Greenpaw Village was a quaint and picturesque place, the green canopy above letting the sun's soft rays filter through.
Flowers of all shapes and colors grew upon the houses, living plants shaped into logs, if not logs, from the beginning. Butterflies, bees, fireflies, and small spirits flickered around them.
Vegetables, roots, berries, and fruits were abundant; birds and small animals were regaling themselves on them.
This was to the anger of furbolgs below and the amusement of cubs running and playing in the verdant grass.
Night elves were not absent if a minority in the community of bears, and they mingled among them.
They were bartering at the marketplace, working on their tasks, training in all manner of arts, be they on the physical or more spiritual side, with the elements.
Yet it wasn't all. Two other races were present, both on the extreme opposite in height, kobolds and taurens, and they did much the same.
In the background, standing out in the idyllic village, tall even compared to the ancient trees, was the Ursine Gate.
It was a giant bear head carved from living wood capable of closing at the will of the shamans. It was no mere monument.
It was the entrance to thousands of kilometers of tunnel across Northern Kalimdor. This was the hub of activity of this settlement.
Further away were kodos, giant moles, and hippogryphs, respectively, in their pens, tended to, or on their way to work once more.
Each had its uses, complementing their weaknesses with their strengths, some beasts of burden, others for transport. Yet they had their places.
A kodo was far slower than a hippogriff and limited to predetermined routes.
But a kodo was far stronger than the other two. And the giant mole could travel underground, effortlessly dig through solid stone, and was between the two in speed. However, it lacked stamina.
Then there were the various large felines, from frostsabers to nightsabers. They were for hunting and warfare, not that any of the others were foreign to that purpose.
Greenpaw Village was harmonious in its apparent chaos of shapes, smells, colors, sounds, and movements.
Squinting, he noticed movements with shamans and druids at the gate. It soon left his thoughts, even if his instincts hinted at something deeper.
If there was a problem he could help with, they would ring the alarm. He would be a hindrance and distraction more than anything. It could be everything or nothing.
This growing village shattered the belief that it was a ruined land a scant few years prior.
But it was how it unfolded, and Chen Stormstout had not only witnessed but joined in the reconstruction.
It had been in the lesser-hit area.
If he had a weaker heart like many of his countrymen, he would have been broken. It was a sobering thought that he had only witnessed the least of the worst that passed.
Thousands upon thousands had been massacred.
But horror remained; it had been far worse than Fel slipping into the ground. It was haunting in its own viscerally profound and insidious way.
He had witnessed what corruption could do to furbolgs and creatures of nature. It was anything but pleasant.
The memories of being forced to put an end to an unfortunate cub on the cusp of adulthood would never vanish.
And it had neither been the first nor the last. None remained in this cycle of suffering, but it changed little about Chen's hate toward the demons and the undead.
It was an impressive fit in its own right, for it wasn't an emotion he or pandaren held under most circumstances, if ever.
It was the past and a future that was yet to pass; for now, it was time to enjoy the present. As it always should be the case.
To that effect, alcohol was abundant. And furbolgs knew their liquid joys with a rare few as equal, but selective breeding placed them even above pandaren.
It was a hard truth.
A beer was only as good as its ingredients if used right, no matter how skilled and experienced the brewer might be. Chen had learned this much.
It was a part of a whole, yes, but it certainly helped a lot. Not that it would put a dent in his ambition; he wasn't so easily demoralized.
He was enjoying one such beer atop a flat stone above a clearing where a spar between two young furbolgs, Hukar and Softjaw, was taking place.
It was fast and violent, feral yet graceful, with no shame in weapons from teeth to claws.
Others were watching some from innocent curiosity or martial interests. In many ways, dozens of the people of varying races here were what one might unironically call his 'students.'
It would be a very generous way to put it, though, not to them, but to him. His lessons were very sporadic, but considering them, students wouldn't be wholly inaccurate.
Be that as it may, they would need real teachers, not him. He couldn't give them a proper education in being a monk. He didn't listen as a cub outside of combat.
