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

"So I'm indeed late…" I mumbled with a clicking growl, what my nose, the spirits, and my magic senses screamed for the past hour, having painted a graphic picture while I flew there as fast as I could. My enhanced hearing from my bat form added to the whole.

It wasn't a pretty sight from the safety of the sky. The devastated area was relatively small; the number of hectares shouldn't go beyond the single digits even with the new growth counted. But the violence and destruction on such a localized point was immense and grisly even to me. 

It was a pretty horrific sight.

Shattered remains of treants and bodies–or what little remained of them–of night elves, taurens, and various animals from hippogriffs to kodos were spread around in bloody pieces. Unrecognizable charred husks still burning in green flames were everywhere and spreading among, hungering for the forest. 

I must rectify this and look out for survivors in the process. Not everyone was dead, and the remnant that fled shouldn't have gone far.

My attention, however, was on one thing in particular and the epicenter of it all—the headless and scarred body of Cenarius. 

I didn't have a clear view of it among the stilled chaos, but his form was unmistakable. Beyond that, his smell lingered, as did the echoes of his mana, and this was the epicenter of the death shriek I had felt earlier in the Emerald Dream.

A shriek that signaled I never had any chance to get there in time, or if I hadn't gone to help every furbolg, I would have probably arrived in time. 

That wasn't my fault that the Wild God died. He knew the risk. I wasn't his nanny, nor gifted with ubiquity, but I could have been there and avoided this fate or, at the very least, tried to. Instead, I favored the successful migration of my kind… and that was the consequence.

I was aware of it, yet I had to see it with my own two eyes; it was something else.

The Lord of the Forest, of Ashenvale, was gone, and what unpleasant news full of ripples it was. I didn't personally know him, not for the fault of not trying, but life in the past three years was complex, and convenient devices such as phones didn't exist.

We have spoken a few times, and that's how I got Undrassil. Even if Ursol did the heavy lifting, he wasn't a complete stranger. Still, I wasn't so sentimental as to get attached, but his demise was extremely infuriating. 

He was a force of Nature and someone we could have counted on.

'By the ancestors… fuck…' I shook my head. I made the right choice; I could only believe I did. Emotional and irrational, it may have been to favor the lives of small tribes over the patron of druidism himself. 

The knowledge of what we–the furbolgs–would become was too strong to be ignored, and I saw it many times.

The reality was that only a portion of corrupted furbolgs could be saved, and unwanted energies could be purged, but that was the tip of the iceberg. Years ago, Gripjaw had been lucky to have almost no after-effects. It was even more so for her daughter.

It wasn't the damage on the psyches; those times and efforts were mended. It was the brains–I couldn't fix those–that got damaged, and some simply would remain rabid forever or lose entire chunks of their personalities. Cubs were the primary victims of such cases.

Be that as it may, the dismembered corpse of the demi-god was hardly all that took my focus. The culprits of this massacre were among the cadavers. In fact, they were the most numerous; only their red skin hid them in the bloodied, wounded land.

Orcs were what they were and doped on Fel by how much they reeked and weren't a dull radioactive green. But why focus on the dead when there were plenty of living further away? Thousands of them, to be exact.

"What are they doing?" I growled, my instincts to rush down to cull those pests against Life and Nature, but the obviousness that if I went down, it would end in my demise contained them.

Well, unless I went guerrilla warfare and used the plants and mushrooms in my bag–currently shaped to fit my form, the hurdle to carry it in my jaw long since fixed–but evidently, it was impossible to do just that. Time wasn't to be wasted on pointless things.

'Hm, beh, let's give them a breath of spore.' It wasn't a sure killing blow at best of times, and with Fel in their veins, it would, at best, take down a dozen, but I wasn't going to go without leaving a few presents. The same was true for taking a male and female red-skinned orc to them to grasp what made them tick.

Life force and Fel interacting always have interesting results–mostly cancerous, though occasionally some effects were beneficial, depending on how one defines 'beneficial'–every time new information was gleaned when I dissected and probed such creatures.

Practice had always been key to my capabilities as a healer, and the consequences of this type of corruption slotted right in.

Then, my eyes widened as something burned in my senses. Somehow, it had hidden until it didn't; my senses failed, and so did the wild spirits. No, it wasn't that… it had always been there among the spreading demonic taint. It just blended in.

Something stronger than anything I had ever felt.

There was so much Fel in this demon that it made me want to puke my guts out. It was sickening. I hated it, but now that it wasn't magically hidden, I felt it fully. It wasn't overwhelming, but I hated it. I wanted it gone, but I knew better.

Then, as I advanced, it, or he by the appearance, came into view, and it clicked who the demon in question was. A daunting realization that made too much sense. 

This demon was Mannoroth, and to my sense, he appeared as if Fel was given a physical form, and he was as unsightly as possible. Bulbous fat yet muscular shape in a mutated centaur-like body with two too-small tattered wings and massive horn-like tusks. 

