauren uttered smoothly, and all understood, for this wasn't a plant to tread lightly with.

They were not deadly–their fruits were a delicacy and, as a whole, precious alchemical material–but they were extremely dangerous. Their long thorns could stab through leather as if it wasn't there, and getting their toxin in your body would render you useless for days. The pain was usually capable of lasting for years on end in the stabbed area unless treated quickly.

"Your teacher, hmm. Interesting… Then go." the Wild God hummed pensively, dismissing the Grimtotem druid.

But his mind was on the seeds and their creator, a unique furbolg he alas never had the opportunity to discuss with for long. Though the demi-god was certain it would be fixed soon, even if not in the best condition—war was on the horizon.

The tauren, pleased with himself, took to the sky. His body shifted to that of a black feathered eagle sporting several of his physical traits and ornaments. Two small horns cut in the middle by smooth gold plating were on the side of his. Around his nostrils was a golden nose ring, and wooden beads and feathers adorned his talons.

Ton landed on the largest building of the ever-growing clearing that did not exist until recently. Ancient trees, bushes, and saplings were no more; only stumps remained and lumber used by the green-skinned humanoids of a faraway land to build a camp there.

Before landing, his pouch full of seeds was emptied around the camp when he circled it. It was a safety net if it turned for the worst. The sowing of stormvines served a simple purpose—to be a distraction. These plants could kill, though, as they resulted from this mysterious 'selective breeding.'

Prevention aside, it was time to see if diplomacy was possible. Ton had little hope in truth regarding a successful result, too. Lady Magatha didn't see it any differently. Still, there was no reason to avoid trying. This Horde was likely to stay, after all.

The tauren-shifted-eagle's presence started to be rapidly noticed. The Grimtotem wasn't stealthy and didn't try to be. A small green crowd rapidly formed–the trolls, barely one per hundred greenskins were still noticeable by their sizes–and his screech accelerated the process.

Then one of the smaller, less muscular greenskin–workforce from what Ton had been told and observed–picked a rock with an annoyed look on his doltish face.

But before it went this predictable route, an old troll–a witch doctor going off his attire–accompanied by the alleged chieftain of this warband, shown by the banner on his back, arrived.

The former was far more exuberant as he waved his staff with a brilliant bronze scale in the air, and the latter nodded, the following growled words pacifying the unsightly green sea.

The tauren took this as his cue to reveal his true self. He towered over all, a staff in his hand and a long tail whipping the air. Many recoiled in shock and drew their weapons out of this same emotion and hardwired instinct, but no conflict arose. None dared to disobey.

"Nechi outlanders, I have come to ask an audience with your Chieftain." He spoke loudly, the Kalimag flowing smoothly from his lips for only the knowledgeable to understand.

The witch doctor was confused but played the translator by mumbling to the banner, holding greenskin in their tongue, and, after long moments of silence, addressing the tauren.

"Hey, mon. Grom be askin' ya who ya be? What be that ya wantin' from de Warsong? Be here tah help?" There was another pause as the now-named Grommash spoke again, bloodlust and excitement evident, and the troll translated back in Kalimag, "De bossman be tellin' me if ya be here on big bossman Thrall's order for us to rejoin de Horde?"

*

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