He was no great tutor and never so much had ventured tutoring in any way outside, if perhaps with his niece Lin Lin.
A rather big perhaps, outside of tricks and occasional pearls of wisdom, his mood for proper teaching was sparse.
It was an amusing coincidence that a pair of twin cubs around her age convinced him with their shy friend. Not that Chen would ever dare to voice it out loud.
Only one among the trio was absent, studying the less confrontational aspect of fighting under the shrewd Elder Crone of the Grimtotem tribe.
They were promising, proficient fighters from the beginning, with stubborn determination hardened by war and loss.
He had done comparatively little to improve their martial prowess. Chi ultimately strengthened them, but they were never weak and unskilled.
Chi and pandaren martial arts were, as such, melded into what was shown in this spar with furbolg fighting style and treant companions.
It was very rough, with much to expand and perfect, but it was impressive. What it will become would be for the future to tell.
It was to be expected of the siblings of the most fascinating furbolg and their younger sister in all but blood.
It was equally impressive that he stayed relatively still for the past three years.
Relatively being the keyword.
He usually didn't stay long enough to have a bed to sleep on for more than a few days, even if it wasn't technically his and was regularly broken.
Horde's territories were avoided, given his resemblance to furbolg and rising tension with the Wild. And the rapid and methodical industrialization, ongoing there with all the smog, wasn't particularly enticing to pandaren.
But the rest was fair game, and it was the farthest from being seen in its entirety by him.
There was Northrend, a Dream Portal away, too. There was plenty enough to satiate his curiosity, wanderlust, and some more.
He did not desire a passing glance, either.
It was also the potential to see more, much more, such as the lost continent of Pandaria. Yet there was no need for haste in his anticipation.
The pandaren brewmaster's musing ended rather abruptly as he heard the loud and quick footsteps of something heavy and fast. The smell alone was enough of a clue as to who it was.
But it didn't explain the evident shapeshift and haste. Chen raised a furry eyebrow. He had never conceived the old furbolg could be this concerned.
He stood up and turned to Oakpaw, his bear form shifting back to his furbolg body with whitening claws. There was a profound rage in the old shaman's usually serene eyes.
It was something you did not want to see in a furbolg's eyes. It was the last of the emotions to wish for. However, it wasn't aimed at the pandaren.
"Elder Oakpaw, is there a problem?" Chen asked, his sudden movement causing the commotion below to die down, but the Elder Shaman's presence wasn't enough.
"Quite, Monk Stormstout," Oakpaw answered with a certain polite sharpness as he handed the smaller ursine a folded leaf.
"Undrassil had been attacked by those elves far too stubborn and arrogant to relinquish what was never for them to hoard forever." He continued, and the pandaren began to read the papyrus, his green eyes narrowing.
It wasn't good. It could worsen into something catastrophic. Chen felt a hint of irritation that shifted to a faint spark of anger and a well of something akin to disgust.
He wouldn't be this invested at any other time. Crises weren't new during his adventure.
In fact, they were somehow all too common, but here, it was almost–and it wasn't lightly said–a place that he could consider a second home. It had happened without even his realization.
He was welcome, unjudged, and accepted with rare exceptions, of which nearly all were the farthest from malicious.
Furbolgs and pandaren differed, but they were related not only in ancestry but also in spirit. It was striking, almost as if staring into a mirror.
It became even more evident with each passing day. Alcohol was the most evident. People who knew their booze and the little things in life were cultured people. But furbolgs weren't pandaren; it was through the differences that the similarities shone.
"I won't deny Ohto my presence then. I hope not too much blood is spilled." Chen said and finished his drink. He would never waste such a delicious beverage.
He had a clear picture of who was responsible if the heavily worded accusation from the Chosen of the Twins hadn't been glaring enough evidence.
One of the traits of the totemic shaman he dearly wished was unnecessary was his cynicism.
It wasn't naïveté that Chen desired, but Ohto didn't drink a barrel halfway. It was everything or nothing, with only rare exceptions.
