Chapter 1: Laronar
Chapter Text
The City of Eldarath – West of Zin'Azshari and Suramar
A soft mewling sound echoed through the woods again. Whatever creature made it was weak, probably wounded or tired. Luckily for it, one who could hear its cries for help was nearby, strolling through the woods that surrounded the elven city of Eldarath on all sides, and only added to its beauty. The humanoid who heard the cries for help was a Kaldorei, around the age of five.
His skin was a pale light blue, like the rest of his Highborne caste, and his frame was tall, though not yet filled out with the muscles of adulthood. He was like every other child his age, though there were a few key differences that set him apart, and kept him all but isolated. His hair was a long mane of dark green, and for some reason not even his family could understand, he preferred to walk around without any kind of covering for his upper torso, preferring instead to wear kilts or leather pants, when he went wandering into the forests.
Normally, the Highborne of the city would have sneered at him and his family for producing a 'wild child', but most held their tongues when they saw the amber eyes. A superstitious people, the Kaldorei treated such children with mixed reactions, but all agreed that those who bore eyes of amber were destined for greatness. Thus, the boy's antics were forgiven, most of the time.
The child, Laronar, had never felt particularly great because of his eyes, only ostracized from being normal by something he had no control over. At first the hushed whispers wherever he went bothered him, but he soon learned to ignore them, and over time, began to ignore other parts of the culture that surrounded him. Being an inherently kind person, the haughty superiority his fellow Highborne claimed over others did little more than confuse him. He didn't find lineage a good reason to treat others like dirt. They were still Kaldorei, and he had been taught that elves as a whole were superior to the mysterious 'other races' that shared the world with them. Being five, he hadn't yet had a reason to doubt his parent's knowledge in that regard. This difference in morals is what led him to brazenly stroll through the city without a shirt, to walk in the woods on that particular day, and it is what led him to a creature that would become a lifelong friend.
He had no particular desire to assimilate into his culture, as the older he grew, the more he found he disliked it. There was one part of it, however, that had fascinated his young mind since he was two. Nightsabers. They were fierce, proud, loyal, and cool in ways the five-year-old couldn't even begin to describe. He'd always been drawn to them, and once more he was drawn to the forests as the sounds echoing in the woods could only be those of a Nightsaber kit. He'd played with enough to recognize most of their sounds, but he'd never heard one in pain before.
As he followed the sounds of distress, which grew louder as he ran deeper into the forest then he had ever dared to before, he eventually came upon a large hollow log. The sounds of pain stopped abruptly as the not so nimble child crashed through the brush with the grace of a rampaging Tauren.
It took him a minute to notice the glowing pair of narrowed eyes hiding within the darkness of the log, but when he did, he knelt down next to it, and offered a hand. A sharply clawed paw swiped at his hand, as the child suspected it would, and he pulled it back quickly, avoiding being cut before deciding that the only course of action now was to wait.
The creature inside the log was indeed a Nightsaber. His people had tamed the proud, massive cats long ago, and Laronar had wanted one as a pet ever since his father had told him the story of how their family had gotten their surname: Stormclaw. While he was far too young to remember it all, he did focus on the parts that included the great Stormsaber one of his ancestors had rode upon as he'd wielded the power of the storms, and used it against Zandalari, Dwarves, Tauren, and other monsters.
Stormsabers were exceedingly rare, even back in the times of his ancestor, and taming one was considered as impressive as taming a wild Frostsaber, for they were every bit as, if not more, fearsome. The difference in breeds mainly came from the fact that male Stormsabers tended to be dominant, while the other breeds, not unlike the elves, were matriarchal. The male-dominant breed did not do well against ancient, powerful females, and that was what had primarily led to their decline in number. The young elf had no illusions about finding a Stormsaber of his own, since they had become a mount for only the most skilled riders in Zin Azshari, the elve's racial capital, but he continued to hope.
He sat by the log for what seemed, to a child, like hours. His eyes never left the saber cat's, and eventually, he started talking to it. He didn't know why, but he was bored, hungry, and only wanted to help an injured creature as he had so often before, much to his parent's disdain. However, Laronar suspected that they wouldn't stop him from keeping a Nightsaber as a companion. Squirrels and rabbits were one thing, but Kaldorei had been keeping the ferocious felines since their empire rose, and likely even before that.
The great cats were expensive to buy, though feeding them was easy enough, if you lived in a city. The Kaldorei rangers had no shortage of meat to sell. Finally, the small Nightsaber crawled out of the log, eyeing the elf warily. The great cats were smarter than most gave them credit for, something Laronar had begun to realize since it had stopped hissing at him. The elf wasn't a threat to it, that much was obvious, and they were young, hungry, and alone in the dark woods. Not that the lack of light was an issue for either of them.
The first light of dawn was beginning to shine through the clouds, signaling just how early it was, but the young elf didn't care. The purplish light of the barely risen sun revealed what subspecies the young sabercat was, and Laronar couldn't quite recognize it. It was only at that moment, as he reached out again to pet the creature, that he had no idea what Stormsabers actually looked like. This kit's fur was a deep blue, like the early night sky, and had spots all over it. The blue extended down its legs and under its paws, while the upper sides of its paws were entirely white, along with its belly.
Slowly, the elf placed a hand on its head, and began petting. "See? I'm not going to hurt you…" He whispered. The young kit, despite his initial reluctance, found himself purring in response. The elven fingers were dextrous, and the small child had found a spot behind his ear that caused his entire body to rumble. That same purr unnaturally echoed around the two, rolling through the woods in approval, but Laronar was too caught up with his new best friend to notice.
As Laronar kept up his petting, his eyes caught sight of the creature's injury, on its back left leg. It looked like a gash, and the fur around it was deep purple. Realizing what made purple when mixed with blue fur, the young elf carefully picked up the sabercat, and began walking back towards his home.
"First, we get you home." He whispered, "Then someday, you'll carry me. On your back, though." He went on, recounting to the small cat about how they would ride into battle together against great foes, and strike fear into the hearts of anyone who would ever dare question their power combined.
Once the two finally reached the outskirts of the city, where even the nature lovers among their people stopped, they were found by a Moonguard patrol, which had been tasked with finding the young elf. When the child of a Highborne family went missing, the guards were expected to drop everything to find them.
The guards of this section of Eldarath knew Laronar well, for he often ventured beyond the city, avoiding the guards, and had a tendency to stay out later and later. This was the longest he'd been gone so far, but the two guards realized why once they found him. They tried to take the Nightsaber in his arms from him, but stopped as it hissed. It was young, but it already had a formidable pair of sharp fangs. All they lacked was the legendary length that marked cats of his species.
The two guards decided against separating the pair, for it was common knowledge that Nightsabers bonded most strongly with whoever took care of them first. That was also why there were so few kept as pets, and used only as mounts. Those who knew how to properly raise the cubs did not share their knowledge easily, though once they were trained, they could be bonded to anyone, given enough time.
As the pair returned home, Laronar and his new pet were greeted by knowing smiles from his mother and sister, a sigh from his father, and a sneer from his eldest brother that sent a chill down the young Night Elf's spine.
His brother Vehlar was, by far, the one who embraced their Highborne status the most, his parents having given up on retaining some semblance of respectability amongst their cast long ago, after it was clear that Laronar was 'special'. Vehlar alone maintained the air of Highborne superiority, but Laronar continuously undermined his efforts with his wild attitude and strong hatred of shirts. The two brothers did not like each other whatsoever, and this cat was yet another wedge that would no doubt drive them apart.
Compared to the rest of his family, who were fully clothed, and not covered in dirt and scratches, Laronar stuck out even more. His father and mother both had hair that was not dissimilar in color from his new pet's fur. Only Alaria, his sister, took after them. Both he and his brother Vehlar had dark green hair, but it was obvious Vehlar cared more about his appearance than his little brother.
In a society that prized aesthetics, Vehlar was, in his mind, the only Stormclaw who acted like a Highborne should. He had spent most of his childhood trying to restore the family's respectability in the eyes of the elite, and since he had a knack for sorcery, it had been going well…until his little brother was born when Vehlar was fifteen. At first, people assumed the amber eyes were a sign that their family was indeed still respectable, but as the years had passed, the middle child had become the butt end of numerous jokes, many of which were concocted by Vehlar himself.
He also had, on multiple occasions, tricked his younger sibling with cruel pranks. Since their parents were busy training their daughter, who was a year younger than Laronar, to be a priestess, this brotherly abuse was often overlooked, or ignored. Like a true Highborne, Vehlar used the influence and prestige he was bringing to the family name to get away with almost anything. It was through him that his younger brother slowly learned to hate the aristocracy, despite technically being a part of it. And as his eldest brother continued on and on about how taking in a 'half-breed stray' would tarnish their image further, Laronar finally decided he would never be like his brother. Not if he had any say about it.
As Laronar explained how he had found the young Nightsaber, Vehlar interrupted with an exasperated sigh. It was, in his defense, no different a story than any of the others his brother had told when he brought home injured squirrels or rabbits. Instead of letting nature weed out the weak members of a species, he brought them home, fed them, grew attached, and then ultimately became sad when they were 'taken to the woods'. More than a few of the critters had been taken by Vehlar, primarily for target practice.
"Excellent." He sneered, sarcastic contempt in his tone, "So you're keeping him? Maybe you can be a Saber Handler when you drop out of the Academy. Perhaps if you spent as much time casting spells as you did coddling wild animals, you wouldn't be so incredibly bad at using magic." Vehlar left the room after that, and though his childish enthusiasm was dampened, that didn't keep Laronar from ensuring his new friend had a place to stay. He'd never much cared for the magic Vehlar used, as he'd often used innocent animals to demonstrate his prowess, and nobody except Laronar seemed to find that utterly, morally, wrong. It was as if only he cared that the poor creatures suffered under such spells. Their cries often made him nauseous, and yet the other Highborne had actually clapped when his brother's Moonfire burned apart squirrels and rabbits. He was too young to understand why the adults, often thousands of years his senior, couldn't understand how wrong using living things for spell practice was. It was his first hint of something rotten in their lauded society, but Laronar was too young to understand just how deep the rot went.
Once the issue of housing was settled, his sister managed to heal the cut on the animal's flank, while his parents found a book that catalogued the different breeds of Nightsabers. It was clear that this one wasn't ordinary, due to the unusual color and lack of stripes. It didn't take them long to figure out that it was, in fact, a Stormsaber kit, and that fact meant that they wouldn't be able to keep him in their house forever. Stormsabers were known to be big, especially the males, unlike other breeds of Nightsaber, where the females were larger. Nobody quite knew how they had gotten their name, but it seemed to fit, for those who rode them claimed that their roar had the power to shake the heavens. That remained to be seen.
Chapter 2: Rejecting the Well
Chapter Text
Several seemingly short years passed, and eventually Laronar's pet, which he had cleverly named Storm, had to go and live with the other Nightsabers in the stables. The handler was a kind person though, and she offered to feed and house the young sabercat, provided she could use his lineage to improve her other mounts.
While Laronar had no idea what that meant, or entailed, his parents agreed. He went to the stables every day, learning how to care for not just his pet, but all the other Nightsabers as well. It was clear to anyone that the boy had an affinity with the animals, and though his eyes suggested a great destiny, a Saber Handler was still a respectable part of their society. Even the bigger, meaner mounts softened at his presence not to the point of being tame or 'nice' but they tolerated his efforts to brush their coats and feed them without snarling, and neither of the handlers who worked the stables could quite understand why. The persistent immature noble gave them one less time-consuming chore to do though, so they let him stay, when it became clear the cats treated him like one of the pack after only a few short weeks helping out.
It seemed as though he would actually become a handler himself, in time, as his lack of sorcerous finesse was obvious. He could use magic, and cast a spell as well as any other his age, but he never liked doing it, and that showed in his glyph work and casting forms. The spells the mages used brought only destruction, and the ones that didn't were only taught after the basics had been mastered. The Priestesses of the Moon had much more interesting spells, but they were a Sisterhood, and his request to join and learn had been softly, but stoically denied. At first, he'd been skeptical that his sister could hear the Goddess, and then, she'd started glowing with the light of the moon, a sign of her potential. Naturally, their parents were around to see this, and shortly after, her priestess training began.
Given that their mother was also a Moon Priestess, her age had been overlooked, as it often was for those in the order who brought in a daughter. Quite a few daughters, if they lacked sorcerous potential, ended up joining Elune's faithful quite young and to do so was a great honor, even in their arcane-drenched society. Alaria spent much of her time at Eldarath's temple after that, going so far as to actually lodge there, with other novitiates. Laronar, for his part, was stuck at the Academy. He hated every second of it, though that was more due to the fact that it was often Vehlar who was in charge of teaching him and his younger peers. His cruel elder brother did not care that he regularly embarrassed his younger sibling in front of his peers, and whatever hope Laronar had of making friends vanished once it became clear that anyone being overtly friendly with the shirtless wild child wasn't good for their future prospects. Though they were young, the other children knew to avoid the lightning rod for their instructor's anger.
As he grew older, Laronar's 'special eyes' began to take in more and more of just how badly the Highborne treated 'lesser Kaldorei'. Where his parents, and even his sister, saw the so called 'huddled masses', he saw elves. Ordinary, regular Kaldorei just trying to live their extraordinarily long lives the best they could in a society that spat on them because of the circumstance of their birth. They had entrusted the Highborne and the magic-wielders with their safety for their power had all but conquered the known world, and yet, all Laronar saw his fellow 'elites' do with this status was abuse their power, and authority, often to demean others. The whole thing baffled the young elf.
His lack of respect for magic made many of his instructors sigh with disdain, though when it came time to grade the student's levels of skill, he managed to pass. Had he applied himself, he could have easily matched his brother, despite the age gap. That's what the Headmaster had told him at least. But when the young Kaldorei had explained why he found sorcery so distasteful, so…wrong, all he received was a strange look, one he was, by now, very used to seeing on the faces of adults. To the ancient Headmaster of a respected academy of magic, the concern for the well-being of something as mundane as a squirrel, especially from a Highborne, was strange indeed.
It had happened slowly, but more and more, Laronar began to feel out of place in their society, as if some part of him wanted to be something else entirely. He just had no idea what he was supposed to be. He wasn't good with a bow, though he had fair skill with a dagger, his parents had insisted that if he was going to use bladed weapons, he was going to use proper ones, not ones suited for skulking in the shadows. Despite their best efforts, he did manage to learn to pass unseen in the night from one of the Saber Handlers, and was rather good at it. Before long, he could walk as quietly as Storm, and the two often snuck out of the city.
Laronar was not the only one of his family to advance in the passing years. Alaria had eventually been fully accepted into the Sisterhood, and unlike her mother, chose to live at the temple full time, claiming it was her duty. Vehlar, for his part, had advanced in rank. Though it wasn't due to his skill, he often told anyone who would listen that he had been due a promotion anyways.
Many of Eldarath's Highborne magi had been called away to Zin Azshari to work on some new mysterious project their beloved queen, Azshara, was creating. Nobody suspected anything untoward, for the sorcerers of Zin Azshari had often called on the skilled magi from around their empire when such projects were underway, and Azshara's guidance was, of course, without flaw.
Azshara had never led them astray, and had ruled their race for uncounted millennia. Through her wisdom, and the power of their beloved Moon Goddess, the Kaldorei had carved an empire from the wild lands of Kalimdor. With magic and faith, they ruled supreme over every race, even the Zandalari. Laronar however, felt anything but superior. Long years of forcibly learning spells at the hand of his brother had turned him increasingly bitter towards elven magic, and by the time he got an instructor who wasn't sadistic about torturing the animals used for target practice because they knew it bothered Laronar, he was already quite against using the power of the Well. All he had ever seen it cause was pain, and the convenience it brought was no excuse to ignore the destructive potential of arcane magic. It was only his visits to the stables that kept the young Kaldorei from being utterly miserable.
The only benefit he gained from magic was the use of several basic, minor spells or 'cantrips' as his superiors called them. He found Mage Hand and Prestidigitation rather useful, but his mind had been thoroughly blown, when he'd found, in a rather unused tome within Eldarath's Academy, a spell that actually allowed one to speak with animals. In those days, mages still used spellbooks to record their knowledge, and Laronar was no different, though he had never bothered to inscribe anything more useful than a fireball, and the aforementioned cantrips into his own. When his professors found what he was copying down, they had sighed, but had allowed it anyways, and had even led him to another useful, but low level spell, one that allowed the user to comprehend foreign languages with naught but glyph, and a pinch of salt and soot. With Laronar finally showing an interest in some part of the arts, even linguistic ones, his instructor nurtured that inquisitiveness.
Once Laronar had reached the age of ten, things started to change. He didn't know how, but he could feel it in the air itself, something was wrong. He wasn't the only one who felt it, either. The Nightsabers of the realm had become uneasy as the skies darkened, and public unrest began to rise as the Well of Eternity began to churn with enormous waves, or so the rumors said.
Nobody in Eldarath had actually seen the Well's turmoil. Azshara and her Highborne had, to the knowledge of those in Eldarath at least, closed themselves off from the public. Those Highborne who were left outside Zin Azshari, like Vehlar, were more than a little insulted by the exclusion. Despite this, life continued on, even as tempers frayed.
The people, hearing no word from their Queen, looked to Elune for guidance. The priestesses worked nightly to calm the people's fears, claiming that their Queen had never led them astray and would not do so now. To Laronar, he still lacked the perspective to understand why people were so worried, but he did know that if the Well was acting violently, it was because the Highborne were drawing massive amounts of magic from it.
Whatever they planned to do with such power would be grand indeed, though in his mind, it would just be another story for him to learn about later. Truly, nobody that far west of the capital worried about what the Highborne would do with such magical might. Azshara would keep them in line, as she had since the dawn of their mighty empire. Nobody could match the Queen, after all. Not if they drew from the Well for a hundred years.
Life continued on somewhat normally for a few weeks, and then, more strange happenings began. At first, the magical devices throughout the realm flickered, as if something was trying to cut them off from the Well. Vehlar noticed this first, and was bold, or arrogant, enough to claim that it was those in the capital who were responsible for the brief but increasingly more frequent power failures.
Nobody could prove him wrong, for even among the Highborne, there was intense jealously directed towards those Azshara favored. It wasn't just devices though, sorcerers from all skill levels had varying degrees of success with their spells, and as Laronar saw the unrest this caused, he began to wonder if there was another way to use magic, that didn't involve the Well of Eternity.
He was old enough to have been taught of the other races, and although he doubted much of what Vehlar had taught him, he did know at least that the Zandalari would try to attack, if the Night Elves were left defenseless. They had been enemies for as long as their empires had existed, and many Kaldorei believed the trolls, more than any other race, coveted their Well and the magical might it gave them.
He doubted the Furbolgs would attack though, for he had met some once in his wandering through the woods. They refused to harm a child, and he had no desire to harm them. Making good use of his tiny repertoire of spells, he had talked to the forest dwellers in their own tongue, and quickly befriended them, finding them a bit odd, but kind, if one didn't insult them with every other sentence. Eventually, he made friends with their own young, occasionally wrestling with their cubs alongside Storm, who was now large enough for the gangly child to ride. The only other race that was close to Eldarath were the Tauren, another race the young Kaldorei didn't know how to think of.
His people called them monsters, but to him, Vehlar was just as much a monster as a rampaging bull-man, and he was a Highborne, supposedly the best a Kaldorei could possibly be. Surely not all the Tauren could be bad. They were scary, though. Giant horns, hooved feet, and the sheer size of them was said to match that of a full grown Nightsaber, but on two legs. These tales, and his own general tendency to be aloof, kept him far from Highmountain, where he knew several tribes resided.
Several days after the initial losses in power, the magic vanished completely. The magi of the city were stunned, and the people, upper class and low, panicked. They were far from Suramar, and Zin Azshari. Without a full Moon Guard garrison of their own, all they had in the way of defense were the local guardsmen, and the Sisterhood of Elune, though Eldarath's sect hadn't seen combat in millennia.
Then, roughly a week later, strange reports of large scale slaughter came in from Suramar. Massive beasts were, supposedly, rampaging through the capital of Zin Azshari while the Highborne in the palace simply watched. For the first time in his life, Vehlar did not go around boasting about his status, for these reports were confirmed by the Priestesses, and the attitude towards the aristocracy in the city turned dark indeed.
Then, two weeks into the crisis, word came from Lord Ravencrest of Black Rook Hold. All available soldiers, priestesses, and magi were to ride for Suramar to supplement an army that was being formed from all over the empire to fight the invading monsters. Though many in Eldarath still doubted the veracity of these reports, the leaders knew well enough not to refuse the house of Ravencrest.
He and his kin were not like most nobles, and would not have bothered sending a messenger had the situation been easy enough to handle alone. That Kur'talos Ravencrest called for aid was proof enough of the dire situation. Laronar himself had admired the lord, for out of all the many living legends he'd been forced to learn about, General Kur'talos Ravencrest was the one who seemed the most…genuine. His deeds spoke for him, and none doubted his skill. If the Highborne kept their race ahead of their enemies with magical might, it was Black Rook Hold that kept them strong in the way of soldiers, armies, and siege engines.
Laronar's parents elected to not answer the call, as did many who had small children. His father would remain in the city to watch his son, and his mother would continue trying to keep the huddled masses calm under the light of Elune in the temple of Zin-Malor, alongside his sister, while the other sisters rode for Suramar.
Vehlar however, relished the chance to strike at the beasts terrorizing the realm. He left abruptly, with no farewells to his family save a hastily scribbled note. Laronar didn't know quite how to feel. He almost wished the source of his torment to be torn apart by the mysterious invaders, but at the same time, he was still blood. Still his brother. It was a confusing set of emotions. Either way, he did not expect to see Vehlar again.
The mood in the city turned to one of constant fear, and with all eyes trained on the east, Laronar had no trouble sneaking out to the west on Storm. He had discovered that neither he, nor Storm, particularly liked the saddles used for young sabercats, so they often rode bareback. With a mount under him, Laronar had been able to ride much farther out than he had ever gotten on foot, and although the forests were dangerous, most animals shied away from the young pair.
Someday, Laronar planned to ride all the way up to Mount Hyjal's summit on his loyal mount. He had no idea then, that he would be bringing the rest of his people with him when the time for such a ride arrived.
Several more weeks passed, and suddenly the magic returned, as strong as it had ever been. While Laronar hadn't really missed it, it was nice to know it was available if he needed to use it. He wasn't very good at duels, however, but he knew that Storm would be able to distract whatever enemy they faced long enough for him to at least conjure a bolt of Starfire. Such spells kept him safe in the wilds, though he was always hesitant to use them, unless threatened first.
His parents expected their eldest son to return any day, but Laronar knew better. Now that the magic had returned, his brother would stay and show everyone just how strong he was. The young Kaldorei didn't quite know how, but he swore he would find a way to be just as strong as his brother, without using the Well. He'd looked into other magics, now that the Academy was no longer under Vehlar's thumb, or even holding classes. A few bored librarians were all that remained of the magical might in Eldarath, and they were fine with helping the amber-eyed child discover more about magic.
In his now eleven year old mind, this disaster had only proved how dangerous and unreliable their magic was. He had read stories of the Troll's magic, and even magic among the Tauren. Surely theirs would be different, given that they did not have the Well to fuel it. Since they were strong enough to be considered a threat to the massive elven empire, whatever they used had to be strong, though when he asked how he might learn such things, the librarian had warned him away. He claimed the Trolls practiced blood sacrifices and cannibalism, while the Tauren worshiped more primitive powers, like those wielded by Cenarius, the Forest Lord. Laronar had immediately tried to learn as much as he could about the figure, for he was regarded with the same respect as Elune, but he never had the time to learn much of Cenarius and his teachings before Eldarath learned of what exactly had come to their world.
With the magic back, the citizens calmed, and life began to return to some semblance of normalcy, despite the fact that much of their population was now gone. Ravencrest had called in everyone. The young elf sincerely hoped that their General would be able to quell whatever new threat had arisen. Eldarath, and many of the settlements this far west, were simply too poorly defended to stave off an invasion.
Chapter 3: The War of the Ancients
Chapter Text
With the return of the Well's power, and the lack of new reports on whatever was happening to their people, calm heads reigned in Eldarath. Some even claimed that it was a sign that Ravencrest's army had succeeded in defeating the invaders. What word they had received had claimed that the Highborne in the Capital had somehow summoned an army of monsters, and were holding the Queen hostage as they made a grab for power. The people were only too glad to pin these troubling events on Zin'Azshari, for the Highborne there were, supposedly, even more full of themselves then the others throughout their empire.
Those who doubted that Ravencrest had succeeded were few in number, but they existed all the same, and their voices only grew louder as no news arrived. Sure enough, after several more weeks, the feeling of darkness and unease returned, and this time, the wildlife around the city fled. The skies darkened with foul clouds, and what sorcerers remained divined ill omens on the horizon. Nightly watches were posted on the eastern end of the city, more to keep the appearance of readiness, than forming an actual, feasible defense. In terms of numbers, Eldarath did not have enough armed soldiers to form a battle line.
Even the Nightsabers, loyal for generations to their owners, very much wanted to flee with the rest of the animals. Word finally came from the front, something none of the citizens had seen or could even properly conceptualize yet, and with it, came many startling revelations. Their enemy was a horde of 'Demons' from another realm of existence, drawn to their world through a portal concocted by the Highborne in the palace of the capital.
The traitors had captured the Queen, somehow, and were now rumored to be using her magic to bring in even more demons. The army had beaten back the demon's initial advance, but even now was being driven directly toward Eldarath after a cunning trap had been sprung upon the defenders. Ravencrest's renewed assault on the demons had turned into a rout. The messenger told them to flee, for the demon's numbers were 'legion', and they were spreading all over the empire with devastating results. The Kaldorei simply did not have the numbers to keep them from rampaging in multiple directions.
The people of Eldarath prepared for the onslaught, fortifying what they could as those who could not fight, fled further west. Those who stayed did so because they had been ordered to be ready to receive the Kaldorei forces. The General needed Eldarath to attempt to help their host recover and regroup, and the few citizens who remained, Laronar and his family among them, prepared for war.
At the very least, they knew that their indomitable Lord Reavencrest could turn this rout around once he reached Eldarath. The city was beautiful, but also fortified with large walls, and many now-empty homes for the army. They could hold out here, and push back, or so the messenger had claimed.
He'd bolstered the city's defenders with tales of powerful sorcerers on the front lines of the battle, in the form of twin heroes. The Brothers Stormrage. Alongside them were other, seemingly foreign spellcasters who had, according to rumor, been quite helpful to the Night Elves in their hour of need. The situation was dire, but those who remained in the city could look past their racism if it meant allies. To them, this threat was quickly becoming the largest their species had faced. They had no true conception of just how bad things had gotten, however. This far west, all had remained quiet.
Several days later, just as the dark of night was beginning to fall on the city of Eldarath, a woman's scream woke Laronar from his sleep, the pleasant dream he'd been having faded quickly. He blinked his glowing amber orbs slowly, and looked around his room. It was in the topmost part of the tree-house; he had insisted the shapers make it so when he was small.
The young Kaldorei sat up as he heard another scream and the sound of flames outside his window. Fires were rare, but when you live in a society of mages that take residence in mostly wooden houses, they happen. As the boy climbed down off his bed and stepped towards the window, a horrible roar echoed through the air. It sent a chill up his spine. Whatever creature had made that was mad with rage.
It wasn't a Furbolg, or Tauren roar, and it certainly wasn't a sound the boy had heard any saber cat make before. Curious, he went to his window, climbing on the windowsill, and leaning against the glass so he could see the cityscape below. They lived west of the Well, and mainly produced food for the realm of the Night Elves. Some even said their food was given to the Queen herself.
Eldarath, considered to be one of the most beautiful cities in the entire Kaldorei Empire, save Zin-Azshari itself, was now on fire. But this fire was different, in some places it burned green instead of red-orange. The young boy looked out in horror at the city. A pang of fear shot through him as he realized his mother, a Priestess of Elune, was probably out there. From this vantage point, the Temple of the Moon had already been hit by whatever was rampaging outside. Smoke was rising from the large domed building, easily one of Eldarath's tallest and sturdiest structures.
Hard steps pounded on the stairs leading up to his room, and as the boy turned, he saw his father. Without a word, his father plucked him from the windowsill, and carried him down and out of the house.
Once outside, he finally spoke, "Take my hand, and no matter what you do son, don't look back." Tears welled up in the boy's eyes, and he said in a shaky voice, "B-but what about mom and Alaria?" Grabbing his hand and forcing him to run with him, the boy's father replied, "Laronar, your mother and sister will be fine. They're going to meet us at Lord Ravencrest's camp, which is still heading our way. The Demons beat him here. Now come! We must flee."
The two raced down the city streets towards the stables, which had not yet caught fire. A large crowd had gathered outside the stables, and the stable master was desperately trying to calm them. Laronar looked at the stables as they began to run past, and in half a second, he decided to disobey the only order he'd been given, and let go of his father's hand. He crawled through the legs of the people in the crowd as his parent tried futilely to stop him.
Once he reached the stable master, he skillfully rolled past her, and ran to the back. Inside a smaller pen was the young Stormsaber the boy had found as a kitten. He hadn't been a runt, but he was odd in that he had a mane of dark blue fur on his upper neck and shoulders, almost like a lion's. Upon seeing his master and friend, the young cat, who was five feet tall on two legs, scratched at the door, eager to get out. Laronar grabbed his collar, attached it, and opened the door. As he ran back out the stable's front with his pet, the crowd let him pass, and seemed to grow even more rowdy as they watched him run off, presumably to safety.
On the far edge he saw his father with his arms crossed and a sour expression on his face. "You have the cat." He said flatly, "Now let's go."
"His name is Storm!" the boy replied, sounding younger than he was.
He tugged on the saber cat's rope, and Storm followed him. As the boy, his father, and his loyal pet ran out of the city and into the forest, a loud boom, followed by a roar, echoed behind them. The same roar the boy had heard back in his room. The wooded area in front of them was lit in an eerie green light.
His father started to sprint, and shouted "Run!" While Storm picked up speed, fueled by his fear; he managed to break free of Laronar's grip before the young Kaldorei could jump onto his back. Running as fast as his legs could carry him; the boy soon began to tire. That's when he heard the flap of wings.
His father disappeared into the trees in the distance, as did Storm. Neither seemed to notice he was falling behind, and Laronar lacked the breath to yell for them. Turning his head to see what chased him, despite his father's orders, he beheld a sight that caused his legs to freeze instantly, making him trip, and his forward momentum sent him flying into a nearby bush.
The creature he beheld was enormous, winged, hoofed like a Tauren, and on fire, its terrible outline was made even more terrifying by the green flames that blazed where the stable had once stood only minutes before. The crowd of people was almost certainly dead. The demon, for there was no other creature he knew of that could cause this kind of destruction, had eyes that blazed an eerie green, but that wasn't what the boy's eyes were drawn to and fixated on as he examined the creature.
In the demon's hands, impaled upon an impossibly long lance, was his mother. Her silver eyes were open, as was her mouth, and her stomach now had a lance tip protruding from it. The white gown that had marked her as one of Elune's chosen was now stained with her blood. She had been caught from behind. Of his sister, there was no sign.
Noticing where the boy's eyes were staring, the creature let out a dark laugh. Then, it spoke to him in broken elvish punctuated by words he didn't know, "Know her do you? Ahahah! I killed her while she tended to fallen ones! Foolish mortal…like her, you shall be burned from this world! For Sargeras!" The demon raised the spear, effortlessly, despite the corpse still hanging from it.
Laronar did not clearly see what happened next. He had closed his amber eyes as the demon brought his lance down in an arc towards his head, sure in that moment, he was about to die. He was strangely okay with that, for the sight of his dead, beloved mother had shaken him. He didn't want to imagine a world without her in it. Without his sister in it, for he knew she had likely suffered the same fate.
If he had kept his eyes open, he would've seen his father jump in front of the blow while Storm lunged from the bushes, and tore out the creature's throat. Realizing after a moment that he was not dead, Laronar opened his eyes, and gaped at the form of his father, not an inch away from his mother, cut and bleeding from the enormous gash the lance had left in his right shoulder, and cut all the way down his center, such was the raw force that had powered the blow. The demon had not held back, not even while murdering a child.
"Run…son…" was all his father managed to say before his last breath escaped him. It was the sight of the two people he loved most dearly in the world, dead before him, that caused him to finally black out. Storm, who had since spit out and wiped the creature's burning blood from his muzzle, managed to get his friend onto his back, and carried him off into the woods, hoping to find civilization far, far away from the burning city that had been their home.
For the rest of the night, the loyal Stormsaber carried the young Night Elf, who was delirious at best. Other creatures might've abandoned their masters, no matter their loyalty, but the bond between Storm and Laronar was unbreakable. The cat, though he was young, sensed potential in his master, though he couldn't identify what sort of potential it was.
He knew his friend was training to be a fire-tosser, like his cruel elder brother who had often liked to make the young Stormsaber dodge bursts of moon-flame when he was a kitten, but his master wasn't like his brother. He was kind, shy, and reclusive, different from the other elf children the cat had encountered. His friend lacked their haughty attitude of superiority, and deluded sense of power.
Storm knew his young friend had natural power, and lots of it, even if he had no idea how to tap into it yet. It was this same power that attracted the attention of a being far more powerful than both of them as they wandered aimlessly through the forest. When finally the young cat knew it could walk no further with such a burden, his ears suddenly flicked up, and the cat looked around. They were not alone.
The forest around the young Stormsaber shook, and a mighty wind blew the leaves and twigs on the floor up and around. The cat eyed the twister with suspicion, and as it formed the outline of a creature five times taller than him, the young cat snarled low. Only once the form coalesced completely did Storm stop snarling, gazing at the figure before him. He had four hooves, and a lower body akin to prey, but the upper half very much resembled a shirtless, and rather shredded, Kaldorei. He felt a large hand on his head, and the cat lowered his ears back, purring even, as this being, with such natural power that it made his master's look like a flea by comparison, scratched his ears.
Storm couldn't have struck the hand even had he wanted to. It went against his instincts. "You two have traveled far…" The being's voice rolled like soft thunder through the cat's ears, though he didn't understand the words entirely, he grasped their meaning. "But you are heading away from where your destiny lies…"
Energy filled the young cat, removing his weariness. He suddenly felt compelled to run in a certain direction, and knew that this newfound strength would last until he reached it. "Go on." The antlered being spoke softly, rising onto four proud legs like those of a stag. "Run to your people…we shall meet again."
And as the young cat did as he was told, he ran with renewed strength towards the growing refugee population of what remained of the Night Elves' civilization. It was arguably one of the safest places for an orphan. Once the cat was out of sight, the being who had re-energized it turned his mighty gaze to the shadows. "I have done as you asked, Ashamane. Will you now join us in defending the world?"
There was a low, but pleased purr that came from the massive, ash-furred form lurking in the shadows.
As Cenarius and the mage displaced in time, Krasus, gathered the necessary forces to combat the demonic invasion, Ravencrest and the defenders remaining on the host's front line struggled to force a lock again. The demons did not tire, or require rest, and once they had broken the host's initial lines, their forward drive had been unstoppable. At least, until Krasus, who was also the dragon Korialstrasz in disguise, brought them new allies of other races to help stem the tide. The forces that tore through the world were only now being diverted by their Master back to deal with Ravencrest's Night Elven resistance, but that had not saved Eldarath. Not all of it, at least. Many still survived, and among them, were Laronar's siblings, though they too had headed in a different direction, toward the distant city of Loreth'aran.
Surely dragon riders would be able to hold back the monsters they had seen so far. That had been their reasoning anyways, but as their paths diverged, the Stormclaw siblings knew not the fate of their family.
The eldest did not care overmuch, though he was proud of his sister for surviving the ordeal of losing their mother. The middle child was still unconscious, deep in sleep that he did not want to wake from, and the youngest, who had watched her mother die before her very young, impressionable eyes only wanted to find their father and their brother…but Vehlar had decided on Loreth'aran…and to Loreth'aran they would go.
The trek was long, but eventually Storm was found by the sentries guarding the backmost part of the Night Elven lines. Mount Hyjal loomed in the distance, and although the Night Elves now pushed forward again, the refugees had been ordered to remain behind where they were. They weren't a very long ride from the battle though, which raged now just past the other side of ruined Suramar, and many soldiers rested amongst the tents, exhausted.
An entire night and half of a day had passed since the horrifying encounter with the winged demon, but Storm had not been the only one to benefit from the encounter with the Forest Lord. Laronar's nightmares had turned into more pleasant dreams, but he was still wounded and concussed from flying headfirst into a tree.
The shock of what he'd seen had only helped keep his self-induced coma going, but as he felt his bruised head and scratched limbs being tended to, he opened his eyes wearily, which brought a soft gasp, and an end to his healing. It resumed almost immediately, but the face of the priestess responsible for it only now came into focus. Her mind was clearly elsewhere as the young elf saw her, like so many others, staring at his eyes, and Laronar did not recognize her, or his surroundings for that matter.
"W-where…?" His voice cracked. So close to puberty, and having gone over a day without water, it was obvious. He hadn't spoken often prior to his rushed escape either, which didn't help.
His cracked voice brought a giggle from somewhere behind the priestess healing him, and once that was done, he sat up, seeking its source. A small female perched on the back of the white Frostsaber that, he assumed, belonged to the priestess. She was his age, or around it, and as he took in her features, he did not find them unpleasant. It might have been Elune's warmth filling him and healing his head and the several scratches he'd gotten from riding unconscious through the woods, but he found himself smiling at the girl, despite the horror that lingered at the edge of his memory. She smirked, as she tossed him a water skin.
Once he had drunk his fill, the priestess caught his gaze. "We found you unconscious, riding in atop a saddleless Stormsaber, young one… What is your name? How did you come to be here?"
With effort, Laronar introduced himself and described his escape from Eldarath with his father, and he continued spinning the tale until he remembered something he shouldn't have. His voice had faltered as he described the demon chasing him, but the priestess seemed to assume what had happened next. That didn't stop Laronar from tearing up however, but then he blinked as he realized who must have saved him.
"Where's Storm?" He asked, sounding very young.
His voice was still soft, but his question earned another giggle. "You named your Stormsaber …Storm?"
"Hush, Shandris…" The priestess said, turning. Her gaze fell back on the young orphan. "He was taken to the stables with the other Nightsabers…he's too small to be properly ridden in war, and should still be there."
A slight smirk graced the priestesses' lips as she turned to her small companion. "Go with him, and help him find his pet, Shandris." That got a groan from the younger female, but she hopped off as the priestess mounted up, and moved on to heal someone else.
"Come on…Laronar." Shandris groaned, as she dashed through the crowds towards what Laronar assumed were the stables. He ran after her, shaky at first, but eventually matching her pace. Once he caught up however, she would dart off in another random direction, smirking.
Though he got lost twice in the crowd, his guide managed to find him again with ease. More than one person had stared at him longer than normal because of his eyes, and it was their glow that made him an easy target, or so Shandris had said, in a bragging tone. The young male would've started to like the female had she not been so brash. And bossy. And rude.
On second thought, he decided, she was as bad as every other girl his age. His juvenile thoughts were swept away however, as he saw the stables. Or what passed for them. Never had he seen so many of the giant cats in one place, and before Shandris could stop him, or warn him that these were war panthers, and did not appreciate strange elves in their midst, Laronar had dashed in anyways, just as quick as she was, when he wanted to be.
Though several of the beasts had hissed at him, none had struck. They had seen battle, and knew on a primal level that they needed as many two-legs as possible to drive back the monstrosities that should not have existed in this world. Several minutes later, he returned with his pet, riding on his back. It was his turn to smirk, for he knew that children his age rarely knew how to ride the great cats. He offered a hand to his reluctant guide. "Come…let's find your Priestess."
With that, the trio set off into the crowd again, searching fruitlessly until they spotted the figure Shandris had named Tirandee. Or something similar to it. Laronar hadn't been focusing on her name, just the faces he passed. The pain and suffering was evident on all of them, and slowly, it dawned on the young Night Elf that this war was quickly becoming less about kingdoms and territories, and more about their very survival as a species. None, not even the Zandalari, had ever driven so many of them to such poverty, and in so short a time.
Once he'd found and thanked the priestess, which wasn't all that hard, once they sighted the glow surrounding her, he turned Storm to the woods surrounding the refugees. They were both hungry, but luckily, they could both subsist on meat. That had been another factor that separated him from his mostly vegetarian people, and though some did enjoy meat, it was typically seen as luxury food, or food for their mounts. Grown Nightsabers ate hundreds of pounds of it, so naturally, their riders had opted to subsist primarily on what the large cats did not eat.
Storm had grown fond of having his cooked however, and Laronar hadn't minded the taste. They had hunted together before, though Storm did most of the hunting. Laronar always cooked what he brought back by way of Moonfire, and now, it was no different, save that this time they ate to survive. With no parents or family, or even friends, the young elf knew that he and his friend were dangerously alone. Only together could they survive.
Months passed, and the refugees eventually became separated from the soldiers. Only a small guard had been left to defend them, but each refugee had been given a weapon. A testament to just how many had fallen in the battle. Laronar did what he could with the glaive he'd traded his dagger for, but the weapon was still a bit too long for him to use to fight something. For hunting, it sufficed, unless the deer he was after opted to fight, instead of run, as the deer of Azeroth so often did, despite almost certain death.
Hunting was mainly the focus of his efforts as well. Between him and his pet, the pair brought back many deer, rabbits, squirrels, and other animals that had fled too far to be properly hunted by the refugees anymore. Since he was the only one around with a Nightsaber, he could range further than anyone else, and often did so. Mostly because he couldn't stand berries and mushrooms, but also because he hated the looks he got from the other refugees.
Even here, his eyes marked him. He even had a rumor surrounding him, that his eyes were the reason he was the only known survivor of Eldarath, and he was even more isolated because of that absurd notion. Still, he kept his Highborne roots a secret, for the adults around the nightly campfires often railed against them, blaming them entirely for reducing the proud Kaldorei to such squalor. When news came of General Ravencrest's death by assassination via one of the Queen's Highborne, hidden among the demons, many had lost hope. None gathered could say how his successor, a 'Lord Desdel Stareye' would do, and Laronar hoped for all their sakes that he was competent.
It was during those long months, that stretched to over a year when he turned twelve, that he learned the lower caste was not all that much better than the higher one. Where Highborne sneered, commoners complained. Where nobles made grand, insulting gestures of dismissal, commoners started pointless fist fights, usually over what pitiful amount of alcoholic drink had survived the devastation of the demons. Where the upper crust sniffed powder and burned special weeds grown on the shores of the Well, commoners indulged in wine, and other crude, foul tasting drinks stolen and refined from the dwarves. Laronar had tried them, but stopped when it became clear that his body was rejecting the foul liquid, and telling him not to imbibe more. He saw no sense in willingly drinking something that made one a fool, and made one's body and mind throb with pain. He could not fathom why some refugees subjected themselves to this almost constantly, or as much as they were able, though after what he'd seen, he imagined being able to forget in painful blackout bliss was some kind of relief.
So it was that Laronar eventually stopped seeing himself as a noble among commoners, but as entirely casteless altogether. In a time where survival meant sticking with the group, one would think this would be a bad thing, but the young Kaldorei both fended for himself and his pet, as well as those who had nothing, not even the strength to forage. Those people, noble and commoner alike, were the ones he helped the most when he brought back food to their giant camp. They understood what he now did. There were no castes anymore. Their society had been utterly shattered. Most simply did not seem to realize it. Most still clung to the hope that the host of warriors would drive the demons back, save the Queen, and restore their empire. Laronar knew better, and so, in between hunts he convinced the guards to help him learn how to properly wield his glaive. The weapon was akin to a staff, but both ends curved into elegant, and deadly blades. It was the standard weapon of the Kaldorei, one whose mastery went back generations. He still found using daggers easier, but he also knew having a long weapon and a backup one was probably a good idea.
The elders did not only complain about the upper castes, but also the living conditions, which were poor compared to what many of the elves were used to, they also tended to place blame on the other races one of the pale outsiders aiding the cause had brought in against Stareye's orders for their lack of progress. Many however, saw the sense in gathering the other races. They had all seen the demon horde, and they were painfully aware that their own race was nowhere near numerous enough to stop them. Not alone, anyways. The odd trio of outlanders responsible for these desperate alliances, or so the stories from the wounded soldiers sent back to recoup went, aided their cause much, and after the fall of Lord Ravencrest, the Tauren, Dwarves, Furbolgs, and other races had all proven their worth.
The word from the front lines was that Desdel Stareye was incompetent at best, though he hadn't managed to lose the war yet, in no small part thanks to the races that now aided the Night Elves. After hearing that Furbolgs, Tauren, and even Dwarves had apparently kept the lines from collapsing again, Laronar had grinned privately to himself, glad that his assumptions about the beast men had been true. He hoped the Furbolgs would survive this as well, and wondered if the village that lay far outside his former home had been one of the ones to join the fighting.
Eventually, it was decided that the refugees would stay closer to the host of soldiers as they regained even more ground, to avoid having them end up as prisoners used as leverage, and keep them all safe. They were forced to camp in the parts of the land that the demons had not yet ravaged, only because so much had been focused on fighting the defenders. It did however, mean that they were once again reduced to eating berries and mushrooms, for no animals remained that far east, no matter how far Laronar rode to look for them.
Their out of the way camp did not prevent them from seeing the arrival of the dragons, however. Many cheered, praising the Moon Goddess as on one cloudy, grim night, thousands of the legendary beasts, in five variations of color, flew over the ravaged lands, and eradicated the foul mist that had settled over much of them.
The black one leading the thunder of dragons looked especially strong, and for the first time in months, the Kaldorei people felt hope. Hope that was, not more than a half hour later, utterly dashed as the black behemoth leading the flights turned on them, eradicating many if not all of the blue ones, and scattering the others with unimaginably powerful wind. Even the one red dragon that had stood up to him, had fallen.
To top all this destruction off, the very elements themselves began to roar not long after the dragon fled. Wind tore through the region, and rain fell for the first time in weeks, but it fell hard on the refugees, and even harder on the soldiers and demons. Still, water was water, and much was gathered from the deluge before it moved eastward towards the fleeing demons, chasing them across the ruined land that the black dragon had created with his rays of power. The whole display had astounded Laronar, though he understood little of it. He no longer wondered if magic other than elven sorcery existed, but he had no earthly idea of how an elf like him would go about attaining power that literally raised volcanoes.
He was suspicious of the rain, though. Weather did not usually move that quickly or with such direction, and that left the young elf puzzled as to why it had done so. He had felt a hint of magic in it, but it was not the kind of magic drawn from the Well. His brief study of Cenarius had suggested the Forest Lord had such power, but surely if that legendary being was among them, there would be word of it. So far, the Ancients the elves had given places of honor to amidst their worship of Elune had remained absent.
Several days passed, and things seemed to be returning to normal in the wake of the black dragon's madness…until the young Kaldorei was once again reminded that there was a war going on outside of the empty woods he roamed in. His only alert was Storm's snarl, which had once or twice warned him of approaching demons. Those encounters had been brief, but lucky. Together, the young caster and his pet could handle a few of the demons.
His pet especially, since he had grown even more, much to Laronar's distress. More than one soldier had tried stealing the cat in the blinding gleam of day, only to find that Storm was wild. Wild enough at least, to strike out at those who would armor him up and march him to his death. He did not intend to leave his friend, nor did his friend acquiesce to giving his pet up 'for the greater good'.
He was more than a mount to the young elf, but that didn't stop his reputation from receiving a blow because of his refusal. As the Kaldorei turned to see what had interested his friend, for he had not heard the roar of battle or sound of demons, his eyes widened in shock. An enormous panther with fangs as large as he was tall now seemed to be communicating with his Stormsaber. Laronar continued to watch for a moment, before the great beast's head jerked up at him, and eyed him with far more intelligence than he would've thought possible in a cat. Not even his loyal pet and friend showed such. A voice echoed in his head as the great panther turned, and walked into the woods.
"You will do…"
Having no idea what that meant, or what they had just encountered, the pair followed the great cat's trail, and gasped again as they saw what she joined. A procession of creatures the likes of which neither of the young beings had ever seen now marched through the woods, seeming to restore the forest's vitality wherever they stepped.
