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

After informing Ferli and Tanrir of what the Timbermaw would have to prepare for… that is, a massive increase in movement and preparing themselves to hunker down, I was back in the air.

Finding Ursol next was quick, and while doing so, I continued to take in the magnificent sight of Undrassil and Hollowmaw as a whole, with the surrounding cavity and caverns.

It was one and the same; Hollowmaw stretched across it all. Its three-dimensional nature magnified its usable space, which could be altered and extended. It had limitless possibilities and was easily defensible against most forces.

It was the central part of my plan for preserving furbolgs in Kalimdor until Ashenvale was cleansed so that even the weakest of cubs could walk freely and not fear the malignant taint of the lands. It was the safest, least complicated solution to an apocalyptic scenario.

It was what humans on Earth did, and I shamelessly took inspiration from them. It was just that Fel and Death replaced deadly radiation and endless nuclear winter from a nuclear war here.

But the bunker and potential capital was a skeleton, a mere shadow of what it could be, a house without most furniture and lesser essentials.

There were the rough markings of living areas, farms, storages, and the like, but three years plainly didn't suffice to actually make those or finish growing and carving the entire place. And many of them were limited no matter how much magic you poured.

But the big three of food, water, and shelter were garnered, and the rest could be done later on the fly. Making it liveable and, at a minimum, comfortable had been Ursol's and my priorities, and we succeeded.

It won't be a five-star den, but it would amply suffice, and at worst, sleeping was an option. We could enter a state of lethargy like hibernation, after all.

But my teacher's focus had been, among other things, on totems, totems that were sprinkled all around Hollowmaw for many purposes. It showed how incredibly skilled he was, the assistance of shamans or not due to the scale. He was the brain and the brawn.

Chief among his totems was the plethora bonded with elementals to recreate natural phenomena like rain and wind and solidify the cavern structures—those parameters vital to keep Hollowmaw optimal functioning without the sun and weather of the outside.

Well, mostly, it wasn't perfect, but it would do. It had to.

The totems at the bottom served a different but equally important purpose, as well done by the Wise Bear. They dealt with the dead; more precisely, they would protect our ancestral spirits by letting them move here far away from any demons and undead.

Since this section wouldn't be finished in time, the spirits would be limited to certain parts of Hollowmaw, and many would enter dormancy.

This place was anything but perfect. But until our lands healed, it was the best as the opposite was worse, far worse.

Our burying grounds weren't merely haunted cemeteries after all—they were part of us, sacred and real. Despite that, I saw the ancestors as equal, not abstract people to revere as many shamans viewed them, and it remained maddening. Thinking of it worsened my mood.

Our territories would be desecrated, for we would abandon them, but the living mattered more than what could be rebuilt in time, and the spirits agreed. Nobody desired that; it was a hard pill to swallow, but that was the fine line between stupidity and courage. Many would fight regardless, but many more would be saved.

The Bear Lord was down there working on those totems. My nose told me this much. I had picked his smell and that of furbolg blood far before my eyes and ears, which was why I wasn't surprised in the least.

This life-giving liquid was a focus for the spirits related to the willing giver. It could be bones and personal effects, among other things–and those were used too–but blood was an easier reagent to get.

Ursol was soon in my sight and was hard to miss. Blue and glowing like he was standing on his hind legs with a striking scintillating staff of bronze and wood older than the dragons–a gift of Freya–able to shapeshift to be perfectly held in his right thumbless paws.

"Ursol!" I called, landing in front of him. Hehe didn't stop his casting, but his bright golden eyes were on me—a familiar warmth in them.

He finished casting his spell mere seconds later–his staff moving to his back–and he was on all fours even if the other position was natural. He sniffed me and bumped my head, as I did, in reciprocation to the physical greeting.

"Yes, my young tutee? What troubles you?" He asked with a twinge of his usual playfulness, but I could tell he was anticipating the worst. There was a tension. If only I could prove him wrong. I wanted to break his expectations, but the truth remained the same.