He was a pit lord and not any random one, the strongest of them all and a monster dwarfing all orcs' combined destruction thousand folds at the lowest. Or so was my limited knowledge of this creature.

"That's ba-oh shit!" I was seen. We made eye contact, and my heart rate spiked with genuine fear and even terror, something I rarely, if ever, felt since the Totemic Ritual.

The fear for my life, one I was too familiar with, was that this demon lord was a predator, an apex above all else, and I knew he saw me as prey. 

It was unmistakable; that smile spoke a thousand words—infuriatingly arrogant words with too much objective truth irrefutable by me or anyone else. Anger and indignation flared in my chest from this fact alone, instincts and pride mixed in a desire to humble this hated abomination against nature.

But separately, there was excitement at the prospect of a violent battle. An excitement that felt almost overwhelming with bloodlust. By Ursol and Ursoc, I wanted to rip this demon to shreds, to make him suffer and ensure the pit lord was gone from the face of Azeroth.

'No.' I shook the red haze, or most of it, out of my mind. It was suicide and nothing else. 

Mannoroth alone wasn't a being I wished to fight–instincts thirsting the opposite, changing nothing–nevertheless unprepared and head-on and with a fucking army of all things. No, it was not going to happen. I turned around, refusing the call for blood.

•••••

Staring at the giant bat with glowing fur glyph marking in the night sky, Mannoroth snorted in ridicule.

"Running away… so predictable." His face shifted back to the orcs, and he ordered, his voice rumbling and inflectionless, shattering any argument before conception, "Grommash, my pet, take your warriors to your little friend's gathering of weaklings South of here and bring them eternal doom."

"No…" The blademaster's voice was barely a whisper, yet the despair and regret were unmistakable, but they soon vanished. The Chieftain of the Warsong's mind grew numb, and a feral smile graced his tusked face. 

There was never any chance of winning. It wasn't a matter of will, courage, or honor. The Blood Curse that had been reignited and was stronger than ever was cared not for any of the above mortal concepts. It was the rage in his heart, the fury of his thoughts, and the fire of his bound and empowered soul by the demon lord alone.

Left alone, the pit lord refocused on the 'Wild God.' It was unimpressive in its current speed and content to remain steady. It was more so retreating than fleeing out of fear for its life. It was nearly a kilometer away already, with a quarter of that in altitude, and it was rising.

Such safety was real, but for Mannoroth, it was an illusion, and he was all too happy to shatter. Dragons and similar creatures were common enough enemies of the Burning Legion; managing them was something the Flayer wasn't alien to.

It was the exact opposite. He loved to bring those creatures down to earth and was extremely adept at doing so. Flights had always escaped his race–the annihilans by their actual name–for they were too heavy and their wings vestigial at best used as shields and weapons. 

He wasn't a mindless, barbaric brute like so many of his brethren. Power and ruthlessness never sufficed. Cunning was necessary and the reason for being the enforcer of Lord Archimonde and Lord Kil'jaeden.

Hoisting his double-bladed weapon, he began to chant—his words warped and incomprehensible to the weak-minded. Then he began to charge forward, his massive bulk and ceaseless Fel fire burning all that wasn't crushed under the large clawed feet of his reptilian lower half.

The giant bat's sudden increase in speed and altitude in its flight was signal enough for the King of the Pit Lords to understand his rapid approach had been noticed. That only made him smile larger, and it only grew larger as his spell incantation was finished and his weapon now alit with sickly green runs and flame was thrown.

There was a boom, the air cracked, the ground shook, grass flew, and branches broke as the bladed polearm turned spinning wheel of Fel soared at speed far beyond even Mannoroth's own eyes' ability to perceive. 

Yet the up-sized bat escaped the deadly projectile. Fast it may have been, it wasn't instantaneous, but it didn't dodge it all. The 'Ancient' maneuver came with a heavy price, and the demonic blades cut its left foot and two of its left wing fingers from the middle, shredding the membrane in the process.

The agonizing screech that resonated across this side of Ashenvale was a delicious melody to the pit lord's ears, as was the sight of the falling, upsized animal in the tree line—a natural result of the bat's new inability to produce updraft with its cripple limbs.

"Pitiful creature…" Mannoroth chuckled, running still as he extended the same hand from which he threw it, and like a faithful servant, the double-ended spear ended its course back at its beginning here. His movement had never ceased, and with speed betraying his bulk, he reached the landing zone.

He was thoroughly unsurprised to see a lack of a broken body on the ground. He didn't sense the bat 'Wild God's death and was aware of its presence somewhere among the tree, and its demise would have been heavily disappointing otherwise.

Then, from the leafy crown, millions of minuscule white to blue sparkling particles–none brighter than even weak candlelight–slowly descended like snowflakes as if stars from the Great Dark Beyond had come to hug Azeroth. 