Even an untrained fool could recognize that they were guardians of nature itself, and at their head, was an antlered being striding along on a pair of four strong stag legs. Cenarius, for it could be no other legendary figure, grinned widely, and winked at the pair as he walked by.
The females who resembled him turned their heads as they passed, smiling, waving, or simply examining the pair their lord had noticed. Laronar for his part simply stared with his mouth open as figures from legends and stories his parents told him strode past without so much as a glance at the two.
The great panther appeared again briefly from behind them, for both Laronar and Storm had turned to gaze at where Cenarius was leading these beings. The panther, clearly female, purred as she brushed against Laronar, who blinked in surprise, not fully recognizing the panther until she had strode past and tapped his cheek with her tail in passing. He glanced at his pet, noticing what he could've sworn was a grin on the Stormsaber's visage.
"Come on you…" He muttered, still shaken by the sight he'd just witnessed. "Let's get back to the others…they'll want to see this."
And see it they did. The refugees peeked out from their hiding places in the trees, watching in awe as Cenarius talked and then kneeled before the latest commander of the defenders, Jarod Shadowsong. Those who had until that point wondered at his competence after Stareye's untimely, and yet not entirely unwelcome demise, now stared at him in awe. After more conversation, the great beings made their way back towards the refugees, who cautiously came out to meet them.
Laronar felt the Stag Lord's gaze upon him for a moment as they approached, but soon it turned on the elder who spoke for the refugees. After rejecting an offer of food or water, the demi-gods settled down in preparation for the battle ahead, and once more, the devastated land under them reacted to their presence. It was no longer black and burnt, but nor was it green and lush. It would take real effort to heal such devastation, and that effort was being saved for the coming battle.
Eager to greet the demigods of legend, the refugees began to set up their camp around the great beings. Those who were amiable to such displays of friendship greeted them eagerly, if only to satisfy the curiosity of the Kaldorei, and perhaps rid them of their ignorance or arrogance. Cenarius had the largest group around him by far, and it was he who was recounting exact details of the events leading to the demon's arrival, for he had been the first of the defenders of the world to meet them in battle. The others listened in rapt attention, but Laronar hung by the back edge of the fire, listening intently of course, but having most of the names and events mentioned go completely over his head.
Once the story was over, he suddenly felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise, and he whirled. Melting out of the shadows came the great panther he had seen earlier. He bowed low in the Highborne fashion as he'd been taught when greeting members of other noble families, finally recognizing her as an Ancient just as legendary as Cenarius, though he did not know her name, which elicited an amused growl from her.
A voice echoed in his head again as she turned, and looked back at him with amber eyes, so much like and yet not like his own. "Come…" She said, and the young Night Elf obeyed. They made their way directly to where he and Storm slept, and he began to wonder just how much his pet had told her about him.
He stared at the ground as they sat, trying to recall if he had ever mistreated the cat. Unable to recall any particular incident, and unwilling to remember his former life in detail, he looked up now at the Ancient. Her form had shrunk considerably, though she looked no less dangerous, and still was much larger than Storm.
"Your friend has told me much about you, young Kaldorei…" The Ancient's voice echoed in his skull, sounding almost how he recalled his mother had sounded. Or maybe, he just missed her. The panther continued, "I am Ashamane, she who rules over the great cats of Kalimdor. I am all that they are, were, and will ever be. You, young one, have shown an affinity for my kind, and a kindness to this one in particular that I intend to repay."
That made the young Kaldorei start. Those blessed by such beings tended to never be heard from again. Ashamane seemed to smile, as if she read his thoughts, and he replied, "W-what do you intend to do with me, great one?"
The panther stared directly into his eyes now, sending a chill down Laronar's spine, the likes of which he had seldom felt before, and never noticed. Not to this degree at least. He found himself smiling at the great cat, though he did not know why.
"You have proven yourself a friend to the Nightsabers, and a friend to nature itself. When the time comes, call upon me, and you shall receive my gift in a manner no other elf ever has." Before he could ask her to elaborate, the great panther vanished into the shadows, her burning amber eyes held his until they too began to disappear.
He glanced at Storm, who seemed to eye him expectantly, and he reached out to pet his friend. The Stormsaber purred in response as he so often did when those he liked scratched behind his ears. Laronar was, of course, among those, but so was Shandris, even though they had not seen her for some time.
Exhausted, the young Night Elf settled in to sleep…until he heard the clatter of hooves behind him. He leapt up, glaive in hand as he turned, expecting one of the Doomguard.
Instead, he found himself staring at the lower half of the Forest Lord. As the young elf lowered his weapon and looked up, he met the ancient's gaze, and then bowed. The tone of the Stag Lord was serious however, as he spoke, "Ashamane spoke to you?"
It was a question the Lord of the Forest clearly already knew the answer to, but the Night Elf nodded. At that, Cenarius stroked his beard with the hand that didn't end in a massive, wooden claw. "Be sure you do not upset her…Laronar Stormclaw."
With that, he turned and headed back towards the campfires. The young elf blinked, feeling worn out from seeing and speaking to so many legendary figures. He settled down, too tired to ponder whether the fact that Cenarius knew his name was a good or bad thing. Given what had happened to the other beings he'd named in his story earlier; he had a sneaking suspicion that being involved in this unfolding tale would be either a path to fame, or a path to his untimely demise.
Chapter 4: Kalimdor Sunders
Chapter Text
Not long after their arrival, the Ancients of Kalimdor were called into the battle against the demons. Even with the other races, they were losing ground. Cenarius, as their unofficial leader, produced a massive horn as he trotted toward the battlefield. A rumbling sound filled the air, starting low, and then increasing in potency as the note grew louder.
Every Ancient and demi-god began to glow with the Fury of nature itself, and for a time, even the elven defender's eyes shared the amber glow that was Azeroth's power. The world had been woken by Deathwing's betrayal, and her defenders had not liked what they saw, rampaging across the continent with burning, mindless, slaughter.
The Ancient host immediately charged after the Forest Lord, and a few of the refugees went with them. It was an invigorating sound, and the horns of the united host blared as well as the additional defenders hit the front lines, utterly crushing a wedge the demons had formed to try to break the lines in two. With renewed fury, each of the Ancients rejoined the battle with sometimes almost mindless rage, and while the destruction they wrought was impressive…many began to fall.
Hundreds, if not thousands, of the demons perished under the wrath of the legendary defenders, but it soon became apparent many would not be coming back. Not even the giant, ferocious boar with the spikes that had carved miles long lines of bloody burning carnage into the demonic ranks, before it finally stopped and let out a final shuddering gasp. It looked as though Cenarius too would not be returning, as those who felled the boar turned on him as well, and that was when it appeared. A giant white stag, seemingly coming from nowhere, tore through the demons around Cenarius, and the defenders pulled the Forest Lord back.
There had been an almost zealot-like respect for the Forest Lord, since he had appeared. The Kaldorei had always claimed kinship with him, and now, that faith had been rewarded in their hour of need. Their racial focus was still very much on themselves. Only with time, would they learn that he had come to save their world, not just them.
One of the elders among the refugees recognized the white stag as Malorne, though nobody among the throngs of civilians quite knew what he represented, or even who he fully was. All that could be remembered of his ancient legend was his power, and supposed fatherly bond to Cenarius, who was supposed to be a child of Malorne and Elune.
As the Ancient tore through the demon's ranks for miles however, Laronar noticed a similarity in how he and Cenarius had fought. The more he thought it over, the more sense it made. His father had once spoken of the Moon and the Stag, but he'd assumed it had been a fairytale. Evidently not.
The white stag also used the power of the land to destroy his foes, and as the tide of the war itself began to, finally, tip in Azeroth's favor, a giant demon strode out to meet the stag in single combat. This surely had to be the one leading the army, for he was enormous and powerful. Both terrifying and aesthetically pleasing deep blue features grinned at the defenders, before the unholy Fel burning eyes set upon Malorne. This new one was nothing like the demons they'd encountered so far. That was when many of the refugees began to grasp that they had no idea of what the demons were, where they came from, why, or what race led their burning, mindless fury.
Not even Malorne could damage him much, and as the refugees watched helplessly, they gasped almost in unison as the demon forced the stag into a headlock, and proceeded to snap his neck. The body of Malorne was tossed amongst the demon's own ranks, but it was clear that this large one did not care that it crushed its own forces. Only then did those not on the front lines begin to understand a truth the defenders doing the fighting had long known. They were outnumbered, severely, to the point that numbers didn't matter to the entities leading the demons. The losses they'd taken were miniscule, before the Burning Legion.
Before the giant demon could strike again however, two things happened almost simultaneously. The dragons, minus the blues and blacks, appeared again and charged into the battle. The tide turned once more as the demons perished under their breath and claws, and Laronar once more had to re-evaluate the stories his parents and grandparents had shared with him. If Cenarius was the Lord of the Forest, the dragons were something else entirely.
Older than all of them, they were true immortals, and made a Kaldorei lifespan, the longest-lived species on the planet, look like an eyeblink in comparison. Once, the elves had supposedly given them respect, as defenders of the world, and the city of dragon riders on the western coast seemed to confirm the story. In the empire proper however, they were largely seen as mysterious, powerful, but beasts all the same. Meant to be slain, not worshiped. That was yet another view the Kaldorei people would soon re-evaluate.
The demon commander could not retaliate, for his form was covered in vines that seemed to grow relentlessly. At first it seemed as though Cenarius had done it, avenging the white stag as he had so many other Ancients, but the Forest Lord was still recuperating.
Word had reached the civilians of spellcasters of their own race who much aided the cause, and it seemed now that those tales were true. The one casting the vines could only be this Malfurion Stormrage, who called himself a 'druid', and utilized strange, but powerful forces, similar to Cenarius', to eradicate the demons en masse.
His power made the demon's leader flee, and once more, Laronar wondered how it was this caster used nature in such a manner. He made a mental note to ask, if he ever had the opportunity to speak with someone so obviously powerful.
After the arrival of the dragons, a group of them lifted off again, and flew towards Zin Azshari, and it became suddenly clear that this war was in its final stages. The demons fought with mindless fury, not caring if they lived or died, and even the magic users amongst them now fully joined the fray, conjuring blades of magic as they closed with the berserk fury of the demons. Death was everywhere.
Word came from Shadowsong that the refugees were to move back, past Suramar, and await the final word. They did as they were asked, and so missed entirely the final stages of the War of the Ancients, as the conflict would come to be known.
Several long hours after their retreat, a runner reached them, and ordered their group to head for the slopes of Mount Hyjal. With no explanation as to why, they ran, and soon Laronar found himself outpacing the rest, simply because he had Storm on which to ride. That did not, however, stop him from helping.
He took a pair of siblings, two sisters, on the Stormsaber as well. The oldest was younger than him, and the other was still a toddler. Worried that she wouldn't make it carrying the toddler, their mother had begged him to take them, and he had agreed before other such requests could find him. The elves were desperate, and he couldn't carry everybody.
Storm handled the extra weight with little apparent difficulty, but eventually, even his owner could see he was tiring. By then however, they were all but at the base of Hyjal. The climb was slow, but not too arduous as they reached the summit. They let the Stormsaber rest, and Laronar let the two sisters rest as well, assuring them that their mother would indeed survive. As they rested, a Dryad emerged from the woods near them. An elder daughter of Cenarius who abstained from war in all its forms saw to feeding and healing the little ones, and after seeing Storm warm up to her, and her resemblance to her father, he left the girls in her capable hands. For his part, he went to stand by the edge of the summit, and look down the relatively bare mountain for the other refugees.
Sure enough, he spotted them, only now at the base of the great mountain, and as the earth began to shake, he gasped as, in the far distance, he saw it literally crumble away. Not that far ahead of the devastation was the army, but they managed to outpace the disaster as the very land was sundered, and brought beneath the powerful dark waves of what had once been the Well of Eternity.
A new ocean formed over the lands to the east. An ocean that had never existed there previously. He assumed then that all he had ever known, the entire Night Elven Empire, was now underwater.
"Humbling, is it not."
A deep voice came from behind the young elf, and he whirled in surprise, to behold a Tauren. He had known they were big, but never realized just how big until that very moment. This one in particular had horns like a moose, and what had to be his armor for war looked as though it had come from an eagle. Helm, spaulders, even the tattoos he bore were all in the pattern of the great birds. He radiated a sense of calm, though, a feeling Laronar would one day recognize as a being in Balance with himself, and the world.
How his people had ever fought off tribes of these creatures amazed him, and then, Laronar recalled it had been because of the Well of Eternity, and the arcane spells their people had wrought. With that gone now, he wondered if the other races wouldn't take advantage of the Kaldorei's new weakness.
Deciding that he was too tired to care, he simply nodded, looking back at the new ocean. "It is. The world will be forever marked by the arrogance of our people…"
The Tauren joined the young Kaldorei, and nodded slowly. "It will be. And no amount of mending will ever repair this…Sundering. But you can atone, young one. Your entire race can, by embracing a new path."
This got a curious glance from Laronar, "New path?"
The Tauren nodded again, "Cenarius, Lord of the Forests and friend of the Tauren has asked that I teach you, as he taught Malfurion Stormrage. He has marked the potential within you for Druidism; however, you must be the one to decide to walk this path."
Looking back over at the new sea once more, Laronar nodded. "I want to learn." He said, "I want to help my race atone for what we've done. Maybe with time…even this sundered world can flourish."
After that, the Tauren followed the young elf, as he still had to guide the two siblings back to their mother. By the end of the day, what remained of the Kaldorei people and their allies had climbed to the summit of Hyjal, but not before the lake at the very top had been tainted. Though Laronar had refilled their water from that same lake just hours before, Malfurion's brother had tainted it with vials of water from the Well of Eternity, now lost to history.
He managed to pour three of them in before he was stopped, and he'd even killed several scouts after he'd been caught. Laronar had wanted to charge in to aid them, but his new teacher, Kota Skyhorn, had held him back, and counseled patience. Sometimes it was better to wait. The two simply stared as an adult Kaldorei male sporting a pair of proud antlers not unlike those of Cenarius strode forward after subduing the mad, tattooed elf with the strange, burning eyes in a display of nature magic that awed Laronar. Kota quietly explained that was what druid spells looked like.
Only after that explanation did Laronar realize that this antlered one must be Malfurion Stormrage. He was too shy for an introduction, however, and Kota made no move to force one upon him. He had a family to reunite besides, and only after he did so did Laronar begin to look around for his own, hoping that perhaps one of his siblings had survived and he'd simply missed them in the throngs of civilians that had made up their camp of displaced elves.
He almost felt guilty for hoping his sister, not his brother, had been spared, but he saw neither. He slowly realized that, over the long months, he'd come to know those among the refugees rather well. Though there were many, it was still unnerving to him that almost his entire race was small enough to be able to be memorized. It was only once he looked down the mountain, that he saw other camps of refugees, from other directions. The demons had driven his people into the wilds, for miles, and after being called back by Archimonde, those who had managed to run quick enough had survived, and been guided to Hyjal by Cenarius' treants. The Forest Lord wanted all of the survivor's of the world's Sundering to be present for what came next, particularly the Kaldorei. Through Malfurion, he intended to guide their Elune-blessed race towards the defense of the world through natural magics, rather than purely arcane.
Once the two sisters were reunited with their mother, her thanks were delayed. The Night Elves stared up in wonder as three enormous dragons appeared on the mountainous summit with what remained of their civilization. They promised the Night Elves a chance at new prosperity, as each of the three planted and then empowered a small tree sapling which, by the end of their ritual, was already hundreds of feet tall, and only looked to keep growing.
They would retain their fertility, immortality, and connection to nature, provided they guarded this tree with their very souls. There was also something about a Dream, but that went entirely over Laronar's head, and only Malfurion and Tyrande really had any clue as to the specifics of these new gifts. As the dragons spoke and cast their magic, they flew around and openly blessed this new 'World Tree'. They claimed that it was now tied to their race, forever.
Once it became clear that the elves would be settling on Hyjal first, and spreading to the surrounding lands, Kota led his new apprentice south, insisting that they begin his training immediately. At first, the Tauren objected to Storm coming with them, but the elf outright refused to abandon his friend and companion, and so the three traveled south, away from the remnants of the Kaldorei people, and all Laronar and his furry friend had ever known.
He had no idea what becoming a druid would entail, but he wished to protect the world. For all his madness, Laronar too thought as Illidan Stormrage did, for he had loudly proclaimed what the young elf knew was an inevitable truth. That the demons would someday return. That they, as a people, would need to be ready. Next time, Laronar would be grown enough to fight them, and he vowed things would end much differently than this, what looked to be the first of many conflicts against the Burning Legion.
Though he wasn't willing to burn out his eyes to combat them, he knew that he had to do whatever he could to help himself, and then his people, prepare for their coming. Even if he had to teach them all alone. He doubted he would though, for it seemed that Malfurion had begun seeking apprentices as soon as they had left, and had no shortage of those who were interested.
As they headed even further south, through a shadowy and clearly ancient forest surrounding the base of Hyjal, all but untouched by any sentient race, Laronar began to wonder just how his learning would differ from what Malfurion was going to be teaching. Kota was Tauren, after all, and claimed that his race had been practicing the druidic arts far longer than any elf, but how they differed in practice remained to be seen.
Chapter 5: The Wild Gods
Chapter Text
Distanced. That was the word Laronar would later use to describe his experiences with a Tauren Shan'do. Kota was always writing, meditating, or healing the scars left by the Legion. Often he would have them camp along the new eastern edge of this broken world, and the Tauren would gaze across the sea at…something. Laronar did not pry, as the war had affected everyone deeply, no matter their race.
When he did teach his student however, Laronar hung on his every word. He did indeed possess the gift for Druidism, and although he found talking to nature a slow, time-consuming process, eventually, he learned how to do it at will. It never answered him as strongly as he had seen it answer Kota, but that didn't bother him.
Once he had proven adept enough at communing with nature and meditation, Kota moved on to the Animal Totems. "My people have long worshiped the beings your people call Ancients. My clan once followed the one known as Aviana, and with her blessing, it is said that my ancestors soared the skies." His face grew grim, then. "But my people are also prone to violence…when they began to use Aviana's blessing for personal ambitions, she stripped us of it entirely. Only my clan, the Skyhorn, still pay homage to Ohn'ara, the Great Eagle and daughter of Aviana…but now, perhaps, we may once more learn what Cenarius passed to our Ancestors so long ago. Recently, Ohn'ara has granted me her power…I used it during the War. If she agrees, she may lend it to you, as well."
Laronar's eyes went wide. "Are you telling me I'll be able to fly?"
The Tauren chuckled, for the first time since they'd met, and then nodded. "But first, Cenarius has suggested we reach out to the spirit of Ursol, that we might take his form, and avenge his fallen brother, should we find Demons in our travels." Though there hadn't been many left behind, there had been enough. Even now, the Ancients hunted the remaining demonic taint, but it was a threat that would continue to fester for some time, such was the satyr's skill at hiding themselves.
As the Tauren explained what the Animal Totems represented, and what a druid could do with them, Laronar began to tingle with an anticipation he'd not felt so far. The spells were strange to him, though they did not entirely differ from elven sorcery. He knew it would take him many years to master the basics Kota had taught him, but with his newfound immortality, he had all the time in the world.
His teacher however, did not. By the time his master felt Laronar was ready to actually attempt shapeshifting, the young elf had aged well into and past the latter stages of elven puberty, and was now twenty five. Though he and his Shan'do were distant, they were also friends. Both however, were strong, silent types, and much of their days were spent barely saying a word to the other, except when there was teaching and educating to be done. It was a distant silence, but a companionable one.
Having never truly embraced his own people's narrow view of the world, Laronar found the Tauren's to be much simpler, but no less true. Laronar recognized the haughtiness not just in his people, but himself as well, and though he kept his Tauren mentor from outright slandering his people, there were many arguments he could not win, simply because the Tauren only needed to drag him to the newly made eastern ocean to illustrate his point.
He did so many times over the years, and often refused to speak to Laronar until they reached it, no matter how far away they were. Slowly, the elf had learned to tread carefully around the Tauren's stubbornness. While many of his people's stereotypes had been wrong about the so-called 'rampaging bull-men', in regards to their stubborn nature, he privately felt they had been spot on. Much like how the Dwarves, or Earthen as they had called themselves, were far from being 'drunk savages', but had still heartily enjoyed what little alcohol had been brought to the war against the Legion, it seemed stereotypes often had a seed of truth buried beneath the racism.
More often than not his instructions for a spell or an exercise had simply been, "Do it again and again until you do it right." Now, however, the lessons required something far different to what the young druid had learned so far. He did not have to ask the trees and other beings of nature to give of themselves to heal, or concentrate on pulling the magic necessary from the world itself to power a spell, he simply had to meditate, and call upon one of the beings who had chosen to support the Tauren people in their mastery of the animal forms.
For once, Laronar planned to surprise his mentor, for he already knew exactly who he would seek to call upon. Conversing with Ursoc had gone…well enough, but the grieving bear had been too unfocused to grant his power, and Ohn'ara had claimed that her form was for the Tauren of Highmountain, not the race that had shattered the world. All that, while discouraging, had been fine, for Laronar knew of another Ancient, who had said she would pay him a favor for saving Storm. Though Ashamane had fallen in the War of the Ancients, he had been taught that beings such as she never truly died, and with time, could even return to the mortal plane. She had also told him to call upon her, and his instincts said that this would be the right time to do so.
The hardest part of this process was leaving his body enough to properly call upon the spirit of the one he sought. Kota had not yet taught him to walk the Emerald Dream, and in fact, had made little to no mention of it. Eventually though, the young Kaldorei managed to reach the appropriate state of semi-consciousness required for conversing with such a being.
"Ashamane…" He called, hearing his words echo not only in his head, but all around him, "Ashamane…I call upon you now, seeking the favor you once promised to give me so many years ago. I am ready."
He felt her consciousness once more, far weaker than it had been when they met, but still just as fierce. A part of her power flowed into him, and as he opened his eyes again, he found his mentor watching him with a slight frown. Before he could ask what made the Tauren frown, for it was never a good sign, he felt his body shift.
His mind changed as well, as a new, unfamiliar presence joined his differently shaped skull. He knew without words that this was the 'spirit' of his new form, a part of Ashamane herself perhaps, or an ancient Nightsaber, now long departed. He did not resist the beast within, but rather embraced what it wanted to do, where it wanted to look, and slowly, he managed to figure out how to work in conjunction with the spirit, rather than against it. He could sense it wished to aid him in doing whatever it was he needed the form for, and he knew as long as he didn't deny the cat too much or too often, it would let him do as he pleased.
His eyes, already so sharp in the darkness, became even sharper, and he knew they would see just as well in the daylight. A new host of smells assailed his nose, and at first, he was overwhelmed by them. With time, he managed to sort them out. Then, he looked down, and noticed his claws, not at all unlike those of his Stormsaber's.
Thinking of his pet and loyal friend, Laronar dashed down to the river they had been camping near. The jungle that surrounded them was just as old as the forest that surrounded Hyjal, and even more untamed. In this new form, he felt at home, for the first time in years. As he reached the river, he found a still spot, and stared at his reflection in awe. His eyes remained the same, but his form astounded him.
He looked similar to the Ancient, as he recalled what Ashamane had looked like, though he was undoubtedly male, and lacked her size and grace. He had muscles and bulk where she had not, and though he was less sleek, he knew he could be just as stealthy as she had. With practice. An unexpected feeling of amusement rippled through his mind, and a voice echoed softly within it. "Use it well…"
As he continued to admire his new form, he heard steps behind him. One scent, he recognized as Kota, the other however, was far more primal, and to his new senses, far more challenging. His nostrils flared, and his claws dug into the earth. A rival. The beast within awoke at the challenge and promise of combat, and Laronar felt the ferocity it was ready to attack with at a moment's notice.
He whirled, snarling at the challenger, who was already ready to pounce on him, and the two giant cats paused, blinking in confusion. Storm recognized his eyes, and Laronar recognized his loyal friend. They hadn't wrestled for years, since the Stormsaber had long ago gotten strong enough to overpower the elf easily, but now, a feral grin appeared on each visage.
What would have been a fight for dominance, now would be a wrestling match. Though he was still far smaller than Storm, Laronar wanted to test his new strength anyways, and after Laronar communicated with feelings and memories that the Stormsaber was not an actual threat, the spirit in his mind was all too willing to wrestle. The two cats leapt at each other, and went down in a rolling ball of snarls and flashing claws. Too late, Laronar realized that Kota would no doubt mistake this tussle as an actual fight. To his surprise though, the Tauren seemed ready to act, but stopped.
Perhaps it was because instead of biting each other as if trying to tear the other apart, the two giant cats were actually testing just how strong they were by comparison. In that regard, Storm clearly held the advantage, but Laronar had the cunning mind of an elf behind his brawn, and as the fight went on, he managed to tire his favored pet out with relative ease, dodging the large paws as Storm expended his energy.
Kota, still watching the two, now had a rare smirk. "Finish it, apprentice." He said, quietly. Clearly, the Tauren wanted to speak. Doing so in shifted forms was, according to the Tauren, impossible, for an animal's throat and a sentient's were fundamentally different. One could handle speech, and an animal's could not. Not without some kind of magical aid, at least. And so, Laronar dodged again, and struck at Storm's legs instead, sweeping them out from under him, and pinning him down with his bulk. A maneuver that would not have worked had the Stormsaber still had all of his stamina. Finally snarling in recognition of his defeat, Laronar rolled off of his friend, and brushed against him, purring loudly, as he walked over to his mentor.
With a bit of effort, his shape returned to the one he'd been born with, and the sudden dullness of his senses saddened him slightly. The young elf was covered in sweat, and panted hard as he sat next to his mentor, letting the cool night air slowly calm him down.
Now old enough to be considered a young adult by his people, Laronar had filled out his lanky form with muscles that he still had not bothered covering with a shirt. His ragged leather pants had gone in favor of a kilt with a leaf pattern on it, and a similarly patterned belt held it up. A pair of wooden bracers also covered his forearms. He had made them himself, and was slowly learning to craft better and more flexible armor from different kinds of wood. Someday, he wanted a pair of gauntlets, but that was a long way off. Most of his creations still broke with one or two hard hits.
"So." His mentor rumbled, "What was it like?"
Finally catching his breath, the young elf sat back against the giant tree they leaned upon, grinning. "It was…by far the most exhilarating experience of my life. I've never…smelled so much. Felt so powerful. I could live in that form forever."
"And that is what makes these forms so dangerous, my student. Spend too long in your animal form, and your mind is surely forfeit." Though Laronar did not know it then, and though he slightly doubted those words at that moment, he would be battling them for the rest of his life, wherever he went. It would take millennia for him to prove them wrong, but at that moment, he simply nodded, too naïve to think that his master could possibly be wrong. To him, Kota was an infallible font of knowledge, and he was but a novice who had been allowed to drink.
More years passed, and slowly, that novice became a full-fledged druid. Kota could clearly see that Laronar had an affinity not just for the cat form, but for all the animal totems he knew of. More, even, for through Ashamane's favor, she introduced him to many, like Tortolla, Aviana, and even Aessina, though she hadn't actually said anything to him, Ashamane assured him that the Mother Wisp approved of the path he was walking. He took her word for it. In time, Ursoc had answered the young druid as well, and the two had come to an accord of sorts.
Ashamane was clearly his favored patron, but to be an effective defender of the world, for he had told the bear god that was what he believed druids needed to become, he needed to have access to various forms, for various kinds of combat. He needed to be able to counter anything the demons would throw at him, and he intended to teach others of his kind to do the same. Eventually.
That, more than anything, convinced the bear ancient, and the spirit of his brother Ursoc, as it had many other Ancients. The others however, save for the Storm Crow and Ashamane, had declined to empower druids of the race that had sundered the world. If they wished to take their forms, they could offer proper, devoted worship, as had been the practice since the Wild Gods came to be. The twin bears however agreed to, at the very least, look over the potential apprentices Laronar would one day lead to them via meditation.
Over the years Laronar had taken, and eventually mastered to some degree, far more animal forms than Kota. He had an affinity for communing with the Ancients, that much was obvious, though the Tauren could never tell if it was the elf himself and his disposition, or the fact that Ashamane was vouching for him that got him so far with so many usually reclusive spirits. After finally excelling at something, it was hard for the elf to not be arrogant about it. Still, he managed to hold his pride in check, and thanked every spirit profusely after taking their form.
When he was not practicing in their forms, in various kinds of combat with Storm or Kota, who favored the Bear Form for close range ground fighting, he spoke to the spirits themselves. Or rather, those who wanted to speak. Sometimes it was Ursoc or Ursol. Other nights, only Ashamane would answer him, as she always did.
He even spoke to Malorne once, or a representative of his, and gave the Stag God a bit of his energy, if only to help him recover sooner. Though that gesture was appreciated, it was still nothing compared to what he needed to fully recover from his duel with the Archdemon, Archimonde. As the Night Elf learned, the three companions traveled as well. Storm, now a fully grown six hundred pound killing machine, kept them safe from danger while the druids meditated, and even helped them live off of his kills when times were tough, and food became scarce in winter months.
More than once, the druids had to satisfy themselves by hunting in their forms, but neither truly minded the raw meat. They trusted their bodies to digest it safely while they slept, but Kota made it clear each time that sleeping in their forms for a prolonged period was a bad idea. The more often he warned of the dangers of being in the animal forms too long however, the more Laronar wondered if he truly knew what he was speaking of. He had asked each of the spirits, but only Ashamane, who had become as close a friend to the elf as Storm or his mentor by that point, ever gave him a straight answer.
"Those who have taken our forms in the past have not always done so with your skill or caution, my young Druid." The panther Ancient all but purred in his head. "There have been some who have simply never turned back to what they once were, and remained in their forms until their death. Others, earned our ire by disrespecting us, and were so cursed to be half beast, and half whatever their race was. Few Night Elves have ever suffered this fate. The Tauren however, have been doing this much longer. Do as you have done so far, my Druid, and you will never need to worry about losing yourself, no matter how long you stay in my form."
Though she had explained much, Laronar had a sneaking suspicion that the only form he didn't have to worry about was hers. Though the other Ancients were friendly to him, and even seemed to enjoy his conversations, he recognized that they were still leery. He was, after all, a Night Elf. A Highborne, no less, and though he had hidden that from his own people, he did not doubt that the other Ancients already knew. More than once, he had been outright denied even a conversation, merely because of his heritage.
Despite that, most of the Ancients were wise enough to recognize that he, at least, did not accept the arrogant views of the now fallen Highborne. He had not even attempted to speak to those from the palace when they ventured near Night Elf lands. The arcane sorcerers had been living very much apart from Kaldorei society in the wake of the war, only welcomed because they had apparently escaped alongside the new High Priestess. Laronar had lost track of who exactly held that title now, for he knew that Dehjana had fallen in the war, but it mattered little to him.
He still felt the pain of losing his mother, and in part blamed Elune for not protecting her. For letting him see her like that. The vision of that Doomguard striking at him still haunted his dreams, and that final cut to the tie of his people's very religion had been the last thing truly identifying him as a Kaldorei. He considered himself a child of nature, not the stars, and for some reason, many of the Ancients he spoke to found that amusing.
As more time passed, Kota grew older, and seemingly distressed. He eventually began to make it clear that he desired to try to find his people. Eventually, they had come across the Tauren living in central Kalimdor, and had discovered that the antlers Kota bore were not the norm, even after their actions during the War of the Ancients. These other Tauren had retained horns like a bull's, strong, but fundamentally different. They had told the Skyhorn that his tribe had followed Huln Highmountain when the world sundered, and instead of running west from Suramar towards Hyjal, they had made for their ancient home of Highmountain. None knew if they yet lived. Now old enough to more than survive on his own, Laronar realized that he too wanted to move on.
They had mostly avoided the northern part of the continent for years, staying around the jungles, plains, mountains, and savannahs of the central and southern parts of the continent. Though they had initially learned much, the young elf had grown tired of seeing the same sights over and over. They had always traveled by foot as well, for although they had each mastered their respective Bird Form, Kota preferred to walk.
Storm could have easily followed them, even from the air, but they had always remained on foot. Before they agreed to part, however, Kota informed him that they had one last Ancient to contact.
"Lo'gosh, or Goldrinn, as your people call him, is the spirit of the wolves." Kota explained, "He is wild, fierce, powerful, and very hard to please. He demands the utmost loyalty and respect, as he feels he is due such, and punishes those who do not give it. Be wary of this one, Laronar. He will not bend his will so easily." With those words ringing in his head, the elf contacted the wolf Ancient, and waited. And waited. As he felt his rear beginning to tire from sitting still so long without moving, he began to ask again for Goldrinn's attention, and out of nowhere, the wolf god gave it.
"Who dares…?" A feral snarl filled Laronar's mind, and with as much respect as he could manage, he asked for the wolf's permission to take his form, after explaining that he was the first of his people to experience the animal forms, Goldrinn howled a laugh through his head, and Laronar felt Kota twitch.
Clearly, his master heard some of what was going on, or was having a similar conversation. "Very well…Kaldorei…" He snarled the name with what seemed almost like…contempt. "You may wear my form. Tell your people of its' power, its' glory! Embrace your ferocity, and howl, Moon Elf…"
Laronar barely managed a 'thank you' before he felt the fury of the wolf Ancient pour into him. Whereas each of the other spirits, even Ashamane, had given but a small portion of themselves, this felt like Goldrinn in his entirety now flowed into the Night Elf. Only later would he realize that this power was but a fraction of Goldrinn's true fury.
With a savage howl, Laronar felt himself almost lose control as he stared at the full moon. For some reason, looking at it made the wolf spirit indescribably angry. He howled again, joined this time by Kota, who had also taken the form. The two wolves ran that night, howling all the way, in a primal madness that each druid could barely control. They ran, wrestled, howled, and prowled through the jungle of Feralas, knowing that on this night, no other predator could match them.
The only one that might've had a chance had stayed back at their camp. Each druid had done their utmost to guide the savage minds of the wolves away from Storm, for both were fond of him. Eventually, as the sun rose and their energy waned, Goldrinn's form melted off of them like a dust cloud, leaving both druids dazed, confused, and nude. In their initial transformation, both master and apprentice had torn through their clothes, their usual mastery of shifting gone under the fury of Goldrinn.
The two glanced at each other, and then laughed as they headed back towards where they thought their camp was. It had been a fun, but terrifying experience. "Obviously…my friend…" Kota began as they walked, "We need only use Goldrinn's form when in great peril. Do not…try to take it for fun as you do Ashamane's. You will lose yourself."
Laronar simply nodded, this time believing those words. At least where Goldrinn was concerned, that risk was very real. Still, the admiration he felt for the wolf Ancient had only swelled. The power he had at his command…the young druid could scarcely imagine what taking that form as a true servant of Goldrinn would be like. It was as he had that thought that Ashamane shared with him a tale from her own past, one that also involved wolves. The Kaldorei had never really domesticated canines, as war panthers were walking engines of death, as well as smart, loyal, and stealthy. A fitting mount for a people who walked in the night. Despite all of this, Laronar was still curious. Goldrinn had intrigued him, though he knew he had to wait until he was a bit...wiser to try to tame that form as he had the others.
Not long after that night, master and apprentice left, as equals. "I have no more that I can teach you, my friend. Your mastery of the animal totems now exceeds my own, and all you need for the other branching paths of Druidism is time…of which you have plenty."
Laronar bowed low. "I can never thank you enough for this, Kota of the Skyhorn."
The Tauren nodded, turning before adding one last statement, one both knew was true. "You are immortal, my student, and I am not. Someday, I will pass on. If you truly wish to thank me, teach my people as I know you will teach yours. Let my knowledge live on through you until you too meet the end of your days, and never forget…death is as much a part of our calling as life...and it comes for all of us eventually. No matter how long you live, do not think yourself immune to it."
Laronar nodded. "I swear, I will remember." With that, the Tauren nodded once again, and then shifted into his eagle form, which sported an almost silly pair of moose antlers, and took off into the sky.
Laronar turned to pat Storm, who gave a goodbye roar that echoed through the trees, and then he shifted into his Cat Form and ran off with his loyal pet by his side once more. They headed north now, though whether or not they would see other Night Elves remained a mystery. For all Laronar knew, his people had been wiped out by plague, or some other threat
Chapter 6: The Druidic Masters
Chapter Text
As the pair of sabercats traveled northward through the Stonetalon Mountains, they came upon a stretch of forest nestled between the mountains and the ocean, all but hidden from the main valley. It was in this stretch of forest that Laronar decided, for the first time, to set up a home. He had little shaping experience however, but he still managed to create a passable house with the aid of his druidic abilities. On his own for the first time in years, not counting his Stormsaber of course, Laronar soon fell into a routine.
He hunted in the morning, and brought his kills home with little trouble thanks to his versatility with the animal forms. While he cooked up the meat, he would meditate, asking the wind to support him as he floated on it, and communed with the spirits. Once he was hungry enough, the smell of his dinner would draw him away, and he would eat his fill, and then save the rest using the techniques Kota had forced him to learn and relearn so often, they became more of a second thought than a concentrated effort.
He continued this cycle for several years, letting Storm hunt as he pleased, where he pleased in this stand of forest nestled between Stonetalon Peak itself, and a barrier ridge of mountains that separated them from a sheer drop to the ocean below. He and Storm were tied together as never before now, and he knew Ashamane would warn him should his friend befall a danger he couldn't handle. She had done so before, and seemed to also favor his friend as she favored him. For over half a century, Laronar lived this hermetic life, and soon had a stockpile of dried meat that was so large, he knew he wouldn't have to hunt for some time. So instead, he practiced the basics Kota had taught him.
Talking to trees, the wind, the rocks, everything. He even gave his very energy to the land surrounding his home nightly before sleeping, and thus, the land flourished. He knew though, that someday it would end. He had needed this peaceful solitude. Needed it to heal, to come to grips with what he had lost, and finally become an adult in the mental sense, as well as the physical. His body had, almost without him noticing, become rather well-muscled the longer he practiced with his various shapes. Eventually, Ashamane explained that his elven form would likely take on animal characteristics, the closer he became to her. She'd purred almost an entire evening when he'd said he wouldn't mind sharing her cat-like features in both of his forms, and from then on he trained his elven muscles as well as his animal ones, now certain that the two were linked, he wanted them as strong as possible for the wars to come.
His solitude did not, however, end in fire, like many of his dreams. One morning, as he was deciding if he should hunt or not now that his food stores had finally gotten slightly lower, he heard Storm growl low, and he turned, his concentration broken. The giant cat, much larger than normal, even for his breed, stepped up beside the druid, and stared ahead expectantly. Then, Laronar felt it. A presence the very forest seemed to react to with…pride? Surprise? It felt like a mixture of both, and as it came closer, Laronar recognized it, though only vaguely.
The last time they had met, his senses had been as dull as a rock. He bowed low, in what he knew was the Tauren fashion. He had no idea if the Night elves had changed their style yet, and had no desire to reveal his upbringing by greeting this figure in particular as a Highborne would. "Hail…Lord of the Forests...Cenarius."
As he spoke the figure coalesced out of seemingly thin air, and once more, the druid appreciated the Ancient's sense for dramatic entrances as he manifested from a localized hurricane of leaves and detritus. A booming voice met his in reply, revealing just how soft his was in comparison, mostly thanks to lack of use. "Hail Laronar Stormclaw…I must say, I never expected this region to be so…healthy. When I discovered it, imagine my surprise when I found its source of health and vigor was you! We heard little after you disappeared with Kota."
At that, Laronar arched an eyebrow. "We?"
The Forest Lord nodded once, sending the birds that had perched on his antlers flapping away. "Aye, Night Elf. We. Malfurion and the others of your race who have, like you, taken up the mantle of Druidism. They could use your expertise in the Feral Arts that Kota shared with you."
Laronar shook his head doubtfully, "I don't think I could be of much aid. I saw what Malfurion did during the…during the War. My skills, even now, cannot come close to his feats."
Moving into a sitting position by folding his powerful legs under him, and signaling he should do the same with one of the great bark-covered hands, Cenarius continued, "You would be surprised what a Druid can truly do when the need is great. There are, however, gaps in your training that I have filled in for both the elves and the Tauren years ago. You have much to catch up on…and yet you are also ahead, in many ways. The Night Elves have only just begun learning how to shapeshift…and here you are, already friends with the Ancients themselves, many of whom would gladly let you take their form. You, a Kaldorei of Highborne lineage, have managed to make covenants with more of the Wild Gods than any Mortal has for an age. Do not belittle your accomplishments Stormclaw, for even modesty has its limits."
As he listened, Laronar's cheeks darkened, and he nodded. "As you say Forest Lord…you would have me teach them what I have learned, and I in turn could learn what you have already taught the others. Where will I find them? On Mount Hyjal, beneath Nordrassil?"
At that the Forest Lord laughed, rising slowly as he spoke what was, clearly, his last contribution to the conversation. "No young Druid, your people now reside primarily in the ancient forests of the Ashenvale…I suggest you head there with haste. The Fel taint of Demons has been found once more, and I know your skills will be needed to stop it."
The moment he heard the words 'Fel' and 'Demon', things changed, for Laronar. His entire countenance changed, and his amber eyes began burning. He'd spent more years waiting for his enemy to appear again than he had living with his family, and his people, by this point. Now, as Illidan Stormrage had predicted, the Legion was returning. Or, more likely, trying to. "I will head there immediately." He said as the Forest Lord rose, bid him farewell, and galloped off into…seemingly thin air. Even his footprints simply vanished. Someday, Laronar thought, he would learn that trick as well. Now though, he looked to Storm. "How about it, old friend? Shall we go find our people? I'm sure the female Nightsabers would worship you as a king." He smirked, scratching his friend under the jaw as he spoke, and the great cat rumbled under his hand like the storms for which he, and his species, were named.
He spent the rest of the evening packing, and gave the land around his home as much energy as he dared, for it would be the last for many years, if he knew his people as he did. The two then left at dusk, and once more headed north, into Ashenvale.
After several long hours of traveling in his Cat Form, Laronar decided to arrive in his 'homeland' on the back of Storm. So in tune were they that Laronar was sure he would not fall off his massive bulk, despite not having a saddle.
After traveling through the quiet woods of Ashenvale for several minutes, Storm came to an abrupt halt. Laronar, who had been lost in thought, looked up, ready to change form in an instant. He looked around the clearing they had stopped in, and then looked to Storm. Closing his eyes, he asked the trees and other plants what they saw. For some reason, they ignored his commands, so he instead turned his attention to the nearby animals. They resisted him at first, but since he had spent most of this journey communicating with the stag, bear, bird, rabbit, and other spirits, they eventually told him what he wanted to know.
He was surrounded on all sides by Kaldorei rangers. He held up his hands, and spoke in clear elvish, "I come in peace, sisters. Please do not shoot me." Their cover blown, the Sentinels melted out of the shadows, their bows still strung with arrows.
Their leader, a beautiful female atop a white saber with black stripes, spoke to him. "State your name and your business in Ashenvale, brother, and perhaps we will not shoot you."
Frowning at the seemingly new found distrust of their own kin, Laronar replied, "I am Laronar of...the Wilds. I trained under Kota, a Tauren of the Skyhorn Tribe, and was told by the Forest Lord, Cenarius, to seek out Malfurion Stormrage, so that we might complete each other's knowledge of the Druidic arts." The ranger's eyes widened slightly, and a smirk reached her lips. A smirk that Laronar recognized, as he lowered his hands.
"Well well…" Her tone had lost its seriousness, and gained an allure that sent an unfamiliar, but not unpleasant chill down Laronar's spine. The other sentinels looked puzzled as their leader lowered her guard, and even seemed to be eyeing the intruder. "You've certainly…grown, Laronar. I thought you were dead." She rode closer; her saber eyeing Storm much like her rider eyed his.
Laronar patted his friend on the shoulder twice, indicating he could relax, and he did so. The other Sentinels had looks between confusion and amusement as Shandris prowled around the newcomer in a circle.
"So I've heard. As you can see though…" He rolled his neck, and, despite his better judgment, flexed, letting his new muscles stand out in the moonlight. "I'm very much alive." His body, he had discovered, was reacting well to his training. Ashamane had told him once that, unlike other druids, who would rely on magic, his main weapon would be his body. As such, he needed to hone it, and honed it he had. The results spoke for themselves, for even now he still lacked any kind of chest covering.
Before the war, the only Kaldorei with any sort of hard muscle to them were soldiers, and evidently the other druids were not as impressive either. Yet. He had honestly forgotten he wasn't wearing any kind of shirt, though the sharp eyes of the females surrounding him, eyeing him like a piece of meat, made him remember. He didn't shy away from their gazes, though.
His back and forth with Shandris brought several laughs from the other riders, as they watched the pair with knowing smirks. She pulled up next to him, far closer than normal, and his bravado evaporated, cheeks darkening as she nudged him. Gone was the rude child with a knack for archery. Like him, she had grown as well. "Come on then…let's bring you to Malfurion."
As they rode through the dark forest, Laronar suddenly remembered how he hated being the center of attention. This wasn't like his childhood sorcery lessons though. Good attention felt different. Better. This attention was focused on his physical attributes. After spending so long surrounded by males, and usually Tauren at that, being surrounded by females of his own species was new. He'd never noticed how aesthetically pleasing they were when he was younger, but then, he supposed he wouldn't have. The basic lessons of life, including how mating worked, had been one of the many things Kota had first taught him, when he realized his student had sizable gaps in his knowledge that the Tauren had simply considered common sense.
He hoped the gloom of the forest was covering his darkened blue cheeks, but since they only grew darker the more he heard the murmured laughing behind him, he doubted that was the case. He made a mental note to find a way to get these emotions under control, but for the moment, enjoyed them.
As Laronar approached a budding tree just outside the newly built city of Ordil'Aran, he saw the same bearded, antlered elf he had seen the day he became Kota's apprentice. Hands behind his back, Laronar patiently waited for Malfurion to finish speaking to the nine male Kaldorei sitting in a semi-circle in front of him.
Looking up, Malfurion's own amber eyes met Laronar's, and he motioned for him to approach saying, "Novices, this is Laronar, apprentice to the wise Kota Skyhorn, a Tauren Druid of Highmountain. He has come to teach us how to take the forms of the Ancients, and with them, help aid in the defense of the world."
Laronar looked at the eight elves, all who were, he guessed, around his age, some older, some younger, and bowed. Malfurion pointed at each of his students and said, "Laronar, this is Fandral Staghelm, Tenaron Stormgrip, Kerlonian Evershade, Melithar Staghelm, Thaon Moonclaw, Lathorius, Naralex, Arvell, and Ralaar Fangfire. They will be your students, as will I, for a time."
"I understand," Laronar replied, "That you had things to teach me as well?"
Malfurion smiled, "Yes, we will get to that my friend, but for now, let us begin learning how to shapeshift." Laronar nodded, glancing back at Shandris as he joined the others. She waved, and he did the same, an action not unnoticed by Malfurion, who gestured with one hand and a suddenly stern look, showing he should begin.
"First," Laronar started, raising his voice and clearing his throat, "We reach out to the Ancients…"
An hour later, the eleven gathered druids sat in a circle, silently calling out to the spirits of the Cat, Bear, and Storm Crow. Laronar had explained that these spirits had already agreed to help the druids, but Laronar himself sought a different spirit. The Spirit of the Stag. He was hoping to contact Malorne, the White Stag, and gain the ability to take his form.
So far however, he had received no response. Just like he had on his trip to Ashenvale. Then, out of nowhere, a faint voice spoke.
It was filled with pain, and was irritated at the intrusion to its regeneration. "Who dares disturb Malorne while he recovers from his grievous wound? Who dares to disturb the White Stag?"
Laronar responded the same way he did when he last spoke to the stag spirit. "I am Laronar, of the Wild, I seek permission to take the noble form of the Lord of the Forest, so that I may better defend it from those who would see it harmed."
Silence followed for a long while; however, a reply finally came. Laronar did not lose his patience once, as he waited. "You have shown great patience and humility Laronar of the Wild, and your contribution to Malorne's rejuvenation has not been forgotten, but this is a difficult time for the Stag Lord. It is only because the other spirits have spoken so highly of you that we grant your request. We must ask however, that if you do engage in combat, you will switch to another form."