It was bad, oh so very, and incredibly bad.

"It's time, teacher. I can feel it; each day that passes, it gets worse. The demonic invasion is on our doorstep, if not inside already, and is merely waiting to strike." I said, snarling, my urgency slipping in my voice more than I would have liked.

It pissed me off. It was irrational, but I was past the point of caring. The last few weeks had been very unpleasant, and the numerous whining elven druids insulted by my very existence made it complicated to work with the Cenarion Circle, which didn't help.

To think they would be next to talk to after I take care of escorting the tribe…

"Just getting here, I sensed a demon and a cohort of twenty satyrs. Right next to Timbermaw Hold. No fight happened. I ambushed them, but they were there… These filths shouldn't if the fucking Legion wasn't to come to ravage all soon!" I said hotly. The ground cracked under my claws, and the twinge of pain from the force more than the destroyed bedrock only made me angrier.

But before I spiraled further, a bump of the nose from the Wild God–his head noticeably bigger than mine–made me freeze and breathe out right after.

He slowly moved back, his cool gaze of age pasts focused on me as he stood there, steadfast and serene yet attentive. His aura was a stab of clarity in my instinct-fueled mind.

He wasn't someone to cry over—that was too human. No, he was a guide, a mentor, and someone I was right to place my trust upon: someone neither above nor below, an equal, a friend, a brother of sorts.

"Sorry for my outburst Ursol." I loudly huffed while sitting on a big stone, feeling little to no shame over my earlier showing besides relief.

By the Bear Lords, I was angry still, but it was focused again. Controlling it was hard, and from Miel's words, this emotional rawness was to expect till my death.

Only time and experience would temper it. It was a raging inferno of bloodlust for whom wronged ours and, in general, pissed us off—it was naturally found in furbolgs and amplified by the Totemic Ritual. And mine was especially strong before and even more after.

"It's just… There is a lot, and I wish we had more time to prepare." I said, absentmindedly noting how the damage on the stone repaired itself at a speed visible to the naked eye.

"So do I, Ohto. Alas, reality can often disappoint, but hard times are no reason to let despair win over your heart. I will do my part, and you shall do yours." The Bear Lord rumbled pensively and was equally displeased as I was. He smelled of rage, but it was well hidden and perfectly controlled.

"Yes… I shall, teacher." I responded with little enthusiasm, but my preferences changed nothing. It wasn't a time of joy; violence was only satisfying when little was at stake on my side. Hypocritical, but that was the truth.

As to my part, it was to assist all around as a mobile battle healer while he would be guarding the northmost part of Ashenvale–Hollowmaw's biggest weak point–by diminishing, isolating, and managing the corruption.

However, before that, he would warn the tribes in zones at risk through visions to migrate to the den capital bunker and watch over the entire process with me and the shamans.

It was a lot of organizing and planning if we wanted a swift and safe retreat.

That means when the Third War enters full swing, we won't see much of each other outside the Emerald Dream unless the main battlefield shifts where the bear demi-god would be. However, it was secondary and more due to my higher mobility.

Neither of us liked this configuration, but it was the most optimal choice, given that he would be a prime target for the demon leader if he became too inconvenient. It was even why Ursol didn't prance around.

Losing this invasion wasn't a fear. The Dragon Aspects would move their scaly asses before that–not that this was reason to slack off, there was a real fear the dragons proved to be useless–but the long-lasting damage during it was a boundless source of it.

•••••

Three days later, in the deep recess of the Stonetalon Mountains, under a tent of kodo leather, was an elderly female tauren.

The bright sunlight passing through made the white fur of her muzzle stand out even more over the dark grey fur of her body as she stood over an unusual wooden table. Roots and branches melded together with bark and leaves were its everything.

It was a living organism, a tree grown in that shape that would shift back to an upward position when left alone.