Case in point: even without proof, almost nobody outside of Fandral Staghelm would wish for Hollowmaw's destruction.
Only that kaldorei and Malfurion held the power and influence needed.
But the Archdruid couldn't be responsible; Chen had met him as well as Fandral, and he found the latter very hard to empathize with and very easy to despise.
It wasn't praiseworthy.
Not that it was left to doubt.
There was unambiguous proof that unanimously pointed to the weaker of the two ancient druids as the treacherous man.
"So do I, so do I. Yet that would be for my old student and the Bear of Might to decide." Oakpaw agreed, the last of his words eclipsing his anger with pure joy.
The pandaren's eyes widened at this part, and understanding dawned on him. Ursoc was reborn, the personification of the warrior and warden for furbolgs.
It would be a bloodshed then.
•••••
Tyrande's face was unreadable as she stared at the gargantuan tree her sisters had informed her about.
It had taken her distressingly longer than it should have to obtain this crucial piece of information.
It had been through an Ancient of Lore entrusted to monitor papyrus flow that she knew something wasn't right, or in the norms, at the very least.
If not for an attentive priestess passing and rushing to her, it would have taken even longer.
The furbolg, Ohto of the Greenweald, words were clear, and he was displeased. Common, but never to be ignored, today was even more so.
And he wasn't just unhappy. He was absolutely livid, a fact that was enough to spur fear in her war-forged nerves. A fear she squashed down for the most part.
He hadn't been accusatory to her specifically, but his words alone made the High Priestess feel shaken. He had been matter-of-fact with his terms.
Ohto was paranoid and prone to overreaction; his manic fit at her and love's pursuit of the Betrayer had proved this much about his personality.
But here, it was founded in factual reality.
A World Tree had been grown, and neither Malfurion, Shandris, nor she had seen it or heard anything related until it happened.
It should never have been the case. It was a sign, an extremely distressing one.
It was a half-truth, however.
Now that she was here, memories of odd reports and demands she thought little of aside a raised eyebrow began to come together like a puzzle.
Her temper rose as the image was found in opposition to her wishes.
Nothing escaped Elune's divine sight, but Tyrande shared only a fraction of the moon goddess' perception.
And it wasn't to her Lady to tend to every… mortal matter.
It was the kaldorei many trials. Elune existence wasn't to take upon their every hurt. She was the will and strength of their people, not a mother hen.
Alas, Tyrande's vigilant attention couldn't be on every aspect of the Sentinel Army; it was the task of her adoptive daughter, but she was still learning.
Even more so now, as it wasn't reserved for kaldorei women alone; it was the army of the Wild. It was changed, remade, and adapted for that, but it was still evolving.
Then there was the Sisterhood, now Children of Elune. It was a name resulting from the natural development of letting men in its walls. Fifteen hundred years of traditions changed in less than four measly years.
Predictably, there was resistance in both institutions to those radical changes. It seemed like it was far more than Malfurion and her expected.
Tyrande's duties also went beyond the two, and the life growing inside her furthered this.
It couldn't be helped; much was to be done during extreme and rapid cultural and societal transformation. The shift in gender roles and the construction of the Wild were two parts of a bigger whole.
The disappearance of Maiev Shadowsong and all the wardens who had left with her worsened this.
The Watchers were marshals and enforcers of the laws, and their slow recovery from what unfolded with Illidan and several of them–kaldorei–harboring animosity toward the High Priestess did not help.
Malfurion needed to be in the Emerald Dream as well as many druids to fight the Nightmare, limiting her peers among the night elves and in the Wild to the second strongest druid.
And per the Wild, the designed inner workings of its ruling body, each race had the right to choose a Representative within a set of rules.
It was how the Wild Court operated.
The responsibility of such a position for night elves fell on her shoulders; she had never felt the weight of her age until now. It was… profoundly sobering.
Yet a painful truth was evident, Ohto and Magatha–her equal in the Court as was Brightwaggle for kobolds who agreed with the furbolg on principle–forewarnings proved far from erroneous.