Panic filled Laronar. Switch forms while shape shifted? Impossible. "You can do it young Druid," The voice responded to his panic, "it is difficult to switch whilst already shifted, but not impossible for one such as you. We will show you how…"
The other druids had long since transformed into cats, bears, and crows, while Malfurion had become all three. Only Laronar remained perfectly still, in meditation. Malfurion forbade anyone from distracting him. He had a feeling the young elf was trying something a bit trickier than cats, bears, and crows.
As Malfurion knelt before Laronar, who was sitting cross-legged on the leafy forest floor, the young druid's eyes opened, and the amber orbs, so much like Illidan's, blazed with the raw power of nature. Malfurion jumped back as the young druid started to transform. Antlers sprouted first, from his forehead, his neck elongated, his hands became hooves, as did his bare feet, and Malfurion looked on in surprise as Laronar became a proud stag, whose coat was not unlike that of Malorne's. As white as the Moon herself.
Having seen Malorne fall in battle, the Archdruid felt a flicker of hope for Cenarius' father. Perhaps he still survived in some way. Now fully transformed, Laronar looked directly at Malfurion, and nodded his antlered head, as though he could read his thoughts. A smile appeared on the Archdruid's face as he nodded back.
Laronar then began to change his form again, this time into his favored Cat Form. This caught everyone's attention, as even Malfurion had thought that shifting while in another form was impossible. Clearly, the only limit on the powers of a druid was one's imagination. This became even more apparent, as the group saw that his Cat Form was unlike theirs. Where they had become sleek, multicolored panthers, his was undoubtedly a Nightsaber, judging by the fangs, but there was more to it. With fur as dark as the night, and those unchanged amber eyes, he looked remarkably like the Ancient to whom he was closest.
Without a word, Malfurion applauded the young druid, as did his peers. The group then broke for supper, and the two brothers, who had the most cause to be interested in the Stag Form, began pestering Laronar about how he had managed to complete that particular transformation.
As they entered the local inn, Laronar caught the gaze of several Sentinels, and noticed Shandris was among them. Moving his gaze back to the others as if he hadn't seen them, the druid's placed their orders. Laronar was in the midst of trying this 'Moonberry Juice', when he felt a tap on his shoulder.
The others had since stiffened at the new arrival, and Malfurion simply turned his gaze down the bar towards the newcomer. Laronar noticed all of this, recognizing with ease the faint but welcome scent of she who was tapping him, before he turned, and grinned, "Shandris. And here I thought you'd be out looking for more outsiders to shoot."
He felt a small victory at his cheeks refusing to darken, despite her closeness. That changed however, as she leaned on the bar as well. Only a completely inexperienced fool would miss the obvious signs of attraction, but unfortunately, Laronar had not previously had such experience. Females were a total mystery.
"My patrol is covered," She said, smiling, "So I had some free time. Unlike some people, I prefer a warm bed and a roof over my head." Malfurion's ears twitched, and several of the other druids stared with open mouths at Laronar, not Shandris, despite the good-natured jibe.
Still, the reason for their strange behavior eluded him. Had he known why they acted so, he probably would not have said, "I enjoy a warm bed as much as anyone. Though I haven't been assigned one yet…"
As he let the words hang, and slowly realized what they implied, the imposing bulk of Malfurion Stormrage suddenly appeared behind Shandris, and she turned slowly as the two looked up into the burning eyes of the Archdruid. Shandris shrugged, and opened her mouth to speak with an embarrassed smirk. Malfurion's tone brooked no argument as he cut off whatever she had to say. "You should go practice your archery, Shandris." His tone was serious, and as Laronar saw the look in his amber eyes, he felt a chill run up his spine, though it was not a pleasant one. Still, he hoped he simply misread Malfurion's all-too-familiar expression. One he had seen on his father's face only once, when one of the boys in Eldarath had taken a liking to his sister.
"But I-"
"Now, Shandris." Malfurion spoke with a hard tone, cutting her off.
The Sentinel left without another word, and all eyes turned to Laronar, who kept his expression as neutral as possible. Technically, his ignorance could save him the wrath of the druid whose power had saved the entire world. Technically. Malfurion simply stared at him for a long moment, before he said, "Come."
Laronar heard several deep exhales, and realized he too had been holding his breath. He followed the master druid out to the back of the inn, vaulting over the railing as he had. Once they were far enough away, the Archdruid began to speak, "You have been away from us for a long time, Laronar, and because of this I can expect you to not know certain things. Shandris is like a daughter to me, and my mate, the High Priestess Tyrande, is like a Mother to her. So, when it comes to…romance…you can understand my...hesitation. You are one of us, a brother Druid and yet, are still a stranger."
Laronar nodded, but held his tongue as Malfurion continued, "Now, you may be an honorable Kaldorei, but I do not know that. Tyrande does not know that, and most importantly, Shandris doesn't either. If you intend to pursue her…at the very least, wait a few months. Learn of what our people have become. Understand what we are becoming, and be very certain of what you choose to do in the presence of she who is like a daughter to me."
Laronar responded carefully, choosing his words. "With respect, Archdruid…I do know Shandris…somewhat. We met during the war. I…assume that your mate was the one who healed me when I first arrived amongst the refugees. She pushed us together more than once, and looking back now, I think I can guess why. I am unsure of my intentions at the moment…but at least consult with her, before you assume I lack honor."
Laronar kept his face passive as he spoke. Malfurion turned to eye him again for a long moment, and nodded once. "Hmmm…I shall do as you say. There is a tree by the area we practice meditation, at the top floor you will find the other beds the druids use. You may choose one of them, and tomorrow, we will begin catching you up on your training."
With that, he walked past the younger druid swiftly. Laronar leaned then against a nearby tree, and exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Of course Shandris would have the druid who was supposed to be his master, and a legendary war hero at that, as her guardian. Who else would Malfurion Stormrage take on as a daughter, but the one female he'd ever felt a real attraction to?
He sank to the ground, shifting into his Cat Form without even thinking, and melted into the shadows. He decided that it would be better if he found a quiet bush or something to sleep by tonight. He'd had more than enough of his people for one day.
Chapter 7: Dream Walking
Chapter Text
After the awkwardness of his arrival faded, Laronar once more found a routine. He spent half the day teaching, half learning, and spent his nights being shown around the new Kaldorei Empire by Shandris. Though calling it an empire was very generous, several cities of marble and various trees had been skillfully created by the fledgling druids and what stonemasons and shapers had survived the Sundering, and slowly, the elves recuperated.
What little sleep he did get during this time was either spent in the saddle or under the stars, which was another thing he had to adjust to. In an effort to increase the pace of their training because of the apparent looming demon threat, Malfurion had the druids practice during the day, just as he had under Cenarius.
That it all but kept Shandris and Laronar apart was likely purely coincidental. Cenarius had trained him by the daylight, and now his students would do the same. Having a Tauren master, it wasn't that big of a switch for Laronar, though he still preferred the night.
He had asked his fellow druids about any remaining demons, and while rumors of Satyrs kept the newly formed Sentinels busy hunting for them, those who still remained after the Legion fell hardly seemed to warrant a threat, at least in Laronar's eyes. The story of the war itself, something he had largely missed because he'd been so young, had been enlightening. Laronar and Shandris came upon Malfurion recounting it one night for the next generation of Kaldorei, children who'd been born after the war, and into this new, sundered world without the Well that had made their species the unquestioned rulers of most of the world. Thus, Malfurion described for Laronar and the children the tale of his efforts against High Councilor Xavius, who he'd blown away, along with half of one of Zin Azshari's spires, and the demons he'd summoned to their world. In the end, according to Malfurion, he and Illidan had battled from both the top of Ysera herself and by the shore of the Well simultaneously, and in that state, Malfurion Stormrage had been able to hold the Fel Titan back from crossing into Azeroth. All because of a slight, insignificant wound caused by a 'Broxigar', who Malfurion said was an 'Orc'. He'd focused enough power into the wound left by Brox's enchanted ax to make the Titan lose focus, and in that dread moment, the portal had collapsed upon him. Though it was a mystery if such a being would even be hurt by that kind of thing.
The portal that the Highborne had created was closed now though, and without the Well, surely the Satyrs, who he had been told were actually Highborne who'd embraced the demons entirely, could not make another. Not without the Kaldorei noticing. Even though the new 'empire' all but shunned the arcane, they had enough skill to keep wards up for detecting such a thing, but despite their searches, they could not find the remnants of the Legion.
Time passed, and the young druid managed to juggle his training and his various relationships fairly well. He improved much under Malfurion's strict guidance, and that he had other students to help him along only sped up the process. Soon, it was time for the next step in his training. What that next step would be had been hinted at, but each of his peers felt that their words would not do it justice, and so Laronar had waited. Until now.
"When the Dragon Aspects gave us Nordrassil, they gave us three gifts," Malfurion reiterated for their assembled group. "The Life Binder ensured our ability to repopulate, Nozdormu gave us our immortality, but Ysera's gift was something else entirely. She bound our very people to her own realm, the Emerald Dream."
He paused, seemingly thinking about how to describe it to one who had not walked it. "The Dream is Azeroth as it was in the beginning. No mortal races, no mortal buildings, entirely untouched, and in some places, unfinished by those who shaped both it, and our world. Those who live within the Dream are creatures, from squirrels to dragons, who have passed on. It is a spiritual realm that, for many, acts as a sort of afterlife. The Green Dragonflight are the ones who guard it, and Ysera, its mistress, has bid that we Druids guard it as well."
As Malfurion explained how and why druids could and should walk the Emerald Dream, Laronar began to realize that the other's training in this area had been all but halted with his arrival, and the focus had been on learning to shapeshift until now. Though they still spent time practicing with their animal forms in mock combat, there were only a few, like Ralaar and Naralex, who truly enjoyed shapeshifting to the degree Laronar did.
Still, even those two could not match Laronar and Malfurion. It hadn't taken him long to see why the antlered druid was regarded with such esteem. He had all but matched Laronar after only a few months of practice, and their sparring now regularly resulted in stalemates. Their leader was, in a word, a natural.
As the others entered the Dream, Laronar had no trouble falling asleep, and his mood brightened considerably as he realized that if they were to train like this every day, he would be far more awake for his time with Shandris. To the other druids, the fact that he appeared in the dream realm with a grin on his face was owed to its inherent beauty.
While it certainly was majestic, Laronar felt that it was, in some way, off. There was something more about the realm that even his as yet unrefined senses picked up, but he had not the words or the training to understand just what kind of plane he'd crossed over to. Malfurion floated over to him as he glanced around. "What do you think?"
The area they were in was much as it looked in reality, but there was an emerald ephemeral beauty to it that could, if one looked long enough, entrap one's gaze with it. Still unnerved by what he sensed, which felt not entirely unlike the mind of one of the Ancients he'd spoken with but much, much larger, Laronar managed to avoid losing his focus. "It's…beautiful really, but…so very different from our own world…it feels…off, somehow. Like there's...more to it. To all of it." He frowned, trying, and judging by Malfurion's expression, failing, to explain what he sensed. Evidently, the other druid did not sense...whatever was bugging his instincts.
"Your subconscious has likely guided you here before. That may be why it seems strange, yet familiar. Those who live in and guard the Dream are granted many powers from it, and apparently, are even able to transcend death itself by rejuvenating themselves through their connection to Nature. I've yet to see if that's true, though."
Laronar simply nodded, not quite in agreement. It wasn't the familiarity bugging him, it was something…deeper. Something tied to the very realm itself, and something he realized, the more he sensed it, was itself a separate power from the Dream's. He decided to follow his instinct then, nodding as Malfurion warned him not to wander too far from them. He didn't intend to, for what he sensed was relatively close.
He moved through the Dream easily, flying through the green haze as he headed south, and east, towards the coast. Then, he saw a patch of forest that looked uncannily familiar, and as he continued flying eastward, he grinned. Though the city wasn't there, this was, undoubtedly, Eldarath. He kept following his instinct, landing near where, by his best guess, the temple to Elune had stood.
It took a long moment of focus, but eventually, he willed the world to reveal itself to his dream form as Malfurion had said was possible, and gasped at what he discovered.
The sea did not exist in the Dream, for there, the land was yet whole, and many things that once were, still remained. As he gazed upon reality, he saw quite a different sight. It was, undoubtedly, Eldarath. His home. Even from above, he knew those trees. Nature had begun to reclaim the city, and only the white marble foundations remained after so many decades. This meant that, aside from the temple itself and a few fountains, most of the city had been burned away. There wasn't even a trace of ash of the shaped wooden homes that had once housed a city's worth of Kaldorei.
He looked towards the new ocean, and that was when the other power he'd sensed grew clearer, and more potent. A faint mist seemed to rise from the ocean water. It was...hard to discern what he was sensing. There was almost something malicious about it, but as he reached out to touch it, whatever it was, with his dreamform's senses it suddenly vanished entirely, as if it had never existed. He probed the seas carefully, but whatever he'd sensed had utterly disappeared, and the abyssal black ocean revealed nothing within its shadowed depths.
Somewhat uneasy, he returned to the druids, who were busy studying tree leaves, and how they differed in this realm from their own. Truly fascinating stuff.
While the Emerald Dream was indeed lovely, and he felt closer to Ashamane here than he ever had on Azeroth, he did not fancy the idea of spending years in this strange realm. Nor did he feel overly fond of it. His fellow druids however, were utterly enamored. From the largest tree to literal blades of grass, they could not get enough, and Malfurion seemed, for lack of a better term, smitten with his surroundings.
Laronar, for his part, did not see the appeal. He preferred real trees. Real grass. These strange ephemeral copies were lovely, yes, but he knew he'd always find Azeroth's real, natural beauty far more appealing than a half-formed dream of it. Malfurion claimed the two realms were connected, and that the Dream's very existence helped foster life upon their planet, but Laronar wasn't entirely convinced. At the very least, there had to be more to it. His grandfather, an astromancer of Eldarath, had told him when he was very small that there were likely other planets, spherical like their own, far away in the great dark beyond Azeroth's skies. He claimed that a being who could fly far enough would be able to reach such worlds, but the old elf had left figuring out the how of that, to his apprentices.
Laronar awoke with a yawn, before the others. A sign of his eagerness. Once the group departed, Laronar shifted into his Cat Form, and raced off before anyone could really notice. He tracked the scent of the one he sought, and prowled around her silently, until he determined she was, in fact, not busy.
Thus, he pounced at her with the skill of a master, purring all the way, even as he re-took his elven shape, not that Shandris minded. They had often wrestled during what few quiet periods the war had offered, and once she'd challenged him again, claiming he'd no doubt gotten sloppy in his years away, they'd begun 'sparring' with regularity. Ambushes were a favored tactic.
Sometimes he initiated, sometimes, she got the drop on him, but it was a nightly ritual, and one he was glad to have. While his actual hand-to-hand skills were indeed rusty, their sparring had brought his skill up considerably. There was a reason Shandris led the Sentinels. Once the spar ended, the rest of the evening was quite enjoyable, as were the ones that followed. Now that he no longer fell asleep so much, he truly saw just how far the Kaldorei had come with only a few decades to rebuild. It was still, however, a far cry from what they had been, and signs of the Legion's rampage could be easily seen, if one but looked under the foliage slowly covering the scars they'd left in their burning wake.
Chapter 8: Satyrs and Wolves
Chapter Text
Many long years passed as the druids experimented with taking the forms of all sorts of animals, and practiced fusing their natural magic with the arcane. Different specialties had begun to develop within the Kaldorei, and each year saw more young males, and only males, rising to join Malfurion. The females who might have wanted to try to learn their brother's new skills were absorbed into the Sisterhood, as the power to wield Elune's Light spread among their people as it had not for generations, but only among their females did Elune's chosen rise. Any males who might have been Priests were gently guided towards Malfurion and his druids. While the civilization of the Kaldorei began to regrow in this dual duty-bound society, primarily under the watchful eye of Tyrande Whisperwind, there was relative peace among them, but memories of the Legion remained fresh in their minds, and always the Kaldorei remembered the consequences of their actions.
More often than not, the painful emotions from the war were focused on the group of Azshara's own Highborne who had fled the capital and, with the aid of Elune herself in the form of Tyrande Whisperwind, survived the Sundering. Despite the turmoil their arcane magic had caused, these Highborne remained convinced that it was the path the Kaldorei should continue to embrace. To a man, they had refused to give up practicing their simple magics, something Malfurion had allowed, while warning against greater works. Feeling shackled and unwelcome, a rift had grown between the significant population of surviving Zin Azshari bloodlines, and those who now abandoned their Highborne heritage in favor of speaking to trees, or worshiping the moon.
Laronar himself had been approached by their leader, Dath'remar, for he had gone through the surnames of elves who'd survived the war, and had sought out former Highborne in hiding, hoping to gain more followers. At first, it was easy to sympathize with them, for they had lost much themselves, and carried the blame for starting the war. In reality, he'd been told, they had been forced to comply with Azshara, and her lord advisor Xavius, which was the only reason their surviving people had allowed them to 'rejoin' them in the first place. That hadn't stopped the hatred however, and it was commonplace for the Highborne to literally be spat upon when they walked the streets of the new elven cities in broad moonlight.
Laronar had flatly denied Dath'remar, for he enjoyed being what he was. He'd given up his heritage long ago, and had no desire to reclaim it, or use it as leverage over others. In Dath'remar's people, he often found aspects of what he'd disliked most about his caste, still somewhat intact. The haughty attitudes, the unearned sense of superiority, the flamboyant clothing, and even the delusion that Queen Azshara had somehow, as the mightiest mage of their age, been magically controlled by Xavius into summoning the demons to their world. He wanted none of it, and many the Highborne leader went to had told him much the same. After learning from Dragon Aspects and Ancients as to what the right path was, the majority of the Kaldorei people followed their examples, and had no wish to deviate from the course of redemption. Those like Laronar buried their past, and embraced their future.
Eventually, Dath'remar became convinced that a visceral display of power would convince those who'd denied him to rejoin their people, and to that end, the Highborne pooled their might, and unleashed a mighty storm upon Ashenvale which was arcane in nature. Instead of awing the elves with their might, the druids frantically tried to calm the enraged winds, and return nature to balance. Eventually, Malfurion himself subdued the storm, and once more, peace reigned. Tensions rose, as many saw the display as an attack on the elves' new home.
With the exception of druids, who used the arcane in conjunction with natural magic, sparingly, using arcane magic by itself in the fashion of a mage was illegal, on pain of death. Unwilling to kill so many of their kin for violating their society's most important new law Malfurion ordered them banished. Forever. The Highborne were given naturally crafted ships, and exiled across the sea, to the other half of the sundered continent of Kalimdor. It would be millennia before the two peoples met again, and many Kaldorei expected them to simply die in the potentially demon filled wilderness of the far eastern lands, lands their empire had largely ignored.
Finally, the day came when each of Malfurion's students were considered to be master druids, including Laronar, who had since mastered walking the Emerald Dream. He was one hundred and seventy years of age now, although his body had stopped showing signs of aging not long after he'd arrived in Ashenvale. The Dragon Aspects had not lied when they claimed that Nordrassil would make them retain their immortality. Their promise of survival was evidently granted as well, for in that century-long peace, the elves had more children amongst them than ever before. Strangely, Tyrande and Malfurion remained heirless, but nobody commented. Life mates weren't as common anymore in the face of such low numbers, but their affairs were still given privacy.
Each of the former apprentices congratulated the other, and one in particular, Ralaar Fangfire, was determined to convince the reclusive Laronar to celebrate with them, for often after training he would meditate within his Cat Form, and ask the spirits for stories and wisdom, rather than waste time in the inns and taverns his fellow druids frequented after long days of practice and meditation. The fact that he wasn't after any females also helped, as it was a poorly kept secret as to who he had his intense amber eyes on.
That night was special though, and the so-called 'feral druid' gave in to his friend's demands. Thus, he soon found himself surrounded by his peers as they made their way to their favorite spot within Ordil'aran. Once he was out of his reclusive shell, the druid who could shape shift as skillfully as Malfurion was actually quite entertaining, a fact that Ralaar and the others who preferred shapeshifting to spells had discovered the first time they'd successfully dragged him out to imbibe in alcoholic beverages. What little Laronar remembered of that night, spent drinking, feasting, and dancing upon tables whilst shifted, would help him in the many wars to come. Though he didn't yet know it, those years spent training would be some of his fondest memories.
With the word out that the first generation of druidic masters was now finally free to take apprentices, the requests to learn flooded in, far more than they had after Nordrassil was planted, and now it was the student's turn to understand the hell that was sifting through potential students, searching for the best, as Malfurion had done. Males, females, everyone wanted the power, and prestige, that came with being one of nature's defenders. Soon though, many found that they simply could not handle the lifestyle required. Often, training involved hours of meditation, and Laronar soon began to understand why Malfurion had chosen the students he had.
They had sharp minds and patience, whereas many of their people did not. Many did not even make it to communing with nature itself, but those who did were assigned to a master. Eventually, Malfurion officially decreed that the druids should be entirely male, as the priestesses of Elune were entirely female. Given that they'd had few females even show interest in truly learning, none of the druids Malfurion had elevated disagreed. Long had the women of their race held superior status. This division of power would balance them, or so Stormrage claimed, and none could find fault with his logic. Sharing power equally was a popular idea. Neither sex wanted another Azshara.
Time continued to flow, and six whole centuries passed Laronar by as he trained new druids, adventured with Shandris, and honed his skills. Often he would ask Ashamane, and the other Ancients, how to improve his skill with their forms. Though pulling knowledge from them was like draining water from a stone, what clues he did receive helped tremendously with harmonizing his mind with the mind of the animal within the forms he took.
After seven hundred years since the demonic invasion, Kaldorei society had once more flourished under their new path and the blessings they'd been given. Being among the 'Archdruids' as he and the first generation had begun to be called, came with some measure of fame, and even political sway, in certain cases. Though he was, compared to many of the survivors, still quite young, Laronar's words carried weight, and he found himself enjoying when people actually listened to what he said. He did not claim to be wise, but he tried to dispense knowledge where he could, and often, his students would name him their Shan'do.
This was common amongst his fellows as well. Those who had been the first to learn had been ideal to become master druids, and it was a long time before Malfurion himself admitted that he hadn't been convinced Laronar would work with those he'd initially chosen. He was, supposedly, glad that he'd been wrong though. Given the inherently awkward nature of their dynamic, for Shandris' affections had not been forgotten or unnoticed, Laronar took what compliments he could get from the legendary druid.
Shandris herself had been reassigned elsewhere in the budding Kaldorei territories, which spanned most of Kalimdor, often in areas that the Tauren did not inhabit. Though they were not hostile, the bull-men were not overtly friendly either, for they had no qualms about placing the blame for the state of their sundered world entirely on another race. Still, they remained generally friendly, and traded often, a far cry from how they'd acted when the empire yet stood. Tasked by Tyrande with focusing on training Sentinels, for she had agreed that the demon's return was inevitable, given their nature, Shandris had created a stronghold in which to forge her new warriors off of the coast of the region known as Feralas.
Like the other druids, Laronar had learned to fly early on, and though the flight wasn't terribly long, the distance was far enough for the embers of…whatever they'd had, to cool. It also didn't help that the Sentinels, much like the Sisterhood of Elune, were almost entirely female. Every move he made on his visits to the isle ended up being gossiped back to Shandris, and eventually, she'd 'ordered him to visit her'. The tone and expression of the Sentinel who'd given him that command was unreadable, and he was obliged to obey it, as it came directly from their General, who had the power to draft any Kaldorei, technically.
Upon arriving on Shandris' island stronghold, he was well aware of the looks he was receiving as he made his way to her quarters, which doubled as her office. He gave a bow as he arrived. "General Feathermoon..."
"Don't 'General Feathermoon' me." She said, already irritated. "I keep hearing of your 'exploits' around my Stronghold, Laronar. It's hard enough getting these women, many of whom are older than me, to listen to my orders. When my lover is breeding the medics behind my back, it gets that much more difficult..."
He could hear the hurt in her voice, though he had no earthly idea of what she was referring to. "I've only ever sold herbs to your medics, Shandris...my heart is yours. You know this."
She had her back to him, looking out the window behind her desk. She was hiding her face, but his sharp nose could smell the salty tears. "I thought I did. But it's become clear that I can't trust what you've told me. This isn't the first time I've gotten such a report. I've ignored them in the past, but I would be a fool to keep doing so. I can no longer afford the distraction our...fraternizing...is causing me. I have an army to build. This is the end of us, Laronar Stormclaw. Do not return to my island."
"I don't know what you've heard, but it's simply not true...I swear to you, by Elune hersel-" Shandris cut him off before he could finish.
"Swear by the Goddess you do not worship. Swear by the Ancient whose form you take. Swear by my own father if you must, it does not matter. I used to like your...feral insistence, but in embracing savagery, you're tossing aside everything that could make you a respectable Kaldorei...many see you as little more than a beast, Laronar...if you would just study the spells..."
Crossing his muscled arms, his lengthy green brows crashed together, despite the fact that her back was yet turned, she could feel she'd struck a nerve by his tone. "I will never rely on the Arcane again. Balanced with natural magic or not. You say my skill set bothers you? You've never said so before. You didn't mind my Cat Form pouncing upon you night after night. And why should I not worship the Ancients, Shandris? Elune was not watching out for my mother when a Doomguard speared her through her back. She was not watching my sister when she likely befell a similar fate. She did not come to my father's aid either, when he sacrificed himself so that I might live. Ashamane has always watched over me, ever since I found Storm, at least. It's not my fault your Goddess does not take males into her Sisterhood...once, I very much desired to be one of Her priests."
He saw her fist clench, and he knew he'd made her angry. That was good, for he also knew that anger would keep her from weeping too long over losing him. He had no idea what fabricated report she'd received, and he found that, at this point, he did not care. A woman who would trust a baseless rumor over his own word was not a fit mate. He'd been denying their incompatibility for a while, but now was as good a time to end things as there would ever be. "Enough..." She snarled, "You are no longer welcome on my island. Get out."
He did as he was bid, storming from her office with a faint orange aura about him that he simply did not notice, and avoiding making eye contact with the inhabitants of the stronghold as he leapt into the air, and took the form of an owl. He decided then that he'd had more than enough of Sentinels, and women in general, at least for a while, and focused on training his apprentices back home. Given that they were all male, romantic entanglements were all but nonexistent, as his students eventually noticed their master was, quite obviously, drawn to females, and only females.
Even though his first attempt at finding a mate failed, that didn't stop him from occasional attempts at romance over the long pair of centuries that followed. His mastery of what the druids had nicknamed the 'Feral Arts' had resulted in a male form that was incredibly aesthetically pleasing, and heavily muscled. After almost a thousand years of training, practicing his strikes, communing with the Ancients and learning their ways, Laronar was, by far, the most obvious example of what becoming a 'feral druid' could do for one's appearance, and as such, he had no shortage of downright embarrassing offers for coitus. Once the rumors of his 'relationship' with the Sentinel's General going up in flames had reached Ashenvale, such offers only increased.
With no reason to deny them any longer, the relatively young druid quickly learned much about women, though it was mainly physical learning that would come in handy in the ages to follow as he noticed patterns to the various spots his limbs reached. Their personalities, and rationale, continuously befuddled him however, and eventually he gave up trying to make sense of how females saw the world, for it was as different from his own experience as that of a brother druid's. He assumed that when and if he found a mate, it would all simply 'click', as the druids who already had mates had described it, when he'd mentioned his irritation with the fairer sex's seemingly irrational attitudes.
What he would only understand with time, was that many of those early encounters were purely for pleasure, and being that his only experience with such things had been long-term, spanning centuries, he'd often expected them to last longer than a single night. Thus, it came as something of a surprise when the females in question would eventually all but shun him after getting what they'd approached him for.
In those days, it wasn't entirely uncommon for those without mates to bear and raise the offspring of such unions, in the name of repopulating their devastated race, and though he would eventually suspect he himself had managed to father several such children, he never received word of any. Nobody asked where such children came from, and nobody told the children in question of their parentage. For their society, in that age, it simply wasn't important. Only with time, would the focus on life mates return. In those days though, repopulating had been a racial imperative.
As with all times of peace on Azeroth, it was doomed to end with the outbreak of war. It began with strange reports. The Sentinels in Ashenvale reported burning rocks falling from the sky into a nearby valley to the east. The druids who had chosen to venerate the Storm Crow, along with Malfurion and Laronar, set out to investigate these rocks the next day.
All remembered the sight of the dreaded Infernals falling from the sky. Yet, there was no trace of them. Each druid scouted for miles around the valley they had been said to have landed in, but all they found were impact craters. No fire, no footsteps. Malfurion went as far as contacting Cenarius, and although the demigod said he felt no shift in the balance of nature, he warned that dark times were approaching.
Ever one to heed the Ancient's advice, Malfurion mobilized the elven army, what remained of the host that had fought the Legion, alongside the Sentinels and the druids. For a time, it seemed as though the rumors were nothing to worry about. Such meteors had been spied before after all, but this time, the rocks in question had indeed been what the Sentinels had suspected them to be. The green flames had given them away.
The demons first appeared in numbers not far from the Raynewood Retreat, and when they were sighted, the Night Elven host once more rushed out to meet them in battle. The enemies they fought turned out to be Satyrs; worse, they were Satyrs who worshiped Xavius, the Highborne responsible for summoning the Legion to Kalimdor in the first place. The Kaldorei who had been advisor to the Queen herself. It was his name they cried as they met the Kaldorei, and it was in his name that they forced the elves to retreat in that first bloody conflict through their mastery of vile magic, and the relentless power of their summoned Infernals.
It was to the Raynewood Retreat that the elves went once the Satyrs routed them, and it was at Raynewood that Ralaar Fangfire once more tried to convince Malfurion to use what had been dubbed the 'Pack Form' by the few druids who had dared to take the legendary Goldrinn's form.
Like Ralaar and Malfurion, Laronar had also taken it once more, but the pure savagery of the beast within was simply untameable. Goldrinn had eventually warned each of them that they weren't compatible with his form, but it was Tyrande Whisperwind who, at that very moment, elaborated on why the druids could never control it.
Night Elves were the children of Elune, and Elune and Goldrinn had a rivalry that stretched back far, long before the elve's first empire. She said that, under the full shine of Elune's light, Goldrinn had gone mad with primal rage, refusing to be the noble creature Elune wanted him to be. Under the twin full moons, it was said he had felt like he was being stared at by the Goddess, judged to be little more than an animal, despite his noble demeanor, all because he refused to 'tame' his primal savageness. This had ignited the wolf Ancient's fury, and the resulting feud had lasted millennia.
Ralaar seemed not to understand what that meant, as he continued to demand the Pack Form be used against the Satyrs, Laronar however understood quickly, for in the area concerning their Moon Goddess, Shandris had educated him thoroughly. The Kaldorei were allegedly the favored children of Elune, who had empowered their race in ways not unlike a Wild God. Her domains were many, and already the burgeoning druids had those who followed Elune as their patron, and were rewarded with a blending of arcane and natural power as a result, rather than her Light. The Kaldorei had always been her people, for as long as any of them could remember. That was why the druids couldn't tame Goldrinn's form. One would have to cut themself off from the Goddess, and no Kaldorei alive wanted that, if it was even possible. The Kaldorei had worshiped her for ages, even before Azshara and her Highborne took power.
Elune's essence was imbued in their very race, and her presence was the one thing that brought out the wolf god's rage more than anything else. As long as the druids followed Elune, Goldrinn's form would be impossible to master without falling to madness. The feuds among the Ancients were usually as long-lived as they were. As Laronar thought this over, the others departed Raynewood after a heated exchange he hadn't been listening to. He would always regret not sharing his revelation then, when there might still have been a chance to prevent the coming bloodshed.
After the discussion at Raynewood, a secret assault was mounted against the Satyr stronghold the elven scouts had discovered in a place the Satyrs called Xavian, and a plan was made to assassinate their general. It succeeded, but at a heavy price. Ralaar and his friend Arvell had been forced to use the Pack Form just to escape alive…but their lack of control had cost Tyrande four sentinels, and had wounded Shandris, who had returned with the reformation of the elven army. Laronar had avoided her like the plague, and though he'd felt her eyes on him several times, he ignored her gaze. She had, in his opinion, had her chance. She'd believed foul rumors over his own word, and that was the end of it.
Tyrande demanded justice, and Malfurion dealt it by letting the two druids live with their guilt. To Laronar, who had helped Malfurion rescue the others in his Stormcrow form, it was too soft a punishment for someone like Ralaar, who now seemed only to understand violence.
For all his good attributes, Malfurion had a tendency to miss or overlook the flaws in his students. Ever since he had first tried to take Goldrinn's form, without Goldrinn's permission, Ralaar had been growing more and more…feral. Little did any of the other druids know that as they prepared for the next battle in this War of the Satyr, Ralaar Fangfire had darker plans.
His friend Arvell had been killed, in his eyes, because he refused to take the Pack Form, as he had promised Malfurion. While Malfurion and the others mourned the loss of yet another druid, Ralaar and Arvell's lover were creating a weapon that should not have been conceived. They combined a Staff of Elune with an object Ralaar called The Fang of Goldrinn, creating the Scythe of Elune.
It was, at its heart, a good-natured attempt to control that which the Kaldorei could never hope to use against the re-surging Legion forces, but it backfired. Goldrinn's essence refused to be tamed by Elune's power, even for the defense of the world, and in that backlash of furious, age-old power, the Scythe created the first of the Worgen. Wolf-men, who went beyond the basic Pack Form to become something much, much worse. Powerful, savage hunters who could spread this twisted Form like a plague, or a curse. All they required was a bite.
At the next major battle with the Satyr army, the druids who had spoken out against Malfurion's banishment of the Pack Form failed to appear…at first. Over the past week they had become the beasts that would come to be known as Worgen, and as they ran through the charging Night Elven host, they ignored them, and tore into the demon's latest fortifications as living embodiments of the wolf Ancient's fury, wrought into flesh.
Despite the carnage, Laronar was personally impressed by their strength, if not their savagery. Goldrinn was truly powerful, something that he could respect as a fellow hunter, and a feral druid. As the demons fell though, the beast that was now Ralaar Fangfire attacked Malfurion, and the other wolf men followed. Malfurion routed them single handedly, tying them down with vines that, as druids, they should have been able to rid themselves of easily. Nature refused their call, however, and that proved in many druidic minds that these new monsters were no longer a druidic form, but an abomination of one.
The druids retreated to the ancient grove of the Moonglade, their last holdout, and it was there that Malfurion declared that the time for testing and experimentation with the druidic powers was over. That from then on, there would be an order and set practices for the druids of the future. Only those who were wise enough to know when to limit their experimentation with nature's forces would be allowed to research them in this new Cenarion Circle. A plan was then devised to rid the world of Ralaar and his beasts, for they had torn through most of western Ashenvale, attacking the demons as well as their own people.
The one advantage the newly formed Cenarion Circle had on the beasts was the Scythe of Elune, given to Malfurion by its creator, the redeemed Priestess Belysra, who evidently now regretted creating the weapon in the first place. Luckily, she was among sympathetic peers. A meeting with Ralaar was organized, under the pretense of Malfurion receiving punishment for his supposed transgressions.
Once the Archdruid had the Scythe however, it was over. The Worgen were banished to sleep under Daral'nir within the Emerald Dream for all eternity. With the Worgen banished and the demons leaderless and fearful of the untamed savage wolf-elves running wild in the forest, the Kaldorei regrouped and ended the War of the Satyr, shattering the Satyr power structure so effectively that they never truly recovered as a race.
The druids changed quickly after that, and Laronar watched as terms that had once been little more than nicknames became proper 'branches' of what was now called the Druidic Arts. Those like him kept the name Feral Druids, but after the war, their reputation suffered greatly, and compared to the other branches of Balance and Restoration, they received the most limitations. No longer were they to reach out to as many Ancients as possible, hoping to take their form. No longer would they revel in the ferocity and closeness to nature such forms provided.
While Laronar understood the need for such things after Ralaar turned mad, it left those who had mastered the Feral Arts with a sour taste in their toothy maws. What Laronar truly took issue with was the command, from Malfurion himself, to not embrace the 'savage nature' of the Wild Gods. To always keep a line between what was elven, and what was animal.
This, more than anything, crippled the new students seeking to learn. They refused to merge with the mind within the form, and in demanding their individuality, their shapes became lesser. Some, managed to figure out speaking whilst shifted, usually through a magic amulet, or similar item, but this only ended up, in many cases, making the beast within ever more unruly. Many who started on the feral path ended up switching to Balance mastery instead, and the gulf of power between them and the first generations of Feral Druids became wider as what they had once been freely taught was focused and diluted into following only a few specific animal totems; Ashamane's, the Storm Crow's, Malorne, and Ursoc, or Ursol, depending on the druid. Furious at the sudden lack of respect and veneration, many of the Wild Gods refused to share their power at all, something Malfurion took in stride, and ultimately ignored. He was of the opinion that Balance and Healing were more important, and that many of the Wild Gods were fickle at the best of times. If they were to defend the world, they needed reliable allies, and it was to Laronar specifically that he recounted just how long it had taken for the lauded Defenders of Azeroth to come forth from their ancient haunts and actually face the threat to their world. There was no question to the bravery of those who had, and had died as a result, the truth was that Malfurion, and several other druids, like Fandral Staghelm, saw the Feral Arts as a pathway to the kind of bargains the Zandalari Trolls made with their precious Loa.
In a true display of controlling his fury at the lack of respect for what he and many others had spent much of their lives learning and perfecting, Laronar personally ignored this new directive from the Circle's leader, and often argued with Malfurion over what should and should not be taught. He had more experience with the Ancients than any of them, a fact he often found himself repeating, and he also claimed that blurring the lines of animal and elf did not have to result in abominations like the Worgen. His own form was physical proof that a positive link to the Ancients could be beneficial. By that point, in that form, his mind and that of Ashamane's spirit were one, united in purpose.
Despite his words and admitted skill, Malfurion's will was iron on this, and Laronar's stubbornness to change resulted in a serious decrease in new students given to him by the druids in charge of such things under the new order. Those he had trained, were watched, and over time, they too eventually bent to Malfurion's crippling edicts. That, more than anything else, was what drove the first wedge between Laronar and his fellow druids.
The new feral students focused primarily on the spirit of the Bear, and named themselves the Druids of the Claw, after the fallen Ursoc's own claws. Since Ursol himself was not all that different from a balance druid, Malfurion was of the opinion that their Bear Form was all the druids would ever really need. Sentinels, he argued, could do far more than those disguised as fierce Nightsabers in the shadows. That, was when Ashamane herself withdrew her power as well, though Laronar was able to keep her form, even Malfurion found himself unable to become the cat in time. This too, he took in stride, as he firmly believed his druid's future was within the power of the Emerald Dream.
Chapter 9: The Long Vigil Begins
Chapter Text
Before many of the druids even realized Ashamane had abandoned the Feral Druids as well, Malfurion called all of the druids to the Moonglade, and once they were all assembled, Laronar began to understand just how vastly outnumbered his fellow feral druids were, and just how out of place he appeared next to his kin. Each now wore respectable robes, engraved with runes meant to draw on and combine arcane and natural magic with ease, but he remained shirtless, in naught but a simple leather kilt. He made a note to investigate what they had learned of runecraft in particular, for while Ashamane had marked his kilt with her paw, runic magic could enhance it further, if applied correctly.
He'd grown a pair of 'spaulders' from the seeds of a herb Kota and he had used for smoking, and with time, had encouraged the leaves upon them to grow both more potent, and harder to break. They made decent armor, and when crushed and smoked, were quite enjoyable to experience. Aside from his shoulders, everything else remained much the same, for he saw no reason to change his attire. This was a time of peace, he didn't need armor. When the peace inevitably ended, for he was realizing it must always at some point end, he would make himself armor as the others had. He expected to be much stronger, and wiser by then though.
As Malfurion addressed the crowd, he announced that the dragon Ysera was calling the druids to guard the Dream, as her dragonflight did, and together, they would protect it, and nourish the natural evolution of flora and fauna on Azeroth's sundered surface. They would sleep not briefly, but for months, centuries, even millennia, perhaps. Awakening only when the natural world needed their power. The defense of the forests would be left to the Sentinels, who were now experienced in the ways of war, and would only grow more so during this 'Long Vigil'.
Laronar declined the offer to sit in a dirty hovel for millennia, asleep, and instead promised to train new recruits to aid in Azeroth's defense. Malfurion, for once, did not argue the point. He then explained that the Feral Arts were indeed better suited for guarding the physical world, while the other two branches of druidism were, by far, more suited to protecting the ephemeral dreamscape the Archdruid seemed enamored with.
After centuries of not bearing offspring, many had begun to wonder why the most famous couple amongst the Kaldorei race had not yet procreated. It had taken Laronar a while, but once he realized just how often Malfurion visited the Dream, he began to understand. It was hard to procreate when each day saw one's lover already asleep, or training. Sometimes both. The Archdruid was drawn to that realm like a fly to Nightsaber dung. It consumed his every waking thought, and though the growing distance between his Shan'do and his mate was potentially concerning, it was still entirely their business. Not his.
Laronar sat quietly beside Storm as the majority of the druids flew into the air. Almost as many simply walked to the nearby Barrow Dens within the Moonglade, while the others would spread out, so that not all of them needed to be awakened at once, if trouble arose. The only time that should happen, Malfurion had said during his speech, was if the Legion did indeed return in force, as so many feared they would.
In his place, Malfurion left Fandral Staghelm to lead those in charge of training new defenders of the Dream. At first, it seemed Fandral would be much the same as Malfurion, when it came to leadership, but that soon proved to not be the case.
Over the long centuries, Laronar, Naralex, and several other druids had reached out to the Tauren. They remembered the honorable allies who stood with them against the demons, and they'd heard from Laronar that they knew much of druidism. His skill was a credit to the Tauren's techniques, after all.
After the War of the Satyr especially, the newly formed Cenarion Circle had attracted many Tauren, and for a long time, their presence in the Moonglade had not been an issue, for Malfurion Stormrage himself welcomed them to come and learn, or leave, as they pleased. The Moonglade was a haven for all who followed Cenarius, and defended nature, and it always would be. For a long time, nobody seemed to mind the Tauren's presence.
Things had changed now, however. Almost immediately after they sensed their Shan'do return to sleep, Fandral made a decree of his own. None of the Tauren druids had gone into the Barrow Dens, for the journey to the Dream, for their race, was extremely difficult. Ysera had tied the elves to it more than anyone had realized.
Fandral claimed that, with the majority of the elves gone, the Tauren, Furbolgs, and other sentient races not tied to Cenarius himself should also return home. Laronar had, by pure instinct, responded with what Malfurion had often said himself, "All who walk the path of Nature pay homage to Cenarius. This glade is a haven for his followers. All are welcome."
Remulos, a son of the Forest Lord himself, had nodded in approval, and then offered the invitation for the Tauren to stay. There were more than a few who had been openly shocked by Fandral's statement. It was as if the specter of the elven empire's racism had returned in Fandral, and they murmured amongst themselves as they realized who was now in charge. In the face of Laronar and Remulos' words though, they stayed, if a bit awkwardly.
For twenty eight hundred years, and now just over three millennia old, Laronar stayed slightly separated from his kin as he'd returned to his quiet grove in Stonetalon to enjoy his stash of herb, and train those students crafty enough to follow rumor of a powerful, hermetic druid all the way into the mountains. He left subtle trails with those he trusted in Nighthaven, and they would occasionally send him students, young male Kaldorei druid acolytes. To Fandral's eye, they seemed to head south towards Raynewood Retreat, which at this point in time was a well established center of training in the druidic arts. Many from Raynewood went on to study under Master Thal'dorah, a student of Laronar's, and from him, Laronar trained his most skilled students further in the Feral Arts, if they wished to learn. With each passing year, he saw his people grow more and more insular, thanks in no small part to Fandral. More and more Tauren left the Moonglade, and Naralex, being a healer at heart, began to look for a way to help their shorter-lived allies, and perhaps regain their confidence that the elves had indeed moved away from their racist tendencies.
Though he was never public with it, Fandral's influence spread quietly through Nighthaven, a place free of Remulos's presence, as he focused on tending the wilds. Throughout Kalimdor the elves had spread, and while Ashenvale grew insular, the lands south had not. Kalimdor was a wild, untamed place, and the sentients who lived there got along because they all needed to survive together. Alone, the wilds would end them. The Tauren stayed in the area known as Mashan'she, north of the primarily elven-patrolled jungles of Feralas. Naralex claimed he would find a way to make the more barren lands to the east more hospitable, and hopefully that would mend relations once their allies had more space to grow and live.
The Tauren were receptive, for they had long traded with the elves of Ashenvale from their mountain-top settlements, primarily for metal-forged weapons. The Harpies were a nuisance to both races, and often, the Sentinels would join the Tauren hunts to cull their numbers. They always came back, though.
Tauren from many tribes came to Thal'darah's Grove, and when Fandral learned of it, he seemed not to care. It was outside of his sphere of influence, and he was not interested in what a couple of mountain-dwelling elves and bull men did together. Laronar, who by pure coincidence lived nearby with his ancient hut and the now heavily flourishing forest he'd created by giving his own energy to it daily, was always proud of his former apprentice. If he was being honest, Thal'darah had been the kind of student who excelled because he put in the effort. His own instruction had been minimal. Some students, he'd found, simply excelled by themselves when given the tools to do so, and Thal'darah was a great example of that.
By this point, Laronar's student count had almost vanished entirely, but he didn't mind. His little grove had exploded into a teeming forest, and he found that he enjoyed hunting within it. Sometimes, he would leap through the branches just for sport. They way everything had grown made traversing them a viable option while hunting. They were also strong enough to support his Cat Form's weight.
It was as he was enjoying another moonless night of sport that he sensed newcomers in his forest. The Cliffwalker Tauren nearby sometimes hunted here, and he usually stalked them just out of their sight, giving them only glimpses of his form before roaring at them and sending them fleeing in fear. They'd come to believe the forest was haunted by some kind of massive ghost panther. For some reason, Ashamane had found that incredibly amusing, and thus he enjoyed spooking the hunters. Some were hard enough of heart, and hungry enough to finish their hunts and leave promptly, but the majority ran when they glimpsed the size of his shifted form.
Thal'darah, who had passed this now popular Tauren folk monster tale on to his old master with amusement in his tone, had gone on to explain that the tribe's new custom would be to avoid that forest, despite the large quantity of food within. They did not want to disturb a spirit, and over time, this belief had come to be adopted by the elven students as well. This had led to the decrease in students, and Thal'darah had urged his old mentor to come out more, but often Laronar would not, sometimes for decades at a time. The story had left the older Feral Druid chuckling for a good five minutes. Laronar had trained several Tauren druids over the years, and the tribes sometimes welcomed him for a smoke session during which they traded stories, and plied him for wisdom. He wondered how they would react if they learned it was he who was spooking their hunters.
The intruders in his grove this time, however, were a pair of Sentinels, judging by their soft steps, and tensed, but well-curved bodies. As they moved deeper into the forest, he stalked towards them, and both immediately halted. They could sense he was nearby. They had potential. He circled behind them, and dropped to the ground. The elder of the pair, and the more attractive, at least to his eyes, turned, and gasped, before dropping to a knee.
The massive saber-toothed panther paused, eyeing the two. Usually he just chased other elves off. He had no interest in being forced into the Dream. These Sentinels moved with more purpose, however. He approached the kneeling pair, for the younger of the two, face yet unmarked, had also knelt. Laronar eyed the pair of azure-haired heads, and then carved a symbol into the ground beneath them with a single claw. A crescent moon, and a small circle resting in its curve.
The elder saw it, and smiled. "You startled us, elder." She rose as he did, the natural magic of the world itself remaking him into his first form, that of an elf. He'd studied the runes the druids used both for magic and healing arts between nightly hunts while he'd lived this hermetic existence. He'd even taken on more learning as a Resoration Druid, for he often enjoyed using those spells to cure the ails of the animals in his care and this had only helped with his physical body. What scars he had accrued over millennia of living, had vanished, leaving the heavily muscled, and as always, shirtless, abdomen of the elf open to the cold night air, unblemished and gleaming pale blue in Elune's moonlight. His skin tended to almost sparkle in the moonlight, and some elves yet remembered what caste that meant he was tied to. Most druids however, tended to ignore things like skin tone entirely. Their surviving remnants of their old empire had mixed many bloodlines, and many shades of primarily purple tones were common to the elves of Ashenvale.