Atop this table-shaped tree on a supremely flat and smooth stone plate was an assortment of items seldom taurens usually possessed or even knew the existence of.

Her aged, calloused hands of three bulky digits hovering would lead one to believe clumsiness. Her rapid, methodical, and precise movement as she weaved the sharp silvery head of her elven feather pen hovering above a piece of white paper and the perfect calligraphy of her writing proved how misleading this impression was.

Dipping the enchanted silver head of her pen into the crystal flask containing dark plant-based ink extracted from an Ashenvale flower, she went on writing her command regarding trade.

"Lad-Lady Magatha!"

A deep voice laced with exhaustion shattered her focus, making ink splotch the paper she had been writing for the last half hour. Her tail snapped on the wood support, and her ears twitched in extreme annoyance as she huffed loudly.

But the Elder Crone remained composed. Or as composed as she deemed it necessary. It was a voice she recognized. It was one of her runners—taurens trained to transport messages across the harsh climates and deadly wilderness of Kalimdor. He had permission to act brazenly in her presence, a privilege he better had used wisely.

If his reasons proved unconvincing, she would not be so calm for long. She hoped for his health and well-being, but they weren't.

"I-ug uf! I come bearing strange uff strange tales of never-seen-before creatures warring!"

Magatha paused, her stoney stare hard on the young male as if staring straight into his soul. He squirmed, but she did not care about his weakness. His words were preoccupying, and her shimmering emotions cooled down by their implications.

'Is… is that the time? It can't be...' The Grimtotem matriarch thought, a spike of dread growing in the pit of her stomach. An unwanted reaction she squashed almost immediately.

Standing up, she swiftly put her feather pen into its silver holster and motioned the bull to give the leather casings. She snatched the first before the runner hastily put the remaining on the table of living woods.

"Your services are appreciated. Now go." She dismissed him curtly, her voice taking a frosty edge at the gravity of the situation despite her praise. He followed her order faster than it left her lips.

Taking and unfurling the scroll from its protective layer, the words of Taur-ahe she read made it impossible to deny her earlier thoughts. Another spike of dread coursed through her stomach, this time one that lingered the more her eyes flew across the lines and their meaning echoed in her mind.

It was time.

She was aware of the existential threat ahead. The giant golden-eyed furbolg had seen fit to inform her of it. A demonic invasion from the Great Dark Beyond with a singular goal: the extinction of all life and destruction of the Earthmother.

The signs these abominations were coming existed in the first scroll.

Neither were those signs of the disease nor a symptom, but they marked the beginning of chaos—the reigns of chaos over a fragile stability they had been thriving for.

Or so if it was to be seen as the truth, the Elder Crone didn't doubt her furbolg counterpart. She wanted to, she wished to, but she didn't–couldn't–regardless of her want of the opposite.

His infuriatingly many advantages over her made it wholly improbable for him to spout falsehood of this magnitude.

He needn't that to garner her assistance. He had it already and was aware of this much. Even if he rarely made it known for Magatha, assuring the shamanic ursa totemic wouldn't feel inclined to.

Druidism was reason enough, and it was only the obvious: Ohto was key to the Grimtotem tribe's betterment and survival. He opened the venue to allyship with the furbolgs, leading to trades and contact with night elves, even if the latter proved, as a rule of thumb, to be extremely difficult to work with, making the druid shaman even more important.

She understood him. The Greenweald furbolg was prideful, hot-tempered, and happy to laze around when given any opportunity.

He was intelligent and had a rational open-mindedness. A mind the

Elder Crone sought in her descendants but only ever saw in herself until they met, but he was no deep schemer. He possessed the social and political tactfulness of an unwieldy mace. He was a furbolg all the same.

As such, he spoke the truth; the backing of a mythical Wild God was a compelling argument, too.

Still, to what extent what was foretold was to happen remained for Magatha to see with her own two eyes. From the first look, those outlanders were the same as those spoken of and were a sign that it was time.

