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

I glared down at the grass, my muscles relaxed yet ready to flex at any moment. A rumbling growl escaped my throat. One that I couldn't quite contain, though I didn't try to. The clattering of my rudimentary biological armor composed of my bones and plants did not help either.

It was a natural reaction to what was happening below: demonic energies were swirling. I wasn't just looking at the grass. I didn't need to see through solid matter to know what was going on.

The magical ward couldn't hide it all. It was a good one, but my senses were just better. It would have worked three years ago, but not anymore, for the most part. If I noticed a whiff of mana–Fel all in particular–in dissonance with the flow of nature, it raised all kinds of red flags and alerts in my mind.

My claw dug into the soft soil, surrounding roots connected to the vegetation on my body, and the ground trembled. I commanded the trees to do a simple task: collapse the cavity below me with their roots. I was meticulous, ensuring the cave-in was as close to instantaneous as possible without causing too much surface damage.

Two dozen satyrs' life forces dimmed at that moment from flames to flickering embers as if doused by heavy rain. All were crushed under metric tons of stones and dirt—quick deaths, mercy they didn't deserve. But it was efficient and safe for me, and I did so because there wasn't anyone needing rescue… anymore.

However, something escaped—a creature full of chaotic energies, standing right before me after teleporting himself above.

He was a comparatively short creature to me with hooved feet. He had a muscular, scantily clad body of scarlet red skin with a tail. Five tentacles with rings mimicking a beard dangled from his chin, and his bald head had a flat, bony, fan-shaped crest jutting backward. His face sported burning, sickly green eyes staring straight at me with open confusion.

An eredar, I recognized, one of those evil red draenei. I wasn't surprised; everything living had its distinctive life force, its own tune. Twisted or not.

This variety of demons was rare to see, but it wasn't my first interaction with them, and as of late, they became more common. Far too common. I have seen less than five–well, six now–in total, and almost all of them were from this month.

It was why I was sure he didn't die; his species implied immense magical proficiency. I'm surprised he didn't react earlier, though. It wasn't a tiny amount of mana I used—definitely not something remotely undetectable. Arrogance, I supposed, was the answer to that question.

Regardless, the moment he popped, roots immediately burst from the ground and tangled his hooved feet as I rushed at him, using my entire mass to gain even more momentum, and a loud bellow roared out of my lungs like thunder as I did so.

His confused face contorted to unbridled rage as he extended his right hand, his palm glowing the horrid green of Fel, preparing a spell.

"F-!"

Then, my downward, heavily–significantly more than the other–armored paw swipe slammed from above his head and collarbone. There was a flash of blue, a flickering thin magic bubble with numerous cracks, but it collapsed immediately at my strike. His eyes widened comically, but why his words were cut short was from something else, literally and metaphorically.

He tried to teleport again as my claw reached him, but he clearly failed. And the moment of the impact of my paw with his squishy body was magnificent, as was his expression.

He showed confusion as he snapped like a twig. My claws cut through his head and torso like a hot knife through butter, and the force remaining turned him into a gory projection of fleshy ribbon that stained the grass and nearby trees with bone fragments, purple brain matter, black viscera, and fluorescent green blood.

I spat on the bloody smear of the once demon. Shaking the bits and pieces of him that stuck to my armored paw as if I had just squashed a bug, I sighed.

It was always good to have those demons' death on my mind. It was therapeutic if only it didn't come with the fact they were there in the first place.

Then I snorted at a pair of legs further away, ergo the failed teleportation, as the legs weren't in root locked anymore. My nose and lips crinkled, showing my fangs at the acrid sulfuric smell. It was sticking to my fur... urg. It would be a pain to groom.

And like that, a potentially fierce battle ended. It was anticlimactic and unsatisfactory–even to me–but I couldn't risk it. He was among the strongest warlocks I ever saw, far weaker than me from his presence–I very much doubted he hid his strength–but that would be fallacious reasoning. Raw mana wasn't everything. It was a good indicator and a part of a whole.

I didn't have an HP bar; one bad hit, and I'm dead. I didn't want to test my luck with a warlock who probably was a master in multiple forms of magic.

Then I began the process that was now almost instinctual of cleaning the demonic taint with Groot as my grumpy assistant. I started a lengthy, if powerful, taken from one of the rituals the Bear of Wisdom had taught me.

My mind wandered as I worked. I wasn't happy. All satyrs dying showed two options: either they sucked, or they were exhausted from further summonings—or both.

I leaned toward the latter. The former was the least likely due to the Fel's density. Even then, it wasn't enough to make the ball of anxiety in my stomach grow, it would piss me off, and it did, but it wasn't all. No, it was different, far worse.