He hid his amusement as the younger one just stared, obviously, at the ultimate example of Kaldorei masculinity, something that was rather rare, now the druids were asleep. The elder, who had to be her sister now that he saw and compared their features up close, appeared immune to his natural charisma. Potential indeed. "Why have you sought me out, sisters?"
The younger one spoke up, eyes refocusing as the druid's soft, unused baritone cut through the surrounding din of the forest. "Shan'do Stormrage has requested your aid, Archdruid."
Laronar blinked, and for the first time in ages, began to quicken his thought processes, and prepare. "Malfurion? He's actually awake?" He frowned. Nothing, not even his lovely mate, could draw that druid from the Dream realm. Especially once he was in it. It had an almost possessive hold over him, but whenever the subject was broached, either by Laronar or a proxy he verbally steered, he would simply insist that they too would feel the call to Dream in time. Such was Ysera's blessing.
The pair of sisters seemed surprised at how casually he referred to literally the most iconic Kaldorei alive, except for perhaps his mate or his brother. Laronar hardly noticed. After centuries of studying with him, Laronar liked to think he knew the famed druid fairly well. "Tell him I am on my way. My strength is his." He bowed, and the two Sentinels exited the woods, mounted up again, and began racing back towards the shadowed boughs of Ashenvale in the distance.
Laronar took his night colored owl form, and flew to the highest peak near his tiny little cabin. His forest was, by comparison to Ashenvale, little more than a grove. But he was rather fond of it. As he landed, his eyes moved north, as they did every night when he was drawn up here. Looming over the shadowy forest was Hyjal, by far the largest mountain on the planet, supporting the largest tree. He was under no illusions as to why his grove, and the planet, flourished. He'd seen the world's regrowth as it happened.
Millennia later, the scars of the ancient war were mostly reclaimed by nature, invisible to the eye…if one avoided the eastern coast. Many of Kalimdor's natives did. Truthfully, he was only a few hours from Ashenvale. Less, if he flew. Laronar looked forward to seeing Storm again. After a few years living together in Stonetalon, it had become apparent that the grove Laronar loved so much was only big enough to handle one large predator's appetite.
Storm hadn't minded, though. In these eons of peace, the Sentinels were using him to father strong, healthy mounts out of Nighthaven, and the forests of the Moonglade. It was rare to find a Nightsaber male that was so…dominant. Laronar understood why there were so few naturally. Their libido was practically insatiable, and the number of powerful females was large. In the wild, he would've eventually run into one he couldn't subdue, and likely ended up slain. Shandris had claimed that it helped with preparing the Sentinel Army though, and thus he'd allowed it. He knew Shandris visited his friend often enough, but he'd avoided crossing her path for millennia.
By now she'd figured out whose word she could trust, and whose she could not. Evidently, from what little gossip he received these days, there had even been an altercation when she found out just how many lies her top lieutenant had spun. She'd tried finding him several times, and had eventually succeeded, only to find the aged elf was a far cry from the naïve druid with a thing for cats she'd originally fallen for. The Laronar she knew had been replaced by a 'wisdom spouting pacifist who looked at plants all day'. Or so she'd termed his current studies, before leaving in a huff of irritation and lowered expectations.
Laronar hadn't minded much, as he'd finally found inner peace. His cat form was born to the shadow, but he enjoyed healing just as much as hunting. That, more than anything, was what had kept him from flying off to join Malfurion immediately. Someone had to watch this forest. The animals had come to trust him as they would a Keeper, bringing those who were injured to his hut. The fact that he still needed to hunt for food was a testament to his healing skills. Between drying meat, and picking food from the forest itself, his food stores were fine. His role in this little hermit's paradise was culling the old to make way for the new. Ashamane had taught him well of her own place in nature's cycle, and it was one that he maintained where he could.
He gave the owl equivalent of a sigh, and flapped back down towards his home, shifting as he landed. Normally he liked sleeping in his owl form, as the Owl Spirit was rather clever, if aloof, and would often toss him a riddle to gnaw on at seemingly random times. The wise spirit was one of the main reasons he'd begun to prefer the owl's shape more. That wouldn't be the case tonight, though.
A genuine Grove Keeper, a child of Cenarius, was waiting for him when he returned. He bowed low, and let the ancient being speak. "I will tend to your forest in your absence. You have given much to the land. It will not forget this gift, I promise you. Now go, Archdruid. Stormrage needs you. All of you."
Laronar raised a brow, "All? All of us? For what?"
The jade skinned face formed a grim smirk. "Ask him yourself, once you arrive."
It took a while to gather what he might need. If all the druids were awake, that meant something big was happening. Legion-returning big. War of the Satyr big. He frowned at the leather armor he'd been all but ordered to wear during the last war. He truly despised it. All it had ultimately done was limit his cat form's movement. Fighting with it had been like fighting in soggy robes. Moreover, he'd utterly failed to maintain it. Millennia of 'out of sight, out of mind' had caused the metal holding it all together to rust.
As the jerkin fell apart into its base pieces from a single touch, Laronar let them fall. "Forget this…" He muttered. After speaking with, growing, and studying plant life for so long, he was reasonably sure he could now craft a decent, comfortable set of tree bark armor to go with his leafy shoulders, and which would protect his middle as well. Of course, if he was using bark for armor, only one tree would do.
Unsurprisingly, after arriving at Nordrassil, Laronar found that many druids had the same idea he did. Armor made of the World Tree's bark. He almost hadn't found enough to safely pry from the base, but he managed to get enough for a pair of gauntlets. Crafting them had been relatively simple. Getting them inscribed properly with the right runes and then blessed by a Keeper, so they didn't shatter in seconds, would be the truly difficult part. Such items were not lightly created.
Hyjal's summit was packed with druids now, on every slope, in every branch. Laronar had known they were numerous, but he hadn't realized just how many thousands had actually finished the training. After one embarrassing greeting to a former student who evidently wanted nothing to do with his bare-chested master, Laronar stopped looking for the others. He'd almost forgotten in those long years. Being around so many druids again was a harsh reminder of exactly where the Feral Arts were on their collective totem pole.
Many had done as he had, and shifted their fields of study. Though where he had done so more out of altruism, he found many others had simply abandoned the feral path in favor of far easier and more familiar spellcasting. It was hard to forget sometimes, that many of these elves had once reveled in mana, and used it. It wasn't all that surprising that his race had gravitated to the closest thing to a 'mage' the druidic arts could create. Nor was it surprising, he realized, that he'd saved the study and mastery of Balance magic for last, for Malfurion had also decreed that Archdruids would need to be masters of all branches of Druidism. Laronar had never much cared for damaging spells, and indeed, even using ones fueled by nature and mana alike was too similar, for him at least, to tossing fireballs. It always brought up memories best left buried.
The low rumble of the Horn of Cenarius rang throughout the din under Nordrassil's roots, and the gathered druids slowly quieted as their Shan'do made his appearance. The horns rising from his skull were more majestic, the beard was worthy of yet more envy, and after a closer look, it seemed the druid had awakened recently. He still had serious bedhead, but then, who wouldn't after almost three millennia of sleeping in the dirt?
"Friends, students, Druids of the Circle! Attend your ears. I've been informed that our own Fandral Staghelm has done something most...disturbing." As Malfurion paused, the gathered druids murmured softly. Laronar tried not to grin, and failed. It was about time that pompous ass made a misstep. If Malfurion was awake, it had to be a big one. "In the icy lands to the north, a place the denizens have apparently named 'Northrend', he has planted branches of our beloved Nordrassil, and crafted new World Trees."
The murmurs picked up in intensity as the elder's eyes went wide, and the students and younger druids began questioning why such a thing warranted a gathering. Many were hushed, but Malfurion continued on regardless, and answered many of their questions as he did. "By doing this, Fandral has exposed the Dream to corruption. This new tree does not have the Dragon Aspect's blessing, and without it, I fear those northern lands will corrupt it. Already, word of war between the local nymphs and peaceful denizens of the continent has reached us. We are going to investigate, and if necessary, bring this tree down. Ysera has decreed it."
"We will fly to Northrend! Together!" The Archdruid raised a fist that Laronar noticed had metal claws coming slightly over the knuckles of his hand. He didn't grasp why Malfurion would need such things, as he could easily shift portions of his body to make something as simple as claws. Then, he remembered. Ashamane still felt slighted by the Archdruid's lack of respect. Evidently, she had not given use of her form back to the Circle over the long years he'd been in his forest. It was a saddening thought, but the reality of the bear form's popularity could not be denied.
He blinked then, as he noticed druids around him taking on various bird forms, and ascending into the sky. Malfurion was at their head, in the form of a massive Storm Crow, wings alight with faint sparks of electricity as he flew higher and higher. Laronar joined the others, opting for his owl form. While Storm Crows were useful, iconic even for Druids of the Talon, he knew owls were quite good at surviving in the cold. Insulated plumage, silent wings, and built in eye-shields for flying through rain, snow, or both.
The massive horde of birds drew attention as they flew over Northrend's mostly unpopulated lands, east along the coast. The whole trip lasted several long days, but as they entered the Grizzly Hills, they each saw what Fandral had wrought on the horizon. At first, it seemed a majestic sight, but then, Laronar spied the base of the large tree. Large figures that resembled Tauren were clashing ferociously with blue skinned nymphs, but something was off.
After seeing his share of war, he knew what a battle looked like from the air. Often, he'd been ordered into the air to find leader types amongst the enemy, and then land, stalk towards them, and take them out. The participants of this war did not fight like soldiers. They fought like animals, with little to no regard for strategy, weapons, or tactics. It was bloody, senseless chaos.
Then, Malfurion reminded them all why the legends spoke so highly of his skills. He had shifted his form back, but feathers remained along his arms, and he used them as he glided down through the stormy sky, thousands of birds behind him, hands alight with the magic of the world as he commanded massive roots to rise up, and bind the fighters in place. All of them.
With little more than whisper to a seed in his palm, and while falling thousands of feet in the air, he'd turned the massive tree's base into a painful looking bramble. Shifting back to a Storm Crow, he led the druids in a large circle around the tree, and as he flew ahead of them the bramble he'd created followed him. He ensnared those who had been brawling out of his sight, behind the tree's base as he circled the tree.
After three long circles, he finally brought the horde of druids down slightly to the north of the massive tree, towards a carving of a familiar looking bear head. Just outside of it, he spied what Malfurion had likely already seen. Several elves, no doubt whoever Fandral had enlisted for aid in this endeavor to plant more World Trees.
In front of the small group of elves was a massive, shimmering bear and Laronar knew, as he'd spoken with Ursoc before, that this was the Ancient himself. Or at least, a manifestation. Evidently, death was not in fact permanent for those who tied themselves to the Dream. The bear made a dismissive gesture with his paw, and then nodded up at the massive horde of flying druids.
Now that they were closer, and indeed many had already landed, Laronar could see the expression on Fandral's face. That alone, was worth the three days of straight flying in freezing winds. He found a perch of his own, close enough to hear Malfurion as the Archdruid approached, and bowed before Ursoc. The bear nodded once, but said nothing. The furious amber orbs shifted to Fandral, and the Archdruid's tone didn't hide his rage. "Fandral Staghelm, you will answer me! What have you wrought!? More importantly…why?"
Chapter 10: The Broken Crown
Chapter Text
Fandral's excuses for his transgression were weak, at first, but after several minutes of being berated by Malfurion, he finally snapped back, irritated, and explained himself in full. A foul substance, a metal of a dark nature, had been discovered growing not only on this northernmost continent, but on others as well. Even in Kalimdor. Against all advisory, what little there had been, Fandral had taken branches of Nordrassil, and planted them atop the foul mineral, in an effort to halt this corruption. At first, it seemed his tactic worked well, but the largest branch, now named Andrassil, had fallen to corruption, as it was on the largest deposit of the foul metal that Fandral and his ilk had discovered.
The resulting madness in the natural wildlife around the massive tree was evidence of this corruption, and after a brief council with the bear Ancient, it was decided. Andrassil needed to fall, and the druids would be the ones to fell it. It was, after all, their mistake to correct. Once the horde of elves had gathered round the corrupted tree, amidst the bramble Malfurion had created, still full of angry, lashing creatures driven mad with senseless rage, they drew on their collective knowledge of spellcasting, and for the first time since their empire fell, wove a spell that was grand, and primarily arcane in nature.
Their natural magic enhanced the damaging nature of what they wrought, and once the outer layer of the tree had been broken, the druids to the west, guided by Malfurion, struck the final blow, and guided the tree down towards them. Thankfully, there were none who were caught under Andrassil's massive trunk, though the entirety of Northrend shook with the force of the crash.
There was no celebration once the tree was felled, no cheers, no admiration at what they had, as a united Circle, accomplished. The faces of the entirely male druid horde were grim, their eyes, now primarily amber, filled with sorrow.
Malfurion addressed them only once, from the edge of a broken piece of Andrassil's bark, on the now felled trunk. "This debacle should be considered a lesson. Let us never forget the danger of corruption Nordrassil's scions may suffer from without proper blessings from the Aspects. This monument to arrogance and failure shall forever be known, from this day forth, as Vordrassil. Let all druids who look upon it remember what we have been forced to do on this day." Despite his words, many would soon endeavor to forget Vordrassil altogether. Breaking such a promising World Tree had been disheartening, and the general unspoken agreement was to simply not mention it.
With that, he left the druids to ponder his words, and it was not long after before word spread. Shan'do Stormrage was returning to the Moonglade. Most of the druids followed suit, though some stayed to explore Northrend, and heal the Nymphs and Taunka who had gone mad. With the felling of the tree, whatever power had caused the madness had faded, hopefully for good.
Laronar was among those who departed first from the site of the Broken Crown, and was surprised, upon landing in Nighthaven, to learn that Malfurion wished to see him. He tried to remember if he'd done anything in particular of late that might have earned him the Archdruid's wrath, for most of their 'recent' conversations had been stern lectures about how often he spent time as a cat, and how dangerous 'experimenting' with Ashamane's form was, but nothing came to mind. He found the Archdruid in his barrow den, already preparing to return to the Dream, or so it seemed.
He gave a saddened smile and a nod as Laronar entered, as shirtless as ever, though this time clad with 'pauldrons' made of tough, durable leaves, a sign of how skilled he'd become at tending to nature itself. "Laronar Stormclaw. It has been quite some time since we last spoke. Come. Sit. We have much to speak of."
Laronar did as he was bid, and the Archdruid continued, "First, I wish to apologize for the tone of our last conversation…you were right, in many ways, as I learned from Ashamane herself, within the Dream. I have tried to convince her to yet share her form, but she remains stubborn in her prideful refusal. I was hoping you might sway her decision, if only for the future druids who decide to learn the Feral Arts."
Laronar raised a brow. "I was under the impression the Feral Arts were being phased out. Most druids these days focus on healing, and spell tossing."
Malfurion chuckled. "This is true, but again I must ask your forgiveness for my previous short-sightedness. I was focused too much on the Dream, and did not take into account the importance of having Druids like yourself. Your patron informed me of exactly how effective you and your fellows were during the War of the Satyr. You took down many leaders that otherwise would have eluded our efforts to remove them from command. Even the Sentinels were impressed. I was...hasty, in my dismissal of your skills. I am sorry."
Laronar's gaze shifted away from the other druid at that. He had a feeling he knew to which Sentinel Malfurion was referring, but the last thing he wanted was thoughts of Shandris distracting him in the presence of one who was all but her father. "I…I am glad you have realized the importance the Feral Arts play…nevertheless, I know Ashamane. She is proud, and she is quite furious with you for suggesting her form is lesser than a stealthy Sentinel…"
Malfurion held up a hand. "I am aware. She explained as much, and I apologized, but she continued to refuse me the use of her form. Thus, I have a compromise that, I hope, she will be amenable to." He gestured to the nearby dirt, and a small root rose from it, hardening into a stick. He snapped it, and then began drawing in the dirt. Soon, there was a passable recreation of Azeroth between them, with Kalimdor, Northrend, and the as-yet unnamed and relatively unexplored eastern continent that the elves were content to not bother with, as that was where the Highborne had traveled to.
"Consider our world, sundered as it is," Malfurion said, as he created a facsimile of the Maelstrom that was rumored to yet swirl about where the Well of Eternity had once existed, and used the stick to point as he spoke. "Over the past several thousand years, since the War of the Ancients, the area around what was once Suramar has drifted east, pulled by the powerful waves of the Maelstrom. This area, known to some as the Broken Isles, is actually home to a powerful coalition of Tauren. You recall Huln Highmountain, yes?"
Laronar nodded. "My mentor, Kota, was of the Skyhorn, one of the tribes who lived on Highmountain…but I was under the impression it had sunk, like so much else, beneath the waves."
Malfurion shook his head. "I have been told that this is not the case, by Cenarius himself. His own grove yet exists there, as do, so he says, some Kaldorei who have become powerful druids in their own right. They reside in a land called Val'sharah. They even have a World Tree." Laronar's eyes went wide, and the other druid smirked at the reaction. "What they need, is teachers, and I am told that there are many on the isles who have chosen to follow Ashamane, once they recovered her fangs, and heard her voice through them. I offer this, to appease her damaged pride: the Druids of the isles may study the Feral Arts to their greatest depths, in a safe and relatively isolated environment. That way, should we have another Worgen disaster, it will not infect the whole of our people. I wish you to be the teacher in charge of training these new Feral Druids."
Laronar's mouth was agape now, though he managed to shut it once the Archdruid finished speaking. "You would trust me with such an important task? Me alone?"
Malfurion nodded. "Thaon Moonclaw shall join you, as he is the only other Druid I know of yet able to take on Ashamane's form, and your patron chose him herself. I may send some others to you, should they need a lesson in control, but there is another reason I'm picking you. Since the day you showed us these techniques, you have displayed an immunity to losing yourself to the forms you take that other Druids simply do not possess. I have seen you stay in your cat shape for days on end, and return to yourself as if you'd spent five minutes. We need more like you, if I'm honest."
At that, Laronar chuckled. "Is that so? Well, I would be willing to share the secret, if you're that curious." Malfurion gestured for him to continue, and he had that look he got when something genuinely piqued his interest. Laronar shrugged. "The secret is actually quite simple. The Tauren Shamans, as you know, revere the spirits of the elemental planes of fire, air, water, and earth, however, there is a fifth they pay homage to, which is by far the strongest, and most mysterious. Only their strongest Shaman dare to call upon it, and only in times of great need."
Malfurion raised a brow. "I take it your mentor taught you of this?"
Laronar nodded. "He said that this final spirit, element, or force, whatever you want to call it, was what empowered the Wild Gods, seemingly at random, or so he believed. I discovered rather recently that with the proper rituals, Druids might also contact this spirit. While I cannot think of how it would apply to our other branches, for Feral Druids, I believe communing with this spirit, or at least an aspect of it, should be something we have each student do. Contact alone is enough to understand the nature of the minds we share whilst shapeshifted. I myself was able to bond more wholly with Ashamane's after I tried this ritual. I imagine with time; the closeness with each spirit will cause changes that will eventually become more…prominent, in our elven forms. Not long after Ashamane had me master this in my secluded grove, my…feline characteristics were greatly enhanced, as was my Cat Form."
He bared his fang-like incisors for the Archdruid, who eyed them from where he sat with genuine curiosity. "I would not lightly contact this spirit, however…it is a vastly powerful force, and that contact alone can be…overwhelming. Without a patron's guidance, and intense focus, you risk losing yourself to the power of the form you're contacting. If successful though, the power one attains is…impressive, to say the least, though I've yet to test it on a true enemy."
Malfurion was in the process of stroking his beard, which now dangled down to the bottom of his neck. "An interesting discovery…I have often remarked at how similar the Tauren Shaman are to us, they call upon nature as we do…though not as easily. I shall endeavor to speak with this spirit…when I have a moment. Perhaps I can find a way to grant our fellow Druids a more…permanent method of retaining their forms, one not subject to the whims of a Wild God."
Laronar arched a brow. "You'd go over Ashamane's head? I imagine she'd like that even less…"
Malfurion shook his head. "Not quite…though I would hope whatever sentience this force possesses might be able to convince her to let go her grudge…with the other Druids at least, if not myself. For the good of the world."
Laronar shrugged. "I will speak to her as well…let me try that first, perhaps, before incurring more of her wrath." He glanced down at the map Malfurion had traced. "Did they really find a piece of Ashamane herself?"
Malfurion nodded. "She mentioned that if I wanted to start earning her trust again, I should send you and Thaon to the isles. Hopefully, the freedom to explore her form as you all wish, with limited restriction, will ease her anger at my poorly chosen words."
Laronar tilted his head, eyes still on the faint isles the other druid traced. "And where are we to stay while we train with this 'limited restriction'?"
Malfurion nodded. "I forget, you do not walk the Dream as often as you should. There is a place within Val'sharah, not far from Cenarius' Grove, where the Dream and Azeroth's border grows thin. The Dreamgrove. It is a small grove, but one of great import since it has a physical gateway into the Emerald Dream, and one we must defend from the mortal side of Azeroth. Ysera and her dragons thoroughly defend the portal from within the Dream itself. We must guard it well from the outside."
Laronar raised a brow. "There's a physical portal to the Dream from this grove? I thought that was impossible."
"In most places, yes," Malfurion said, nodding, "But in this area, and apparently also in the areas where Fandral placed the other branches of Nordrassil, physical passage to the Dream is possible. I figured you would like this, as you have always been reluctant to part from your body. Now, you may walk the Dream, and retain the physical skills you value."
Laronar shrugged. "I like this body. I put a lot of effort into making it a weapon sharp enough for Demon slaying. If what you say is true, I will endeavor to study in the Dream, and defend it, as I know you wish me to."
Malfurion nodded, then, and rose. Laronar did the same, sensing their meeting was over. "Thaon has already departed. I hope that you and he will be able to guide our estranged kin on the isles without coming into conflict."
Laronar smirked. "Is he still sore that I bested him in that hunting contest we had, what, millennia ago now? Do not worry, Shan'do. I'm sure the isles are big enough for two master predators. We will endeavor to create students adept at using Ashamane's form."
"I will send novices with an interest to you as well. Train them, and those you find upon the isles. When they are ready, send them through the Dreamway, to Ashenvale. From there, they should be able to find their way home. Good luck, Laronar." The Archdruid bowed, and Laronar bowed in return, then left the barrow. With physical travel now possible in the Dream, he had an idea of how he might bring Storm with him across an ocean.
The large saber cat had fathered many, many kittens in his long years spent in Nighthaven, Ashenvale, and even Feralas. Every few years, Shandris would call on him to make the rounds to the Sentinel's viable females, much to the irritation of his master, who could do little to stop the libido of the eager Stormsaber, or the stubborn General, who definitely outranked him. He had no doubt that what was left of Suramar would also need Nightsabers, and Storm's harem would likely go far in repopulating the area.
They traveled together as a small pack south to Feralas, and had little issue finding the Dream Bough. In a few short years it had grown well above the already towering trees of the jungle. The group made their way through the portal, after a brief conversation with the dragon who guarded it, and found themselves inside the Dream itself.
The Dreamway was lovely, easily one of the most aesthetically pleasing places Laronar had seen on his brief forays into the ephemeral realm. He felt Ashamane's presence then, and knew, by instinct, which portal led to the grove they were seeking. Storm wanted to linger, but Laronar kept his friend focused. It was not yet their time to reside in this realm, nor did he think either of them was strong enough to persist here after death, as some druids and other creatures had managed to do. That would require yet more training.
The grove they came upon after exiting the Dream was a sleepy little settlement, and seemed to barely differ from the Dream they'd just left. One look at the sky confirmed what Laronar suspected. They were indeed in another part of the world, under a sky and series of stars he hadn't seen for millennia. They weren't in the exact positions they'd been in during the War of the Ancients, but he supposed that was due to the slow-moving nature of this broken land. Even as he stood there, he could feel it shifting slowly, pulled toward the inescapable maw of the Maelstrom. It would be many millennia yet before it was all pulled under, though. Hopefully by then, they would have a way to keep their shattered land above the dark waves.
Laronar let the cats do as they pleased, and they wasted no time in sauntering off into the trees and brush south of the glade. Finding a home in a place this forested would be easy for them. Laronar looked around then, and eventually spotted a shrine in the center-most area of the few buildings nearby. Within were carved statues representing each branch of the druidic arts, and the feral carving of Ashamane appeared to still be in the process of being made.
Among the statues were several elves. Laronar recognized Thaon Moonclaw easily enough, in mid conversation with the others. They had been friendly rivals, as each had begun practicing with Ashamane's form in the years immediately following the War of the Ancients. Thaon was, to Laronar's knowledge, the only other Feral Druid that could claim mastery over their patron's shape, enough to rival his own. Laronar couldn't argue with that, for Ashamane herself had told him she favored him as well, after his heroics during the War of the Ancients, and an incident involving a newly turned Satyr.
He was shirtless, dressed much like Laronar, though he seemed to be wearing an outfit more suited for war than teaching. Leather straps criss-crossed his own impressively muscled torso, and his kilt had apparently been blessed by an Ancient, or several, for Laronar could sense the latent power in it from where he stood, some feet away.
Thaon had been the only other Feral Druid who had, in Laronar's opinion, mastered the Feral Arts as thoroughly as he had, if not more so. His skills had made him a bit arrogant however, and that was often how Laronar had managed to best him when he wished to challenge him in contests with their forms. Smirking as he recalled those challenges, most of which he'd claimed victory in, he made his way toward the druid.
He was speaking to several others, and as Laronar approached, the group's eyes shifted to him. He fidgeted, awkwardly, and then bowed. "Shan'do Stormrage has requested that I join you in these sundered lands, to teach and advance the Circle's understanding of the Feral Arts…in safety."
Another druid, one he took to be the leader, if not the primary tender of this grove, returned his bow. Laronar immediately liked him, but not because he was the first to show proper respect, it was more because he had a similar pair of shoulder pads to his own, though the leaves were gold. The others, save for the scowling Thaon, took a cue from the first druid, and bowed as well. "You are welcome here, Laronar Stormclaw. Perhaps now, Ashamane's followers will be able to begin. She has kept them from advancing their knowledge, even after Thaon arrived, to wait for you. Normally I would give introductions, but the Ancient's words were urgent. She wishes all of you to meet at the sight of her fall, before her Fangs."
Laronar nodded at the druid's words, and then at Thaon, who wordlessly turned, and headed eastward. As they left the grove proper, Laronar immediately felt it. The presence of his favored patron, stronger than it had ever been before.
"Control yourself…you're purring…" Thaon muttered, irritated, before taking the form of their patron, and dashing through the brush. Laronar was right behind him, and he heard the soft growl as Thaon's eyes fell on his form. It had always resembled Ashamane more than his, black fur where he had purple, a mane as black as their patron's, but now he had gained size as well, though he was still only half as large as Storm.
Thaon's shifted form, for his part, had a mane just as impressive, though his fur was light purple and white, and covered with stripes. He stuck out more than Laronar had, a fact the druid often suggested was the reason he was able to best his former student when it came to stealth. In the night, Laronar's form had a tendency to meld with the darkness. The two massive cats, for Thaon's own form was only slightly smaller than Laronar's, soon realized they were racing.
They bounded through woods and brush, startling several elves who appeared to live in this wild forest in small clusters, until they came to a river. A quick glance told Laronar all he needed, his destination was a raised mound of earth, surrounded on two sides by water, and one by a cliff. There was only one path up, and it would require crossing the water to reach. Neither wasted a moment to pause, as they skillfully leapt across the few rocks that broke the river's current without touching the water, a stipulation of many of their past races.
They turned left up the slope that seemed to have been trod quite a bit, making a dirt path of sorts, and the black cat roared as their pace slowed on the hill's upward slant. Thaon roared as well, as he knew what his old teacher was doing. Often Ashamane rewarded their roars with an increase to speed, but the brief interval between them had been enough for Laronar to pull ahead, slightly, enough to reach their destination first.
He leapt over a small crowd of druids, who were gathered before a pedestal of sorts, Thaon close behind him. Laronar resumed his natural shape as he landed, smirking at his former student who, as he too dropped the form, was grinning, despite his near loss. Laronar chuckled. "You're getting quite fast, despite your old age, Thaon."
The other druid snorted. "Not fast enough, apparently…" One of the novices from the small crowd came forward then, and coughed. Thaon sighed, and gestured at the impatient novice. "Laronar Stormclaw, meet our new students."
The novice who stepped forward bowed as he spoke. "It is an honor to meet Ashamane's Claws. We have heard much of your skills, master. I am Delandros Shim- hey! Are you even listening?" The novice had tilted his eyes up to the supposed master druid, only to find that their shirtless, green haired mentor-to-be was focused on what lay upon the pedestal, and not him.
Laronar held up a hand. "A moment. She speaks…" The younger druid fell silent immediately. Ashamane was indeed speaking, and a quick glance at Thaon told him that he was hearing her words as well.
"Take up my Fangs."
Over and over it repeated in their minds, and at the same time, the two druids reached for them, each coming away with one. A low, rumbling, yet undeniably feminine huffing sound echoed through the forested area, and the pair of fangs glowed a deep emerald green that surrounded the two druids, and coalesced behind them into the undeniable form of Ashamane. She was lying upon the fertile grass, and as she appeared, shimmering yellow flowers popped up around her.
Her voice reached all of them then. "At last…you are all here. Moon...and Storm." The Ancient's knowing, amber eyes flared as her paws kneaded the ground before her in, what Laronar sensed, was anticipation. "Now, we may begin."
Chapter 11: The Fangs of Ashamane
Chapter Text
Laronar and Thaon knelt, as did their new students, and the Ancient panther rose above all of them, with what almost looked like a smirk upon her visage. "It seems we've a small problem, my loyal kittens. Two of you are worthy of bearing my Fangs, but there can be only one Alpha. How shall we resolve this issue? Any thoughts?"
Laronar glanced at Thaon who, like him, was the only one with his eyes upon the Ancient. The rest of the Ashen druids were all bowed low. He arched a brow at Ashamane then, and the panther winked at him. An unnerving chill went up his spine. The kind he got before entering combat. He had a sudden sense of foreboding, like this was specifically what the Ancient had been waiting for. Delandros spoke up from behind them, though he kept his head down. "A duel, mistress. A test to see who best wields your form."
Ashamane purred, and those gathered felt her approval. "Yes…nothing gets the blood racing like combat…let this battle between brothers be the first of many, in this place. A true test of honor, and skill…"
Laronar had pinched his brow at Delandros' words, but Thaon was glaring at the novice, who yet had his head bowed. The pair had not engaged in proper combat in ages past for a reason: both their forms were quite deadly, and both were capable of inflicting serious wounds. Despite their rivalry, they liked each other enough to not wish the other dead. They also knew how two Feral masters fighting for dominance would appear to their fellow druids, but that was no longer an issue with their current audience.
Laronar opened his mouth to speak, but Ashamane cut him off. "I will be making sure neither of you does any…lasting harm. You've my blessing, both of you. Duel. Prove your superiority…"
Laronar glanced at Thaon, who shrugged, and at the same moment, they shifted, and took up places on opposing sides of the raised mound of fertile earth. Ashamane moved to the northern end, and the others followed her, still mostly in awe. Getting a good look at them now, Laronar noticed that there were quite a few females amongst them. That had been the case in the Dreamgrove as well. It seemed that, without Malfurion and Tyrande's influence, these Kaldorei had eschewed social hierarchy entirely. In this verdant paradise, it seemed everyone was allowed to practice the natural arts.
An echoing roar that put their own earlier ones to shame rang through the glade, and Laronar knew they had begun. He melted into the shadows, appearing to walk to his right, towards Ashamane, but once hidden, he moved left. Thaon had charged forward with a roar, but even with his speed, Laronar had vanished long before he came close.
Claws whirled in a circle around the purple and white tiger as he lashed out, but they hit nothing. Once more, Laronar had hidden himself well from his rival, and evaded being struck. That meant first blood was his…if he could get close enough. Thaon stood still then, reaching out to his surroundings as he tried to sense the land's reaction to one as strong as Laronar. There were quite a few strong presences gathered, but the Fangs showed him what he wanted.
Each of them had kept one fang upon shifting, but before Thaon could move, he felt claws raking down his back, as his old rival effectively stunned him, for a moment, and began tearing into his cat form. Then, he was stunned again. More slashing ensued. A third bash kept Thaon thoroughly stun-locked, and Laronar was able to apply his bleeding effects with ease. Eventually, Thaon broke free of the stun and their fight devolved into a swirling mass of bites and claws. Blood flew from each strike, and Moonfire rained down on Laronar repeatedly, but each time he landed a hard, tearing blow on Thaon, the damage to the black furred druid seemed to heal. Given how fast the two were attacking, the flashes of green were quite quick.
Evenly matched as they were, their duel came down to a test of endurance in the face of constant wounding. Blood spattered the grass, and Ashamane watched every move as Thaon's attack power from combining his form with the Balance arts desperately tried to overcome his rival's healing abilities gained from following the Restoration path of the druids.
Then, in a flash, they leapt apart, as elves once more. Green healing energy swirled about Thaon as he began casting a quick healing spell, but Laronar's mending was much swifter, taking the Regrowth spell already lingering upon him and drawing out and enhancing its effects. Before his rival could heal the cuts that covered his body, he found himself pinned beneath the bulk of the once more healed and rapidly shifted Laronar, his pair of massive fangs pressing against his neck.
A single word snarled from Laronar's throat, barely more than a growl, and though the speech was unfamiliar with this mouth, he wasn't exactly being eloquent. "Yield."
"Neverrr…" Thaon snarled, shifting his form from beneath his opponent, who suddenly found his fangs embedded in the shoulder muscle of his rival's cat form, quite by accident. A pair of hind paws slammed into Laronar's stomach, and he grunted as he felt himself tossed through the air. He landed on his feet, sliding back on the grass from the momentum, both fangs now gleaming bright red.
Thaon had managed a swift heal as well, though it was a spell that worked on wounds over time, rather than instantly. Thaon had a slight hitch in the wounded shoulder, but he could wait now. The longer he did, the better his chance of winning became.
Laronar melted back into the shadows, and Thaon's amber eyes widened. He began slashing the air around him in three second intervals, not enough to run forward for another sneak attack. Thoroughly stopped, Laronar bided his time, and let his opponent run out of energy by hitting nothing. When it became apparent that Thaon could keep his defense up all day, Laronar switched tactics.
Ashamane's words came back to him, and he recalled a story she had once told him, involving wolves and a much younger version of herself. He grinned, and moved behind Thaon's whirlwind of claws. Then, in between attacks, he roared suddenly, and loudly.
Expert that he was, Thaon whirled, and charged towards the sound, but Laronar, still hidden in the shadows his power bent around him, had leapt over the form of his charging opponent. He pounced then, and began shredding the other cat's back, tearing it to bloody pieces in his ferocity, not giving him a chance to counter, or yield. There was, evidently, only one way this would end. Thaon tried to heal through the pain, but the attacks came too quick, and were too strong. Eventually, he found his form fading, and Laronar paused in the abuse he was dealing to his old friend.
Now pinned on his stomach, and in his elven form, Thaon's body was suddenly surrounded by deep green light, as was Laronar's, and their wounds closed. Moreover, their energy returned. Laronar felt like he ought to be dashing through the forests of this verdant paradise, but he resisted the urge. A look at Thaon's usually impassive face, now in a grin, told him his fellow druid was feeling the same.
Laronar let him up, as he shifted back to his elven form, and the two clasped arms, hands on each other's wrists. "As always Thero'shan, your tenacity is impressive."
Thaon chuckled. "I knew I should have studied Restoration magic…I thought any enemy I faced would go down long before what healing I do have was needed."
Laronar smirked. "I considered that as well, but ultimately, I prefer healing to damaging spells. I got enough of that as a H- …when I was younger." Thaon nodded, understanding. Like most of Laronar's contemporaries from the early days of druidism, he had been told of the druid's lineage, and respected him enough to keep from mentioning it publicly. When Laronar explained how old he'd been when the War began, most of his fellows had shrugged, and wondered if he'd ever really even been Highborne at all. He'd had just enough freedom to avoid being molded by the sense of superiority, though his skin tone gave him away, as he was pale and light blue.
Ashamane stood then, prowling towards the two. "An impressive display, as expected of my favored students." The two druids bowed low, and the Ancient turned to regard her other students. "It is decided. Thaon Moonclaw shall teach you the basics of using my form, and Laronar Stormclaw shall make you into masters of using not just my shape, but others as well, to become truly deadly to those who would defy Nature."
The group of students regarded the two masters, and then in unison, bowed. The one called Delandros, who was evidently the speaker for the novices, stepped forward then. "We accept your will, mighty Ashamane, but I must ask…how are we to learn when your shape is yet kept from us?"
The panther Ancient's amber eyes flared, and the forms of the gathered novices shifted into the familiar cat form, though each of their coats was now as black as Laronar's. "My form is yours. You, shall be my Ashen. Learn well, little ones." With that, she glanced at Thaon, who stepped towards the group, placed the borrowed fang back upon the pedestal, and shifted once more before leading the pack of novices to a suitable place in which they would train. To Laronar, she said "Come. We should speak more, while we are able."
The other Fang floated over to him, and with both in each hand, he felt his power surge. He had a sudden urge to take his cat form, but resisted, as the great panther moved towards a cave carved into the cliff nearest the raised mound of earth that played home to her Fangs.
Once settled in, she spoke to him once more. "I know what you intend to ask of me…but there is a reason I have yet denied Stormrage's request. It goes well beyond petty words."
Laronar raised a brow, "It does? What keeps you from giving your form then?"
The panther shifted uncomfortably, her form shrunk from the massive size she'd displayed to her newly minted Ashen. "My strength is not what it once was…the power of my Fangs that you now sense should be ten times as potent…but without being able to walk the world, my strength has waned after millennia of empowering your Circle. With your battle, you and Thaon have given me some strength, enough for the Ashen, but if I am to continue sharing my power with Druids, my Fangs must be made stronger…"
Laronar eyed the Fangs, and nodded. "I know several runes we could carve into the bone, that would draw on the power of the land, but I have a feeling you've another suggestion."
The panther grinned at him. "I do. You're not going to like it, either…but seeing as how Thaon is busy, and you proved the stronger, there is a danger festering in the lands surrounding what was once Suramar that you must face."
Laronar's eyes widened. "Suramar yet stands?"
The Ancient nodded. "In a manner of speaking, yes…but those within are sealed off from the world, and have no desire to join it. They have, unfortunately, taken to exiling members of their society by warping them outside of their shield. These elves, soon driven mad by the lack of a mana source, were given aid by one of your fellow druids several thousand years ago. The fruit of a tree bearing the power of both nature and the arcane."
"Such a tree still exists?" Laronar tilted his head, genuinely curious. His own people had suffered a similar hunger for magic after the land broke, and magic fruit, with aid from Nordrassil, had been tried as a substitute. Moonberries, while delicious, had done little to curb the growing hunger for the arcane though. The ultimate result had been the creation of Moonwells, pools of water from Nordrassil's own source that could rejuvenate a Kaldorei. Over time, the Night Elves had weaned themselves off of needing mana, and between Elune's light and Cenarius's teachings, they had found other sources to subsist on. It appeared the elves of Suramar had no such luck.
"It did. The tree showed promise, but ultimately exploded in failure due to a potent source of arcane power deep below the chamber it was placed in. The arcane imbalance overcame the natural power, and caused the tree to explode. My instinct says that this source of arcane power, whatever it is, may be the key to empowering my Fangs, and restoring my strength. Between that, and your runes, I should be able to give my power freely once more." The panther eyed him expectantly.
Laronar sighed, and then bowed low. "I will seek out this source of power…though you haven't mentioned what exactly is 'festering' down there…"
Ashamane shifted again, and averted her gaze. "I know not exactly what…only that it is foul, corrupted by the wild magic left over from the tree's death. Go to Falanaar. You will see for yourself, but be warned, that town was heavily broken in the Sundering…the shattering of the world may have released something quite evil in its depths…stay hidden. Stay safe. Come back alive."
Laronar nodded, and then slid the Fangs into the belt responsible for holding his kilt up. "I will…but before I go, I need a favor…" He produced the crafted bark gauntlets from his pack. "I seek your blessing for these. Gauntlets crafted from discarded bark by Nordrassil. I know your power is limited…but I figured I should ask. I can always find a Keeper or something if you cannot muster the strength."
The panther gave him a look, and then nodded. He placed the gauntlets before her, and they flared with orange power as her amber eyes fell upon them. "May they endure the use of thousands of years…and act as your claws when my own are unavailable to you." The fingers of each glove then sharpened into formidable looking claws, and the light sank into them. "That is all I can spare…now go…" The Ancient yawned, and faded from sight as he sensed her falling asleep. She must have given quite a bit of her strength if she needed a nap afterwards, but with the Fangs and his newest piece of armor, he felt more than ready to face whatever Falanaar had in store for him.
Falanaar – Outskirts of Suramar
The trip had been relatively short, and the sight of the massive arcane dome in the distance almost drew the curious druid away from his purpose. He was half tempted to try to contact those within, but first, he had a mission to finish. Ashamane was proud, and did not lightly ask others for aid. If she needed his help, it was because her need was dire.
His form felt much stronger now that he had both Fangs on his person. He had never been so stealthy, and what danger he had encountered after descending into the shattered town's depths had been ghostly in nature. While most had been vestiges of genuine Priestesses, and had let him pass unmolested, some had appeared to have gone mad, and had attacked when they sensed him. They hadn't lasted long against his fangs and claws when he'd needed to dispatch one or two. He hoped whatever was below fell as easily.
It took some searching, but eventually he found what he assumed his patron had been referring to. One of the walls of the local temple had been shattered, and led to a deeper series of tunnels beneath the temple. The passages ran deep, but nothing seemed to live within. The chambers Laronar silently prowled through were ancient, covered in dust, but ultimately empty.
Finally, he came upon one tunnel that led even further down, and as he sensed the magic, he knew he was close to what he sought. Naturally, that was when he noticed the first of the webs. Stealthy as he was, spiders are quite good at sensing their prey, and even the finest control of the shadows cannot hide the tremors made by soft, careful steps.
They eventually found him, though he had no idea what they even were. Their features seemed elven, but their bodies were more akin to spiders, and though they'd sensed his treading over their webs, actually spotting him was a different story, as the druid remained still as soon as they appeared.
They spoke in the elven tongue, which only confirmed his suspicion that they had indeed once been Night Elves, likely from Suramar, who had been cast beyond their shield and fallen into this darkened labyrinth. He had seen the exploded tree above, and sensed the same chaotic magic in these creatures, but whatever had caused that tree to blow apart was a symptom of what lay beneath these ruins, not the cause.
He leapt quickly at the spider elves, drawing their attention as he did so. His agile form pushed off the roof of the tunnel in mid-air, and he spun, claws flashing as he dispatched the two abominations by tearing their throats out. Their dying screeches were strangled, and their bodies sent heavy ripples through their webs as they fell. This time, Laronar was the one to feel the webs shake. He knew then that he'd woken the nest.
He decided to forgo stealth entirely then, and charged through the skittering masses that came his way. Most of them were spiderlings, small, but still big enough to be a threat in the numbers they assaulted him with. Thankfully, the power from the Fangs was more than enough to dispatch them. His thrashing claws flashed in circles as Thaon's had when trying to separate him from the shadows, and the wounds he left on the spiderlings ended them in moments.
As he came to what he sensed was the lowest part of these tunnels, the magic emanations he felt were magnified. He resumed his prowling through the shadows as he entered the large room, the last of the tiny spiders having long since been dealt with. What he saw, he did not understand, and so he watched, and waited.
The warren before him was a large bowl shape, and though many smaller tunnels connected to it, leading elsewhere, he knew this was the deepest, in tune as he was with the land. It was crying out to him in pain, and it didn't take long to discover the source.
A strange mineral formation, the likes of which he'd never seen, protruded from the center of the bowl-shaped room. More of the spider-elves surrounded it, and many came and went through the smaller tunnels. They each seemed to be drawing immense arcane power from whatever this mineral was, and the more they did, the more he felt nature beg him for intervention, if only to make the pain cease.
He was severely outnumbered, however, so he waited, and listened. The patient hunter was the one who got the prey. It was thankfully not long before his patience was rewarded.
"There mussst be a way to draw more…" One of the spider-elves hissed to another. The one who'd spoken, a female who looked to be a queen, or at the very least a matriarch of some importance, was hissing to the others gathered around the strange gold and blue rock protrusion. "Asssssk the prisssoner…he hasss been mossst helpful with hisss…knowledge…"
The group made a strange sound then, and it took the hidden druid a minute to recognize it as laughter. Whatever had initially changed these elves was now being magnified by this source of mana in the form of a blue and gold rock. It was also likely what caused the imbalance in the tree he'd seen. Such trees of both nature and the arcane were not unheard of, though they were quite ancient, a leftover from the days of early Kaldorei society, when the Highborne had still yet held respect for nature, and not just the arcane. He'd thought such things little more than myth, until he'd seen it with his own eyes.
Several minutes later, the spider-elf charged with speaking to whatever unfortunate soul they'd captured returned, with said unfortunate soul in tow. He was bound, but Laronar recognized him as a fellow Night Elf. His hair was blue like the night sky, purple blood dripped from several cuts across his body, new and old, and the robes he wore were those of a mage, not unlike what the Moon Guard had worn.
Their stronghold had been nearby, and he surmised that if Suramar yet stood, and survived, then the ancient guardians of the empire might have done the same. If that was the case, that meant there was a source of magic-using elves who, unlike the Highborne, were not inherently corrupted by obsession with power. Not entirely, at least. Such elves could be useful allies, should the Legion return.
The queen-like female in charge regarded the prisoner. "We sssseek more…Night Elf…we mussst have more power…"
The elf responded by spitting a glob of purple and black blood at the spider's clawed feet. He said something as well, though Laronar was as yet too far away to hear. His body had tensed at the sound of the elf's voice, ready to spring into action by sheer instinct, though Laronar knew not why. Perhaps his form's senses, enhanced by his patron's Fangs, knew the time for combat was coming.
The spider queen lifted the elf's face then, and all sound left the hidden druid's ears. It was bruised, bloody, and a bit aged since the last time he'd seen it…but that sneer was unmistakable. Vehlar Stormclaw still lived, or so it seemed. He felt the rage within him rise then, though whether it was directed at his brother for his past abuse, or the spider-elves for torturing his brother, he did not know. It was a complex set of emotions, but ones he would examine later.
In either case, he decided to use his rising fury. He began prowling closer towards the central bowl, as the spider-elves once more focused on the strange rock. The more they drew, the more pain he felt from the land. The caverns themselves began to shake, and he knew he'd never get a better chance to strike.
He sliced through Vehlar's bonds around his wrists first, and then leapt into the circle of distracted monstrosities, taking down the weaker ones in quick succession. His eyes were burning with rage, the amber orbs were the only part of him that was visible in the near total darkness of the deep cavern.
As Vehlar rose, free of his bonds, one hand shone blue, while the other turned an all-too-familiar Fel green, drawing its power from the dying spider-elves, he combined the two orbs of power together, and fired them off at the male spider-elf that had dragged him from his prison, and presumably, had been in charge of his torture. The abomination exploded into fleshy clumps as the two opposing magical forces mingled, and canceled out, right in front of his mangled face.
Seeing herself suddenly outnumbered, and outmatched, the queen scurried into the nearest hole in the burrow. That gave the elf and the amber-eyed panther a moment to regard each other. Vehlar spoke first. "I suppose I should thank you…whoever you are…I had heard the Druids my people had become were strong, but I hadn't seen their strength first hand…I thought I was doomed to die alone down here..."
Laronar decided that moment would be the ideal one to reveal himself, though he stalked towards the mineral first. He had his back to Vehlar as he resumed his elven shape. "I do believe…that is the first time you've ever thanked me for anything, Vehlar Stormclaw."
Roots rose up around the rock, and broke off the largest piece of the protruding blue and gold mineral. After some quick manipulation of the earth, Laronar sent the broken node deep down back into the shattered soil, and the pain he felt receded, slightly. Hesitant to touch the strange arcane mineral, he grabbed the bundle of roots instead, and began to head for the exit.