The Destructor couldn't care any less if it was possible; however, beyond that, a minute amount of magic was held in all of them, but it wasn't any dangerous quantity, even all combined. And if it were poison, it would be hopelessly useless if minutely clever in design. Praise was due where praise was due.

"A light show is all you worthless animal can do?" He taunted, intentionally butchering Darnasian, and his answer came in a greater light show. 

The closest bioluminescent spore glowed brighter before silently popping in a stronger flash, nothing worth noting if roughly five times brighter than before, lasting less than a second and vanishing in the wind.

But it wasn't alone. One spore turned to two, and two turned to several millions in a cascading crescendo, drowning this section of the primeval forest into a blinding pale blue light as if the lights of the two moons and all the stars were summoned at once. And in more than one way, this was the case.

"Petty tricks! Useless!" Mannoroth bemoaned in anger as, like everything, he was blinded. It wasn't a painful light, but his sight was temporarily robbed all the same.

Brief clicks echoed, followed by a melodious whistle. Then something smaller yet comparable to the demon lord's own size fell upon his wide open back. His four legs buckled from the strain of the impact and added mass, and his clawed feet dug into the moist soil. 

The pit lord roared from anger and the burning pain as the creature violently climbed his humanoid upper half. Claws dug through his thick, leathery skin, blubber, and muscles, serving for poor protection as the beast aimed for the head to maule it.

Mannoroth reacted immediately, bellowing another roar that shook the air as he retaliated, blindly thrusting his double-ended blade backward and pushing his demonic flame within. There was a loud growl mixed with a pained whimpering whine, and the weight was lifted as the bat jumped off his back.

Or as the demon lord's vision cleared, it became evident it wasn't a bat Ancient, or an Ancient at all. Before him was one of those easily rendered insane beastly mortals–furbolgs if his memory served him right–and one of the largest he ever saw.

Also, the first specimen of its kind, Mannoroth saw his summoning in Ashenvale by Archimonde, oddly enough, but that was unimportant. They were ignorable pests. What mattered was that this one was moderately powerful. There was no need for more aside from its death.

It reached his chest but was almost as bulky as him, with a far more defined musculature under its ebony black fur covered in glowing glyphs, the majority of which were hidden behind an intricate and full-body living shell. 

An armor of plants and its own body grown beyond its natural form. Living wood itself was covered in glyphs that ensnared limbs, neck, torso, and abdomen in thick plate and cordage while bones tore through its skin, yet leaving no blood completed the rest. A ghostly aura surrounded it and made the runes further into evidence, a sort of shaman then using a form of necromancy to empower itself.

From where half its left hand-paw was bisected, wild bone growth compensated into a facsimile of its metallic blade-like claws with a ghostly projection. The left stump of a leg had quivering exposed muscles, roots, and bone merged in a hasty prosthesis with a similar spirit projection.

However, there were no burn wounds on either, as was for where the demon lord plunged his blade. Or blood pouring, either, but both points were easily rectifiable.

Only more bones and bark grew in thickness around its body, and various plants added together in symbiosis with the living bones. The growth was ceaseless and constant until a veritable breathing fortress of flesh, bone, and tree bark was raised with wisps of spirits.

Its eyes were of a brilliant pale gold full of delectable hate, blazing fury, and vivid bloodlust, eclipsing even the pit lord to the latter exhilaration. Saliva dripped from its snarling maw while the wound it had suffered glowed a ruby red and sealed itself in a second. But there was no mindlessness.

It was aware and intelligent, and it understood it was trapped. It couldn't escape, for it couldn't run, nor could it fly. It was scared and would fight to the death. And all of it was deeply entertaining to Mannoroth, but what would be more was this bizarre furbolg timely demise.

And the furbolg offered it by rushing with a rumbling growl, using its two arms to compensate for the missing feet. It was a charge fueled by desperation, but it wasn't clumsy, weak or slow yet all the same amateurishly telegraphed.

The Flayer obliged and acted in kind to the suicidal charge. His aim was the heart, for the biological armor was thinner there than the nape and head, and the result would be the same. Mortals were very delicate and breakable toys.

Mannoroth's open-mouthed smile could hardly grow any wider if it could as the blade of his weapon went through the bear-man chest effortlessly. It was as if nothing was there as the furbolg's futile charge went onward, and the jagged sword exploded from its back in a shower of blood and splintering bone and timber.

The pit lord's fanged smile eased into a pleased sneer, and a sneer that was to remain frozen as such for four claws coated in a mix of pale white, green, and red hues went through his unguarded lower jaw straight to his fragile brain. 

The impaled false Wild God grew a bloody, fanged sneer of equal proportion as incomprehension flashed through the spasming eyes of the Destructor.

A sneer that vanished moments later as the massive body of the demon began to crack, hundreds of fluorescent green fault lines spreading across his body from the death strike area.

Then the world turned green and of fire as the pit lord fulminated, swallowing the wide-eyed furbolg in a final conflagration.

*

Chapters in advance there: patreon.com/thebipboop2003