Tyrand Whisperwind knew deep in her heart that their words were never void of truth, but she was never aware of how radiantly scorching a truth it was.
And the High Priestess of Elune had turned her head away from it until today.
But they were a fraction of a fraction of her age; surely she knew her people better. The War of the Ancients had changed them; they weren't, couldn't be what they once were.
It was indeed the case that they had changed, but pride and hubris remained, merely under a new shape.
Cracks were forming among the unity of her people, and it was plastered right into her face with this World Tree.
It couldn't be denied any longer. As the High Priestess, she should have foreseen it.
It was analogous to the revolts after the Sundering; now, the threat was far more insidious and discreet than the Arcane.
The last years were the most significant period since that harrowing epoch.
This World Tree shouldn't have existed without her notice. It was too large a project to hide, yet it remained hidden.
It was shameful that she didn't think such a thing would happen, and she didn't notice it weaving itself right in front of her very eyes.
The dissidents to the path of the Wild were present here, gathered and tending to the nascent World Tree as Ash'alah carried her to it.
Yet an infinitesimal part of Tyrande, the part against Nordrassil's sacrifice, stirred, delighted. It had hurt more than she admitted to losing the blessings.
Those had been certainty, stability, and safety among her people for ten thousand years.
She hated that emotion, but it lingered all the same.
Greatly diminished they may be, she felt something in that World Tree reminding her of what she had forsaken.
"High Priestess," A self-assured voice called after the almost silent beats of majestic wings, "A magnificent view, isn't it? Ashdrassil sprouted from a dying root of the mistreated Undrassil. Under its branches, we can supersede our losses."
However, the hope of a proverbial return to normalcy was found wanting.
Not when she understood what was at stake would the pillars of night elves' society crumble and a civil war ensue, so high were the stakes.
She couldn't stay watching, nor did she have the time to awaken her husband.
Ohto was coming with a vengeance, whether she liked it or not, but it wasn't him; Ursoc the Mighty was the one to snap her to reality.
It was not that the young furbolg had been gentle in his wording, and he wasn't to be ignored; it was wrong that he needed to be so aggressive as to have her act as well. She had almost forgotten what he did to Mannoroth and Archimonde.
But alienating a Bear Lord would immediately unravel the Cenarion Circle. The Mighty Bear wasn't as patient and understanding as his twin brother, Ursol.
It was improbable and presumptuous, but the Chosen of the Twins didn't lie. He spoke what he believed and wouldn't utter nonsense.
The Bear Lord was back in the land of the waking and was displeased.
Yet she knew she would have likely not been against this development without the great furbolg; basking in her ignorance would have been easier than the painful truth.
The letter had been a warning in many ways. Ohto had even informed her of kaldorei traitors with their names, some she had known for millennia.
'Sisters… I had been truly foolish to hope you would never break your vows of unwavering devotion. May Elune forgive you, for I don't share her great mercy.' Tyrande prayed, then spoke loud enough for anyone to hear.
"I see, the Crown of the Night, fitting, I suppose. But let's not play, Staghelm. That's only one truth."
"Then enlighten me, Tyrande, what expertise you may have in druidism that I lack? Was Elune the one to bless you with such knowledge?" The male kaldorei sneered in response.
To her shock, she saw no evident disapproval from the surrounding night elves at his words.
Even priestesses and sentinels who had been there long before her arrival could be seen agreeing.
Many avoided her gaze, be it in shame or confusion, but their silence spoke loud enough, and some had the gall to glower and stare disapprovingly at her.
It was a stark contrast to the righteous fury of her escorts, yet to her even greater shock, it wasn't unanimous there either.
However, who was loyal and who wasn't couldn't be any clearer.
It wasn't pretty; disbelief, sadness, and disappointment were etched on their features. Tyrande's heartbeat pounded in her ears, and her blood boiled in barely contained fury.
But she showed no outward reactions, unlike them. She doubted it was an assassination attempt, but the ever-growing number of dissenters was alarming.