"How…do you know my name, stranger?" Vehlar's usual sneer had faded as the younger brother glanced back at him, amber eyes still gleaming. The look on his face suggested he knew the answer to his question, but Laronar humored him anyway.
"I might be old, but I can still recognize the face of my own brother…now come. They will be back, and in greater numbers." He shifted again without another word, the roots of his bundle wrapping around his broad chest and resting upon the shoulders of his Cat Form.
Vehlar, for once, decided to listen rather than argue, as thousands of tiny spiderlings emerged from the holes in the chamber. Not long after, more spider-elves followed, as did their queen. But by then, the two were well on their way up the tunnels, past the many, many dead corpses of tiny spiders that Laronar had left in his wake on the way down. The piercing shriek of rage informed them that she'd discovered the theft of their power source, and seconds later, the thunder of thousands of spider-legs echoed up the tunnels behind them.
With a fierce roar, the speed of the elf and the panther picked up, fueled by Ashamane's power and sense of urgency. She was awake again, and Laronar felt her focus on the rock he'd recovered. "Seal the tunnels…you must bring that to Val'sharah…those following you will not follow to the surface…"
As the two sprinted out of the tunnel and into the underground structure of what was left of Falanaar's temple to Elune, Laronar shifted, and turned towards the entrance they'd come from. "What are you doing? We need to go!" Vehlar muttered, but his gaze soon fell on the bundle of roots his brother had placed beside him as he focused.
Green nature magic wreathed his hands, and the pained earth was all too glad to respond to his call. Especially if it meant trapping the spiders that caused it such pain. The tunnel collapsed, filling with massive, unmovable boulders. Laronar suspected the spider-elves would find a way past them in time, but for the moment, it would do.
He clenched a fist, suddenly, as he sensed what his brother was reaching for. The bundle's sharp thorns extended into a fierce bramble, and before the mage could draw upon a fire spell to rid his prize of the irritation, he felt five sharp digits, not dissimilar to claws, at his neck.
Laronar's visage was one of cold fury as he said, "I would not touch that, if I were you…brother of mine. Ashamane requires it, and after what I saw you draw upon down there, you can rest assured that you will not be taking this anywhere…I should report you to the Wardens...you should know better than to play with Fel magic."
Vehlar's sneer returned, and arcane flames appeared in his hands. "I am master of both the Fel, and the Arcane. Order, and Disorder. I wield the Demon's own vile energy against them...to great effect. The Fel cares not what it draws upon, mortal or Demon." His eyes narrowed then, and for the first time, Laronar got a good look at them, and recoiled in disgust at the sight of the macabre socket's protruding bone, holding a twin pair of Fel flames where silver eyes had once existed. "It seems we are at an impasse then, brother. I need that ore…the weapons I could craft with it…" The greed was evident on Vehlar's face, but Laronar hardly cared. It took about a second for roots to rise up, and bind around the mage's hands, ruining the spell he'd been weaving.
The druid loomed over his estranged kin then, and realized that for the first time, he was the stronger of the two. Without the Well to fuel Vehlar's magic, it was much, much weaker. The roots pulled Vehlar down, forcing him into a kneeling position, and yet more came up, surrounding his body, and further ruining his robes as they bound him in place, and made struggling painful, as the barbs grew large, and sharp.
"What an idea…crafting a weapon from an ore like this…you'd think such a thing would be an obvious choice for such a potent mineral. I think I will take that to heart, but for now, Vehlar Stormclaw, you and I shall part ways. You will not be welcome in Val'sharah, nor any other Kaldorei land…you have consorted with Demons for that Fel power, do not deny it. You're little better than a Satyr...and you smell like one, too. Have fun with the spiders…" With that, he grabbed the bundle of thorns again, returned them to their previous length, shifted, and began ascending out of the ruined temple.
What ghosts were in his way were quickly dispatched, and as he neared the top of the structure, he heard the rage in his brother's voice. "Laronar! You will not get away with my prize!" But escape the druid did, soaring into the air on strong wings as he made for Val'sharah with the bundle in his owl form's talons.
The power it gave off drew much attention as he soared towards Ashamane's Fall, and he spied the ghostly form of his patron, surrounded by Thaon and the other Ashen as he descended. They were in a defensive ring around the great panther Ancient, and he saw at the southern end of the raised mound that other druids, as well as a Keeper, had arrived. He didn't have to wonder at the reason. His bundle was radiating arcane power.
He landed between the two groups of allies, and turned towards the Keeper as he resumed his elven form, keeping his prize bound to him as he did. He bowed. "To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit, Keeper?"
The jade-skinned Keeper walked forward on his four strong, stag-like legs. "I am Varethos, Keeper of these lands. You carry with you a strange power, Druid. Who are you, and what have you brought to our home?"
"I am the Archdruid called Laronar Stormclaw. One of Ashamane's Claws. I discovered this strange ore in the depths beneath shattered Falanaar, where it was being used to pain the very land by the foul denizens who live there. Spider-elves, twisted by the energy of an exploded tree that seemed both natural and arcane in nature. Whatever this ore is, I believe it is the cause of the imbalance that caused the tree to fail. Though I know not where it comes from." He brought the ore forward then, and let the vines drop to the ground as he displayed it for the Keeper.
A strange thing happened then. The gauntlet that touched the ore flared a bright orange, as did its twin, and strange, wonderful sensations flooded Laronar's mind. Knowledge, tactics for deploying an army of Feral Druids, and ideas for half a hundred spells that would be incredibly useful to both him and his fellow druids filled his thoughts. He was dazed for a moment, and then noticed that Varethos had come closer now, as had everyone else. He held up a hand, and shook his head.
"I'm…I'm fine, sorry, that…I touched it, and it…mmm." He looked up at the Keeper then. "Whatever this is, it is bound to our world in ways I can only guess at. In either case, I intend to use it to empower the Fangs of Ashamane. This will, I believe, turn them into a weapon that can handle Demons quite easily. Furthermore, it will do much in restoring our patron to full strength." He gave Varethos a meaningful look, and the Keeper nodded. He was aware then, how weak she'd become, and exactly why the Feral Druids had lost the use of her form.
The Keeper placed a gnarled finger upon the ore then, and winced, withdrawing the limb by pure instinct, as if he'd touched fire. "I've never seen an ore like this…but I sense you are correct. We can put this to good use, for the defense of the world. I will send our blacksmiths to aid you in-" Laronar held up a hand.
"This should be crafted by those with the closest ties to Ashamane. I don't know how to explain it but…I know this must be so. Just touching this ore…gave me that insight. My instinct says it is correct." Laronar eyed the ore again, wondering what exactly it really was. Or where he could find more.
"Very well…" The Keeper said, eyeing the ore as he did, "But I will remain to keep watch…just in case you need my aid…" Laronar nodded, and then turned towards the pedestal that had held the Fangs before. He laid them down then, and the other Ashen surrounded him. Thaon took up the position opposite, and with their combined might, they focused on the ore. Surprisingly, they were able to shape it as they would a tree, and slowly, over the course of several hours, bonded the strange metal around the essence of their patron.
Once the light blue mineral was fashioned into both the blade surrounding the Fangs themselves, and the handles they'd used, small branches from nearby Shaladrassil, Thaon and Laronar carved into the bone the appropriate runes for rejuvenation, healing, and enhanced power. The one who bore the Fangs would find their Cat Form to be as strong as Ashamane's favored. If not stronger.
When the work was finished Ashamane appeared before them again. "I am…renewed…whatever this is, it is exactly what was needed. You did well in retrieving it, Laronar. Take up my Fangs. They are rightfully yours."
The druid eyed the Fangs then, glanced at Thaon, who nodded, and then looked back at what they had wrought. Vehlar's visage came back to him, his unnerving Fel eyes alight with greed. "I…I am honored, but…but these are now weapons of incredible power…I should not carry them about so casually... Nor should any of us, I think." He looked up at the smirking visage of the Ancient panther. "We should only draw upon these in times of dire need…and until such a need arises, we shall ward them, and guard them. This will fall to the most skilled of the Ashen."
Thaon nodded in agreement, seemingly pleased that his rival had denied the gift. "I agree. I know such a ward spell, one of the many benefits of learning Balance magic." He gave his old rival a meaningful look. "I think this is the right decision. Such power should be defended until needed, and in the meantime mighty Ashamane, you can regain your strength, and share it with our brother Druids once more."
The panther Ancient regarded her two Claws, and then nodded, seemingly satisfied with how Stormclaw had handled the chance for more power, gained relatively easily. Her eyes closed, and her body became slightly more incorporeal, but otherwise she seemed fine. "It is done. Your Circle may once more take my shape…now go, Thaon, train my Ashen. Make them into the strongest of the Feral Druids."
Thaon nodded, bowed, and once more left with the cavalcade of Ashen initiates behind him. Ashamane turned her amber gaze on Laronar then. "I am proud of you, little one. You resisted the urge for yet more strength."
Laronar raised a brow at her. "You were testing me?"
The Ancient panther chuckled. "In a manner of speaking. You are the right one to bear my Fangs, but you are also correct in keeping them safe, and secure. When the time comes, I expect you to take them up."
Laronar eyed them again, and shook his head. "I do not think that destiny is mine…besides, I am strong enough without them. If I ever become so weak and infirm that I need such tokens to take my Cat Form, I'll know my time to pass on has come." The two chuckled at that, and spent the rest of the evening sharing stories, as they often did.
Chapter 12: The Wayward Son
Chapter Text
10,000 years before the Dark Portal Opened
Loreth'aran – Western Coast of Kalimdor
Vehlar Stormclaw looked upon the darkened night sky, once more eyeing with envy the Kaldorei who rode upon the backs of green dragonkin throughout it, beneath Elune's light. Though many were drakes, there were a few pairs who had been bonded as partners long enough for the green dragons to mature to their full, impressive size. He had no idea how their riders stayed upon half-corporeal mounts, but nobody seemed to care that riding an ephemeral dragon should be impossible. After months of being stuck in this city of dragon-lovers, who had completely ignored the warnings from himself and his younger sister of what was happening to their civilization, Vehlar was ready to leave.
Alaria did not wish to, however. One of the younger teens, a rider with an equally young drake, barely big enough to ride, had started a whirlwind romance with the novice priestess, and she had hidden her grief within the newfound feelings of bliss. After seeing their mother impaled before her eyes, Vehlar couldn't really blame her. The boy in question, for both of them were barely more than thirteen seasons, seemed polite enough. What the dragon riders lacked in noble blood, they made up for, at least, with proper manners.
He'd seen no reason to stop them, as anyone with eyes could see the magnetism between them. He spied the pair below then, walking through the city below, strolling in the moonlight without a care in the world. The boy's drake was carrying his sister as they walked. Gentleman indeed. Vehlar assumed his parents would not have minded. They had enjoyed the legends of dragons and myths and magical storm-calling claws. Dragon riders would've held the same appeal, but he had little time for old stories. The arcane had always been more interesting to study, not to mention more relevant to their society.
His face darkened, as he recalled the sight of the Doomguard flying away with his yet impaled mother, unwilling to test his might against the mage that had come to save the younger female. Vehlar had chased the monstrosity, but not before it eliminated an entire crowd, and stable of Nightsabers, with a single spell. He'd almost caught up to their father, for he and Laronar had been in the process of fleeing. Then, his idiot sibling had fallen and knocked himself out.
The demon had moved to strike, just as Vehlar had finished firing the bolt of arcane power at its back after blinking into range. Just as his father had leapt in front of the blow. Just as the kitten Storm had torn out its throat. It had all happened in the same instant, but both he and the Stormsaber had been too slow.
He had, naturally, gone to retrieve his brother, only to find Storm snarling at him. A much larger pair of amber eyes had appeared in the foliage then, and a voice belonging to an entity that bore natural power he could only imagine had bid him to go. It had assured his brother's safety and survival, and thus, he'd left. He assumed whatever being had taken an interest in his amber-eyed kin would send him after them, but they never saw Laronar again, after that.
Vehlar had no idea what fate would befall his brother, and after he'd run back to where he'd stashed his traumatized sister, he did not mention him. Those taken by forest deities never returned. It was a fate his brother had earned, in Vehlar's opinion, with all his tromping through the forests. He told their sister only that he'd been too late to stop the Doomguard. Then, he'd gotten her as far away from Eldarath as he dared with a blind teleportation spell.
"Musing again, Magi Stormclaw?"
Vehlar turned from the window to look at the speaker, arguably the one person in the entire 'kingdom' that he could stand talking to. Mostly because he spoke of something other than dragons. Yes, they were lovely, impressive, and after ten interactions and attempts at polite conversation, Vehlar realized they were all the elves here could speak of with any certainty. This was further evidenced by the fact that, upon learning he and Alaria were Highborne of Eldarath, they'd treated them with the same respect they gave to their Prince. Vehlar was so very ready to leave this strange, isolated island.
He'd learned what he could of course, though in the long run, it had simply been that dragons were not, in fact, mindless beasts. They were actually quite intelligent. Almost as smart as elves. Perhaps even more so, for they possessed true immortality. "Yes, Prince. I was merely recalling the war…Lord Ravencrest needs all able fighters. The Demons…they outnumber us a thousand to one. And those are low estimates."
The Prince, Toreth, had the same aesthetically pleasing build as the rest of their race, though like his people, he lacked the pale blue skin that marked one as being, potentially, Highborne. He gave Vehlar a sad smile that irked the mage on an instinctual level. It was the kind of sad smile you gave to a child who asked to wield a sword that was four feet too long for him. "I have spoken with our elders, and they assure me that the Dreaming Mistress and her allies are devising a countermeasure to the threat. We have nothing to worry about, my friend! My home is welcome to all refugees, and we are glad to aid our kin. So relax. Open a book. Leave the war to noble Ravencrest, and his house. Long has that been their area of expertise. I'm sure we will find a suitable use for your own magical talents, in time."
That too was another reason Vehlar wished to leave. The dragons, especially the elder wyrms, knew more about spellcraft than he would likely ever hope to understand. They had also refused to share their knowledge, claiming their mastery required the innate power granted to their race by the Makers, as well as knowledge of the Draconic tongue, something they were also unwilling to share. When he asked who the 'Makers' were and where they might be, each of the wizened scaly behemoths had wordlessly smirked, and gestured towards the stars. He'd since avoided speaking with them.
Vehlar turned back to the window, and spied his sister in an embrace with her dragon rider, sharing a kiss that was as unfailingly polite as the rest of this bloody island. He made a decision then. He needed to leave. If dragons and the favor of the Goddess could not keep his sister safe, nothing could. His people needed him.
"I am afraid that I have to disagree, Prince Toreth. Your draconic friends have granted you all the Arcane knowhow you would ever need. On the battlefield however, my skills are sorely needed, for our mages pale in comparison to the Eredar Sorcerers of the Legion. They are being overrun." Vehlar turned back to the Prince then. "At dusk, I intend to depart. I believe my sister will be safe here, especially when one of your own has so…devotedly…taken to her personal well-being."
The Prince gave another nod. "If that is your decision, then rest easy knowing we shall keep her safe. Fight on without the distraction of her well being. Our young Nog'are and myself will make sure she survives this conflict. I'll have the proper supplies packed on a boat for you by tomorrow. From there, I'm afraid you'll have to walk. We've no Nightsabers in these parts."
The next evening came mercifully quick. It was a short row in a short boat to properly civilized shores, and from there, the young mage was able to muster enough strength to teleport himself to Suramar, or rather, the part of it that yet stood, shielded by Highborne Magi like himself. As he arrived in what the locals had dubbed the 'Nighthold', he saw the besieged elves had come up with an actual plan in the few months he'd been gone.
A certain Lady residing in and around Suramar had distracted him when he'd initially headed towards Zin Azshari, and he'd lingered in the beautiful Suramar because of her. Then…the world had ended, and he'd helped the nobles within the parts of the city that yet stood coordinate with Ravencrest's forces. Every few hours, they could send massive arcane bolts towards whatever spot needed it most on the front line.
He spied the figures he was eagerly looking to speak to, thankfully alive still, on the edge of the well of water that was, even at that moment, being constructed. "High Magistrix. Lady Ravencrest. It is good to see you both still live."
The High Magistrix looked him over, as if trying to remember who he was, and why she should care. The Lady Ravencrest however, had gained a much longer lasting impression of the noble-blooded mage from Eldarath. As evidenced by the darkening of her cheeks. "Vehlar…we thought you dead. We received little word from Eldarath…the scryers say it has been razed to the foundations, the walls crushed. Only Elune's temple still stands, and that was covered in blood."
Vehlar nodded. "It is as you say…I arrived in time to save only my sister. She yet resides in Loreth'aran, amongst the dragon riders."
Finally, the High Magistrix chimed in. "Ah, of course…the young talented mage called Stormclaw…you were the one who suggested our plan would require the aid of a Pillar of Creation, no?" Vehlar nodded, though he had been half-joking when he'd mentioned such a powerful artifact. Only Azshara had access to them, or rather, that was what he'd assumed. The woman gestured to the structure below them. It resembled a pool, and even had water within, but it was still being constructed, as several magi were hard at work engraving runes around the rim and within the stonework. "Well, we recovered one. With the Eye of Aman'thul, our shield will never waver. The Demon hordes will be powerless to break through. I offer you the same chance I offered the Lady Ravencrest. You are both welcome to survive this apocalypse with us, beneath the shield's safety. As I recall, your spellcasting abilities had much potential."
Vehlar glanced at Illysanna, and then shrugged with perfected nonchalant vibes, and a blank expression. "Thank you, truly, High Magistrix. I appreciate the offer but…Lord Ravencrest has done much for me. I can't abandon him to this endless war in good conscience."
The High Magistrix's eyebrows rose, in mildly surprised shock as she glanced at Illysanna, and then she blinked her silver eyes. "Of course…you do not yet know…I suppose word probably hasn't reached a remote place like the dragon rider 'kingdom'. Lord Ravencrest has fallen. By way of assassin no less. Not by a Demon either, but an elf from the palace under Captain Varo'then's own orders, an assailant from the shadowed house of Nightblade. A clear message from our kin in the capital, they are allied, willingly with these Demons. It was this event that caused me to take a…firmer stance against the Demons, and the Highborne who brought them here. Suramar stands alone now, the last city of our empire. Soon, the only city, anywhere. I ask again, will you two join us?"
Illysanna was doing her best to keep composed, though her eyes had begun to sparkle, the result of tears mixing with the light of her eyes. They hadn't yet fallen down her cheeks though. Her warrior's training wouldn't let them well up that much.
Vehlar's eyes flared, as he too struggled to keep his emotions in check. He had liked Ravencrest, and believed that the general's unflinching bravery and knowledge of strategy would somehow see their people through this apocalypse. The Magistrix glanced between them for a long, awkward, moment. Then, she waited. It was easy to forget that these two were still young, and thus prone to such emotional displays. Given the current ending of the known world, the High Magistrix could forgive them. Just this once.
Then, suddenly, the mage's composure returned. He met the Magistrix's gaze, and a chill went up her spine. There was something…primal, in the anger there. A true fury that burned with the passion only hate could give. "Thank you, High Magistrix, but I will Not stand by while Demonic hordes from who-knows-where tear my world apart. I will not abandon Azeroth. Someone has to try to stop this. We are Kaldorei. The masters of this world. I'll not relinquish it so easily."
The High Magistrix's eye twitched, but her own composure was flawless. "Very well." She said in a low tone as she turned to regard the well of water before her. "You have every right to decide how to perish in the manner which best suits you. We will not meet again. Die well, scion of the Stormclaws." With a wave of her hand, the two young elves were teleported from the Nighthold, to the edge of the opaque light blue shield that yet engulfed this part of the massive city, and saved it from heavy siege attacks, and foreign intruders.
Vehlar blinked them through to the other side, as it was made to keep people, demons, and everything else out, not in. Though, given the number of refugees streaming in, or trying to, he wondered if it would be big enough to sustain a near immortal population for a significant length of time. Illysanna made a scandalous hand gesture towards the shield, and then looked at Vehlar with a familiar intensity. "Did you mean what you told her?"
He slowly raised an eyebrow, and nodded. "Of course. Though, I admit, I was rather…irritated…at how she so casually brushed off your father. After all he, and all the others, have given to keep these pompous magocrats safe. It was mostly bravado in there…we are likely going to die. Unless those endless hordes stretching to the horizon have shrunk, recently…"
She shook her head. "If anything, they've grown more desperate. Those strange outsiders with that fantastical story, you recall? They've all but allied us with the likes of Earthen, Tauren, and even Furbolgs. The strange thing is…it's working. Desdel Stareye took command when my father fell, and the conflict turned as you might expect it would…for a time. I thought Lord Stareye was completely incompetent, but the latest reports actually sound…hopeful? We're driving them back, at least." She glanced at the shielded city again. "I came to try and gain us yet more magical aid, but it seems the Highborne must always protect themselves first, and the rest of the world be damned."
Vehlar scowled at the shield as well. "I rather like this world. It's full of power, mystery, and I admit, Eldarath was only beautiful because the forests made it so. More importantly…it is my home. I refuse to let some…Fel-spawned invaders have it without a fight."
Illysanna grinned at him. "You know, Black Rook Hold still stands…do you recall how best to penetrate its magical defenses?"
Vehlar chuckled. "Why yes, I do recall the teleportation circle you showed me." He pulled her close then, and gave her a kiss that was downright lewd, not caring, as he whisked them away. Compared to the spell to reach Suramar, this was nothing. Being closer to the Well also helped.
Several Hours Later…
When the two lovers were finally long exhausted after making up for months spent apart, Vehlar was deep in thought when he finally sensed his partner stir. It often took her a minute to regain her senses. Or forty. She yawned, stretched with a satisfying crack, and then smirked at him, and his wandering gaze. "You mentioned the power this world has to offer earlier…I know of a method to obtain such, or rather, I know of one who might know the path. Though the power given isn't exactly…of this world."
Vehlar tilted his head. "Then where does it come from…?" His eyes widened a second later. "You mean...!?"
Illysanna nodded. "There is rumor amongst the spellcasters. Of Kaldorei in service to the Demons gaining new power. Some have suggested that we might find a way to turn the Demon's own Fel strength upon them, if this strength can indeed be taken. The Fel is just as effective against other Fel users as it is on those who only know the Arcane."
Vehlar frowned. "You would forsake the Well?"
Illysanna stared him down, her expression hardening. "I would personally blow it apart, if it meant stopping the Demons, and saving our world."
Vehlar stared at her in disbelief. "You're mad, woman! The Well is what made us who we are. Without it, especially in the manner you envision, there likely wouldn't be a world any longer…though with the Eye of Aman'thul I expect Suramar might be fine…maybe."
She sighed, and climbed from her bed, speaking as she dressed once more in her armor. "Think, Vehlar. I know you and every other spell tosser are besotted with the Well, but what has it done for us really? Without it, as you saw, the Moon Guard was powerless. Those closest to it were turned mad enough with their own self-importance to summon in Demons to our world, and then think they would not be betrayed by them, in the end." She gestured to outside the Hold then. "I've spoken with that pale outsider. Krasus. He told me the Demons he's familiar with always have one fate in mind for those foolish enough to ally with them. They reward the worthy by turning them into abominations, and slay the rest. Besides, as long as the Well stands, they can always be brought back in."
Vehlar glared at her. "Then we hunt down all of them, and keep them from ever returning."
She returned his glare, chuckling grimly. "And what of those we miss, because they hide so well? It only takes a few to empower a portal to whatever realm these monsters come from. It doesn't even have to be near Zin Azshari. Rumor has it they've tried opening others, to better flank the host. Give up on the Well, Vehlar. Its power is limited."
He stood and dressed as well now, in a robe far less tattered, that he'd thankfully left here on past visits. "Why not use both? Combining the Fel and the Arcane could prove more powerful than either."
Illysanna shrugged. "My…contact… claims that the two magics are opposing forces. He said 'their streams should never be crossed'. Whatever that means."
Vehlar thought for a moment on her words. "Opposing forces, hmm? Your 'contact' is well-versed in spellcraft, then. These are magical terms he speaks with. Who is this mysterious figure anyways? Who among us would have the gall to try to harness the Fel?"
She smirked at him. "Who do you think? Illidan Stormrage."
Vehlar pinched his brow, and sighed. "The one who drained who knows how many Moonguard just to empower his spells? I would hope he's stopped, now that the Well's use is returned to us."
She shook her head. "If anything, he's gotten more desperate to outshine his brother's lauded 'Druidism'. But this study of the Fel is recent. Even with other races helping us, it's clear that we're outmatched. Illidan may be callous, even a murderer by some standards, but he knows how to fight the Demons. No sacrifice is too great, if it means stopping them...I've seen their ranks stretch to the horizon, Vehlar...and this is, by all accounts, a small fraction of the Legion's true might. Sacrifice is inevitable, against such an enemy."
Vehlar glanced out the window of her room then, and sighed at the destruction around the Hold. Even now, he could see the green flames of their enemies in the distance. Which was odd, he thought, as the damned mist had obscured everything before now. It seemed to have vanished. "Fine. We should speak with Stormrage…but first, come look. Is the mist gone? Did one of our people find a way to dissipate it?"
Illysanna looked as well, and the two raced to the top level of the fortress, staring in disbelief at the massive thunder of multicolored dragons soaring through the cloudless sky. For a moment, hope returned. For a moment, the need to take up such corrosive, volatile Fel magic seemed like it might not be necessary. Neltharion was, in a word, glorious. As were the thousands of wyrms, dragons, and even drakes following in the black one's wake. Dragonkind was at its peak, and finally, the ancient wyrms had emerged from their ancient redoubts to face the foe. Vehlar and Illysanna had a front row seat to the spectacle, as they murmured quietly about hope.
For a moment, they had almost had victory...and then the black dragon tore up the battlefield, and murdered his kin, as well as demons and defenders alike in a display of madness that only highlighted how insane the massive black dragon was. The blues were turned to dust, and a fierce wind scattered the other dragonflights as the mad Earth Warder raised a volcano, and ordered both sides to kneel to his awesome power. At the end of this madness, the black dragon seemed to be tearing apart with elemental energies, and he flew off, presumably to fix that. The two elves shared a look then, sighed, and descended from Black Rook Hold to start looking for Illidan Stormrage.
Several Days Later - The Ruins of Zarkhenar
Vehlar looked around the small group of Kaldorei who now huddled within the ruins of the once-prosperous Zarkhenar. He was not impressed. They were all thin, exhausted, and dark blurple crescents were under every eye, but then, he looked no better. The dragon's aerial drama had, rather than saving their world, given the demons a chance to relentlessly continue their assault, despite the newly mountainous region to the east, that separated these ruined lands from the Night Elven capital.
Eventually, the forces fighting almost constantly for the defense of the world had managed to halt the advance, but in the course of the fighting, the Priesthood of Elune had lost their newest leader. She was young, as young as he was, but any who'd seen her had noted the almost always present silver aura of Elune's Light that marked Tyrande Whisperwind as one of the fickle Goddesses' favored. And now they'd gone and lost her. The situation had never been more dire. The elves who weren't dying futilely on the front lines had begun desperately searching their shattered lands for hope, though what form that hope would take was uncertain.
There was talk of the Sisterhood attempting ancient and forbidden rituals seeking power from the Goddess that had only ended in failure, and death, or so the whispers said. Everyone knew the conflict was coming to a climax, and judging by the demon's unstoppable will to slaughter, and limitless supply of soldiers, the odds of Azeroth's mortals winning the conflict were small. Desperation pervaded soldiers and refugees alike. Even the allied races felt the despair, though none had, to their credit, fled to their homes. All who saw the hordes understood. There was no fleeing from this enemy. To do so was to all but guarantee those who'd stayed behind would perish only slightly sooner than those who fled. This army was the last best chance for survival.
Thus, when Illidan Stormrage's subtle call had gone out, more than a few had been eager to answer the heroic spellcaster…only to, more often than not, recoil in disgust at what he suggested needed to be done to finally gain an upper hand on the demons. Those who had not recoiled were now gathered, far from eyes that would interrupt, or dissuade them.
Rumor claimed that the 'druid' Malfurion was mad with grief, and his mage of a brother was simply mad. This too, did little to bolster the hopes of the host of warriors standing against the Legion.
"You have come to me, because you understand…we were not prepared." The aforementioned mage's voice echoed through the ruined chamber of what had once been Zarkhenar's main building, though its owner remained hidden from sight. Vehlar smirked. The only problem with Invisibility spells was their short duration.
"We were not prepared for the Demons. They attacked and overwhelmed most of our people by way of ambush, and though we have brought all of our magical might to bear against this foe, these are not primitive saurian riding Trolls with their heads clouded by the smoke of burning herbs…this enemy cannot be defeated by the power we currently possess…we are out of alternatives. The Well alone is not enough to defeat this foe."
The sorcerer appeared suddenly before them, and stepped from the shadows. Each of the exhausted eyes of those gathered widened in shock. Both of the mage's hands were wreathed in unsettling Fel flames. "There is only one path before us now, that can save us. Only one power that has any chance of ending the Legion. Permanently. We must use their own strength against them."
Illysanna spoke then, and Vehlar winced. His lover had become increasingly…agitated, since the draconic debacle. He could hear it in her voice, and the desperation was clear. It was on the face of every Kaldorei gathered. But, under the exhaustion, the fear, the loss, something else burned just as intense. The desire for vengeance upon those who had brought the monsters into the world, and taken her father from it. "How are we to master these magics…not all of us are spellcasters…"
Illidan smirked. "The Felguard are not spellcasters, and yet they fight with the strength of ten Tauren. Neither are the Doomguard, and they are as clever and sly as any of us. Few in the Legion's ranks, at least here on the battlefield, are true practitioners of the arts…it is for this reason that I believe this…Fel energy…can aid all of us...if used correctly."
"How?" It took Vehlar a second to realize the question was his own.
The elder Stormrage's burning amber eyes, far too much like his brother's, shifted to Vehlar. His brother had given him similar glares of this intensity, but there was a hunger in Illidan's eyes that Laronar's lacked. "I do not yet know…but I intend to find out. For now, you all must begin doing as I have done. Drain as much power from the Demons you find as possible. Stormclaw can show you how. Learn from it, test it, experiment with it…I go to Zin Azshari, to learn of our enemy from the source…and when I return, I will forge each of you into the perfect weapon against the Demons. Be patient. Our vengeance will come."
Two Days of Travel From Zin-Azshari - Somewhere Between Suramar and the Capital
Illidan Stormrage glanced around, as he came upon the outskirts of the disaster wrought by the massive black dragon, accompanied only by Vehlar and Illysanna. The two spellcasters had quickly begun speaking in terms only magic users could comprehend, and Vehlar soon began to appreciate the unique genius that was Illidan's mind. His lust for power was dangerous, but his knowledge of the arts, and what he had learned of the Fel, continued to impress the Highborne.
Suddenly, Illidan raised a hand towards a crater in the ruined landscape, and from it, rose a scale as black as the waters of the Well of Eternity. A piece of the Earth Warder, no doubt from his brief and titanic brawl with one of his red kin, the dragon Korialstrasz who had been the only of his kind, thus far, to actually aid Azeroth's last best hope against the Legion. Illidan grinned, as he eyed the scale. "Yes...I can sense him...you cannot hide from me, wyrm…"
Illysanna spoke then. "Just what do you plan to do once you reach Zin-Azshari, Stormrage? They'll kill you on sight…"
Illidan turned to look at the pair. In a way, he was envious of their connection. It was obvious to the eyes of one who had been so recently spurned by his own love interest. How close they stood. How their eyes lingered on each other when they thought their amber-eyed leader wasn't looking. His dark rage rose, again within him at Malfurion's idiocy, and incompetence. Never mind that Illidan's own inaction had helped the Legion capture Tyrande, in his mind, Malfurion was the sole source of blame, not the pair accompanying him. If anything, they were the ideal candidates for the warriors he intended to forge...once he understood how. A Highborne sorcerer, and the daughter of the elve's best martial fighter. He had no doubts that Lord Ravencrest had trained her well.
"With this...I can track the Earth Warder. I will steal his precious disk, under the pretense of offering it to the Legion, to strengthen their portal. Then, I will manipulate their portal, and with the disk's power, turn it back on the Legion, drawing every single one of them back into the hell from whence they came. You two should return to the others...they will need your guidance if they are to survive…"
Vehlar turned to Illidan, and bowed in the Highborne style. Elegant, perfect, and yet the respect he conveyed was genuine. "We will leave you here then, Stormrage. Good luck with your plan...and remember...guard your mind. Demons are not simply mindless beasts. The smarter ones are cunning."
He referred needlessly to the Satyrs, and Illidan grimaced, recalling again how they'd captured Tyrande. Even he had to admire their ability to cast while being fired upon with arrows. Portals usually required significant concentration. It seemed their dark gifts, whatever they were, enhanced their arcane abilities as well. As Illidan opened his mouth to answer, both mages fell into a 'casting crouch', hands raised as the rubble shifted around them. A deep laugh boomed above them, and they spied a figure descending through the mist. A Doomguard, with a pair of wicked looking warglaives in each claw, hovered above them with a dark grin.
No less than ten of his burly, winged kin joined him as they descended to the ground. "Yes...we are rather cunning, aren't we...the Satyrs are weak, compared to us! As weak as all the other creatures on this pathetic rock..." The lead Doomguard gestured with a glaive, and Vehlar noted Illidan eyeing the weapons with obvious desire, as the monologuing demon approached them.
"What do you have there, little mortal?" The demon was close enough to smell the foul odor that was its breath and natural musk, but Vehlar took the chance to study one up close as the Doomguard continued to speak. "A scale from the dragon...yes...you intend to track it, don't you...my Lord will be most pleased...he covets the dragon's disk...and I will be the one who retrieves it from him!" The crimson skinned demon laughed and the red tentacles dangling from his chin jiggled with the movement. His Fel brothers joined him in the shared amusement. By their measure, Azeroth had proven pathetic indeed, compared to some of their other campaigns. They felt sure of their victory over three elves, two of which were unarmed. Illysanna had an elven blade in her hands, but only time would tell if it would be enough to match the weapons the leader of this pack held.
The Doomguard bore a vague similarity to the Eredar warlocks that acted as the Legion's magical fighting force, but their gifts were obviously tilted towards brute strength, rather than magical power. That, and flight, made them irritating to deal with. Vehlar typically took a special pleasure in tearing their wings off, still rather furious that only one had managed to take out both of his parents, and essentially his brother as well. They were Highborne. Scores of demons should have been required, but in the months spent fighting this war, he had been forced to accept an undeniable fact. Compared to the demons, his people were weak. Highborne and low born, mage and warrior. The might the Well had given them had subjugated the entirety of Azeroth, and yet all their magical might paled compared to the power of the Legion.
This time, Illidan spoke, a dark smirk forming on his sneering, lupine visage as his eyes kept flitting back to the warglaives burning with Fel power. "I thought I could track it. Now I know I can. My plans will work..." He raised a hand. An aura of darkness covered it. "But first...you will die."
The spell flared, and a bolt of darkness shot towards the demon, only to be split in twain by the glorious glaives he wielded. He laughed again. "Pathetic." He gestured to his squad, then. "Attack! Feast upon their flesh!" The other Doomguard charged, but Vehlar and Illysanna were already prepared to meet them. One went down rather quickly as a rapid series of magic missiles tore his chest apart. Illysanna ducked under a pair of lances, slid between the pair wielding them as she hamstrung their strange, alien legs, and then she leapt, spinning in the air as she took their heads from behind, two at once, with a single motion.
Illidan watched them, smirking. They were indeed ideal candidates. He left the others to them, and focused on the leader. He wanted those weapons...they were almost calling him, tantalizing him as they burned with obvious Fel power. Rhonin had claimed that magic users needed to be ready to deal with melee attacks at a moment's notice, and with weapons like those, Illidan would no longer need to blink out of danger, as Vehlar did that very moment, but not before leaving three of their attackers trapped by ice around their hooves. Illysanna took out two more, and Vehlar made the third's skull explode, as a pair of spiraling arcane bolts collided in the vicinity of the demon's head. Only four of the leader's minions remained, and the pair split them evenly.
For his part, Illidan let the leader close, and he roared in fury as the nimble spellcaster dodged his strikes. A minor spell enhanced his perception and natural elven dexterity, letting him track where the warglaives would slice at him. The illusion, was that he was too fast to be hit, almost a blur. The more he looked at the glaives, the more he was convinced. They were calling to him on a primal level.
He didn't know how he knew what he needed to do to attain their power, but he did it anyway, trusting his instincts in that moment. A fireball formed in one claw, and while the Doomguard drew back to slice through it, his other hand, once more shrouded in black energy, dove into the demon's muscled chest, and with perverse satisfaction, removed the beast's still burning heart. It took a moment for the creature to realize it was already dead. "This...can't be! I am...Azzinoth! I am...unbeatable!"
"You are weak." Another bolt of darkness ended the creature, as its head exploded. Sizzling gore and Fel blood covered Illidan, but he did not notice even as it burned against his flesh. He did not even watch as his two most promising recruits thus far dispatched a pair of demons each. While they fought, he claimed his prize, knowing as soon as he gripped the warglaives, that this was right. This, finally, was a part of his destiny manifesting before him. Confidence filled him, as he realized the limitless potential within the warglaives. He could trick Sargeras into giving him the knowledge he sought. He could face down a Dragon Aspect, as Krasus had called them, and steal his precious disk. He was, finally, on the path he had always known he was meant to walk.
The heart in his hand pulsed, and then faded into nothingness, absorbed by the glaives themselves. They were not sentient, that much Illidan could tell, but there were souls within them, powering the Fel that made them so strong. Souls that hungered, endlessly, and cared not who fed them. Now, Azzinoth's essence would feed them as well.
Take in the blood…
Illidan blinked his amber eyes as the words echoed in his head, and he knew, the weapons were telling him, as best they could, how to achieve what he desired. He inhaled, and the gore faded from his person, as he took in the Fel energy that had suffused the creature it had come from. He felt his strength grow. He felt powerful...unstoppable, as traces of faint green lightning sparked over his body, and began to change it forever. He looked at the glaives, as Vehlar and Illysanna approached. The demons of the palace would not allow him to keep these treasures for himself. Not at first. He could not risk not getting them back.
The amber eyes turned to his allies. Vehlar was eyeing him with a frown, but Illysanna was unreadable. Perhaps they wondered if his absorption of the demon gore was having adverse effects. Illidan only felt stronger. Strong enough to take Zin-Azshari by himself. "These weapons...are powerful. Study them. Keep them safe until I return...I will not let them return to the Legion."
He gave them to Illysanna over Vehlar, if only to keep the elf from reducing them to their base components out of enchanter's curiosity, and then departed for Zin-Azshari. Their panthers had run off with the arrival of the Doomguard, with Vehlar's own going in a different direction than his lover's. But walking was no issue, for them or Illidan.
A pack of felhounds came upon Illidan not long into his trek towards the capital, and again he drew their essence into himself. He knew it was changing him, and soon, he would know how, exactly, and he could replicate whatever glorious changes the power brought with it. He left one of the beasts alive to serve as his mount, with the rest of its pack becoming fuel for his ever-growing strength. When next he held his glaives, he would be unstoppable.
Several Weeks Later – The Sundering
Though the War of the Ancients had lasted several months now, it was finally, definitively, over. Illidan's secret project hadn't accomplished much for the war effort, as Vehlar and the others had lost several candidates just trying to trap a demon, and the act of drawing Fel magic from it proved difficult, as the magic was volatile, and seemed to overpower every arcane spell Vehlar used to contain it, easily.
Those who survived had tested an idea from legends past, and tattooed lines of magical runes on their skin, to help their bodies adapt to using the Fel quicker. For some, it had worked a little too well, and the emaciated Fel-ghouls they turned into were put down as a kindness. Naturally, their already small numbers had dwindled harshly. Only four remained, after the land had sundered beneath them, and each had been emaciated by using the Fel with limited knowledge. They had eventually divined the need for a fuel source, that wasn't their own souls, but as of yet hadn't figured out an alternative. Once the demons had been inexplicably pulled into the sky, their vast pool of Fel had vanished, and they had moved with the refugees and the host to the safety of Hyjal, stopping only to retrieve the glaives Illidan had claimed as his own from where Illysanna had sequestered them.
It took hours for the gathered mass of refugees and fleeing soldiers, all that remained of the Kaldorei empire, to organize themselves into something resembling a camp, and during that short window, Illidan Stormrage had, quietly, returned to his little cult, finding that pitifully few remained. He now understood what the Legion was. Where it had been. The futility of killing demons on the mortal plane, and what kind of sacrifice would be required to permanently end the demonic threat. Now, his four remaining followers, two males, two females, listened within the cave they stowed his glaives in, as he shared what he had learned from the Dark Titan himself.
"You cannot comprehend Sargeras. His might is infinite, his power in this conflict not even a fraction of his true strength. He is a Titan. A race of cosmic creators from pure mythological fantasy that, evidently, holds some truth. I don't know what happened to make him fall to the Fel..." Illidan's new eyes flared beneath his blindfold. "But I intend to learn…the Hunter must know his prey." He grinned at each of them. "That is what we must become. Demon Hunters. We will strike at the Legion wherever we can, with their own dark power. They have the confidence gained from thousands of burned and defeated worlds. We will be the ones they fear to face."
"But how?" Vehlar asked, "Without the Well, we couldn't even attempt a portal anywhere meaningful…not with Arcane energy, and Fel-based portals…are a bad idea. We tried those…we'd need a Demonic grimoire to even have a chance of using one right…and even then, we would all likely end up dead."
Illidan stared down Vehlar with an intensity he hadn't possessed before. His need to beat Malfurion had been replaced by a much greater obsession. The end of the Dark Titan. No matter the cost. "Leave that to me…I have a plan to give our race a chance. The High Magistrix was correct when she surmised that the Well might be destroyed in this conflict, and that our surviving people would need a source of mana to feed upon. Whether they like it or not, they are creatures of arcane magic. They need a source of it to survive upon. I will give them one, with the lake atop Hyjal as the base. You will be able to use it as well as any other caster, once I infuse it with a bit of the Well's waters. My gift, to my people."
Illysanna spoke then, "But that's the only water source for miles…they won't take kindly to you turning it into a font of Arcane energy, Illidan. Hyjal is considered sacred ground. They barely tolerate you as it is."
The Sorcerer gave his few remaining followers a dark grin. "When this is done, they won't be able to stop me…even if they wished to. This new power is…potent. I must show you all how to attain what I have…and quickly."
"And what…" Vehlar said, "Must we give to achieve what you have?"
Illidan grinned at him. The eyes flared, and the blindfold ignited, and burned away. His true, shocking visage was now visible to all remaining. Even the hardiest among them flinched. His tattooed body, covered to a greater degree of runic infusion than Vehlar and the others had been able to achieve, sparked with black lightning, as he drew his glaives to him. They manifested in his grip, and again, he was sure. This was his path. The blades had dimmed in the weeks without feeding, and now seemed deceptively inert, but to Illidan's eyes, he now saw they were simply inactive, and hungry. They tried to take in his power, but he forced them to submit with his iron will before answering his fellow sorcerer.
"Everything."
Several Millennia Later – The War of the Satyr
Things had certainly not gone as planned. Illidan had been easily subdued by strange new druidic magic, and then imprisoned within a barrow by his own brother, warglaives included. His gift to them, the supposed font of magic, was now a font of nature, capped by the World Tree, Nordrassil. Illidan's scattered group had dwindled again, down to just Vehlar and Illysanna. The others had simply vanished one night, into the wilds, to hunt what was left of the Legion with what they had learned.
He and Illysanna had agreed, the other two were more intent on wreaking havoc, than claiming vengeance. They would kill anything, and hunt their foe relentlessly. Vehlar and the last Ravencrest had focused on more specific prey, enemies they felt were the direct cause for their people's downfall, the loss of the Well, and the loss of magic. The ones who not only had invited the demons in, but had joined them, and kept them coming through, while understanding all the while exactly what they were letting in. Satyrs.
Being mages of skill even amongst the Legion, small groups of Satyrs had gathered what energies they could in the chaotic Sundering, and teleported safely to Kalimdor. Or what was left of it. Far enough south in the shadowed vales of wild forest to be undetectable to what remained of the elven empire.
Over the long years, the two had subsisted on Fel energy, consuming the Satyrs' flesh as Illidan had instructed, and enhancing what they could do. They also understood, thanks to what little knowledge they had taken from the Legion, that running out of energy for their Fel spells would not end well. The Satyrs they took alive were introduced to an entirely new level of pain as the two fed on the potent Fel energies that had done to them over time what Sargeras had done to Illidan in mere moments; changed their very beings into something far stronger, and more genuinely demonic. They had, slowly, become the demon's natural predators, but could also be counted among their number, because of what the Fel energies had wrought upon their souls.
In recent times, the Satyrs had become far more active, and the two were, finally, able to draw in enough Fel energy for the binding ritual Illidan had taught them, but they had simply lacked the Fel power to even attempt. It was entirely Fel based, and what demons were left had gone well into hiding as they too recovered magical might.
With all the recent activity, and apparently even skirmishes with the Sentinels of their people, the pair had managed to capture two Satyr commanders, and their entire squad of spell-capable warriors. The lower ranked ones would serve as bonding candidates for whatever new Demon Hunter aspirants they found. In the wake of the Legion, there tended to be those willing to do anything to stop them. One at a time, Vehlar bound the Satyric commanders to Illysanna, and then himself. Because they had already fed on the Fel, their bodies took to the new fusion of demonborne and starborne elf with slightly less trauma than what those who followed them would experience, and potentially fall to.
Vehlar found that he could easily mock the Satyric mind that now tried leeching off of his. It knew right away that attempts to warp his perception or play on his guilt would be useless, and it was Vehlar's rage that helped him mentally imprison the demon. In time, he would force it to serve him, but for that moment, he had been more focused on not letting it explode his body. Illysanna had a harder time, but when he shared with her how effective rage was at subduing the voice within, she managed to calm the volatile energies inside of her though the slight Fel tears in her skin remained, and then calcified into some kind of dark, hardened bone-like carapace several days later. Vehlar's body also changed, as his legs became shaggier, and trimming the deep blue Satyric fur was useless, as it simply regrew within a day. A pair of horns had, only hours after the ritual, burst up from his skull, painfully, and obviously marking him as one touched by Fel. During this transformation, Fel had also shot from his eyes, in a devastatingly powerful beam, and in its wake left only unsettling Fel orbs, not at all unlike Illidan's. It would be some time before he realized his new appearance could help him pass as a Satyr. To their prey's magical senses, both he and Illysanna were now essentially invisible, so long as the Satyrs didn't suspect treachery in their own ranks.
It took some time for them to learn of the war with the resurgent Satyrs that had evidently already begun, and begun badly, for the Kaldorei.
Ordil'aran had been thoroughly smashed in those early assaults. What few attempts the Night Elves had made at reclaiming their empire's architecture were crushed to ruin with brutal efficiency. The demonic army was composed mainly of Satyrs, the only thing the remaining demons on Azeroth could make in the long millennia since the War, though they had other scattered creatures, mainly hounds and Infernals bolstering them. Vehlar was sure no new portals had opened, thus he was left to conclude the living Fel rocks had somehow been sent from beyond the skies.
When the two saw the tide turning on their people, they agreed that they needed to help them, or at the very least, find others who could learn what they had learned. The Highborne who'd survived the War of the Ancients proved a fertile place for the type of mindset they sought, amidst the chaos of the conflict.
Reviled by the vestiges of their society, they had, for millennia now, endured the stares, spitting, and ill-tempers directed towards them. Many in the palace not enslaved by the demons or the Queen had taken the opportunity to ride from the capital when the High Priestess was rescued. Her survival was the only thing that had allowed them to stay. After enduring so much hatred, this second fracturing of the lifestyles they had come to enjoy drove many to seek revenge upon the demons. It was from these elves, mainly, that Vehlar and Illysanna drew their new aspirants from, and ruined villages usually provided at least one. Though many outright refused once they recognized that the pair was using Fel magic. Some, eventually, saw how effective they were, and even came to understand their inner struggle, and why they would suffer with a demon whispering in their head for millennia, but then refused all the same, choosing other methods with which to combat the Satyrs.