"The wait is nearing its end." I breathed out, a tremor in my voice making it sound wrong even with how resonant and growly it was.

It was the time or close enough not to matter. It felt like I was repeatedly myself, as it wasn't the only time I said this as of late.

Fifteen years was how much time passed since my rebirth. Fifteen years as a furbolg in this insane universe, which I would like to believe I didn't waste by lazing around, but I would lie if I said I was remotely as efficient as I could have been.

I didn't have the mentality to act like a robot constantly seeking improvement and perfection. If I had… I would have run away from my new family and my new life and never looked back. But I wasn't a machine.

Those were pleasant times that, despite my efforts, got harder and harder to get. Still, I tried. I didn't want them to become faded memories like my human ones.

Regardless, time passed, time I used to work–time I didn't waste even if I didn't use it ideally–and it led to the present situation.

Virtually every sapient species in Northern Kalimdor was indiscriminately purging the closest tie to the Burning Legion in this earthly realm, the satyrs. It had begun with Ursol informing Cenarius and continued to this day.

Yet, less than two weeks ago, those despoilers suddenly changed their modus operandi by showing self-preservation instincts or a lack thereof. It was abnormal, and it continued escalating.

There weren't many of the failed demons left after the general efforts to murder them all, and they never were that numerous, to begin with. Their only method of reproduction was turning night elves into more satyrs, voluntarily or not.

It got dark very fast from here: brainwashing, elves, elven cubs targeted, kidnapped, or born from kidnapped parents and transformed under their vile care.

The point was—they had no footing. They couldn't fight back the night elves alone; less be said of the rest of the wild.

Outliers consisting of ambushing non-fighters, setting traps, and corrupting the wildlife were the best they could do if they didn't want to get massacred. The usual, might I say, just pushed to a new level from the terror imminent annihilation gave.

They could only flee and hide like the cockroaches they were, insulting as the comparison was for the animals in question. Yet they didn't. They stubbornly stayed here, and with their sudden inexplicable rise in confidence… that was how I could ascertain the years of preparation were ending.

It might be something else, but that was my delusional hope speaking.

The Burning Legion was here or close enough. It was a matter of months at the most before everything went down to shit.

Ancestors only knew how absolutely terrified I was.

Archimonde or Kil'jaeden was coming. In the end, it made no difference since I knew fuck all about either. Well, besides that, one was red with wings and the other purple, and they were Sargeras' favorite boy toys and were equal to Aspects at best or at worst comparable to Old Gods, if not more.

'We must begin the retreat underground.' I thought there wasn't another possibility or it would be too late. It was a good thing I had been on my way to do just that anyway. I smelt it in the air, felt in the land, for some time, the impending sense of wrongness, of doom hanging after every breath.

Half an hour later, I was in the North of Ashenvale. At the base was the familiar yet always awe-inspiring sight of a massive bear head carved of wood jutting off the side of the chain of mountains where a few dozen furbolgs were hard at work.

The majority was training. Three shamans guided and taught everyone who was not yet on point to sense and control their mana, no matter how small or poor their talents were. It was an obligation.

Why it was so was a simple matter really; we were tied to the Emerald Dream and in tune with our mana as it was tied to our body, mind, and soul, and we absorbed it constantly from our environment. Alteration to our mana that was incompatible tended to have violent reactions.

It never was a problem usually. People who would want to conquer us–only before the Sundering–didn't blight the land; that was asinine.

It was why trolls in the past just didn't bother with us; we weren't unbeatable, just not worth it. The threat from Ursol and Ursoc coming down to maul their Loa's asses if those became too involved helped.

But when the wild and nature was fucked through magic, we were equally fucked if we didn't act fast. We wouldn't go rabid because a few trees were cut or because a random demon was nearby.

It didn't work like this, but it was reason enough to be unforgivably aggressive toward the threat in both scenarios. Of course, when diplomacy proved worthless, it was a far too common occurrence.

The hazardous factors needed to be potent, on a large scale, and last.

Why? It was an easy answer.

We indiscriminately absorbed mana in our environment; it was comparable to breathing, but the problem was that mana–just like air–could be polluted.

Shamans and ursa totemics had bigger 'lungs' as such, were far more resistant. In addition to the inbuilt resistance doing the same, some knew how to 'hold your breath,' 'clean your lungs,' 'filter,' and 'isolate' the pollution like shamans.

It was the same for Wild Gods; they had bigger 'lungs' and the above, which was why they were equally sensitive yet contradictorily more resistant than furbolgs.

Only a minority of furbolgs managed to get it all to an acceptable proficiency, but that seldom was the only thing we had against that dreadful fate.