Tyrande didn't fear for her life; escape was achievable, even with a child.
She wasn't without exit, but it hammered to her mind that her grasp was slipping, and it was the exposed part of the rot.
"I forbid you to speak her name-" Fandral cut the priestess, pointing a clawed finger at her.
"You murdered our people to free the Betrayer in her name! You used her voice to hide the Legion's arrival, judging it wiser to trust bronze dragons! Now you wish the Children of the Stars, the guardians of nature, to live a miserable, short, diseased existence among beasts as our equal?" The lesser Archdruid hollered, the first and second revelation concretizing the third.
"ENOUGH!" Eyes brimming with the light of Elune, she commanded, and there was silence, "I have made mistakes and will not deny them, yet mine were not out of my selfish desires. I acted as I believed was best for our people till I drew my last breath. Unlike you, I know what you did here Fandral-"
The High Priestess was interrupted again. However, it wasn't the temporary acting head of the Cenarion Circle who did it, as much as he would have wished to.
They had arrived, and she understood she had failed; it would be a massacre, and she would help make it quick and painless.
Before her creature of legends made of gargantuan muscles, dense, rich brown braided fur, and titansteel claws exited the ground with a primordial roar, making the souls of all who heard it quake in terror.
Standing taller than any bear was one of the mightiest demi-gods of the wild nature, with paws that could crush boulders and bend any metal.
Tyrande recognized him–smaller he seemed to be notwithstanding, his aura didn't lie, she couldn't mistake it–and so did the kaldorei. For the first time, she saw genuine dread and panic in the hateful druid's visage.
It was as if a terrible realization had crashed down on his psyches.
"No… nononono… It can't be!" He muttered, his eagle-headed staff held tightly in his grip as he took a half-step back.
It didn't appear to be fear regarding his life; he was far past this. It was anger wrapped with despair to cling to something that would never come to pass. Careful schemes and plans burst into flame with Staghelm powerless to it.
"Look, this cannot be Ursoc! It is simply far too small! A construct of flesh by Ohto imitating him to fool us into compliance is all it is!" Fandral screamed with false confidence in his stance.
Following him were voices of agreement more from desperate denial of what their every sense told than bonafide conviction. Delusion can only take one so far, and it was failing hard.
The bleak understanding of what was to come ensnared their hearts, clawing at their minds.
The alleged false Bear Lord wordlessly answered after a loud snort of disdain and mocking pity. His right paw was lifted high and slammed on the ground hard, caving in like a sand castle.
Nearby trees outside of Ashdrassil trembled, leaves and branches falling as more than one night elves stumbled and lost all bravado.
This was real. This was Ursoc the Mighty, and they earned his wrath.
"You have no idea how I wish to feast on your warm entrails while you scream for mercy like a wench, puny little elf. Tragically, this task fell on my little brother's shoulder…" The Bear Lord enunciated, ennui and anger lacing his tone that sent tremors to the bones.
The crowd listened, paralyzed with renewed terror, save for Tyrande and those who had never wavered away from the Wild.
Even then, it was the instinctive response to feeling this primal, animalistic fear of the baser instincts when standing close to such a predator, apex among the apex.
Who followed after the Wild God's words from the cave was a furbolg all too famous and infamous, his mutated appearance to what a bear man should be shining under the two moons.
Flesh, bark, and fungi were his skin exposed amid a dense fur of burning white Ursine runes, verdant green moss, and obsidian black hair with muscled belly, neck, and armpit.
Mimicking armor or an exoskeleton, thick barks and bones protruded from his head, shoulders, chest, haunches, crotch, paws, knees, and forearms with vines, thorns, leaves, and flowers.
His body was anything but an abomination; it was harmonious in its ratio, natural proportions, and animal life in symbiosis with vegetal and fungal life in one.
No words were exchanged, no barbs or snark were given as glowing golden eyes filled with so much rage, so much hate, and so much grief landed on Fandral Staghelm.
Ohto lunged.
*
Chapters in advance there: patreon.com/thebipboop2003