As the new war raged, the desperate, scattered elves Vehlar and the daughter of Ravencrest had gathered came together in a barrow the two had carved for themselves, in the fashion of the rest of their race. Tree homes and underground dwellings were, evidently, where they were headed as a species, so the two had chosen a subtle warren for their dark experiments.
They were not ignored, however. Even amongst the chaos, with so many new recruits, and law-abiding citizens rejecting Vehlar's offer, the Wardens eventually picked up their scent. None had been captured by the pursuers so far, though. This war was as chaotic as the one before it. Hiding was easy.
Much like Vehlar and Illysanna, the first pair, a female, and then a male of their race, survived the initial stages of the next several tests. They eventually failed, as the Satyrs they were infusing overwhelmed their hosts, and turned them into something new, that was thankfully quickly put down by Vehlar and Illysanna.
They had their aspirants tattoo themselves, once they managed to awaken, but despite their best efforts, they lost three of the ten that had survived the initial consumption of demon flesh, to madness. To combat the hunger for Fel magic they felt, the elder pair of Kaldorei instructed their protégés to feed on Fel energy for a time, and not go mad from starvation, or a lust for power. It was not, they soon learned, for everyone. Many simply did not have the desire necessary to survive the ordeal of transforming one's very being into something else entirely. Some, simply couldn't accept what they'd become, though Vehlar only pitied them, for their souls were doomed to go only one place, upon dying. In the Nether, their inner demon would likely consume all they'd been, before rebirthing itself among the Fel chaos that was the Twisting Nether.
Once the small surviving group had successfully modified themselves, and managed to tame the demons within as much as any mortal could hope to, they focused on arming themselves. The whole process took several weeks, during which, the demons made heavy advances against their kin. Vehlar soon realized they'd need a much bigger operation to reach the numbers Illidan had spoken of fighting with. The numbers each of them knew would be required, given the size of the Legion.
Though each of them despised the Satyrs, especially once Vehlar educated them on who, and what they had likely been several millennia past, he emphasized for the younger elves that this current enemy's number was barely even a scout force, compared to the numbers the Legion possessed. The remnants of the demonic forces had recruited far more effectively than their would-be hunters it seemed.
They had no blacksmiths among them, but with his newfound sight, Vehlar managed to forge a blend of metal that would come to be rather similar to what was referred to as Demonsteel, when the smiths of Dalaran began taking a page from the Illidari, and worked with Fel materials. The main difference in his blade's composition, and the simple, dual-sided elven glaives they created for their aspirants, was the strange metal that he had procured from Satyrnaar. Once, the place had been a shrine to Elune, but the demon's presence, or perhaps their magic, had perverted the once gleaming white fusion of metal and stone into something red, and tainted with Fel. He found that it was rather good for binding Satyric souls, and he fed his blades well the moment they cooled, and had the all-important binding runes inscribed into their length.
They fed each of their weapons, keeping a careful eye on the runes that marked them as being full, or close to breaking. He lost count of how many days they hunted the demons once they were ready. Though they lost two of their number, it was clear Illidan's idea of elite Demon Hunters had some merit. The Fel beings could not comprehend what they fought, and by the time they did, their souls were bound in their hunter's glaives, screaming in agony as their Fel power was used to fuel the many abilities the elves practiced to stay alive, amongst hordes of enemies. Eventually, they had snuck into the Satyr's ranks, and assassinated their generals, lieutenants, and anything resembling a hierarchy. Chaos soon rained in their ranks, for their people's 'Feral Druids' and Nightstalkers were doing the same to the Satyr leadership in other camps across Ashenvale.
Unlike the rest of the elves however, the new force of Demon Hunters were not distracted by the fate of the Worgen. The conflict for the small band of mutated Kaldorei was much, much longer, as they spent years stalking hints of their prey through Kaldorei lands once the elven army smashed them to pieces, all the while evading the Wardens, and their people. For safety, they agreed to travel solo, hunting their prey in pairs, at most. Any more would attract the Warden's ever vigilant gazes.
Vehlar, for once, parted from his long-time lover to hunt around Satyrnaar, as it remained one of the creature's strongest holdings, and had a plethora of souls for him to ensnare. It was well hidden in the forests, but it teemed with Vehlar's prey. Yet no matter how many he killed, there were always more. It was maddening, after a time. More than once he'd simply charged into the 'streets' of the settlement, slaughtering as he went, and yet always, there were more of the horned demons.
Eventually, they came to fear him, for his cruelty was legendary. He had, after a time, learned the truth of the futility of killing demons outside of their home realm from the mocking voice of the Satyr bound within him. He generally tried to keep his kills alive, for a time, before sending them back to the realm from whence they'd been spawned. He wanted them terrified of returning to Azeroth, and over time, they were.
As the years passed, the physical changes to his form made him able to pass among other Satyrs in disguise, for he too sported a pair of horns that resembled theirs. He hunted this way all over Ashenvale, for years beyond counting, doing everything in his power to keep the Satyrs from rising again. He had even managed to find a pair of orphans, raise them to physical maturity, and then turn them into Demon Hunters as well, with souls from the ever plentiful bounty that was Satyrnaar. The Satyrs of that settlement were, by the order of the Legion, constantly shunted back to Azeroth upon reforming in the Nether. Usually one at a time, there was a point during the Long Vigil where Vehlar was so prolific in slaughtering the former Kaldorei that they began to murmur of a legend. A slayer within Satyrnaar, with blades of unsettling crimson, burning with the power of a hundred trapped Satyr souls. Most, treated this rumor as nonsense, until Satyrs they knew simply disappeared, and never came back through the single-man portals they used to retrieve fallen Satyrs from the Nether.
Vehlar also moved among his people, with the safety of anonymity, and illusion magic for his eyes and horns. He steered clear of druids as often as possible, for they had a bad habit of sensing his presence, even under disguise. It was in this way that he kept himself, and the other Hunters who'd survived thus far, informed of where demonic forces were gathering in Kalimdor.
Eventually, thanks to their immortality, the demon's presence dropped to almost nil. The small band of Demon Hunters, now numbering about fifteen in operation across Kalimdor, learned then that the Wardens had been hunting the remaining demons as well, and had developed new methods of tracking Fel energy. It took several painful losses against the better armed and equipped Wardens for them to realize the only remaining large sources of remaining Fel magic on Kalimdor were themselves.
Once more, only Vehlar and Illysanna avoided capture, death, or imprisonment. With no chance of breaking Illidan and the others free on their own, the two planned to lay low, until yet another tragedy ravaged the Kaldorei, and gave them a chance to gain more aspirants. That changed when Vehlar learned his longtime hunting partner had been captured, and imprisoned in the Warden's Vault as well. Unwilling to spend his immortality alone, he endeavored to rescue her, and his Demon Hunters, if possible.
Several Weeks Before Andrassil Fell – The Broken Isles
Vehlar walked calmly amongst the other Wardens as they recited the phrase to open the door to the Vault. His illusion magic had, after some lengthy stays in what remained of his people's libraries, improved considerably, and as a Demon Hunter, he had eventually learned how to mute, if not altogether hide, his killing intent. The fact that he had bonded and usurped the power of Satyrs also helped his deception. The demon within him was always hungry for more souls, though. He knew it wanted him to give in to the rage, to make it easier for the creature to overwhelm him and take control, or more likely, tear his body asunder. The demon would, of course, be fine, but Vehlar's existence would end on the spot, if he gave in.
He focused intensely on his disguise as they ventured further down into the structure, and more than once, he felt some elven ward try to remove it from him, but his will was iron. He could not afford to lose his cover here, or he would die. The Wardens dispensed only one kind of justice to their cleverer enemies, by not giving them a chance to fool them again. The weaker ones, they typically captured for study, and imprisonment.
That, was why he'd needed to get his partner out quickly. From past experience, the first month or so was spent on torture and study, and after that, the Wardens would then turn their Fel blood into a prison, a living stasis of total sensory deprivation that was immune to Fel and Arcane meddling. Only two kinds of glaives could break it, or so he hoped. If his own self-forged and Satyr infused glaives couldn't do the job, he'd have to try to steal a Warden's, and could guess how well that would go. The lawfully blind women of this stronghold cared about little else but their armor and glaives, and he knew better than to try borrowing one.
Thankfully, he'd kept quiet and unnoticed, and overheard gossip involving a certain 'famous prisoner'. The last of her noble house. In the end, he'd only needed to follow the screams. He was well acquainted with the various sounds she made, and the ones he heard now made his blood boil with rage. The pathetic excuse for a Highborne Satyr that had bonded with him urged him uselessly to slaughter and kill, but he ignored the demon, as always, equating its opinions, wants, and desires, to that of dirt as only another Highborne could. He felt the Satyr within churn with fury, which was what fueled Vehlar's might.
Keeping focused on his spell became difficult the further into the fortress he went, for the deeper prisons held magic from a time when their kin's arcane might had been unmatched. Simple illusion spells were easily unraveled, if their casters lost the intense focus needed to sustain it in the face of such warding, and it was only because he was now party Satyr himself that Vehlar was not revealed. So far below Elune's light, the Wardens could not call on her so easily.
Vehlar struggled for quite a while, standing motionless in one of the empty hallways near the barracks, but eventually, he adjusted the amount of mana needed to maintain his cover. As long as there weren't other mages nearby, he wouldn't be noticed. Given who he was fraternizing with, and the rules involving death for so much as thinking about arcane magic, he didn't worry. His people had lost much since the world broke, and High Elven sorcery tended to be able to 'outsmart' the slower paced druid spells. Sometimes.
There is no such thing as a 'casual' Warden he soon learned. Everyone had a destination, a predetermined purpose. Lingering anywhere drew glances, and eyes he did not need. Eventually, he found the level for Demon Hunters. He had assumed they kept other creatures here, and he had been correct. Thankfully, one of the law-abiding women had the presence of mind to label what was being held on each level in basic elvish. If one knew where to look.
He managed to find a decent, shadowy covering, and like all of his kin, he blended into the darkness easily. Then, he waited. Hours passed. Hunger gnawed at him, but he knew eating would only draw attention. He only had stale mana biscuits anyway. He could endure.
Finally, after what his internal clock guessed was, at least, five hours, another Warden approached the door. A guard, changing rotations. He swore. The other one had started to drowse, and he'd been tempted to try and Blink through when she nodded off. Given that the magic here was focused on keeping the prisoners bound, he doubted they'd spared it for a door. He'd been wrong before though.
More time passed, and he knew, the sun was properly awake now far above them. He'd felt the night drain from him, and knew the time to move was approaching. Then, around what he guessed was noon, a figure emerged from behind the door. He knew her by rank, if not by face. The sister of the man who'd saved their race from certain doom in the wake of Desdel Stareye's timely death. Maiev Shadowsong.
Had he known who she was directly responsible for watching, and what she was truly capable of, he might have simply retreated then. If Maiev was at the Vault, nothing would be getting out, but he had not yet encountered the leader of the Wardens, and there were no legends of her strength floating around. The Wardens typically kept to the isles or Hyjal, and were secretive about their activities. They tended not to socialize. But, Tyrande and Malfurion had given them the power to lawfully imprison, and so they were respected…and avoided.
He waited until she left, without a word to the guard at the door, and he knew the time was soon. He counted slowly, with the patience of a hunter, ticking the minutes by. He waited a full twenty, for he had no desire to even chance attracting Maiev's attention. He knew enough of her wrath to be aware of how many of his Demon Hunters she personally had taken down, usually by way of decapitation.
Finally, he noticed the guard begin to snooze. To all outside eyes, she appeared as straight and alert as always, but he knew better. It had been a trait of those who'd guarded Suramar as well. They had, after thousands of hours of guard duty, learned to get rest while standing. Looking closer, one could see the wall was doing most of the supporting, but her legs and her grip on her glaive remained strong, ingrained as they were.
Finally, it was time to move. He measured the distance for the thousandth time, and gathered the mana. Then, with a bright, and thankfully instantaneous flash, he vanished from his hiding spot. The sentry jolted awake, looked around for a few moments, sighed, and then returned to the infinite boredom of guard duty.
Vehlar, for his part, was smirking. His guise had been stripped upon entering the chamber, but it had ultimately worked. He needed only a quick glance around to know this was where they kept his fellow hunters. He could even divine who, judging by the blades outside each of the fel-crystal prisons. He knew better than to try to break those, though. That would most definitely trip the wards, and he didn't know if his glaives could break magic that strong.
Thankfully, his target was not yet encased. She was lying on a table, nude, and covered with half-scabbed wounds that, as he stared at them with his sightless eyes, he knew had been hand-inflicted. He quickly remembered the moment when Maiev had left, and swore at himself for not noticing before, as the mundane kind of sight most of his kin used was at this point, was not his preferred method of seeing the world, and thus sometimes he missed physical details. Maiev's gauntlets had been coated with dark purple blood.
He poured a health potion down Illysanna's throat, and gave her two more besides, once she was conscious enough to drink them herself. The wounds closed slowly, and he'd managed to unbind her before he heard the soft sliding of metal from a sheathe. That was usually the only warning he ever got before surprise strikes.
He whirled, and his rune-etched katana met his opponent's glaive. She was, thankfully, not the Warden's leader, but he had no doubt she could summon the others, even all the way down here. His attacks were relentless, and fueled by fury. His quiet rage had slowly built as he'd discovered what the Wardens had been doing to his lady, and now, it was helping. He smashed through the woman's guard, and sliced through her throat before it could offer so much as a squeak. She gurgled, and gestured at him desperately as she bled out, but he had no mercy for the dispensers of 'justice' that by their actions and their narrow minds only aided the demons. He let her choke on her lifeblood.
Vehlar helped the female Ravencrest to her feet then, not speaking for the moment. Her captors had not been gentle, and her clothing was little more than rags. He wasn't overly worried about her modesty in a vault full of female Wardens, though. They communicated by hand-sign, but her gestures were slow and half-formed. He charged out the door, ready to fight again, only to realize the Warden within choking to death had been the one guarding the door. It made some sense. He'd check his charge too if a magical disturbance woke him from a nap.
It made escape that much easier though, or rather, it would have. His teleportation spell, a stronger one he'd been confident could bypass the wards of this place, fizzled and died as he cast it. Their current hiding place was a seemingly little-used corridor, and he swore as his spell failed. Then, he rummaged in his bag, and handed her a white stone.
Her eyes went wide, staring at it, and then him. "I can't, you'll be-"
He covered her mouth with a hand. "No. I won't. I'll be fine. Go. It's the only thing that will get you out of here." She bit his thumb, hard, but when his hand didn't move she slumped her shoulders in resigned acceptance. She really was in no condition to argue. "Use it…once you do, I'll need to find another way to get out of here, but they can't stop this kind of teleportation. Go. I'll be fine."
As soon as Illysanna had used the Hearthstone, the Vault's alarms began to wail, doors began to shut, and he hurriedly conjured a passable disguise as he darted past the closing doors and headed for the main chamber. He was not alone. Wardens from each of the four connecting hallways slowly appeared in the main chamber, and a general murmur swept through the thirty or so women as Maiev appeared before them, rather suddenly, in what he swore was a flash of light from a Blink spell. But there was no way. Kaldorei didn't use arcane magic anymore, at least, not without combining it with druidism in some fashion.
"My sisters…we've a rat amongst us. Someone has helped our famous prisoner escape… someone with magical know-how, and skill with a blade not our own. She may have escaped, but her rescuer remains. Go! Find them! And do not hesitate in delivering death. There will be no mercy for this one. I wasn't finished with her…" With that, she turned, and two Wardens joined her as she waved her glaive, and opened one of the doors leading from the chamber. The others slowly slid open as well, though only after being triggered by one of the glaives. It seemed they were the keys to this place.
He followed casually, keeping quiet, and letting others open doors for him as he subtly made his way towards the entrance. Or what he hoped was the entrance. Once he was high enough up, he hoped the wards would be weak enough to teleport through. He almost tried making a portal, but the casting would take too long.
Nobody knew the prison like the Wardens who guarded it, and they swept it efficiently. He didn't go more than five minutes, anywhere, without running into another Warden, sharing a nod, and continuing on his way. Finally, after some clever maneuvering, he made it close to the lift that led to the exit. Now he saw why it had been so easy.
None of the entrances to it were guarded, and only Maiev stood upon the platform. She rode it up and down, over and over, standing patiently, waiting with her glaive before her. There was only one way out of her Vault, and she'd covered it with her strongest soldier. Vehlar fumed silently, once more melded with the shadows. He needed a distraction. As he thought that, the entire structure rumbled.
Maiev glanced up, and Wardens appeared from out of nowhere at her command. Of course she'd hidden guards. He was almost surprised he hadn't hidden atop one of them by accident within the shadows. They ascended to the top, and he heard the incantation for the door. Then, the circular platform came back to him, and he had his ride out. He paused as it reached the door though, and instead looked up at the ceiling.
Plain, gray, stone. Unwarded, from what he could tell. It was more natural mountain than Kaldorei architecture this far up. And mountains, he could move through. He smirked at the door, and began casting the lengthy teleport. He heard shouting from the other side about halfway through, and dropped his disguise.
He gave the Warden's leader a smirk as the door opened, and her squad charged him, but he was already gone, as he'd redirected his focus once the door had opened, and whisked himself towards Illysanna, still not quite sure how he was still alive.
Then, something went wrong. His connection to the leylines of the world faltered, and his magic went awry. He groaned, and opened his eyes. A cave, of some sort. He could be anywhere, for that was what happened when teleport spells went awry. At least he wasn't embedded in stone.
He stood, slowly, and glanced around with his unnatural eyes. This place was overwhelmed with wild, uncontrolled magic, no doubt from a large explosion. Was that what had shook the Vault? He extended his senses further, and discounted that. By his best guess, he was near Faronaar. A shattered little village, it had been abandoned long ago. He guessed this cave had always existed underneath it, that is, until he touched the floor.
The rock had been carved away, by something sharp, and something determined. The entire floor was the same, and a chill ran up his spine as he realized he wasn't alone down here. This cave had been dug out, and as he found a tunnel leading from it, which had also been carved, he knew whatever his latest pain in the rear was, it could certainly dig.
He continued on, simply because he couldn't think of what else to do. Teleporting in mana this chaotic would likely send him to a different dimension, so he walked. He heard sounds as he did, muted, distorted, chittering. But nothing bugged him, so he ignored the skittering around him as he pushed on.
Finally, he came to a much larger cavern, with a much more interesting floor. His eyes spied something on the ground, in the center of a bowl like structure. He went over, and knelt beside it, placing one hand on it. His mind went wild with ideas. Spells, demonic infusions, entirely new, and promising, glaive forms. He was touching power. Pure, unbridled power, arcane in nature, but on a scale his people had never invented. Never even come close to achieving.
He stared at the strange almost ore-like protrusion, and wondered what exactly he was touching. He focused, and used his power to raise it from the earth. The entire cavern trembled in response, or rather, that's what it felt like. He sensed…intense pain, though he didn't know from where. The kind of pain one experiences when something is lodged in a limb, like an arrow, and hasn't passed through completely yet. He raised the node higher, and the sensation altogether vanished.
Thoroughly puzzled, he reached for the ore again, only to find his wrist bound by some kind of sticky webbing. "Not ssssooo fasssst…" Something hissed from behind him. It wasn't an elf, or a Satyr, in fact, he could barely sense the being at all. It was like the wrongness of its existence made it hard to track with magic sight.
He got an up-close look at it as the webbing dragged him towards the creature that had spewed it. He saw a monstrosity, though among the perverted features he could indeed make out an elf. A member of his species then, once upon a time. "You will tell ussss where to find more of thissss…it sssssatesss usss…we musssst have more!"
"I don't know what it is…" Vehlar snarled, wrenching uselessly at the webs. "It might be an ore, but I don't sense any more nearby. This seems to be all there is."
The creature took in his words, and hissed. "Liessss…you will sssspeak truthsss…in time…" More webs bound him then, and the spider-elf began dragging him towards a nearby tunnel. He swore, loudly, and the creature only chuckled.
Several Weeks Later…
Death. That was what his brother had earned. Slow, painful, death. He had been tortured mercilessly at the claws of the spider-elves, and when he'd finally had a chance to be rid of them, his prize, the strange and wonderful ore, had been taken from him by his brother, returned from the dead. He'd always suspected Laronar had ended up surviving the war, but he'd expected him to have been turned into a tree, or something, by now.
As he currently was, Laronar had been, admittedly, quite impressive. As druids went. Vehlar's rage burned away the shell of flame-resistant vines that held him in place, finally, several long minutes after his kin left. He could track the ore true, even now he could sense it heading closer to the part of the isles his kin inhabited. He let it go. He was starved, drained, and Illysanna no doubt assumed he was dead, or captured. Knowing her, she'd try to rescue him. He needed to get back quick, before that happened. After what he guessed was a few weeks in Warden captivity, she wouldn't be ready for an assault on the Vault. Just then, the blocked passage behind him burst open with a spidery screech, and at the head of the surging arachnid-elves was one with his Satyr Soulblades in each malformed hand. In short order, Vehlar eradicated the foul abominations with fire, ice, and arcane spells, and then retrieved his weapons from the ashes.
He climbed out of the spider-infested hell then, and once at the top of the village, turned his anger on those below. He wrought a spell then, conjuring a giant, flaming meteor above what remained of Faronaar's temple to his people's Goddess. Then, he brought it down. The entire structure fell into a truly massive sinkhole, no doubt made by the Sundering of the world. He inspected the rubble once the dust cleared, and nodded. There were still openings down, but the spiders would have to climb through layers of rubble to ever see sunlight from this entrance. It would take them years, if not centuries, to dig free.
He headed towards what had once been Suramar then, as he knew the land around it was fertile with mana crystals. He could recharge with those, enough for a teleportation spell. He did a double take after an hour of hard searching. On the horizon was an unmistakable, massive shield of Arcane magic. Even now, Suramar stood. Everyone within had likely died early on due to lack of food, but it was nice to know the ruins would be there, somewhat intact, to explore one day, when the shield ran out of power.
He continued on then, combining his scraps of mana into an ever-larger pool, before finally he had enough to bring him home. Home, in this case, was his barrow den in Ashenvale. He arrived to find his lover, still badly hurt, but recovering in their bed. He had more to do before he collapsed beside her though. He reinforced the wards hiding them, adjusted the camouflage of the leaves surrounding the entrance, and then he descended below, to restore the Fel he'd been forced to expend by extracting it from his Satyr prisoners. They'd broken free while he'd been gone, but their prison kept them from leaving, or rather, it kept their demonic essence from ascending from the barrow prison.
He managed to bind them again easily enough, though he'd drained one of them entirely too far, leaving him a husk. When he finally did return to Illysanna he felt her stir. "What…took you so long?"
"I ran into my brother on my…way out. It's a long story…and we need sleep." She mumbled an agreement then, and the two exhausted Demon Hunters fell asleep then, hidden relatively safely from most of the outer world.
Chapter 13: The Circle Continues
Chapter Text
With the Fangs secured and the Ashen learning under Thaon, who would take some years to be deemed ready by the strict Archdruid, Laronar found himself with free time, once more. He was invited to take residence in one of the Dreamgrove's Barrow Dens, but before he'd even had a look at them, he'd decided to survey this new land from the air. Evidently, he was going to be here for some time. With Andrassil now broken, Malfurion had decided all the druids would join the Dream, and those who did not, were free to train, learn, and otherwise strengthen the world from the one place on Azeroth that was closest, in aesthetic and location, to the Dream itself. Their females had been all but left alone, given the popularity of druidism with nearly every male member of their fractured species, and with time, the Priestesses of the Moon would become the closest thing their people had to a government since Azshara.
As rumor had said, elven ruins dotted most of the landscape outside of Val'sharah. He came upon the imposing outline of Black Rook Hold, and then the Moon Guard's headquarters as he began his flight. He viewed them for the first time in millennia with a quiet wince at how decayed they had become. Indeed, seeing the ruins of the Empire he'd barely known was rather sobering, and much like his people, nature had begun to reclaim them. He stayed at a distance as he made his silent flight. Occasionally he saw figures moving about on those structures, but he was told by locals who lived almost on the edge of Suramar, and coincidentally near where he sensed Thaon and the others currently were, that they were mostly harmless ghosts, vestiges of that terrible war so long ago.
Flying around had taken up most of the night, even with his speed, and on his way back towards the Dreamgrove, he'd decided to prowl through the forests. The deer didn't run from him, as he clearly wasn't hunting, and the other fauna seemed to either watch him with veiled interest, or avoid his giant saber-teeth as quickly as possible. He didn't find Storm, but his ears caught faint, likely hidden by dirt and stone, yowls of female Nightsabers and he knew it would not be long before they began hunting in the forests. He trusted his friend to keep his offspring in line though. It was a relatively relaxing walk back, as everything in the forest was at peace, and wished only to grow and live. He started to understand why Cenarius would make his home in this place. Compared to what he'd seen of the rest of these broken islands, these woods were, by far, the most peaceful, and intact, place to live.
They were not the only place to live, as he soon discovered. Upon returning, he shifted back to his elven form, and stretched with a satisfying crack. His ears twitched as he heard wing beats just over his head, and he watched as a black feathered owl, not unlike his own owl form, arced up to a nearby branch, and hooted at him.
He'd smirked, and raised a brow at the creature, confident that he knew a fellow druid when he saw one. As she shifted back to her elven form however, he was somewhat surprised at the face that greeted him. Koda Steelclaw had caused a stir in Nighthaven just before the Circle had left for their grim task in the Grizzly Hills. She was of the opinion that females should be allowed to become whatever they wished, as they had always done, in the Empire. But for whatever reason, Malfurion and Tyrande had decreed this was not to be the case.
He hadn't heard what happened to her next, as he cared about as much for social gossip as he did for socializing in general, but evidently, the end result had been her ending up here. Perhaps 'exiled' like himself, to avoid causing tension in the Circle on the mainland. He bowed, and then crossed his arms as he got a proper look at her.
Female druids were still a very new concept to him, one he personally didn't have a position on. Malfurion claimed balance between the sexes needed to be maintained. Given that he was their leader, Laronar knew he probably wouldn't change his mind. Not for some millennia, at least. As he eyed the woman, he found her not unattractive, though she smelled a bit too much like a bear, for his tastes. "So. Malfurion has sent all the fun personalities out here, hmm?"
Her legs dangled, evidently enjoying the freedom of being in the air. Koda nodded. "Quite. I was told that I'm to train a separate cadre of Druids of the Claw, after what happened in the Grizzly Hills."
Laronar nodded sagely. "That was a grim task…but a necessary one."
She raised an eyebrow. "Vordrassil…right, I suppose you helped with that. Well, while you boys were busy playing tree cutter, I was speaking with Ursol. He was the one who convinced Shan'do Stormrage to send me here, where sexist tendencies are lessened, before nature's beauty." A red feathered bird alighted on her shoulder, as if to demonstrate that very point, and Laronar found his normally impassive face smirking.
He shrugged then, stepping closer to the branch she'd sat herself on, so they didn't have to shout in the quiet serenity of the Dreamgrove. "I've never formed an opinion on it…females were always in charge when we yet had an Empire. Having a balance of power split between specialties certainly seems logical, at least from the view of those who were once resigned to child rearing and house chores."
The woman actually snorted, not unlike a bear who'd scented something foul. "Was Xavius not male? How about General Ravencrest? Your testosterone filled comrades had plenty of power, both military and political. You're only jealous because Elune favors us, and you know it." She winked at him, and he rolled his eyes. "The logical solution would be to let men worship the Moon Goddess, and join the Sentinel army, while women could finally learn to defend nature as well. There's a reason we were in charge, you know." She dropped to the ground, effortlessly.
Laronar kept his arms crossed, though he was suddenly more aware of his usual shirtlessness, as he often became around lovely females. "Perhaps you are correct, but Elune has, at least to my knowledge, not granted my fellow males her power."
She crossed her own arms now, meeting his gaze. "Perhaps they simply haven't tried as hard as the women. They start as youths, you know. I doubt Elune would begrudge a male that genuinely, and properly, learned to worship her."
Laronar chuckled. "I don't think it matters. The Sisterhood of Elune was very clear on the station of men when it comes to their organization. Believe me, I know. I asked, at Eldarath's own Temple. There isn't a 'political position' on males. It's a Sisterhood."
That, it seemed, got her to genuinely laugh, and before he realized, they were walking towards the nearest Barrow Den. He scented something strange as they approached. Foul at first, like a skunk, but as they descended, the air had other smoky scents. He recognized incense, and hoped that it wasn't one designed to force him into the Dream. After a few minutes of walking down past snoozing druids, it seemed they were just resting early, and the smoke in here was mainly to hide whatever the underlying skunk-esque smell was.
He came upon a strange sight then, at least, strange to a loner who'd spent the early millennia of his Long Vigil isolated, as he learned to heal. There was a circle of druids strewn about the den in various positions, and in the middle of them, he spied a device. It was, in Eldarath, a common sight, but these days, such things were considered relics. He had no idea how they functioned, and he'd never been old enough to be allowed to try a genuine elven-made hookah pipe.
That was no problem now, as the bear-leaning druids welcomed the Ashen into their midst, and shared with him the wonders of the herb that, according to them, many druids had taken up toking in recent years, with the discovery of a variation of the hemp plant, mainly used for their rope-related needs, and apparently several tips from Tauren druids. Evidently, some variations of said plant, when smoked, were quite enjoyable with their effects, which appeared to include increased laziness, happiness, hunger, and sometimes a desire to procreate.
Having some clue as to what he was doing from smoking with his mentor, and mirroring Koda entirely, he inhaled far too long on the elven hookah, long enough, and inhaling hard enough, to produce a burn that, to his virginal throat, caused him to hack up the decently large cloud he'd managed to take in. They assured him that he'd get used to it, that with more tokes it wouldn't be so rough, and that coughing actually made him ingest…whatever this herb was…quicker. The effects were definitely more potent than what Kota had shared with him, and when he mentioned the Tauren version, they'd chuckled, and claimed 'elven technology' was superior to anything the bull-men could craft, when it came to smoking.
Eventually, with his head spinning and mind racing, the druid left the den, but not before receiving a pouch full of seeds of the very same plant, as well as basic care and tending instructions. Being druids, any of them could, with a bit of focus and mana, produce a grown plant from a single seed with roughly half a day's worth of meditation and energy transferring.
He gave it a whole day, as he had nothing better to do, and split his energy between three plants, which was tiring. The end result though certainly seemed impressive. He'd set up his little 'garden' on the hills just above the northern edge of the Dreamgrove, and after grinding the 'buds' of his plants, and shaping a suitably long piece of wood from a nearby tree, he began carving what his fellow druids had told him he'd be able to enjoy the crushed herb in if portability was preferable to a stationary hookah. Essentially, it was just a wooden pipe, simple in design, but he left plenty of room for aesthetics.
He felt Ashamane brush his mind as he carved and shaped his instrument by hand, and sometimes with a cat claw, shifted from a single finger. It was just as useful as having a knife on hand, and ultimately less threatening, he'd found. Naturally, his pipe had Ashamane's visage upon it, which meant that it looked similar to his own Cat Form. He didn't worry about anyone assuming vanity though. He was very obviously a druid, and a follower of the great panther. Anyone he was likely to socialize with would probably see the resemblance to her, more than him.
He had no idea how, but Ashamane managed to find a way to experience what he himself did, and found the sensation not unpleasant, though the smell made her want to twitch the nose she no longer had. He found his own twitching instead, which was slightly unsettling, as he wasn't the one moving it.
He soon fell into one of the most restful naps he'd ever had, and awoke to move his little operation somewhere else. Everyone had a den in this land, it seemed, and he had no intention of sharing with a bunch of snoring bears, or Thaon. Much as he liked his fellow druid, they both tended to act as leaders, especially surrounded by their kin, and that would, inevitably, cause friction.
He went just south of Ashamane's abode, to what would one day be known as the Sundersong Glade. There was only one inhabitant however, Magdalena Dusklake, but she seemed content to stay in her house, unaware of her new neighbor. That is, until the faint stench of the herb he smoked, after setting everything up again, wafted towards her house. Thankfully, the cave had been empty, and he took to making it his quickly, for he knew how fast ownership of such a nice place to live could change, in the early stages of claiming it.
Though his neighbor remained in her home, as best he could tell, his fumes did attract a pair of Moonkin guests who, upon learning he could in fact speak their relatively simple tongue, informed him that they had owned this cave, and now he'd gone and ruined it by stinking it up, and draping an oversized hammock across it.
They came to something of a compromise, once Laronar convinced the bear-owls to try the herb themselves, for the Moonkin he knew were no strangers to something as simple as recreational smoking. They hooted happily, and in the midst of their hazy stupor, the mated pair agreed to let the druid stay with them, provided he taught them how to grow more of this delightful herb.
He spent several days in his new cave, funneling energy into his ever-growing stockpile of plants. He bred them as only a druid could, and found the herb on his leafy shoulder pads to be quite similar to what the druids had given him. He tested his knowledge and manipulation of plants then, breeding the two together. The result was an even stronger effect that his new, and first, housemates were delighted to experience. Eventually, he was convinced that the smoke from his sessions was slowly making the more primitive creatures addicted to it, and he warned them of the dangers of too much, and explained the concept of what the elves called 'moderation'. They had, thankfully, deferred to his 'druidic wisdom' on the matter, and agreed to take a break to do other things while he went back to the grove to check on the progress of Thaon and the others.
It had barely been a week, but he knew how training went. There were always one or two pupils that stood out at first, and those, he wanted to mold himself. Thaon was a good teacher, but his methods were narrow, in Laronar's opinion. He had stuck to the Cat Form, and only the cat, whereas Laronar had, like many druids of his generation, bonded with as many Ancients as possible, and tried to maintain some level of peace between all of them. As that practice had faded away, the bridges between the Ancients, i.e. druids like himself, became ever more rare as his fellows had focused on a single patron.
Ashamane was many things, but jealousy and pettiness were below her. Or so she'd said, when he'd asked if she wanted him to do as Thaon had. He'd sensed her preference of course, but she also knew that he'd befriended her compatriots, and for beings like them, 'mortal' friends were rather rare.
He intended to keep the Ashen's focus on the Cat Form of course, but he wanted them to be versatile as well. Any hunter knew well how useful adaptation was, and being able to fly or swim as fast as they could run would go far in keeping them alive. Thaon evidently expected him, as he had two students ready for what he'd told them was 'advanced training'. One was, of course, Delandros, but the other Laronar had not seen before.
As the two teachers conferred, Thaon explained. "I know we both expected Shimmermoon to excel, but this other one…Glaidalis. He was being taught Balance techniques, when his instructors sent him here to master his shapeshifting abilities. He's quite good."
Laronar had eyed the two then, who were still kneeling with the others despite the privacy of Thaon's home. "We will see. Any suggestions as to where we should train?"
Thaon shrugged. "You will find an abundance of power by Shaladrassil…just be wary around there. Malfurion imprisoned a bunch of foul Satyrs beneath its roots."
Laronar slowly arched an eyebrow. "He what? Satyrs are not Worgen…they're Demons. Corruption is their nature. Their mere presence could be enough to taint the Dream! We should kill them, and be done with it."
Thaon chuckled. "Exactly what I said, but our Shan'do insisted. It hasn't been an issue thus far, but still…avoid poking them. We've only so many World Trees."
Laronar nodded, and then glanced back at his contemporary. "How was Shaladrassil even planted here in the first place, anyways?"
Thaon waved a hand, clearly ready to move on with training for the day. "Ask the Ancient, Oakheart. He's a scion of the tree, apparently. Oh, and keep an eye out for the Tauren. They like to train by the tree as well."
Laronar's other eyebrow joined the first in surprise. "Tauren? Here? How is that possible?"
Thaon glanced at him, then nodded. "I suppose you were rather young at the time…the Highmountain Tauren, among others, are the ones who helped us against the Legion, back in the day. Cenarius himself favored their leader…erm…Huln. That was it. Huln Highmountain. He gave the Tauren moose antlers, after Huln demonstrated his loyalty to the Forest Lord, and all who live upon Highmountain shared in the blessing as well."
Laronar stared. "Moose antlers? You're sure?" Thaon had nodded, but Laronar had already shifted into a cat, and run outside. Delandros and Glaidalis followed him, ascending into the air as a pair of Stormcrows, following an owl as they rapidly flew north, with purpose. He hadn't forgotten the oddity of his old mentor, and it certainly explained it now, in hindsight. Kota had been from this region as well, but had been cut off from his people, and distracted, after agreeing to train him.
He'd eventually flown back though, or tried to. Nothing but foul rumor came from those who'd tried to cross the seas. The Maelstrom, as they'd called it, was still very much a whirling torrent of wind and water, but his mentor had also favored the sky, as Laronar had favored his Cat Form. If anyone could fly in a hurricane, for they had, on a few occasions, it was Kota of the Skyhorn.
He didn't quite know why he was moving with such purpose, but his instincts were telling him that speaking with these apparently peaceful, if not friendly, Tauren was a good idea. He'd seen Oakheart before, albeit at a distance. Koda had mentioned that he was one of the oldest trees here, and Val'sharah had only stayed so intact thanks in no small part to his efforts, and the World Tree's. She hadn't told him why Shaladrassil was here in the first place, though.
As the three birds came upon the town of Shala'nir, nestled in the roots of the massive tree, they spied Oakheart, surrounded by a semicircle of elven and unmistakably Tauren figures. The golden eyes of the Ancient followed them as they landed a distance away, and the rumbling baritone of the ancient tree continued, as he finished his lesson. Laronar waited patiently, arms linked behind his back. He knew better than to interrupt an Ancient.
The giant tree being finished his lecture, and those around him bowed, and then split. The elves went west, and the Tauren began saddling their moose mounts, and readied for the long climb to the east. Oakheart's footsteps shook the earth as he approached, but Laronar remained otherwise impassive. He felt the students behind him shift uneasily, and he smirked. Fighting larger, potentially stronger opponents was something they would need to get used to, but this was no enemy.
Oakheart ran three fingers through the flower studded beard of crimson-orange leaves before he spoke. "Mmmmmwhat...brings you to mine home...Laronar Stormclaw?"
Laronar bowed, and held it until the two students figured out they should bow as well. Thankfully, they were quick. "I've come for information, wise Ancient. I've spent the last several millennia on Kalimdor. I was not certain if there were Tauren out here, too."
The low rumble that echoed in their bodies could've been called a chuckle. "Yes...they live upon Highmountain...and descend on occasion for learning, trade, and mmMMMmmedicine. What interest does a...Night Elf have in the clans?"
Laronar's eyes darted to the group that was in the process of packing what looked like medicinal herbs onto their saddlebags. "My mentor, Kota, was of the Skyhorn. He had moose antlers…tell me, old one, did you ever meet him? It must have been around…fifty five hundred years ago now."
"HmmMMMMmmm…Kota, you say…" The Ancient rumbled, then turned, and waved the Tauren over. As the moose-men approached, they eyed the three elves with curiosity.
Their leader, a male with a rack that was, in a word, impressive, spoke for them. "What do you wish of us, Ancient one?"
Laronar glanced at the speaker, and then did a double take. His 'clothes' mostly consisted of leather straps about the furred, muscled chest, and a deep blue kilt that was adorned with eagle feathers, and the mark of what had to be an Ancient, judging by the power it gave off. What most caught his eye though, were the unmistakable facial similarities to his mentor. This Tauren was less scarred by war, and still in his prime, but there was no mistaking it. He was a passable recreation of his mentor, a descendant perhaps.
Oakheart spoke, and confirmed the elf's suspicions. "Archdruid Stormclaw...meet Kota...Skyspeaker of the Skyhorn clan...and the fifty second descendant of your mmMMmentor, each of whom has born his name, in honor of his deeds...and legend."
The Tauren's eyes went wide at the mention of his surname, and Laronar chuckled. "Fifty two generations…has it really been so long?" He moved his eyes to Kota's then. Old memories came back, memories of studying under a similar, but much harsher pair. "I knew your ancestor. He was a good friend of mine, and with his help, I was able to create a peaceful dialogue between my people in Kalimdor, and the Tauren who reside there as well. Last I heard, they were trading weapons and aiding each other against harpy raids."
The Tauren snorted, hard. "Harpy filth…so they attack us in Kalimdor as well, do they?" He snorted again, but Laronar was used to it. He had found that Tauren liked to punctuate their conversations with various physical displays. It had taken a while to understand, and his Taur-ahe was rather rusty.
"They do. They also learn from our Sruids…you may not be aware, but what your ancestor taught me has all but become the foundation of what our Circle calls the Feral Arts. Without him, we would be much less prepared to defend the world." The Tauren's face was unreadable as he listened to the elf's words, but did not meet his eyes.
"That is…heartening to know. I would beg a lesson from you some time, Archdruid. Learning directly from my ancestor's student would be…enlightening. Our Druids learn much here, in the shade of Shaladrassil, but much was lost in the Sundering. Ohn'ara still favors us, but the other spirits have either left, or gone silent, and those few who remain refuse to share with us as Ohn'ara has." The Tauren bowed formally as he spoke.
Laronar walked closer then, putting a hand on the massive furred shoulder."The Kota I knew all but saved me from growing up alone, with naught but my Stormsaber. He taught me the basics of all I have come to learn, and even now, I still draw on his wisdom. With your permission, I would travel to Highmountain with you, as a sign of friendship and good faith between our peoples. Reconnecting you with traditions you may have forgotten is the least I can do for my old mentor."
Kota glanced at the other Tauren, who eyed him in turn and, from their expressions, he saw them recognize the various Tauren influences on his choice of garb, as well as the power of the blessing Ashamane had given his kilt. They eventually nodded their assent, and Kota continued. "They will ascend the mountain with the mounts. You and I shall soar the skies, Laronar Stormclaw. Let us see if what you were taught holds up after a few thousand years."
Delandros chimed in from behind them then. "What of us, teacher?"
Laronar looked back at them, and smirked. "Oh, you're coming along too. Our peoples are going to have to coexist here for quite some time, and you will, eventually, be responsible for maintaining that relationship by passing on what you have learned to the Tauren as well as our own people. You might as well start building a dialogue now."
The quiet one, Glaidalis, spoke then. "I was told we would be receiving lessons from you, Archdruid. Is this not to be so? I do not wish to offend our friendly neighbors, but I would rather train, than socialize." Delandros nodded in agreement, and Kota gave a deep chuckle.
Laronar looked between the two of them. "Very well. You desire a lesson, and Kota wishes to see my skill in the skies. Let us accomplish both. Take your Flight Forms, Druids, today you are going to learn the hard reality of fighting in the sky whilst shifted."
Minutes later four birds, an eagle, an owl, and two Stormcrows, ascended to the peaks of Highmountain. Several Tauren hunters on the slopes took aim at them, though they paused once they spied the antlers poking from the eagle's head. Kota landed on a small patch of land surrounded by a waterfall that led to Ashamane's own grove below them.
Laronar's eyes spotted other druids below, and if he could've grinned with a beak, he would've. Evidently Thaon had an idea of what he'd intended to demonstrate. The two fledgling druids behind him were indeed skilled, but as birds, they had much to learn. He found a current of warm air by the waterfall that bordered Ashamane's shrine, and rose silently, quickly, without beating his wings.
The two Stormcrows struggled to keep up with the speed of his rise as they had not yet learned to fly with the wind, and with a shrill shriek that split the air, the two novices shared a look, and knew combat had begun. Laronar rode the warm air to its peak, flew straight up, and then came down again upside down, spinning to face them properly as he flared his wings and extended the talons. Glaidalis had evidently figured out how he'd risen so quickly, and used the warm air to curve away, and make his own upwards spiral. Delandros was not as adept, and the Archdruid's claw came away with blood and feathers as he passed by.
Seeing this, Glaidalis shifted in mid-air, cast a quick healing spell on his ally's wounded wing, and then shifted back to his Stormcrow shape, hurtling quickly after Laronar, who had circled around below them, flying just high enough over Ashamane's shrine for the others to get a good look. He saw Thaon watching with a smirk, and one of his owlish eyes gave the other druid a wink. Thaon laughed.
Glaidalis and Delandros came down quickly, spiraling down towards the owl at a much quicker pace, and only too late did they realize that by diving straight for him, the air that would cushion their speed, and prevent a crash, was no longer under them. Unused to their forms as they were, and with their speedy dive, neither noticed.
Laronar saw them coming, and tucked his wings close as they clawed at him, and hit empty air as he dropped like a stone towards the water below. Undeterred, the two speeding crows kept after him, until he flared his wings, and suddenly rose rapidly on one of the many strong updrafts that lined the falls, dodging them entirely as they soared too low at the wrong angle to catch the same breeze. Realizing too late what they were about to do, both novice druids shifted into their Bear Forms as they crashed into the water, and the rocks below. They emerged more embarrassed than hurt, and the owl landed before them.
Up above, Kota watched, seemingly amused. The Archdruid had proved he was what he claimed to be, a master shapeshifter, and he knew the skies as well as any of the Skyhorn druids. If not better. The Tauren inhaled sharply as he sensed a presence beside him. A faint outline of a white feathered figure that was, at a glance, a harpy, and at the same time, so much more, manifested beside him.
Ohn'ara had told him of the mistress of all flying creatures, the Wild Goddess Aviana, but he had never thought to see her, as she had reportedly fallen millennia ago in the ancient war. She gave a clicking chuckle at his reaction, patted his shoulder with an incorporeal, but still somewhat tangible white-feathered hand, and then gestured at the druids below as, from what he could hear, the Archdruid explained the basics of flying to the pair of damp students. The other Ashen had gathered as well, and now Thaon interjected too, with useful addendums about tail manipulation, and avoiding the urge to eat worms.
"They are good, yes? Quite good, quite good indeed. The owl, the owl, he's a funny one, that Druid. But alas, not to be mine, be mine." Aviana's voice was as faint as her form, and she turned to Kota then. "Your people, your people, and theirs, you should train here, I think, yes yes, on this very spot, this very spot! You are wise, wise to be cautious, but the elves of old these are not. You must come together, together in this new age of peace and growth. Yes, train and learn the ways of the sky, together. That will do...yes, that will do indeed."
The spirit faded back into the Dream, and Kota bowed low, having no doubt she yet listened. "As you wish, Mistress of the Sky, we shall endeavor to make it so." He heard the chuckle again, and Kota then shifted forms to soar below and join the other druids. As he let the wind carry him into the air, he squawked in surprise as he felt a rush of power. His feathers turned pure white, the aerodynamically challenged horns vanished, and his Flight Form became that of a white eagle, not all that dissimilar from Ohn'ara's own form, the one upon which all Highmountain druids called for such transformations.
Kota's piercing eagle screech echoed through the sky, and he circled the falls in a slow glide on his Tauren-sized wings. The elves shared a look, and Thaon grinned, then shoved Laronar forward towards the falls. The druid leapt into the air, and effortlessly rose above the falls once more. He was rapidly becoming thankful that he'd practiced flying around them, out of sheer boredom, when his 'housemates' had asked for privacy. He met the eagle's eyes then, and the two circled each other on the same level in the air. They came together once, clacked talons with the skill of those who had done this before, for Laronar did indeed know how to 'properly' duel in the sky, and the battle began.
Kota felt his patron's voice in his head again. "Show him, show him that cats belong on the ground… the sky, the sky is ours." Kota did as he was bid, or rather, he tried to. His Eagle Form was quick, and quite large, but Laronar had maneuverability, and a natural affinity for this kind of fight. To those watching, the two birds were a blur of talons and feathers, and after three raucous exchanges, they appeared to settle on a draw, lest they cause permanent damage beyond the bleeding gashes they'd thus far sustained. They landed then, and those watching below saw the flashes of green as they healed their wounds.
Glaidalis and Delandros joined their assigned teacher, as Thaon and his Ashen moved back towards his home in a pack. The remaining four druids shifted once more, and made their way to Thunder Totem. Laronar found that the Highmountain Tauren, while at first more than a bit suspicious, if not outright racist towards him and the other elves, also enjoyed the herb the Druids of the Claw had partaken of.