The remaining furbolgs, aside from the warriors, tended to a flora I had engineered. Outside it, there were only two, but only one was visible: easefallens, wild strawberries with bright yellow blooms that would whiten then wither at any amount of Fel in the air.

It was my version of the canary in the coal mine. It was a small thing compared to the one unseen at first glance, but it was the most important one and one I worked tirelessly on.

The Goldilocks was its name. It was a variety of mycorrhizae with a golden hair-like appearance if cobbled densely enough, thereby the name, and it was two references only I would get—the fairytale and the Goldilocks zone. I was proud of that name.

It tied itself to the root system of my plants and did the regular thing regarding symbiosis for mycorrhizae, and it did something else, something much better.

It absorbed Nature mana and its variant in the air–nothing dangerous, it didn't have the power to suck it out of someone–giving it to its plant hosts, but the exciting part came next. The excess was cycled in its mycelium network, generating a short buffering field pushing away the dangerous magical energies for furbolgs.

It wasn't remotely all-powerful and needed metric tons of it to have any impact with a lot of initial energy. However, when it got going, the vast majority of problems we faced could be ignored, and it strengthened our health and magic, among other benefits.

Still, the Goldilocks was going strong and would suffice even if it was far from its true potential.

This mushroom was a key piece of my self-made ecosystem. A project of mine that had existed for easily a decade, even though it had been a rough draft for most of that. It wasn't on point, worse than I would have liked, but better than my worst estimates.

"I'm passing by. Continue your great job." I said, landing and shifting back to normal, shattering the show of borderline worship before it rolled out of control.

They all nodded and visibly glowed with joy at my words, getting a dopamine shot from their smell. I waved them goodbye and entered the tunnel in the throat of the wooden sculpture.

It led to Timbermaw Hold. The largest concentration of furbolgs is in Kalimdor, a place falsely assumed to be our capital by an uncomfortable number of scholars. It was a false equivalency; the Timbermaw tribe was the largest, but no one was their vassal. We didn't consider them above, either.

Their territory was open to every furbolg, yes, but that wasn't unique, primarily due to its emplacement. It was the crisscrossing of five tunnels, each with a giant bear head for entrance. Besides the one I walked in, the remaining four were respectively in Moonglade, Winterspring, Azshara, and the last atop Mount Hyjal.

Tunnels that were connected yet distinct from the Barrow Deeps, far more than the average furbolg dug ones. The bear head here was the main entrance, and there were two more in construction, with the corresponding heads in Darkshore and not far from the roots of Mount Hyjal in Ashenvale.

Well, they weren't to connect exclusively to Timbermaw Hold, as were the five older ones going through a renovation for a similar end goal. It was to lead the way to our survival of the incoming war and beyond.

Evidently, we won't be able to finish the tunnels before the war, but I had foreseen that much. Finishing them has always been an ideal best-case scenario.

Even with our shamans, miners, and thousands of kobolds with their giant moles working together, we can't dig several hundred kilometers of galleries that must abide by the Bear of Wisdom's design.

It was a design of utmost importance to avoid numerous complications for the life that was to thrive there, the entire thing's structural integrity, the flow of energies, etc.

I didn't understand every intricacy, but I understood the value and didn't cut corners to finish early. I want something that would outlive me.

The tunnels had been something we had only begun to focus on a few months ago anyway. It was impressive enough that we did this much in such a short amount of time. A third was already done. Thank Ursol for his help.

But that wasn't what I did. I wasn't an architect. Well, mostly.

I worked on the plants, developed a magical–incomplete–version of CRISPR for that in addition to selective breeding, and had the general idea and direction. But nearly everything else would have been impossible without my Wild God teacher.

Once inside the hold, I paused and focused. My unworded question was eagerly answered in the blink of an eye by the spirit of the ancestors inside. The place and my greater skill made it redundant to use the Spirit Whistle—Ursol's gift.

~Chosen, Young Ferni and Old Tanrir are in the haven den…~

~...They are communing with the small ones fearful of the dark.~

~The Lord of Wisdom is deeper still.~

~May your message be spread.~

The dead furbolgs whispered to my little round ears, and I thanked them.

As to where my targets were… they were in Hollowmaw, christened by the Bear Lord after Grizzlemaw for its striking similarities, the good ones.

Here, we could talk about capital propper. Or the hope it becomes one.

It was a supermassive bunker, and that barely scratched the surface. It was what we were working on connecting the tunnels to, not without heavy protections, but that was the ultimate goal.

The walk there was short with my stride, around an hour or so. It wasn't particularly deep compared to the sea level, but it was still under the largest mountain of Kalimdor.