As to the outlanders themselves, they were divided into two distinct factions with blatant enmity. It was hatred. A potent and old one from the faraway land they originated from if the mutual violence described was accurate.

The first was composed of smaller pink-skinned kaldorei-like beings of varying eyebrow length, ear size, and pointiness with less flashy patchy fur on their faces and heads.

If they were one race or multiple was to be seen.

The second group was far more flagrant on that front. It was a rat tag group of three to four distinct races. The most populous similarly resembled kaldorei but differed in their unnatural green skins, stocky builds of compact muscles, and tiny tusks pointing upward. And they were, on average, slightly taller.

The second were goblins, who were seen working with them on occasion. Their true allegiance was doubtful. The third were trolls–an integral part of this horde this time–neither were they the pale yellow-skinned cannibal savages of the harsh Tanaris desert or the midnight blue elusive dark trolls of Ashenvale. The fourth and last were taurens… but not any taurens.

Bloodhoof taurens. Free Bloodhoof taurens, and from their numbers, it was the tribe itself. The sight of the Bloodhoof Chieftain speaking to the stocky greenskins alleged leader confirmed the above. Though the trolls had no head to speak of, obeying the greenskins' own.

The entirety of the Bloodhoof population was there, or what remained of them alive.

And the leader of the greenskins–a young male with a distinctly decorated metal hammer–was at the head of it all.

A sardonic smile found its way upon the old matriarch's grey snout. There was little genuine joy, however.

"To lower yourself like this, Cairne, yet not attempt contact… you wound me." She chuckled mirthlessly to herself. By all accounts, the Bloodhoof taurens had submitted to outsiders. It was enough to make one feel ashamed by association.

The Grimtotem, before the centaur's massive migration, had only for equal the Bloodhoof. It had never evolved beyond that point in spirit; they remained the mightiest of tribes, but whereas one ceaselessly weakened from asinine honor-bound stubbornness, her taurens under her rule didn't.

This fashion aggravated further with Ohto. It was ironic to think she had been debating with her chieftains whether to contact the old bull to offer aid if he admitted to his inferiority and wrongdoings or let him suffer the consequences of his foolishness and come to help. Alas, it seemed it would never come to pass, his loss.

Shaking her head, the Elder Crone unfurled the second scroll and frowned, trailing the simplified map drawn. She drew an unpleasant conclusion after a quick mental calculation and using the prior information.

There weren't many logical explanations that weren't a declaration of war. Or to obtain lumber, but the difference might as well be inexistent since the greenskins–especially these ones–appeared to be failures at diplomacy that didn't involve blood and death. The night elves themselves weren't the most agreeable in the best conditions, and mixing both with that scenario wouldn't end well.

And it was going to happen.

A cohort of mostly those greenskins–a tribe or clan by the banner–was sent up North to Ashenvale, where the dark forest opened to the Barrens. And those greenskins appeared to be the elite warriors of this patchwork group. And they would be less than two days away from Ashenvale by now. The meeting would be explosively violent.

'Has Cairne not warned them? Has the fool lost his damnable mind!?' Magatha internally bemoaned; Ohto needed to be made aware of both points. It was necessary, and the backlash if she didn't would be substantial.

A pointless war was unacceptable in those times; she would stomp it down. It didn't come out of the kindness of her heart but simple logic. It would simultaneously prove a worthwhile show of willingness to the night elves, one the Grimtotem tribe needed to gain popularity among the kaldorei.

After all, she was aware of what was to come when the invasion was pushed back–given victory was attained and it would–none would be unscathed.

The kaldorei, in particular, would suffer the most, and their arrogance surely would crumble into shards. Shards Magatha would pick up. Opportunities need to be grasped in those incoming times.

Regardless, she needed to avoid confusion; a tauren for a night elf was a tauren no matter the allegiance. It would be deplorable if a Grimtotem was mistaken for a Bloodhoof.

*

Chapters in advance there: patreon.com/thebipboop2003