After suggesting they ease tensions and talk over a pipe of the stuff, the budding tempers had cooled, and before long, the Archdruid was regaling them in the bowels of the tribal city with tales of his mentor that, apparently, he had not shared with them, or that had been forgotten or otherwise perverted through word of mouth over the course of five millennia.
By the time the sun reached its zenith, the elves departed from Highmountain with well wishes, and promises of future rendezvous during which they could share stories, teachings, and of course, the herb. Delandros and Glaidalis made lasting connections as well, though Laronar privately doubted they would renew them when the mortality of their Tauren allies caught up to them, and ignored the elves.
They returned to Shaladrassil, and began to train in the advanced techniques their mentor wished for them to master, though it soon became obvious that Glaidalis was more interested in spellcraft and his own methods of shapeshifting than he was in listening to one who had mastered both in his time. In the end, it did not matter, for the exceptionally skilled druid became the Grove Keeper under the World Tree, charged with safeguarding it, the Dream, and the Satyrs who even then slumbered beneath. Delandros, on the other hand, learned well from both Laronar and Thaon, and it was only a few short years before he too was helping them train Ashen to become stronger defenders of nature.
Chapter 14: Shifting Sands
Chapter Text
Laronar Stormclaw spent three thousand years of his life in Val'sharah, and those days would be, in the future, fondly looked back upon as some of the most peaceful he ever had. As it turned out, he rather liked female druids, or rather, they seemed to like him, and his lack of a shirt. As he'd honed his skills in the Feral Arts further, usually by the advice of Ashamane herself, his elven form's cat-like influences had increased. His body became his strongest weapon, and the rippling muscles stood out rather obviously, drawing looks from all sexes, when he'd visit the Dreamgrove, or Shaladrassil. He increased his knowledge of healing as well, for Cenarius trained with whoever wished to learn from him, and his grove was often lined with eyes of druids from many sects, all eager to watch and learn from the Forest Lord himself.
After such an extended period of peace, his people had, upon repopulating from 'casual' relationships rather effectively, once more shifted to a preference for life mates, and children with two parental figures. In Val'sharah at least, where defending the Dream was something they could yet do while they were awake thanks to the Dreamway's connection, there were members of the Circle belonging to both sexes in ever-growing amounts. The mainland, by all reports, remained split as the druids there slumbered and dreamed.
Eventually, the split by gender made its way to Val'sharah as well, and Koda's generation of females became the only one, as the gender roles of their people were embraced, even in the isolation of Val'sharah. With this new decree from the mainland came several other apprentices that Laronar greeted with his usual ambivalence, though he would soon come to regret not checking to see who had trained them.
Eventually, he learned that Fandral had evidently managed to poison Val'sharah's opinion of him, as the Silithus bound druid had snuck an apprentice with an oversized mouth through the Dreamway portal. With his Highborne heritage once more common knowledge, those who studied under him differentiated themselves from the mainland druids, by claiming not to care. Anyone with eyes could see Ashamane favored him, and for her Ashen, that was enough for most of them to ignore his Highborne blood entirely.
Kota, the fifty second son of Kota, had eventually passed on, but Laronar had the distinct pleasure of being considered a family friend by his son and mate. His son, also Kota, went on to become a druid of the sky much as his ancestors had, and Laronar taught him as much as he could, and promised to continue to do so for all of his descendants, as long as he was able.
The immortal Archdruid lived through thirty two generations of his mentor's family line, and trained every one of them, when the time came. It was fair to say that, as the years passed, he spent more and more time around Highmountain. Several times he had even rallied the Ashen that he'd deemed were combat worthy, and had them sharpen their fangs on the harpies that ever plagued the Tauren. In this manner, he trained them for the wars that would inevitably come, and once they were ready, he gave them the title of Sharpclaw, and sent them on to guard the Dreamway portal beside Koda's own Druids of the Claw.
Despite his subtle notoriety, he did receive several offers for magical advice after word spread about his heritage, though he dissuaded most of those, as his knowledge of spellcraft was outdated at best. One invitation specifically came from a master of the spellcasting Balance Druids, a druid who had, in his day, been a master sorcerer of the Kaldorei Empire. Though not endowed with high blood, his magical might had made up for it, and the man, Isoraen Nightstar, had proven himself in the ancient war, and among the druids that followed immediately after.
It was safe to say that he was one of the founding minds behind their current balance spells, and his study of the craft never ceased. He had taken an interest in Laronar when he'd heard the feral Archdruid was a natural at fighting, and healing, but never seemed to call upon the spells that he had access to. His Sharpclaw students also tended to eschew the mixing of arcane and natural magic, in favor of more powerful healing, and thus survival.
Isoraen had come to him with an offer to share knowledge. He claimed that there were depths yet unplumbed by his Druids of the Moon, yet another sect Malfurion had ordered to train in Val'sharah, though their specialty was spellcraft, and most of them spent their waking hours in the Dream, or at the relatively close Temple of the Moon that had once been a part of Suramar. While still somewhat reluctant to consider himself a caster, Laronar had agreed to help his fellow Archdruid, and the two soon became good friends.
They had studied for well over a century before they made any real progress, for Laronar's skill with spellcraft had been genuinely unrefined, and most of the arcane learning had changed over the course of eight thousand years of druidic study and advancement. At the same time, some of the older Eldarath runes and sigils, what he could remember at any rate, had been new and ultimately useful to Isoraen in the long-term.
Once Laronar refined his arcane knowledge to Isoraen's satisfaction, the two began looking into ways to increase the Balance Druid's powers, and that, was where Laronar's expertise came in. They were sitting at one of the Moonwells within the Dreamgrove one evening, enjoying a bowl of the herb that had exploded in popularity once word got out that the Druids of the Claw had seeds, and were willing to give out more.
"Nothing you've taught me seems like it could become stronger, Isoraen. Your Arcane mastery surpasses mine, though I think I handle the natural magic as well as you. I do not know what you expected me to help you figure out, but it seems like our research of late keeps hitting dead ends." Laronar took a toke on the well-used cat-head pipe, amber eyes on the sparkling water before them.
"You have a perspective that I do not, Stormclaw. We are approaching this the wrong way. Don't try to increase the spell's power using one of my methods. We've reached the max potential, with our current knowledge at least, where spells are concerned. They aren't likely to change much from Sun, Moon, Wrath, and Starfire. Use a method that a master of the Feral Arts would. Surely there must be something." The azure-haired elf was staring at him, expectantly, and Laronar sighed.
"I...may know of something. One could argue that our Cat and Bear Forms enhance whatever fighting ability we have naturally, be it offensive or defensive, and lately, even in my true shape, I'm finding that I'm stronger. Enhanced by the connection to my patron. Master Elothir has a similar tactic, as you know. He fully embraced nature to better understand the Restoration Arts by enhancing his Treant form, and I would say it has succeeded." Isoraen nodded, and Laronar continued. "The next logical step would be to find a Wild God that has a connection to the Arcane arts. My first suggestion would be Ursol, but the Bear's form is primarily defensive. Some make good use of the combination between spellcraft and shifted form, but in my experience, they are still weaker compared to those like you."
Isoraen nodded again. "So we need to find a new Wild God, one in Balance with nature. It doesn't have to necessarily be part of a species that casts magic, either. The connection is what will strengthen our spells."
Laronar shrugged. "A magical connection would help, but I do not know of such a creature."
His contemporary grinned at him. "Don't you?"
When understanding failed to show, Isoraen took the druid to the very cave he inhabited, most nights, and shared with the small tribe of Moonkin that had descended from his original cavemates. Much like the seemingly endless line of Kota Skyhorn, they too had learned from the druid, though their knowledge had grown when it came to smoking, rather than combat or magic. He had considered them creatures of the world, sentient, capable of speech, but shy and still very much isolationist. They were to be defended, not thrust into danger. That mantle had, quite literally, been placed primarily upon his people, with all that Nordrassil represented.
Isoraen gathered the small tribe in the cave they called home, and as the two elves started another session of smoking and stories, the Balance Druid posed a question to them. "Tell me, allies of nature, do your people have a...deity or god that you all, more or less, pay homage to? You know, the way we elves praise Elune."
The assembled Moonkin hooted mirthful chuckles, and their current leader, a female by the name of Loonuru, answered him in surprisingly coherent elven, after passing on the smoldering pipe, and exhaling the pungent smell of the herb. "We praise the Moon Mother as you do, Star Elf. It is she who created us from her favored beasts of the land, and it is her influence we spread."
The two druids shared a look, and Laronar spoke then. "I think Isoraen means someone more akin to Ashamane. You know the panther. She lives rather close, and of course, within me." More mirthful hoots filled the cave.
Loonuru seemed to understand, more or less, and nodded. "There is one we tell tales of, a hero of our people, who in ages past fought for the Moon Mother, and was rewarded with power. Power not unlike what your people once indulged in...yet, the tales suggest it was more than simple arcane. Some believe this hero persists in the Green Beyond, and aids our people by way of reincarnation, in times of war. I have never seen him. Your kind travels there often, do you not know of Lunaclaw?"
Isoraen and Laronar shared another look. Both elves were smirking, now. This was the closest thing they'd had to a genuine breakthrough in years, and now they had a tangible trail to follow. Isoraen glanced around at the small tribe. "No, I cannot say that we do...but I intend to. Who here will come with us to find this Lunaclaw?"
The Moonkin murmured in low hoots, something that Laronar had come to see as a sort of secondary language, that only they understood. Having lived with them for millennia though, and realizing his Owl Form could understand such sounds on instinct, he divined that they were afraid to travel to the Dream. To them, it was the afterlife, a place to go only when dead. Only the mysteriously powerful Kaldorei had ever traveled to and from that place where demigods dwelled.
Loonuru seemed unphased by the idea though, and since she had come from elsewhere before coming to lead the small tribe, who admired her beauty and knowledge, she was likely used to travel. Many of those hatched here did not wander far from the cave, and attempts by Laronar to bring them elsewhere had been adventurous, but ultimately they seemed to prefer staying in their home, smoking the days away.
Ultimately only she proved willing enough to brave the Dream, and that was only after she had extracted oaths from the druids, and bound them with feathers from their Flight Forms, and some vines. She hung the symbol of their pact around her neck, and then journeyed the short distance to the Dreamgrove, and the portal to the other plane of existence.
The Ashen who guarded the physical entrance alongside a pair of Koda's own Druids of the Claw gave them a strange look as the two elder members of their order herded a Wildkin through the portal, claiming it was all for the advancement of knowledge. Once within, the properly awed Loonuru performed a simple ritual, normally used for gaining guidance by way of communing with nature.
What she found, was the Forest Lord. Once she'd finished casting her ritual spell, a whirling storm of emerald energy manifested before the three, and Cenarius formed from it, glancing down at them with a raised eyebrow. "Laronar Stormclaw, and Isoraen Nightstar. It has been some time. Did you require my aid?"
The two druids bowed in the Kaldorei fashion, and bowed low. All who resided in the Dreamgrove had, at one point, studied with their strongest natural ally by way of the Dreamway, and the closeness to his own grove. Even now, that grove was likely where his physical body rested, as his mind traveled the Dreamscape.
"No, Forest Lord." Laronar said, as he stood, and stretched his limbs with a satisfying crack. He gestured then to Loonuru, who had become shy, and quiet, in the presence of such an obvious force of nature made manifest. "This one would ask your aid. There is one within the Dream who we are looking for. Lunaclaw, apparently. Isoraen and I believe that with his knowledge, we can make our spellcasters even more powerful, perhaps even on par with the sorcerers of our bygone empire."
Cenarius chuckled, and the Moonkin seemed to, like everything else around them, relax and feel more at peace. The overwhelmingly powerful, and almost fatherly presence of the Forest Lord affected everything around him, and in the Dream, this was much more obvious. "Malfurion is a step ahead of the two of you. He has been training with that very spirit for some time now, at least since he last awakened to stretch his limbs."
The druids shared a look. "Shan'do, the last time Malfurion walked Azeroth was when Vordrassil was broken…" Laronar said, arching a brow. "That was almost...what, just over thirty two hundred years ago? He's been training that long? Alone?"
Isoraen shrugged. "If he's followed the same logic we have, he could be much stronger as a caster, by now…"
Cenarius gave a chuckle that had a bit of a darker undertone to it. "You could say that." The blazing amber orbs focused on the Moonkin. "Be welcome here, child of nature. You have sought honest guidance, and I freely give it. Follow the path to your hero."
Loonuru looked slightly dazed, as a flash of green briefly surrounded her head, but she shook it off, and nodded, then bowed as well. She hooted a series of noises Laronar had never heard, but of course, Cenarius understood, and the eyes grew distant. "You should stay close to the font of life, if that is your desire. And I do not mean Val'sharah." He looked up then in a specific direction, and the eyes narrowed. Cenarius sighed deeply. "I must go. Something has gone...amiss. Do not distract Malfurion from finishing his training."
With that, the Forest Lord vanished again, as the energy that was his dreamform blazed towards the direction he'd faced. In the chaos that was the Dream, Laronar had no sense of directions, and in his limited experience, they didn't matter much here.
Loonuru led them well, and with the presence of two who were as much keepers of the Dream as the green dragons, they avoided angering or running afoul of the numerous fae creatures that flitted about the strange, spiral-shaped bioluminescent trees all around them. They had been walking the Dream for what felt like several hours, much harder while still having their bodies, when out of nowhere, a transparent gold-feathered Wildkin appeared in front of them, and held up a paw in the universal motion for 'wait'.
A low hum of some kind of energy, likely from a spell, filled the air. Then, came the boom. An explosion of burning sparkles lit the landscape before them as beams of fire from the sun and the moon strafed the area. Loonuru hooted a question at the ghostly figure, namely about who he was, but the creature had simply winked at her, and then vanished as suddenly as he'd appeared.
Another series of booms soon followed the first, and the three watched as the land being pounded by the explosive series of spells seemed all but unaffected by them. Any damage righted itself in moments, ready for another barrage. The two elder druids had quickly pinpointed the source of the magic, and spied a Wildkin with a truly impressive set of antlers, casting from atop a nearby cliff, wreathed in lighting and arcane power.
They took the long way around, but by the time they reached the top, the Wildkin was gone, and all that remained was an incorporeal Malfurion, drinking some sort of sparkling liquid from a nearby flower that, from the look of it, contained a source of water within its bulb. Though Laronar could not recall ever having seen rain in the Dream.
He turned as he saw them, and smiled. "Stormclaw and Nightstar. I might've known. What brings you so deep into the Dream, old friends?"
The two druids bowed, and Loonuru joined them as well. Even among Moonkin, Malfurion Stormrage had a reputation. Isoraen spoke this time, as he was the one heading this venture, mainly. "We've come seeking the spirit of Lunaclaw, in an effort to enhance the spellcasting abilities of the Druids of the Moon."
Malfurion nodded to himself, and chuckled. "I expected one of my Druids might come looking some day." The now burning amber orbs moved to Laronar. "But I did not expect Ashamane's Chosen to be with you. You do not like walking this realm."
Laronar shrugged. "I could not spend millennia in but a dream of the living world, no. But I do not dislike it. I understand its importance. I will answer the dragon's call to defend it. I do not wish to reside here, though. Not yet, anyways. Not until I'm little more than a wisp."
The elder druid chuckled again. "Even wisps defend the Dream. Come, sit, there is much I can tell you to aid your cause, I think." The eyes shifted to Loonuru, and he nodded his antlered head towards her. "And who have you brought with you?"
"A local from the tribe of Moonkin I sometimes stay with. She is seeking Lunaclaw, as well." Laronar said, motioning for her to sit as well around the triangle of shaped logs that passed for the Archdruid's resting area.
Malfurion nodded. "That was who kept you from being caught in my spells earlier. He is a good friend, and a kind spirit. His time of rebirth is soon as well, or so he keeps telling me."
Isoraen spoke then. "There was another we saw, casting the spells. Who was that, Shan'do?"
Malfurion chuckled, and then pointed to himself. "Me. In a form designed for casting and enhancing our spells." He looked at the two druids again and chuckled. "I think I can guess how you came to think arriving here would lead you to advanced learning, and it has. You were wise to seek a master of shapeshifting Isoraen. Has his aversion to casting faded?"
Laronar rolled his eyes, and the Druid of the Moon chuckled. "Not entirely...but he knows as much as any student I have given the title of Balance Druid to."
Malfurion's gaze fell on Laronar again. He met it evenly, but without challenge. Malfurion had made it clear early on in their shapeshifting training that, in all their arts, he was a prodigy. Still, he'd never actually outright beaten Laronar, as the two had only wrestled to a draw when they had clashed in their Cat and Bear forms, and eventually, they'd stopped risking serious injury just to test something as arbitrary as personal strength. "So you have mastered the animal totems, healing arts, and now our spells. Am I correct?"
Laronar glanced at Isoraen, who kept his face neutral, but he nodded all the same. "I am more skilled with the first two, but I could instruct a novice in the ways of Balance casting, yes."
Malfurion nodded. "Then I congratulate you, Laronar Stormclaw. I had hoped you may one day reach this level, so very few ever do, but after I'd heard of your warranted hesitance with spells, I didn't think it would happen."
Laronar arched a bushy green eyebrow. "Level? To which level are you referring?"
Isoraen spoke up then. "The level that all current Archdruids, with the exception of yourself and a few...overzealous followers of Ursoc, are expected to have mastered. We just finished your training, which technically, makes you what Shan'do Cenarius calls a 'Druid of the Wild'. One who has mastered the arts of each branch of Druidism."
Laronar shrugged. "I wouldn't call myself a natural spellcaster…"
Malfurion chuckled, and drew some sort of edible root from one of his many pouches. His dreamform brightened as the semi-corporeal form gnawed on it. "Not in that Form, no...Ashamane's influence has shifted you to a more natural power. That is why you can reach out to the Spirit of the Wilds so easily. I've learned what she is out here, you know. As will you, in time. You were right to choose a Moonkin spirit, but as you likely know, they were made for the Mother Moon, and are as much her children as nature's."
He leaned in then, and the other two druids, with their Moonkin ally, did the same as the Archdruid's tone went low. "The Moon Goddess, from what I have divined in my...limited knowledge... has been shown to have power over the healing light, and the arcane, amongst other forces. Her aspects are many, but for our interests, it is the moon's arcane power that the Moonkin tap into so well, and fuse with the natural powers of the world. The Tauren have made a similar connection, though they view it as an eye of a deity. The fact remains that they draw arcane power from the moon as well. Lunaclaw thinks there is a source of mana up there, but I suppose we will never find out."
Laronar nodded. As was common amongst the scattered and free Kaldorei, those who could fly had, early on usually, tested the heights of their flight range. Many had discovered, sometimes to mortal peril, that at some point, the sky's air ran out, and without a means of sustaining it, they would soon pass out. More than a few druids had fallen prey to frozen wings as well, and it had since been strongly advised that, if they wished to test their skills, they do so against Hyjal's height, or in Val'sharah's case, the neighboring Highmountain.
Isoraen spoke then, "So where is this Lunaclaw? I wish to try this Form...and I wish to see what it does for that one." He nodded at the Feral Druid. "He could potentially match you, Shan'do. The Highborne blood is strong, though he won't admit it."
Laronar sighed, and Malfurion laughed. "We will soon see. Come, my friends. I will show you what I have learned…"
Some Time Later…
Time was a bit wobbly in the Dream, one of the many reasons Laronar disliked walking it. He could be gone for years sometimes, awakening to find that in those years, close friends had passed on, and new generations had replaced them. Koda had eventually suggested that he should make stronger ties to those who would not perish so easily, that he invited perpetual heartbreak if he did not, but he insisted on his involvement with the Moonkin and the Tauren.
Both tribes saw him as a wise elder, an ally, even if he was Kaldorei, and a bit...feral. Such things did not bother the mortal races, though truthfully, only the Skyhorn of Highmountain liked him. Many of the other tribes had snorted in distrust upon learning of the 'position' he'd supposedly had in their empire. Nevermind that he'd been a child, or even a 'rebel'. The Skyhorn, at least, understood he was a kind spirit, and every Kota he trained reminded the naysayers of that fact.
Learning under Malfurion again had awakened old memories of the days when they had eagerly, and unknowingly more often than not, attempted to contact a new Ancient, and hopefully gain their form. The Moonkin's form was rather different to the others he had taken in the past. He felt the Moon Goddesses' presence constantly while he casted, and it made his hackles rise. Her staring was ceaseless, and the more he used her form, the more he felt a growing sense of disappointment from the spirit just outside the reach of his senses. She was no Wild God, of that he was certain, but there were enough similarities between how he drew from Ashamane, and how Isoraen drew from her, to make him wonder.
Eventually, his unsettled feeling began to show in their training. Isoraen, being what he was and having a personal faith that was, in a word, unshakeable, had excelled, and it was clear he was enjoying the form, the progress he was making, and learning once more under Shan'do Stormrage. Training sessions with the master Archdruid were always...unique.
For Laronar, they brought a growing sense of irritation, anger, and frustration. His spells did not, as Isoraen termed it, 'boom' like his own and Malfurion's. Strangely, Malfurion had remained silent when asked his opinion of why the Feral Druid was having such difficulty.
Isoraen had remained puzzled, and eventually, as he always did, Laronar turned to the Wild Gods, his oldest friends for advice in this latest of his endeavors. Strangely though, while they were glad to hear from him, they pointedly avoided his question, and as always, forcing the ancient entities to give him an answer would end in failure. Even Ashamane had hesitated, and advised him not to worry about it. She had quoted the Kota who had mentored him then, and told him to continue to practice until he got it right. It was clear she had an idea of the issue, but in the end, there was only one of the Wild Gods who was more than happy to give the frustrated Feral Druid an honest answer.
The Wolf Ancient had, for obvious reasons, been one of the last Laronar sought wisdom from, but as the powerful tones of Goldrinn thundered with the ring of truth, and genuine power within the Feral Druid's skull, he once more found himself admiring the wolf's desire to embrace his natural power, regardless of the Moon's opinion. "The Moon Goddess is a harsh mistress. She demands the best of those she grants her power to, and always, she has held a…prrrrejudice for those like you and I. I have watched you a long time, Laronar Stormclaw. I sense a kindred spirit...one that, upon the advisement of my fellows, I have decided to trust." The wolf ancient had inclined his head in respect, through his visage within the Dream. "Always know that when, not if, the Moon abandons you because you are too 'savage', My power will be here...waiting to embrace you, a true child of the Wilds, as the Moon never could."
Laronar's eyes shot open from his trance, as he'd been sitting cross-legged. He found himself sweating, and moreover, the most famous druid in existence was sitting across from him. Staring. Malfurion's thick green eyebrows crashed together as they saw Laronar's expression. "So. You have an idea of what is holding you back. I expect you're rather...angry?"
In truth, he hadn't been, until the Archdruid insinuated he already was. Laronar felt the rage rise, and he snarled, despite himself. "I don't...I don't understand her reasoning. My family gave a mother and daughter to the Moon's service. They died defending Her temple, when all the other Sisters had ridden off to the front lines. I lost both of them, largely because their devotion put them directly in the Demon's path, and now I am judged to be 'lesser' because I embrace the true nature of the Wild Gods!?"
Malfurion sighed. "You have a choice to make. Though I suspect I know which you will choose...if you embrace the Moon, and put your faith in Her, as we have, you will likely have access to impressive spells, as we do."
Laronar stared at him. "I do not require the Moon's aid to cast spells, and the alternative is a Pack Form granted by Goldrinn himself with the promise not to drive me mad with fury. The Wolf Ancient may be too 'savage' for Elune's liking, but his word is more than enough for me. He at least knows himself, and does not shy from what he is!"
Malfurion's eyes darkened. "We have been down this road, Laronar. The Pack Form will never be mastered. If you accept the Wolf's offer, you will lose the Moon's favor. It will weaken you greatly. That much, I know."
"This would be much easier if I could but simply talk to her...but I have never heard her voice, or felt her presence. Not even when her light has mended my wounds. Not one single time, over the better part of eight thousand years, Malfurion. Is that truly so much to ask? One audience? Even the Zandalari's Loa gave me at least that, before demanding my total devotion for their power." He met Malfurion's gaze, evenly. "Goldrinn said it himself. I am a child of the Wilds. Not the Moon."
Very suddenly, and without warning, a familiar pair of orbs, one blue, and small, one white, and impossibly bright, appeared in the aether that was the Dream's sky. Isoraen and Malfurion knelt. Laronar stood, wincing as he stared the two down. This, at least, was a tangible method of communicating. It was to be short lived, however. Moonlight surrounded him, but as he opened his mouth to petition the Goddess of his people with the respect he, even then, felt she was due, he found himself unable to make a sound. Instead, a feminine and unfamiliar voice filled the area.
Your choice is made. My light will no longer guide you. Embrace your savagery, and waste your potential, if that is your true desire.
Just as suddenly as she'd appeared, she vanished, bringing the smaller moon with her. Once more the sky was emerald, and opaque. Isoraen gasped as he looked at the Feral Druid he'd come to like, and Malfurion sighed. "It seems you have what you desired. But you will never be considered a Druid of the Wild while your spellcasting is, undoubtedly, crippled."
Laronar's brow furrowed. "I can still become a Moonkin. I can still use the power of Nature's spells. I freely give up the Arcane if I must, as I have before. I do not need it."
Malfurion sighed, and with a wave of his hand, created a small, still pool of water in a natural depression of the Dream's landscape. "You have lost much more than the Arcane, Laronar Stormclaw. I tried to warn you. You may come to regret this choice."
Laronar gazed at the pool, and his amber eyes widened. Gone was the pale, light blue skin of a Highborne. Now, it was darker, more blackish purple, and unquestionably more savage. His elven form had a feral leanness to it that he'd seen before in starving wild animals, and while his muscles were still impressive, they were almost too defined. To the point that he almost seemed to be starving, or for lack of a better word, feral. His eyes burned with a rage and intensity that, before now, he had hidden well. He smirked as he eyed his familiar, and yet brand new visage. It would do nicely for intimidation, though it would likely dissuade any lingering female gazes. At that moment, he didn't much care. He had about as much success with the fairer sex as he did balance spells. They went off, but he could rarely get them or their effects to stick.
As he saw what the Moon Goddess had wrought upon his form, a change he had not requested, and felt more than a little irritated by, he decided that he had been correct in his choice. Elune had stifled his tongue in his first ever audience, when the Ancients had at least heard him out. She had shifted his form without his permission or desire, something every single other Ancient had been hesitant to do, at first. She had been silent throughout his life, whereas the guardians of nature had always left him with wisdom to ponder, even if they considered him a nuisance at first. He knew who he would give his life, and power, to. Those who deserved it.
"So be it. I will leave you and Isoraen to master the Moonkin Form…" He shifted as he spoke, and examined his Wildkin shape. Gone was the healthy bulk. His form was thin, ragged, almost sickly looking, and he felt an irritation grow at the back of his neck the longer he held the shape. He dropped it again, quickly. "This is for those who desire stronger spells. Our Feral Druids should focus on the shapes they always have. This one should be kept...exclusive. Separate from those who embrace the Wilds. It seems that is what Elune desires."
He walked off with an irritated snarl then, leaving Isoraen and Loonuru to train alone with Malfurion. He felt a hand on his shoulder as he paused before the shimmering trees that did not cover the rise the Archdruid had made his camp upon. "Hold a moment, Laronar. Where do you intend to go?"
He met the Archdruid's gaze evenly, and saw Malfurion flinch under the hardness of it. For some reason, that felt more than a little satisfying. "I am going to enhance my own craft, and the tools I will need for whatever war we are called to next." He shrugged the hand off his shoulder, ready to stride forward into the unknown, but paused, and turned to Malfurion. "I have never believed it is my place to intrude on your personal business Shan'do...but it has been over three thousand years since last you walked the waking world's lands. From what little gossip I hear...your mate misses you, and three millennia of training is more than enough for a well earned, if brief, respite I think. Just something to consider, once you have finished here."
The other druid regarded him for a long time, and as the seconds ticked by, Laronar began to worry that he'd finally overstepped. But, he reasoned, someone had to tell him. As far as he was aware, Malfurion had been all but isolated since breaking Vordrassil. Finally, he spoke. "Your words are...appreciated, old friend. Indeed, I cannot claim to know the Moon's power if I ignore one who is regularly blessed by it. I will return to the waking world soon for a lesson. Travel safely, Stormclaw."
The two druids bowed, and then parted. Laronar felt Ashamane as he strode boldly into the wilds of the Dream. She knew what he intended, and guided him to where the other Wild Gods resided. First, was Ursol. He found the magically inclined bear in a mirror of what the Grizzly Hills had once looked like, before Andrassil was planted, and shifted through several layers of the Dream, an even more difficult process while still corporeal, until he found the right one. A more recent version, this layer of the ephemeral realm depicted an unbroken Andrassil, and the spirits of deceased Furbolgs walked the area in peace, giving him nods of respect as he sought out their master.
He described to the wise old bear what he intended, and after completing a series of semi-meaningless tasks for the Ancient that evidently greatly aided his people, the bear agreed to empower his kilt with the strength of both brothers, as Ashamane had. A minor blessing by all accounts, but still one very much treasured, as it would strengthen his Bear Form, and enhance his natural defenses in all the others.
He continued his walk, then guided always by Ashamane's wisdom. He found Aviana, and begged from her a blessing as well. Though the Ancient he spoke with who represented the Owl Form he took did not show themself, Aviana agreed to enhance his form. It seemed she, like Goldrinn, did not approve of what Elune had done to him, but he was not so prideful as to refuse her pity. Even one blessing could mean the difference between surviving, and dying. Once he departed from Shaladrassil's vestige on the Dream plane, for that was where Aviana now resided as she recovered, he sought out other Ancients.
Tortolla and Agamaggan gave what they deemed worth giving, marking his garment with similar paw marks. The power of each Wild God complemented the other's nicely, and he began to understand why such blessings seemed common amongst his fellow Archdruids. When he finally came upon Malorne, or rather, those who served the revered father of Cenarius, they had offered instead to enhance what Ashamane had given his gauntlets, to make the enchantment as immortal as he was, tied to his very life essence. He made sure that they would bond with the essence of whoever took them up after his eventual demise, and departed after profusely thanking the wise stag spirits.
He ventured on in the Dream without a direction then, as Ashamane had led him to every Ancient she knew of. She warned him that seeking others was to court death, but seek them he did. After hours, or perhaps days, of fruitless searching, he found a quiet place to meditate, and water that seemed safe to drink, according to the nearby fae dragons.
He thought for a long while then. On life, nature, Balance of course, and then finally, he pondered the Dream itself. Why did the Makers refer to it as a Dream? The green dragons had always been tight lipped about the mysterious figures from prehistory, but even the Kaldorei had discovered traces of the ancient past. It was impossible not to, with an empire that spanned the world.
He pondered the concept of gods then, naturally comparing the Wild Gods to Elune. Some seemed much weaker by comparison, but Malorne, perhaps, could match her. She was said to have taken the White Stag as a consort, to create Cenarius after all, and he doubted courting a Goddess or an Aspect was an easy task. Nobody ever really agreed on who Malorne had gone with, though, Elune or Ysera. The green dragons had, in his experience, been of the opinion that it did not matter who'd mothered the Forest Lord. He shared close ties to all three of them, for his visage had adorned the Kaldorei's temples right beside the Moon's.
Laronar sighed heavily, and muttered, mostly to himself before toking on his cat-head pipe. "Where is the god that embodies the Wilds? Where is the god who won't judge me for embracing my nature?"
His hackles rose then, as quite suddenly, and from seemingly nowhere, multiple familiar and yet powerful presences suddenly filled the small glade. The fae dragons blinked away, more by instinct than anything, and he looked around at the familiar faces, realizing now that he'd spoken with each at one point or another. Some, rather recently. Their paw marks upon his kilt flared in their presence.
Ashamane was grinning, grooming a paw beside Goldrinn, who drifted forward. His form was akin to Cenarius' in that it was more energy than physical matter, which made sense, for most here had fallen to the demons, on the waking plane. "I did warn you, did I not? The Moon is a judgemental mistress." The wolf snorted, irritated, and many of the others gathered, who by his recollection also held the Moon in high esteem, glared at the arrogant wolf.
The large midnight furred panther growled softly at the wolf, and all hushed as the panther spoke. "You should not encourage this…idiocy. Your useless quarrel has now weakened one of the world's defenders. No matter what we teach him, he will be less than he could be. That is the Goddess' punishment." The burning eyes shifted to her pupil, who had a sudden urge to pack his pipe away. "You should be on your knees before that Moon Priestess she so loves, asking, nay Begging, forgiveness. But you're too proud for that."
Laronar glanced around at each of those gathered, smirking slightly as he saw a spirit he didn't recognize, but that could only be the patron of his Owl Form, that so loved riddles and clever conversations. It was as white as the moon, with antlers to rival Cenarius, and it winked at him with a large eye, as it stayed in the background, listening and not missing a word.. Goldrinn barked back at the panther. "None should be expected to apologize for their own nature. It is absurd, and You know it. She would turn on you as well, were you to truly bare your fangs."
The sleek cat continued licking her paw, but one eye, the closest to the wolf, opened, and the others, Laronar included, stiffened as they felt her killing intent. That feeling prey got when it was locked in the eyes of a Nightsaber. "Unlike some, I only bare my fangs when I intend to kill…"
The wolf gave a low snarl, and the panther's lips pulled back as she hissed in return, but before the bickering could devolve into a brawl, Laronar stood, and spoke loudly, physically, the non-mental words cut through everything else. "Enough! Is there a point to all of...this? Why have you all come? Tell me that at least, before you start weakening your Dreamforms in pointless combat."
The two bickering Ancients shared a look, and the wolf huffed, in his manner of laughter. "Fine. He is right, there are more important things we must be doing." He stepped up to the druid, crossing the water of the small oasis easily to loom over the now darker toned elf. "For eight millennia, you have shown a dedication to defending the natural world, to helping us, and others like us who could not be here, that has not been seen amongst your kind for...a very long time. You have done so at the expense of the Moon's blessing. As I promised...the power of the Wilds will not abandon you as Elune has."
With that, the massive wolf turned his head to the sky, and howled, summoning forth another presence, one the Feral Druid had contacted only once, and only briefly. He felt the power of the very Spirit of the Wilds from before surge within him again, and then all at once, he knew exactly why his instinct had driven him to defend the world, and the Dream. He also knew, and accepted, that he would be defending Her until the day he finally passed on. He could think of no better way to go. Orange-gold and blue power suffused his form as the Ancients bowed their heads to the overpoweringly massive mental presence the wolf Ancient had summoned in their midst.
Laronar looked at his right hand, covered in Nordrassil's bark, and clawed. He curled it into a fist, and placed it over his heart. "I...understand. What we do...we do for Azeroth herself. My strength...is Hers." Goldrinn pulled back his lips into a grin, and nodded in approval. Behind him, Ashamane rolled her eyes.
Ahn'Qiraj - Silithus
Some people are born without any kind of greater plan for their existence. Some, find themselves involved in such a plan over the course of said existence, but every once in a while, there are those who are born at the whim of entities beyond their scope of knowledge and understanding. Such entities, manifestations of the Void itself, are quite adept at planning, and so it was that as Azeroth's nascent Titan stirred in the Dream, a curious young druid, the offspring of one who served the Old Gods well, was wandering in dark places, best left untouched, at the behest of his banished father. They were attempting to regrow Silithus, and return to the Circle's good graces. By no coincidence did these two events occur almost simultaneously, for the Old Ones had seen the Timeways, and knew the ultimate fate of this planet. Or at least, the one they desired for her.
Yessendra, one of several druids who had been ordered to accompany Valstann Staghelm on their efforts to revitalize Silithus, let the Starfire fly, and it brought down the giant wolf-faced stone colossus that had come to life after they'd entered these strange ruins. It had chased them far, but they had weakened it with numerous attacks as they ran, and finally, it fell.
As it did, a low hum filled the air, and the druids shifted shape, running from the ruined city, and darting across the sand as a pack of cheetahs, towards the small outpost they'd made just outside the ruins. The sky above the strange, unknown city filled with millions of dark, winged shapes as the entity below them drove them into a frenzy of madness, with a single purpose.
Retake the world, for C'thun.
As the elves watched, more giant wolf-faced statues began to rise from the sands of the ruined city, and each of them towered over the walls as the insectoid things encircling them spiraled into the air. Valstann spoke, eyeing the absurd number of massive enemies. They had barely managed to take down one, and that was after losing their Druid of the Claw in sacrifice. "Yessendra...go back to the Hold...warn my father...tell him to call for aid. We...we're going to need everyone."
Yessendra gave a growl of acknowledgement, and then sprinted for the Cenarion Hold.
Though word of the insect horde's coming had been given, many who journeyed with Falstann died, usually in a stalling tactic, until they were inevitably overrun. The insects, whatever they were, outnumbered the elves in the area by a great margin, and they ran unchecked over Silithus, quickly forming new hives as they did.
Fandral was not idle, however. The Cenarion Hold had, by way of its Lord's authority, access to Moon Priestesses, druids of various sects, and of course, the primarily male Cenarion Infantry, heavy-armored soldiers of the Circle who, while lacking druidic powers, more than made up for that with their glaive-wielding prowess.
Elven forces that received Fandral's call for aid throughout much of Feralas, namely panther-mounted Sentinels, climbed the treacherous mountains into the area known as Silithus, and almost immediately, found themselves fighting through the swarm, with some success, and minimal casualties, though many had deep cuts by the time they arrived at the Hold.
Fandral had put them to work, as their own forces had already formed battle lines against the swarm, and as the eastern forces grouped with the aid from the west, the apparent leader of these numerous bugs found himself losing soldiers, rapidly. The fighting went on for days, but eventually, the elves managed to push further south than they had since the conflict began.
It was as the spires of the city they had learned was called Ahn'Qiraj came into view that Fandral Staghelm received the information that would seal his fate. Southwind Village, the only elven village in this sandy death pit, was under attack. Though it was now behind their front lines, Fandral knew they needed to send aid to that vital outpost that held and supported the eastern flank's soldiers, and ultimately, that aid was given in the form of his own son.
Days passed, and the elves saw only the ground variants of the bugs, their winged leaders, those the ground-pounders seemed directed by when they were hovering above the field, remained unnervingly absent. Fandral used the brief respite in the sudden and massive assault to call for yet more aid, but unfortunately for him, it would come too late.
After three days, they learned where Valstann and his forces had ended up. Their general, the one the Silithid called Rajaxx, demonstrated to Fandral Staghelm exactly what kind of war this was going to be by tearing his son in half before the banished Archdruid's eyes. Hive'Regal and Hive'Zora's forces, now melded and even at that moment reinforcing the main swarm, thundered down against the elven infantry, and purple limbs alongside sprays of blood filled the air. The lines buckled, and the disheartened Staghelm was forced to retreat.
The elve's tactics were thankfully well adapted to facing an enemy that was legion, and constantly on the advance, and as with the demons, they were driven back hard, wherever the bugs met them in decent numbers. The Sentinel army had made way for the Un'goro Crater as the first reports of the enemy came in. They intended to use their skill in the trees to fight off the hordes, and provide shelter for the druids and priestesses fleeing the area.
The few living Priestesses of the Moon covered the Cenarion force's retreat, and their spells wrought a massive toll amongst the newly awakened bugs. Eventually, all the elves had retreated into the crater, and whatever controlled the bugs pulled them back. The Sentinels began ordering those who yet lived, and new reinforcements arrived by the hour, all of them hiding in the gloom of the ancient trees that seemed to repel the bugs.
The Dreamgrove - Val'sharah
Laronar stumbled out of the Dreamway, muttering to himself in an older elven dialect, still pondering what he'd been shown. He looked up as he heard a familiar roar, from Delandros Shimmermoon, as usual in his cat shape. He had asked how Laronar had gotten so strong with his own, and aside from having eight thousand years of practice, more or less, on him he'd said that spending time in the form strengthened the bond between elf and animal, and that fighting the urge to be one, was as pointless as fighting one's self.
The sleek panther shifted as he landed from one of the higher branches above the portal with the same gracefulness most cats had. He bowed. "Shan'do Stormclaw...finally. We have been unable to reach you. You are needed. Now."
Laronar slowly arched an eyebrow, and then looked at the Dreamgrove. It was far more lively than he'd ever seen it, and over the past several millennia, after all the shaping and necessary building had finished, it had taken on an almost serene silence. That was gone now, as a sloth of bears rumbled by them, through the Dreamway portal. They were outfitted with bark armor, and Laronar sighed. Only one thing could disturb the peace like this. "Who are we fighting this time? Did the Satyrs under Shaladrassil finally wake up?"
Delandros looked alarmed. "The what!? No, not...Satyrs...probably? Are there really Satyrs beneath it? They shouldn't be anywhere near the tree! They're Dem-"
Laronar held up a hand. "I know. I taught you most of what you know of Demons, remember? Though I am impressed you found that Succubus coven in Azsuna. They're hard to track by smell."
The Sharpclaw smirked. "Mine wasn't. So you don't know about the war, then? You were in the Dream for the past week." Like the other druids, he too was dressed for war, and it seemed that this time, their respective units would be sharing a set of armor. Leafy pauldrons of familiar, if slightly more serrated leaves now adorned the Ashen druid, and he had a kilt that was green and brown, though different in design from Laronar's. His hands also sported similar, if less bulky, wooden gauntlets that ended in impressive claws, and while Laronar's chest was, as always, lacking a shirt, the Ashen had evidently opted for some kind of chest protection, in the form of criss-crossing leather straps with various druidic runes inscribed on the leather.
Laronar nodded, smirking at how well his longtime apprentice had copied his own attire, and still managed to keep his personal influences as well. "I suppose I was. Tell me. Who is heading this...new war?"
"Shan'do Stormrage and the High Priestess know of the danger. Shan'do woke up several days ago, and not long after, Archdruid Staghelm called for help, from Silithus. The world is again in danger of being overrun by darkness. It has fallen to us to defend Kalimdor." Delandros handed him a similar pair of leather straps, and Laronar sighed, putting them over his chest. They were rather comfortable though, for chest attire, and they enhanced what little magic he had access to still.
"Malfurion will always have my strength, should he need it, but I wouldn't be surprised if Fandral was the reason behind this whole conflict. I told you, and now you have your proof. He's doomed to be drawn into trouble." Delandros bowed to the crotchety druid's wisdom, as Laronar continued eyeing the various sects of druids, each garbed differently, but appropriately for their chosen specialization. He spied the Druids of the Moon, and a familiar figure among them, like the others, adorned with an appropriate blending of natural wood, and moon related sigils.
Laronar looked around Delandros then as yet more druids moved through the portal, presumably towards the tree Fandral had planted in Feralas. "Where are the others? And Thaon?"
Delandros chuckled. "They're around. As for Shan'do Moonclaw, he was ordered to stay here, and train yet more Ashen. Malfurion tapped you to lead us in the war effort, but you were nowhere to be found."
Laronar kept shifting his eyes around Delandros, and finally, he understood what kept lingering in the corner of his vision. He let out a sharp whistle, one he usually used to call the Sharpclaws, and those who wished to be among their number, to attention. Over thirty pairs of burning amber orbs melted out of the shadows, and the branches around the Dreamway portal were filled with lounging cats, many of whom were smirking down at him, an unusual look on a cat, but an obvious sign said cat was a druid. He laughed, and gave them all an unsettling grin. "You've all gotten much better at hiding. Good. Who has the Fangs?"
Delandros produced a pouch then, and withdrew the faintly glowing 'daggers' from it. He offered them to his mentor. "Ashamane wishes you to wield them, for this. She feels it will be an appropriate test for them, and she wishes their power to be sung about in legends. She claims such a thing will ultimately help us recruit more Ashen, in the future."
Laronar smirked, eyes flaring as he took up the fangs of his patron. The amber glow of his eyes went from faintly producing light, to burning with the natural power of the world in wavy streams of orange energy. He embraced Ashamane's spirit as he felt her stir, and nodded, placing the weapons on the belt responsible for holding up the heavy kilt. "Ten of you will remain to guard the Dreamway portal. Delandros, tell Thaon to send the rest of the Ashen he's deemed ready, as well. If Fandral is begging for aid, then the threat is serious. Otherwise, his ego would never allow him to call for help. Once you're done, meet us in Feralas...we'll be linking up with the Sentinels first. They'll know how to use us better than Fandral will."
Shimmermoon saluted, and flew off with speed towards the east, and Ashamane's final rest. Laronar shifted forms, and trotted towards the edge of the Dreamgrove then. He paused at the edge of the verdant woods, and let out an impressive roar, startling several Dryads, also geared for war, as the sound echoed through much of northern Val'sharah. Satisfied, he turned back, and headed again for the portal.
To the druids, Ashamane's Chosen gave a single command. It came out as just a purr, but one each gathered understood. He sat patiently by the Dreamway portal as the Sharpclaws trotted through. Familiar as he was with wartime procedure, he knew many of the four thousand or so Sharpclaws they had on hand were likely already in the field, with assassination targets. He fully intended to have his own squad of them however, as he had trained them, and knew their uses better than Shandris or Fandral. He only hoped those who'd arrived first hadn't been thrown uselessly onto the front lines. That was for Druids of the Claw, the Ashen were made for stealth.
Laronar waited patiently by the portal, until he felt the presence he'd been waiting for. Storm, his ever loyal companion and friend, had come when he'd called. The massive cat had been busy building his harem over their time spent in Val'sharah, and several of his children trotted beside him, all young, and eager to test their ferocity in battle. Ashamane had been pleased by the rise in the Nightsaber population, as she was pleased now. With the Fangs in Laronar's possession, his Cat Form, ever a spitting image of herself, was almost as large as the Stormsaber, and the two veteran cats followed their allies through the portal with the pride of near-feral Nightsabers right behind them.
They broke into a run once in the Dreamway, and spied other druids, usually in elven forms, all heading for Feralas as well. A familiar face guarded the gate to the jungle wilds, and Keeper Remulos arched an eyebrow as the pride of very large saber-cats strode through the crowd of other druids, most of whom still seemed like novices.
Storm wasted no time in brushing up against the Keeper, and purring, loudly. It was an unnerving sound, almost like a roar, but the large cat's jaws were closed, and the lips had formed into a good approximation of a smile. Remulos scratched the Stormsaber beneath his chin, and nodded at Laronar. "Your Ashen are waiting for you...though I will be honest, I do not know what stealth will accomplish in this conflict. It is much like the war against the Legion."
A faint orange aura rose from Laronar's black mane, not unlike a lion's, and the Keeper raised both eyebrows as he saw the Ancient, and then bowed his head with a nod of respect. "Stealth played a larger role in that war than you know, Keeper. Though I will grant you, it was not always an option. A master hunter adapts."
The aura faded back into her chosen vessel, and the amber eyes of her chosen druid resumed blazing with waves of orange. One growl, and the Stormsabers rejoined the large cat. The two leading them lowered their heads with respect, and moved on through the portal. Remulos glanced back at the crowd of other, much younger druids, who had a fair balance of awed and worried expressions. Awe at feeling an Ancient amongst them, and worry for what enemy warranted waking up such a powerful druid.
Remulos spoke, and the words reached each of them, shocking them back to the task at hand. "Come, Children of the Stars! Do you want to live forever?"
The immortal Kaldorei shared a nervous chuckle, and began moving through the portal.
Several Days Later - Un'Goro Crater
With the local inhabitants of the crater pacified by the younger druids, who were maintaining their disinterest in the massive elven army hiding among them, the Kaldorei had fortified the narrow path into Silithus, but the swarms had been seemingly dormant for many days. Most of the newer arrivals hadn't even seen the threat yet. Malfurion, while apparently awake, remained absent, as did Tyrande. There was one they sent in their stead, however.
Laronar and the Ashen had taken to sleeping in the trees, ready to jump awake if and when the winged 'Qiraji' as they had been termed, appeared. They would herald the first sign of the Silithid waves, according to the survivors. Being the commander in charge, he kept to a lower, yet no less sturdy branch as he napped in his Cat Form, and waited for the battle every instinct he had said was coming, and soon. The low, ominous hum his sharp ears picked up did not cease once in all the time they'd been waiting.
A new sound intruded over the hum, and he was grateful, for the tones had an almost hypnotic rhythm to them. The other Ashen blinked awake, as they too had been alert, and yet almost hypnotized by the sound only they were picking up. He leapt down with a satisfying slam against the ground, and his enhanced form felt none of it. He was itching to test it in combat.