I walked out of a vegetated path and took flight into a gargantuan cavity.

It reached around one kilometer up and one and a half down from my position while being around three times the average of the two in diameter. It was shaped like a large cylinder, a cylinder drawn by a newborn, but a cylinder all the same.

It was a natural formation we revamped for our needs, and the sight was as magnificent as ever.

It wasn't dark, and I doubt even a human wouldn't be able to see. The mana density was such that large and small bright verdant energies wisps coalesced everywhere, but that was only one part. The ceiling had a tapestry of ever-shifting bioluminescent flora that spread throughout Hollowmaw down to the crystal clear lake at the bottom.

But the primary light source wasn't any of the above, even combined. It was an immense root cutting through the entirety of the cavern.

From it, it sprouted large leaves, vines, and thinner secondary roots digging into the walls, reinforcing them and merging with the ecosystem. Every part of it glowed green, and occasionally, red flashed through vein-like pathways.

It was a root of the World Tree Nordrassil. One I amputated off the rest to work on, with Ursol easily getting the accord of Cenarius preemptively. It was a fraction of a fraction of the World Tree, a large branch at most, but it remained from the World Tree.

It was the Crown of the Under, Undrassil.

And it was vital to this underground city.

It may have lost its Aspects' blessed powers from my actions, but aside from the anti-corruption, I didn't give a single fuck about the blessings, which solely targeted night elves.

And this weakness was already taken care of by its placement in the Dreaming deep under Nordrassil and the Goldilocks on Azeroth. It wasn't as good, but it wasn't far behind, and most importantly, it was independent.

It essentially could be considered a World Tree sapling, yet not truly. It was closer to the Great Trees–miniature World Trees used as Dream Portals generators–but overall far better. As such, Undrassil was quite a daring name I chose for it, but it was on theme.

It channeled the Emerald Dream and had a mind-boggling life force and mana generation, making it the beating heart of my biosphere. It was even why the Goldilocks had been worth wasting years creating and perfecting.

It was one of, if not my greatest achievement.

"Ah, there you are," I mumbled with the equivalent of a smile for a bloodthirsty bat the size of a small fighter jet.

My targets were in front of me: three furbolgs–a brown cub, a white female, and an elderly black male–with a kobold, even if only two of the whole were why I came here.

I landed loudly, no word necessary to announce my presence, and the kobold–a taskmaster from the size of her candle–reacted first in an overly dramatic way fitting to her kind's adage.

She lost her shit.

"Kigug scared! Don't wanna die! Please you! Protect Kigug!" She screamed, hiding behind the cub, a cub whose reaction opposed the rat-woman. Fangirling would be the appropriate term for the young one's response to me.

"That was awesome! By Ursoc, you're even more amazing in real life! You're super big, like bigger than Big Herga! Oh! Can you do the landing again after?! I want to do that, too! Could you teach me? I want to be like you!" He spat like a Gatling gun and would have run up to me if not for Ferli–the white-furred one and the Elder Shaman–snatching him by the scruff of his neck.

"Tur! Foolish cub, quiet down and show respect!" She cried out in embarrassed fury before swiftly speaking to me with reverence, and it was entirely genuine and pure, a stark difference, "My sincere apologies, Chosen of the Twins… this impious cub is my nephew and student, and he can be… excitable. He is quite passionate."

"I see. That's alright. Excellent even. We need more of us like Tur," I said with amusement and a small grin, my tone of voice softening but still rumbling, "It needs tempering, however, but that variety of willingness is our way forward. Don't be too hard on him for what he just did. You don't blame a fish for its inability to climb a tree."

The cub in question after that was positively elated.

"True, the young are young. Is there anything that needs doing, Honored of the Greenweald?" The Chieftain, the black-furred elder, asked, and the kobold–now out of her panic attack–repeatedly nodded.

"Yes-yes! Why, oh, Blessed Candlebringer here? Did Kigug do blunter and Blessed Candlebringer here to punish her by taking her candle?! Please don't!" She pipped, grabbing and holding on to her candle for dear life. At another time, I would have laughed at her antics. Kobolds were personable; they were rats, after all. You just had to pass the step where they were scared of you and be good, and they sent it back tenfold.

It was one of my best choices to test my luck on getting them. Alas, I wasn't in the mood. Snapping my claws close to the kobold taskmaster, a muffled clang of metal echoed, bursting her existential crisis bubble, letting me refocus on the Timbermaw Chieftain.

"No, and yes, Tanrir. I have come to inform you of the retreat. It's time. And we must act with swiftness and calm." I said gravely, and the reaction was as predicted; even Kugig understood.

"War is coming."

*

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