He shifted then, and bowed to their new arrival, who was flanked by a pair of Sentinels that, at a second glance, the druid found he recognized. They'd visited his forest in ages past, and he made a mental note to check in on the old hut, if he survived this latest war. The three shared a moment of shock as they saw his darkened skin, and feral leanness. He crossed his arms, and waited for the higher ranked Ranger General to start.
"I'd heard you'd fallen afoul of Elune but Laronar...this is…" His eyes narrowed as he stared Shandris Feathermoon down, and her long ears fell back, by instinct, before the predatory gaze. "Right...we need you and your Ashen in Flight Forms, ready to divebomb any leaders that appear...according to Archdruid Staghelm, they only arrive when victory is certain, though he has reportedly taken out a few who were bold enough to seize an early advantage after Southwind fell. The bugs under those he dispatched became almost dormant. Easily killed. If you manage to take out a target, take out its troops, too."
The feral druid smirked, and the clawed gauntlets covering his hands shifted with his fingers in readiness. "Not a problem. We'll need cover in the sky, though."
A slight smirk appeared under the dark purple war helm. "There are Druids of the Talon, but not enough... I have the Sentinels, if you have the Hippogryphs."
Laronar glanced around, and then looked towards the northwest, namely Feralas. "I can provide you with willing allies. How many do you need?"
The Ranger General glanced up at the tree full of burning amber orbs, each belonging to a sleek Nightsaber outfitted for war. Many had bark armor similar to the bears, but they'd also fashioned metal coverings for their claws. Being relatively simple to forge, they'd crafted their own sets, after being taught some rudimentary smithing from the Highmountain Tauren, who were surprisingly adept at it. Far more so than their nomadic brethren.
Then, she glanced at the tree boughs to either side of the one Laronar was perched in, eyes brightening slightly. "My, you have been busy...bring as many as you can, and we'll find a purpose for the others."
The Ashen worked together to summon their flying allies, guided by Laronar, as he had when he'd taught them. He found the Wild God who spoke for their race, as they sat in a circle beneath their trees, meditating, and begged his aid. They did not receive a direct answer, but roughly four hours later, hundreds of winged figures appeared in the sky, coming from Feralas, and soaring straight into the crater. A few were bold, and tested Silithus' skies, and those few were subsequently never heard from again.
As the Sentinels mounted the wild, and sometimes shy beasts, a few among them with Elune's gift calmed them, enough to ride, at least. The Ashen then took smaller animal shapes, and once they were settled, the Sentinels ascended into the sky. The plan from Fandral, Shandris, and the other associated minds leading this war, was to surprise the bugs with powerful druidic allies when they attempted to ambush the hippogryph riders.
With the skies hopefully cleared, the ground forces would charge from the crater, and begin the push to retake the Cenarion Hold, and Southwind Village without having acid spit upon them. From there, they could push the front line, and keep the bugs from spreading across Kalimdor. According to Shandris, the western mountains had kept her naval forces from aiding, but those who could cross such barriers already had, and were preventing the bugs from gaining any territory in Feralas. The wilds needed to be protected, for the druids and priestesses had agreed, the land around the Silithid hives possessed a dark, ancient taint not a single one of them knew how to combat.
Laronar found himself aboard Jai'alator, as Shandris insisted he'd be riding with her in this assault, and he hadn't argued. Laronar knew her rank usually got her whoever she wanted on her various missions, and he was glad that his current form, a fluffy white rabbit with rather intimidating fangs and burning amber eyes, kept him from being able to converse. The other Ashen were similarly disguised as cute, but potentially deadly critters.
That didn't stop the Ranger General from talking to him though. She verbally tore him out as they ascended, and the rabbit ears flinched as they flew over the sands. She was furious, for Malfurion and Tyrande had confirmed that he'd genuinely earned the Moon Goddesses' ire, and such a thing was not quickly forgiven.
Laronar endured the shouting, as he knew it was a sign Shandris cared for his well-being, and when the first of the bugs rose to meet them, he shifted forms before anyone else, and met the flying enemies with the shriek only his Owl Form could make. It had grown larger after his time spent in the Dream, and now enhanced by Ashamane's power, the 'horns' on its head were slowly turning more triangular, almost like cat ears. It made short work of the bugs as it carved a bloody circle through their formations, thanks in no small part to the metal claws that adorned the natural ones. Ashamane had shown him how to draw a measure of defense from her artifact, and the result had been, consistently, metallic armor that shielded the natural claws or talons of his forms from damage, and added a measure of deadliness as well.
A hail of arrows brought down the bugs he'd missed on his first bloody pass through the swarm, and before long, the sky was chaos as druids of varying forms, though primarily Storm Crows, fought and dived through the skies. The Ashen proved their worth in keeping the riders safe, and the Sentinel's arrows brought down more than a few of the bugs with their uncanny accuracy. Druids of the Talon from the Hold joined them before long as well, filling the skies with blood and death.
Below them, a massive mound of earth, under command of Fandral Staghelm himself, was bringing a cadre of Druids of the Moon, by their armor, towards the west with impressive speed. They were kept from uniting with the panther-mounted Sentinels still fighting in the west, and were stalled halfway across the desert, pinned against the northern mountains that acted as a useful, if at times irritating, barrier against those who could not fly.
Shandris and Laronar cleared their area, spreading their forces all across the north eastern part of Silithus, and they took down any aerial opponents that came to meet them. While numerous, the flying bugs had more weak points than their armored ground counterparts, but those too were falling before the massive Bear Form of Koda, and her own druids. They would be retaking Southwind, while the main forces, formerly of the Hold, would retake their own outpost, and prepare for a siege.
Laronar shrieked again, gaining Shandris' attention, and he awkwardly fell through the air as he pointed with a wing at Fandral's increasingly dire situation. He was more interested in helping Isoraen, but for once, he had to admit that losing Fandral would seriously weaken them. Fandral's sorrow had manifested as rage, and his skill over manipulating the earth had evidently grown over the intervening millennia. It was him and him alone who kept the casters safe as their spells scorched the ever encroaching bugs.
Delandros, and several other Ashen followed their patron's Claw as he passed by them, alongside their partnered Sentinels, who took formation behind Shandris. The bugs below, seeing themselves caught between the advancing talons from the sky, and Fandral's spells, turned to attack the aerial threat. Laronar noted their tactics, as he would've done the same in their position, to try to knock them from the sky. Unfortunately for the bugs, they did not yet know to fear Sentinels, and their leader in particular.
The druids arced up just before they met the bugs, and tore into their weaker thoraxes as they flew just above their ranks, who had taken their own equivalent of defensive positions. A hail of rocks from Fandral shattered or otherwise weakened the Qiraji armor, and the arrows that followed brought the Silithid down, to a bug.
The flying variants that had been harrying the Druids of the Moon were summarily torn to pieces as well. Once all was said and done, and the sand had drunk the blood of the fallen bugs, Fandral and the large armed owl shared a mutual nod, before Laronar returned to the sky, and Fandral led his gathered allies across the rest of the desert to reinforce the Sentinels.
Several hours later, the front line from the west came rolling towards the Hold, as the forces from the western Hive'Zora forced them into a bloody stalemate. In their frenzy to attack, eat, and then do what life did best, the largely leaderless Silithid inadvertently realized too late that the Cenarion Hold had been retaken, and the skies belonged to the elves, for the moment. The mounted Sentinels, and Fandral, turned as they linked up with priestesses and infantry from the Hold. Horns sounded, and the push towards Ahn'Qiraj began anew.
The fighting raged well into the night, which only emboldened the elves as Elune filled the sky, and her chosen people with her power, and they began to push their lines forward in a concentrated effort. At around midnight, the horns of each of Fandral's outposts sounded once more and reinvigorated those fighting as the moon blazed above the elven army, but there was one figure that remained isolated from its light.
Laronar didn't much care, as it made him less of a target. He had, slowly, figured out what the 'smart bugs' looked like, in comparison to the Silithid. They seemed to be a different kind of being altogether, but the Silithid obeyed their orders unquestioningly, and became dazed and lost, more eager to retreat, when such a leader was taken out.
The Ashen had made themselves invaluable both across the battle lines, and in the skies. Laronar had switched between both aerial and ground forms more times than he could count, adapting his form as the combat shifted, and the bugs forced them to reinforce the ground troops, or have the line buckle. No matter which he used, his metal-clad claws sliced through all of his targets. In his Cat Form, they broke through the heavy armored insects that mostly made up the front lines, and more than once, he and Storm had made a run through the center of the lines, where the elves remained weakest, giving the Sentinels on standby just enough time to reinforce them before everything broke.
Fandral told the Ashen, and the other stealth-inclined forces, that the Qiraji were to be their top priority. Nobody was entirely sure how to differentiate, as to most elves at this point, the only bug they cared about was a dead bug. The fighting went well into the night, and as the brutal heat of the morning sun rose on the exhausted elves, the bugs again retreated, and the horns sounded the time for rest had again come. After almost three straight days of pushing to the Hold and then fighting fang and claw to hold it, the elves were ready for a break, and their reinforcements, what few had been in reserve in Feralas and en route from Ashenvale, took up their watches as the war-weary fighters were given leave to do as they wished.
The Ashen had returned, alongside their hippogryph mounted allies, to the boughs of Un'Goro's trees, and the main staging area of the army. Fandral was convinced that the Cenarion Hold would not fall twice, but wiser heads than his, namely Shiromar, the Moon Priestess leading most of her sisters, had insisted that they reinforce it for the bug's inevitable counterattack.
To that end, the priestesses had attempted to Mind Control the massive saurian figures that wandered the crater, to turn them to war. Right around when the first of them broke free of such bonds, furious at being forced to serve, especially after not devouring prey that was right in front of them for several days. Saurian roars of fury roared through the encampment around the crater's volcanoes, and the tired Ashen once more leapt into the fray as Nightsabers met raptor packs, and the largest cats among them charged the larger carnivorous variant of saurian.
Even after so much bloodshed, the druids were reluctant to kill, a reluctance the war-garbed priestesses had not shared. With each death, the remaining living saurians grew more furious, and the elves soon found their encampment on the brink of being overrun, this time by saurians.
Laronar had been forced to take down two of the three largest predators that stalked the relatively small crater near their camp, and he paused, massive fangs against the throat of the last one as he felt Ashamane stir. His eyes flared, and the saurian's eyes gained a similar glow, though it was perhaps slightly deeper orange.
A voice echoed in his head then that Laronar did not recognize, but he knew a Wild God when he heard one. This one he had not met before, though. "Ahhh...Ashamane...I heard ya died." A dark chuckle followed next from the Devilsaur's toothy maw. "But your power is, as always, impressive...tell me night hunter, why do your favored mortals abuse and needlessly slaughter my kin? Are they not 'vaunted defenders of nature' now?"
Laronar roared, and at once, all the druids and saurians ceased fighting. The priestesses watched in confusion as their foes ran several yards away, and avoided any more attempts for fighting. The more eager priestesses were eventually restrained by the druids, though that did little to assuage their anger. The saurians had taken a large number of elves with their furious uprising, though nowhere near as many as the bugs did in a single hour.
Laronar met the saurian's gaze, but raised his fangs, slightly. The predator blinked once. He was being allowed to speak. He directed his thoughts towards the Ancient, as he had many times before, and found the presence to be many, and one, all at once. There was a familiarity though, a feral nature that he couldn't help but admire. "A mere misunderstanding, wise Ancient. Our priestesses sought to use your children to hunt the bugs to the west. Surely, you have felt them stir. I believe they had every intention of keeping them healed, and then returning them home, once the war is ended. This is a tactic we often use with the more...violent species of the land, but always, we are its defenders."
Another chuckle, though this one was more dark than humorous. "It is custom to Ask a Loa for such aid, even among the star elves, is it not?" The glowing eyes shifted to the faint head of Ashamane that had, as before, risen from the champion empowered by her Fangs. "This is why I prefer the Trolls, sister. Why Bethekk prefers them too. These mana-mad elves are arrogant at their core."
"You are not wrong, Lord of the Hunt...but they are mine to protect all the same." The panther shifted back into the druid, and the eyes of every Ashen present around the mostly wrecked encampment burned with her power, thanks in no small part to their proximity to her Fangs. "Do not allow your children to harm mine, and there will be no conflict. You should send them to aid us instead. These bugs...they are an older affliction, not one caused by mortal foolishness. They taint what they touch with Shadow."
Laronar let the massive saurian up, narrowly avoiding a snap from the jaws as he uncannily dodged backwards, and stared the predator down. Individually, the large Devilsaur seemed well and truly done with the elves, and anything to do with them, but his Ancient, or Loa, apparently, still needed him. "You speak the truth...my children will follow your Chosen's commands...until the threat is passed. And then the elves will Leave…"
Laronar bowed, promised it would be so, but the ancient presence was already gone. He began peppering Ashamane with hundreds of questions. Who was that? What hunt was he lord of? All of them? Were there other 'Loa' Ancients out there? How many empowered the Zandalari? Did they have druids too? The panther sated his curiosity with what passing knowledge she had, and a name.
He was Gonk, a respectable hunter, and in her time, a contemporary of the black panther. Compared to most of the Ancients the Zandalari served, she claimed Gonk was the most worldly, and progressive of the bunch. The others, she claimed, had grown fat and greedy on the devout, and sometimes perverse, methods of worship the Trolls engaged in, but for all their strange customs, it had certainly made the Wild Gods of Zandalar rather powerful.
Thoroughly exhausted, the Ashen and their flying allies, which now included a cadre of fresh Druids of the Talon from the Moonglade itself, rested above the mostly ruined camp as the Sentinels and menial workers spent the day rebuilding the smashed fortifications while those stationed at the Hold stayed awake through the scorching heat of the day, waiting for the next inevitable wave of bugs, and death.
Chapter 15: The Unstoppable Swarm
Chapter Text
Chamber of the Emperors - Ahn'Qiraj
The Eye appeared before them, and once more, they knelt before the awakening god of the Qiraji, Silithid, and even the hapless mortals, unaware of his magnificence. C'thun.
It has been seventy cycles. What delays the work?
Vek'nilash spoke, as he was the one who was, technically, safe from the Old One's power, should he grow angry. But his dear brother had a short tongue and a hot head. Especially after so much failure. "The contents of Zora, and Regal are not enough. The elves can match them with large area attacks, and their bears focus their simple minds while the others cut them to pieces. Even against our Qiraji, their roars prove more powerful, and, we are unable to take the Crater in which their base lies. It wards away those blessed by You, great one."
A pause. Then. Send the Titanforged.
The brothers shared a glance, and Vek'lor began chittering excitedly, as he always did before certain victory.
The silence stretched into another pause. They'd almost risen, when the voice's power forced them, with more than a bit of satisfaction, back down to their positions of servitude. Go around the Crater. The Titans are gone.
And then, so was their God.
Horns sounded throughout Ahn'Qiraj, and once more, the Anubisath marched to war, supported by the additional forces of Hive'Vekniss, the 'main' hive of the Qiraji, and the one that produced the largest number of the fierce flying warriors.
Border of Un'goro Crater - Silithus
The horns called for retreat, and Laronar's sharp ears heard Fandral, once more using several choice swears he needed to remember for later, taking a position on the mountain ridges surrounding Un'goro as once more the wall of insects and their winged overlords covered the skies around the crater. Few dared to go above it, and those that did were taken down by the winged inhabitants of the crater who were, to the Qiraji's growing confusion, aiding the elves far more than coincidence would allow.
The Anubisath had broken their lines easily, and though a great many of the stone slaughterers fell, their tainted remnants seeding all across the sands of Silithus, there had been more than enough to drive the elves back into the Un'Goro Crater from their hard won outposts. Then, fear entered their hearts as they saw the intelligent bugs start to circumvent the Crater entirely, leaving a wall of winged warriors to prevent their heavily decimated aerial forces from pursuing.
The obsidian giants took up positions on the crater's rim, and did not appear to have the same reluctance to enter, though the further in they went, the easier they were to kill. Some, had even gone mad and started attacking their allies, before then facing the elves while speaking some strange tongue, and repeating the word "Ra" over and over. Fandral Staghelm had personally put those few down himself with a massive earthen interpretation of his fist. It was a new spell, and one that had thus far proven effective in helping continue this war, by keeping the bugs from breaking their lines every other minute.
For Laronar's part, his Ashen had been relatively lucky compared to some of the other druid sects that had been caught up in the war. If one could call losing half their number, luck. The elves were hurting, and this latest offensive had depleted what fighting forces they'd received from Nighthaven and the Dreamgrove.
It was becoming clear that this war would be an 'all or nothing' fight if they wanted to keep the bugs contained. The hour had arrived to call in Shan'do Stormrage, and the High Priestess. Staghelm had been outnumbered and outmatched from the start.
"They're flanking the Crater!"
Both Archdruids caught the female Sentinel's warning, and Laronar moved. No other unit had the numbers left to repel an advance on the mountainous and southern tip of the continent. Not in the air. Those who could, followed.
Upon hearing about their newfound saurian 'allies', Fandral had wanted to march them onto the front line, and while several Devilsaurs had salivated at the idea, many others had not. Laronar had not forced them, and even with the aid of the saurids, they'd only managed to get a few miles beyond the Crater's edge, before the Anubisaths had appeared, and broken all of them.
He called on their aid now, sharing the urgency that he'd been suppressing. He'd had a feeling things would turn worse before they got better. Pterrordax and raptors began swarming through the south of the Crater, and battle broke out as the skies were filled once more with blood.
He soon saw the mistake of mixing wild allies with regular forces, as the saurians fought with savagery unmatched, seemingly enhanced by the strange environment they'd grown in. Even with their army camped in the Crater, the elves had little time to explore it. That lack of reconnaissance came back to bite them.
One particularly large pterrordax, that was also somehow sparking with the power of lightning, cut a swathe through the sky wherever she flew. The clever saurian dipped back into the Crater's protective influence after each pass, but on the latest, she found herself swarmed. Before Laronar, or any of the other engaged Ashen or Druids of the Talon could aid the powerful creature, the flying Qiraji tore holes in her wings, despite being constantly blasted with electricity, and brought the flying saurian down.
Laronar promptly tore one pair of wings from one of the more humanoid, and apparently female Qiraji, letting the fall end her, and followed after the pterrordax. She had brought the bugs inside the Crater with her fall, and he knew all too well how fast they could infect the land if they were left to do so.
He came upon her smoking corpse beneath the boughs of the jungle, but still nestled well within the mountains of the southern part of the crater that were even more treacherous than the northern edge's. She had landed upon some kind of stone pylon, surrounded by blue, glowing crystals. The strange pylons around the Crater had caught the notice of the army, but had proven little more than slightly magical distractions.
The druid shifted to his Cat Form, and tore through the majority of the swarm that had brought the creature down. The few that did not outright die would soon, as the bleeding wounds his claws left ensured their death.
The creature leading them proved tougher, and she and the large panther faced off before the smoking corpse of the saurian. He'd seen bugs like her before, they referred to her kind of bug as a 'Colossus', and that caste was usually the one leading ground charges, but some had, apparently, proven they could take to the air as well, for short distances.
She charged, and he left her bleeding and wounded for it, following up on his success with a flurry of shredding claws that ultimately crushed her brain, making everything else useless. He roared, thinking he'd won, but then glanced around, and noticed the numerous tunneling bugs already infecting the earth, preparing it for a hive.
The large cat moved, slashing through most of them, before being surrounded both in the air between the massive, ancient trees and on the ground by the swarm of the Silithid and Qiraji forces. They were, finally, making ground in the Crater, it seemed.
One of the 'female' bugs flew towards him, chittering as it spoke. It took him a minute to realize it was laughing, and indeed, most of the bugs were copying her. His eyes narrowed as she spoke. "The Crater iz ourz now, mortal. Fleeeee before the might of C'thun!"
He'd leapt for her throat midway through her speech, and tore it out with the saber fangs just as she finished. His victory was again short lived, as the trees of the surrounding jungle cracked and groaned. The ground shook, and he knew that tremor. He'd felt it on the sand, the first time they'd taken the field.
Arrows filled the area immediately around him. Arrows burning with moonlight. He half expected them to burn him, but their mistress' aim was true as ever. She hit only bugs, and before the Light of the Goddess, their foul taint burned away.
He glanced over to see Shandris covering him, firing even as she shouted, "Hurry up, fuzzface! We're pulling back!"
The Anubisaths proved somewhat vulnerable to the arrows as well, and held off on charging into their spread of death. They knew this archer, for the cunning constructs took note of all the elves that had managed to slay their kin, and they also knew her attack would eventually run out of steam.
A roar shook the area, withdrawing the surviving druids and other aerial forces that had backed them up with what they could give, and simultaneously causing the bugs to flee in terror, back towards their hives. The giants seemed unaffected by it, and took up a position around the part of the Crater that was, apparently, now under their influence. The locals who tried to remove them, died, and once more the taint of Ahn'Qiraj spread.
The forming hive drew much of the bug's attention, as it was in their nature to put the creation of such a thing as a first priority. Their forces were essentially stalled, for the moment, as they reinforced what they had claimed.
It gave the elves enough time to flee into Tanaris, though that was as good as a death sentence. Un'Goro had at least been humid. The desert, much like Silithus, was totally dry, and unforgiving with its heat. Laronar found Staghelm sitting on a dune. He was exhausted, as they all were, but the shadows around his eyes made his hackles rise. He could never figure out why. As novice druids they'd never had an issue. Only in later centuries had the laudable elven elder begun to embrace ideas that were, at best, racist. Fandral pulled back the green hood that sported, for show, a pair of blessed antlers from one of Malorne's favored, and met the other druid's gaze with a scowl that had become the norm in all their unfortunate interactions. "What."
Laronar crossed his arms, and Shandris came up behind him. A priestess joined as well with nods of respect to each of them, and soon, the exhausted army coalesced around their eldest surviving figureheads. They'd seen war before, and lived. Sticking to them meant a higher chance of survival. Probably. "We need to move, Fandral. We can't survive in this desert. It's as good as theirs. There are Tauren tribes in Thousand Needles. We can seek their aid, food perhaps, as we pass through to Feralas."
The scowl deepened. "I do not listen to your commands, stray cat. I will not abandon southern Kalimdor to-"
Laronar snarled in irritation. "The south of Kalimdor is lost! We know how we fare in desert combat against the bugs. Listen, oh Fist of the Earth. The tremors. They are coming, even now. Regrouping is our only remaining option." He gave the Archdruid his best sneer. "Unless you can manifest an oasis out of a desert."
There was a silence, and more than a few O shaped mouths as the glare the Archdruids shared burned with genuine hate. Then, the ground began shaking. They swore, in unison, surprised at the sudden synchronicity. The sky darkened with a familiar sand cloud, and obsidian wolf-faced giants strode across the sands towards the remnant of the army that had stalled them for so long.
The Qiraji could appreciate a strong foe as much as any of their kin, but they all shared a unified understanding. The world would be C'thun's, and nothing was going to stop that. A sandstorm manifested from nothing, and the surviving elves' remaining courage broke as they glimpsed a single, terrible Eye in the sand, looming above the distant bug city. The line of Colossi types and Anubisaths that had made up their front for the majority of the second offensive began chanting their God's name in their strange, buzzing tongue as they charged the fleeing elves.
What little they had left in the way of siege weapons was abandoned, and they followed Staghelm, as he claimed he knew a place that would aid them, maybe, and had refused to say more of who this aid would be coming from.
The Caverns of Time - Tanaris
"No. We do not meddle in the affairs of...lesser creatures."
The negative, and slightly insulting, answer rang through the ears of the huddled elven army that, in total, now only numbered a few thousand. Not one of their specialized forces was above fifty percent strength, and the survivors were flagging. Fandral had wanted to come here, to the Caverns of the Bronze Dragons, to beg their aid. Laronar had wanted to head for the Tauren, but ultimately, the advancing Qiraji had forced them towards the caverns. Had they diverted to the tribes, the faster moving bugs would've caught them, and likely pushed them all the way through Thousand Needles, slaughtering Tauren and elf alike.
Fandral had been sure this was their best, last hope. Hearing it fail broke what was left of the elf's confidence. He gained the visage of one who knew he, and everyone around him, was doomed. "Then Kalimdor will fall. You're the defenders of this world! You self-important lizards hesitated against the Demons too, and look how that ended for you! Damn it all, help us!"
The massive maw of the golden beast that called himself the 'Heir of Nozdormu' came within inches of Fandral then, and the ancient beast growled, low. "What do you know of our fall, little elf...you saw only the climax of our destruction...you cannot understand what Deathwing did to us, to the Blue Dragonflight." A golden claw slammed down beside the leading elven general, and the Dragon tilted his head to better examine the gathered mortals before him. "As your world-breaking race knows all too well, empires rise, and empires fall...but worry not. You may weather the storm in these caverns, and in time, you will become part of their history as well…"
The Dragon rumbled with laughter, as did the other bronze scaled members who'd gathered to hear the elve's request. The leading wyrm flapped into the air then, as he was evidently done talking with Fandral. The general gave the order to move out again, to leave the caverns entirely. He had no intention of residing with such arrogant lizards until the bugs arrived to tear them all apart.
It was as he had that thought, during the long spiraling walk to the surface, that Fandral had a terrible idea form in his head. One that should've made his stomach curl in disgust, but after losing so many, chiefly his son, he knew it needed to happen, if the Dragon's anger was to be roused. The elves marched quietly past the whelps chirping and playing without a care in the world by the entrance to the caverns. Sensing the distressed elves, a few flew over to comfort the soldiers, druids, and priestesses as they passed.
The tired elves gave them scritches, treats, and then sent them on their way back to their carefully watching caretakers. One of the priestesses, Shiromar, had kept those very drakes from slaughtering them outright when they'd first arrived. They gave her a nod of respect as she too walked past, looking just as defeated. Even among Dragons, it seemed, the Moon Goddess was respected.
None of them questioned where Fandral was leading them now, not even Laronar. They all understood, they would be caught, and then likely torn apart like the rest of their forces. The sand simply made travel on foot too arduous. Fandral took them north of the caverns, into the mountainous area that made up their back side, and then gave the order to camp, and rest.
Shandris was the first to consult their leader on whatever this new strategy was, but as the grim-faced Fandral spoke, a look of genuine horror came over her features. Having never once seen that on her face, Laronar moved towards the two, as did the rest of the remaining leaders. He met Shandris' eyes as he came close, and his hackles rose. She was genuinely upset, but he had no earthly idea what Fandral had said to make her so. Once they'd all gathered, she told them, in hushed tones, what the Archdruid planned.
The Qiraji were on an ever-east moving course, though apparently the mountains between Feralas and Silithus had been more than enough to stop their advance. Their attention had focused on the east, and once they reached the sea, the wave of bugs would likely move ever northward in one expanding mass of death, but before that, they would need greater numbers. The only thing that could stop them were the Dragons, but the greens were on another plane, a few surviving blues resided to the far, far north in their Nexus, the reds lived who-knew-where, and the bronzes had refused outright to help them, thinking this was just the latest in a long, long line of mortal calamities, and thus beneath them.
Fandral had claimed that the 'bronze lizards' did not understand the gravity of their foe, and for the prideful beings to gain that understanding, they would first need to experience loss, as the Kaldorei had against the Demons, before they would actually get off their titanic rears to do something about the threat. Thus, the elves had retreated behind the caverns, and using them as a shield, they would weather the Qiraji, and counter when and if the Dragons saw fit to do so as well. The whelps and their guardians would undoubtedly fall, but the Dragons would learn first hand what the elves already knew too well. The bugs were relentless.
"You're insane…" The words came from Laronar before he could stop them. Shandris had finished outlining the barbaric plan, and silence had reigned over them. Until, naturally, Laronar had spoken.
Fandral glared back at him. "What would you have us do then, Stormclaw? They will not aid us until they have a reason to."
Most of the elves looked nauseous, after hearing the whelps they'd passed would likely be left by the elves to be slaughtered, but the Feral Druid had an entirely different look in his eye now. "You have the right idea, but the wrong method, Fandral. A Dragon's respect is earned, not given. We should help them weather the bugs, long enough at least to hide their whelps, and when they see us flagging right in front of them, they may decide to help before we perish. The potential threat of their caverns being invaded will be more than enough to draw them out."
"And what if it isn't?" Fandral countered, "What if we all perish before they decide to intervene? The caverns will be invaded anyways, the whelps will die regardless, and we will have lost more forces that we cannot spare."
Laronar gave him a grim smirk. "You can spare me, can't you?" Fandral looked like he'd like nothing more than to feed his irritating contemporary to the bugs, but he shook his head anyways. "I'm not giving you a choice. I refuse to sit idly by and watch the young ones die. I don't care what their species is." Laronar turned to the rest of the leaders then. "If any of you want to join me in protecting our long-time allies, I'll be waiting at the top ridge by their entrance. I'll convince them to shelter their young, once the swarm arrives. They might listen when it's right in front of them."
Laronar, and several other druids in Flight Form, proceeded to fly then to the top of the Cavern's entrance, alighting as a flock of grim eyed birds. One of the watchers of the whelps flapped over to Laronar's relatively flat perch on the remains of what looked unnervingly like one of his people's own buildings.
The bronze drake shifted forms then, something Laronar had seen greens do, on occasion. Laronar's own interaction with draconic entities had been limited, but he liked to think he knew enough to be properly courteous to the ancient beings. He returned to his own elven form, as the drake took on the appearance of something that certainly looked elven, but seemed more like a corpse with its inferior size, musculature, and deathly pale skin tone. The male, for that was the Visage the drake took, bowed. "Ishnu-alah, Druid. What brings you back so quickly?"
Laronar nodded at the horizon. "The oncoming swarm. Fandral bid us guard this place, just in case you and your young needed aid against them."
The now pale-skinned Dragon in what apparently passed as a mortal form shrugged. "Bugs are beneath our notice. It is kind of you to worry, but we can handle what dangers the desert holds."
Laronar kept his increasingly hard amber eyes on the horizon. "You haven't experienced this one. We have. Thoroughly. Thousands of our kin litter the sands of Silithus now."
"That is unfortunate to hear...and Silithus? Hmm...what is your name, Night Elf?" Laronar gave it, and the Dragon gave a slight bow, more polite than respectful. "You may call me Kairoz. I must be honest Laronar, part of me hopes what you say is true."
The elf eyed the pale humanoid. "Really? You would wish danger on your home and your charges?"
The Dragon chuckled lightly, and gestured to the endless expanse of sand. "My breath manifests the power of the Timeways. Little can stand against it. Most days watching these…" He gestured to the whelps below, "Are boring. I would kill for a...change of pace."
Laronar raised a brow then. "Is watching the young not a respected duty among the Bronzes? The Greens argued over who got the privilege, from what I saw in the Dream, at least."
Kairoz rolled his eyes, which upon inspection were unnervingly similar to his own, save that they were blue. "The Greens would...Soridormi and the others may believe this an honored duty, but…" He stretched his unfamiliar humanoid limbs, wincing as they creaked in response. "It is thankless...and boring. I could do so much more, if they'd but let me guard the Timeways."
Laronar's hackles rose, and on the horizon he hadn't stopped watching for a moment, he saw the first telltale signs of the storm that ever accompanied the bugs, at least since their renewed offensive, which drove them from Un'Goro. "Well, I have good news for you Kairoz. You may just get the chance to prove yourself." His thumb and pointer finger entered his mouth, and Laronar whistled sharply. The Ashen among them took to the skies, and the Druids of the Claw, namely Koda and several others, lumbered to the slanted, narrow entrance of the caverns, forming a line between the sands, and the whelps within.
The Dragon looked skeptical, until the sandstorm began growing on the horizon. It would cover the sky by the time the bugs came into sight. Once they did, for it did not take long, Kairoz leapt into the air, returning to his true shape, and flying high above his post. The two other drakes with him soon joined him, having left conversing with the mortals to the bored Kairoz.
There, they became the first of Azeroth's strongest defenders to understand exactly what kind of menace was encroaching on their home. One of the bears, Koda as it turned out, shouted up at them after briefly regaining her vocal cords with a quick shifting of forms. "You have little time! Get the young ones to safety! Now!"
The drakes shared a look, and then the smallest of the three roared. The whelps, who had continued doing whelp things with blissful ignorance, came when the roar summoned them, and the drake herded the honking babies deeper into the cavern. A few had ignored the call, as children do, but the defenders could no longer herd them back as well.
Thundering over the sands of Tanaris, came the unstoppable swarm of Silithid, Colossi at their front. The two remaining Dragons watched in horror, the same horror the elves had, when they saw the intelligent bugs form a wedge, as they sighted the obvious druidic resistance guarding the entrance to the home of the only beings that could challenge them.
An oppressive, thundering mental presence echoed in each of their minds. It could not be ignored. Slaughter the Titan's hounds...and claim their nest as our own!
Kairoz was not the oldest Bronze Dragon in the flight, but even he could recognize when foul, foreign mental entities, with enough power to penetrate a Dragon's mind, posed a serious threat to the timeline. These bugs were, true to the elve's words, unnaturally empowered. They had not known by what, but as the drake vaguely sensed what fueled these minions, he snarled at his remaining guard. "Get Anachronos! Now!"
The line of bears roared as they met the Colossi bugs, and tore their front line apart. Then the next. And the one after that. But for every line of the hard-hitting bugs they smashed to gooey pulp under their paws, four more came to replace them. The sky above them filled with Qiraji, but Laronar and the Ashen were there, alongside several Druids of the Talon, who had been so decimated, they had simply merged their remaining unit with the most capable shapeshifters yet living.
Despite their efforts, the skies above the Caverns of Time became clouded with the ever-present sandstorm that aided the bugs. The bears began being pushed back, and the bugs overwhelmed them, swarming around the bulky, hard to kill foes as they went straight for the prize their God ordered them to take.
As they did, the bugs found themselves flying, and skittering, in reverse as a roar filled the air, and the power of a Bronze Dragon forced the threats away from his home. Grains of sand cleared the aerial warriors, and aided the flagging druids in Flight Forms. True to his word, Kairoz had proven he could keep the menace away...for the moment.
Several of the whelps who had remained suddenly found themselves in the midst of combat, and while the druids and their one remaining draconic ally tried to stop them, the reversing bugs, ever merciless, disemboweled the young Dragons, ending their chance at a life of time travel and aged wisdom.
Kairoz roared again, and sand bathed the front lines of Silithid, reverting the imposing Colossi to mere grubs. Koda and her druids stomped them into sandy paste, but more came. Three of the unwise whelps fell to the bugs, and two managed to flee into the caverns as their defenders slowly backed towards the tiny entrance leading deeper into the Caverns of Time.
Laronar gave a shrill shriek, and the Ashen joined the bears on the ground as they focused the bugs in the narrow entrance, and let the stealthy cats slice into them from the sides. This, combined with Kairoz's sandy death breath, kept the uncounted mass of bugs from entering the caverns, but the defenders could not hold forever.
They took down an impressive number of the bugs, but smaller ones simply dragged the corpses away, as living warriors moved forward for their chance at glory. Laronar glanced back as he felt the ground shaking from below them. "On my mark, move away from the entrance...or you will cease to be!"
The slaughter continued as the bugs battered away at the defending druids, but they pressed on, relentless. The massive form of Anachronos thundered closer, and as it did, the overwhelming mental presence faded from the defender's minds. In fact, it faded entirely, though the sandstorm remained.
The massive form of the elder wyrm shifted into incorporeal sand as it approached the entrance far too small for anything even remotely resembling a grown Dragon. The sand passed over the elves, restoring their bodies to the health they'd had at the start of this defensive fight, and as the grains touched the bugs, they withered to dust, adding to the sands of Tanaris.
The elder Dragon's form was large enough to tear through the first few ranks with ease, but as the golden eyes amidst the swirling sand vaguely shaped like a Dragon fell upon the slaughtered whelps just outside their home, it became a cyclone, and roared with a chilling, windy noise. Anachronos, for Laronar knew it had to be him, or another easily as large, swirled through the bug's ranks, and in the space of a few minutes, they and their Anubisath allies had been reduced to nonexistence. The remaining bugs retreated, presumably heading for the Un'Goro Crater.
The elves, and Kairoz, had joined the furious sandstorm, sweeping away what it did not. As Anachronos once more became corporeal, Laronar melted out of the shadows beside him, and resumed his elven shape. "There will be more, Heir of Nozdormu. Much more."
The Dragon tilted his head towards the elf, giving his right side eye a better view of the mortal addressing him. "They did not seem so...difficult…" He turned his gaze back to the horizon as Laronar pointed a finger at it.
All along the shimmering line in the distance, shapes began appearing. "Those big blobs you see. Those are their wolf-faced giants. That faint gray stretching the entire horizon behind them is their air support. The Colossi won't be visible until they come again." The Dragon had turned his head back to the elf at this point. "They will keep coming, again and again, in ever larger numbers, unless we stop them. They will overrun the entire continent. Please, wise one. Aid us."
The Dragon responded by lifting his neck higher, as high as it would let him raise his head, and then, the Heir of Nozdormu roared, and all of Tanaris shook in response. Across the dunes around them, Laronar spied several titanic pairs of wings rising into the sky, and then with a unified flap, they cleared the sand that had built around the sleeping forms of the massive Dragons who'd been resting beneath the sands. The area around the Caverns of Time became a bit flatter, but the result was several wyrms around Anachronos' size aiding them.
The rest of the Bronze Dragons came soon after, flying into the setting sun as a swirling tornado of sand, from which, individual Dragons manifested, and then landed beside their Aspect's blood. "The Prime Consort shall remain to defend the young, and keep the Flight alive should we fail." The massive wyrm leapt into the air then, and circled the gathering Dragons. From behind them, the rest of the elves were coming now, Fandral Staghelm at their head. "As for the rest of you...let us put an end to this menace. They will not have another chance to strike at our young!"
The gathered golden scaled Dragons roared in agreement, and a sandstorm of their own began rising around them, and the elves. It moved with Anachronos as he roared, and began flying full speed towards the Qiraji menace
Chapter 16: Defenders of Kalimdor
Chapter Text
Southern Kalimdor had become far more insect-filled in recent times, but that changed as a furious storm of sand from the east charged west, removing every insect the grains touched, and returning them to naught but sand. Those who had burrowed into Un'Goro remained hidden, and covered their burgeoning hives from the Dragon's aerial wrath. Thanks to elven reluctance to share information, the threat would continue to fester in the jungle crater for millennia.
Anachronos led his kin, wyrms, dragons, and even drakes. All had been summoned, for as they fought on, they recognized those who had once been constructs of the Makers, now turned to evil. Such dark entities pervaded many timezones, but Nozdormu had a history of removing them entirely, claiming that the powers they served needed to be eradicated, wherever they appeared. Anachronos and the others obeyed that desire, as their sandy charge tore through the line of giants that had been traversing Tanaris, and reduced them to sand as easily as the bugs. As the wall of living draconic sand passed over the hordes occupying Un'Goro's airspace, and pushed ever westward into Silithus, the Heir of Nozdormu got his first real glance at exactly what his sire was so afraid of.
The spires of Ahn'Qiraj loomed in the distance, and behind them, almost incorporeal, was the massive bloated figure of a being that thought itself a god. The endless eyes of the monstrosity blinked at him once, in unison, and then just as quickly as it had appeared, the vision vanished from the sight and senses of a being that could see through multiple time streams. Anachronos and the other elder wyrms reformed themselves over the eastern edge of the sands of Silithus, and with the horizon of the foul land stretched before them, they got a good sense of just how numerous these bugs were.
The elves had not been lying. True to their words, their kin now littered the sands in numbers that were well into the thousands. Many had been torn to pieces for fun or food, or just by the general stampeding of thousands of bug-like legs. The wyrms unleashed their sandy breath attacks over and over, yet each time the horde seemed to shrink away and become yet more sand, over a hundred new, fresh warriors would take their place, and surge uselessly towards the bronze scaled Dragons.
Anachronos looked again at the city, and sensed nothing, but he had learned well the lessons his father had passed on. Evil like this, that hid itself and bent insectoid races to its whims, had once ruled this land. He had seen the past, though he had not understood what he had been looking at. He knew that once, this very land had been home to a foul empire, but surely, that malevolent society was long buried under the sands.
The Dragon blinked, once. Or, it was being hidden by them. "Pull back to the Crater. Cover the region from here to Feralas, this infestation must not spread to the jungles. I will summon the other Dragonflights. We will need them."
If the other, typically much older, wyrms disagreed with the heir's judgement, they did not voice their concerns, and instead moved to strategic positions around Silithus. Together, they wove a spell of sand and time that reduced any flying insects to grubs, which then died to the long, long fall to the ground below. The barrier of sand was temporary, but it would hold long enough. As with the demons, for Anachronos had witnessed the War of the Ancients as well, they would need mortal and natural aid to put this threat down, permanently. He looked again at the swarming hordes pouring from the gates of Ahn'Qiraj. Even with everything the allied forces of Kalimdor had, it might still not be enough. The bugs were endless.
With a low growl, Anachronos turned, and headed back towards Tanaris, and the elves who yet camped there. He did not like the one called Staghelm, almost entirely because the Dragon had a good idea of what he would become, potentially, but even in this timezone, the elf pricked his last nerve. The other, though, the one that smelled of Ashamane, had at least shown respect where it was due. Once, the elves had treated all his kin with such, but that was in a time now long passed, and forgotten.
Anachronos made good time to his home region, and as he landed atop the Caverns of Time, and stared down at the huddled, but mobilizing elven remnants behind it, the deep voice rumbled over them. "Where are the Druids who defended our offspring while the rest of you cowered behind our home?" The Dragon stared each of the suddenly very guilty looking Night Elves down with a gleaming golden gem of an eye, daring them to lie to his face about their involvement.
Several, bearing the marks of Ursoc and Ursol and led by a particularly fierce pair of females, stepped forward. The golden eyes glinted as he surveyed them, and did not find the male who had requested his aid. He glanced to his right, as a bronze drake, a whelp-watcher named Kairozdormu if he recalled correctly, landed beside him on a lower rocky protrusion. "Looking for one in particular?"
The elder wyrm nodded. Kairoz spoke again. "Those below were the bears you saw earlier. The others were led by one who called himself Stormclaw...but I do not sense...ahh, no, there he is."
Melting from the shadows that had kept his presence hidden even from an elder Dragon, came a panther with massive saber-teeth, and an uncanny resemblance to Ashamane. Anachronos knew that the Wild Spirits, much like some Dragons, would occasionally choose mortals to empower and fight for them as avatars of their will. Slightly more impressed, the bronze wyrm leaned low over the remnants of the elven host, his neck giving him all the length he needed. "Stormclaw, was it? You and yours have earned a gift. You aided my kin when it would have been easier to let them die, and increase our rage to greater heights against our common foe. You and your fellows leapt to the fore, when the rest had given up." The massive wings rose into the darkening sky, and his massive form began to glow as he summoned the power inherent to his flight, and his blood.
Anachronos eyed the gathered elves who had each resumed their first shapes, remarking not for the first time at how the night invigorated them. Though they had ties to other entities, it seemed the Moon Mother yet favored her chosen mortal race. All but one, anyways. The very druid that had helped lead the defense of their young. Anachronos did not know what had transpired between the elf and the Moon, but he knew Elune's scorn when he saw it. His lips rose into a slight smirk.
It was rare that one of Elune's own gave her up, but the more he sensed of the mortal before him, the more he realized what he'd traded it for. Bronze Dragons knew better than any other what Azeroth was, what she could become, and what her fate would be if evil was allowed to fester and spread unchecked. It was a secret older than all of them, and one they never voiced aloud, lest they change the future they were working so hard to ensure. Elves like this would be most useful if they remained fighting fit until their demise, and so, the Heir of Nozdormu gave them a gift.
"For your altruism, I grant you youth eternal. No matter what the future holds, no matter what you lose or gain, through it all your bodies shall remain as vigorous as they are now. Disease can still take you, and weapons can slay you. Death comes for all, in time. Remember this kindness, and why you earned it, when those around you forget." The elves shared a look, puzzled and a bit unnerved at what the time-traveling Dragon hinted at, but their thoughts faded as the rush of power entered their beings, and suffused them with the magic of the Bronze Dragonflight. It was not the same as a blessing he would give a Dragonsworn, but it would be useful for those with limited lifespans and mortal limitations.
Stormclaw bowed, and the other elves followed suit once the daze from the rush of power left them. "What would you have us do to aid you in the current conflict, Heir of Nozdormu?"
Anachronos rose up again, looking every bit as regal as Azshara had at her peak. He glowed in the moonlight from the twin moons, and addressed the elves as a whole now. "Return to your groves, bring forth the Green Dragonflight, tell them who sent you, and what has transpired. I shall reach out to the Reds and Blues. Then, return south to your outposts. We will drive the Silithid back from the holes they crawled out of!"
The gathered, demoralized elves rallied, as the bronze wyrm took to the sky once more, Kairoz in tow. What few drakes and dragons had not left in the initial charge thanks to travel, and the trickiness of the timeways, now came forth from the Caverns, and with them, their best weapon.
He was a wyrm from Nozdormu's younger days, in a time before mortals. His eyes had watched the world when it was young, and he had been one of the first 'true Dragons' to be transformed alongside the Aspect of Time. Anachronos fell into flight beside the giant Dragon as they headed west. "Grakkarond. It has been some time since I've seen you in this era."
The ancient wyrm shifted his blank eyes to Nozdormu's whelp. "This era is terrible. Fel scars everywhere, far too much ocean, bugs running amok, dark powers best left alone woken from their ancient and hard-won slumber. It is my duty to return, for you summoned all of us. All must come, when Nozdormu's blood calls. No matter how far away we are." The seemingly crotchety wyrm flapped onwards, towards Silithus. "So...the Aqir are roused once more...hrrrrmph." The Dragon growled low as he brooded. He hated when prophecies started fulfilling themselves. Especially when said prophecies ended poorly, for him and his kin.
Anachronos kept quiet as they returned to Silithus to reinforce and lead the bronzes there. Grakkarond was crotchety at the best of times, but he seemed more solemn than usual. Being so old, he had naturally been one of many of the first generation to teach the next, which had included Anachronos himself. Now, few remained who were Grakkarond's age, and those who did were of other flights, if they were not deceased already.
As they came upon the hordes of insects once more, the Heir of Nozdormu fervently hoped he had not just summoned the entirety of his flight to be slaughtered by whatever awaited them inside the city.
Ahn'Qiraj - Silithus
"They're too much for us…" Vek'lor chittered softly as they watched the Bronze Dragons reduce their forces far quicker than they could ever hope to breed them, by way of the more sorcerous brother's Scrying Orb. Their numbers seemed endless, but even the Silithid had limits. The Dragons would soon test them, if they continued to take down fifty fully grown Colossi with a simple breath. "They took out our Anubisaths with their initial charge, and have been slaughtering ever since...if this continues, if more of the Titan's hounds come, they will find us, and they will end us. If not them, then the mortals they infuse with their strength will do their dirty work for them. They're becoming annoyingly common from those who've managed to survive the swarm."
Vek'nilash made quiet clicking noises, his mandibles clacking together as they often did when the warrior attempted to think beyond his station. "We need...a weapon. A better weapon. An answer to the Titan's hounds…"
Vek'lor eyed his fellow Emperor. "What...did you have in mind, brother of mine?"
Vek'nilash strode from the gates of the city then, back to the chamber that the pair typically resided in. "Something...inspired." Once inside, the pair strode to the center of the chamber, and the hidden triangular platform in the center of the room brought them down deep into the bowels of the city. While the tattered, ruined spires above gave the appearance of an empire long dead and a culture past its prime, here, under the ruins, was where the Qiraji's true empire flourished. Yellow-orange lights lit the many massive tunnels that had been carved over the millennia as the hive grew ever larger in preparation for the Great One's awakening. Now, that time was fast approaching.
Green flames burned eternal in this Underforge of dark creations, for it was here that the Twin Emperors had first bent the minds of the Titan's Anubisath to their will. There had been other Titan minions, guardians who'd possessed strange magical abilities. They had been rather challenging to completely subdue, and not one had fallen to the twin's attempts to bend them to C'thun's will.
That all changed now. Vek'nilash gathered the ancient obsidian chunks of the long fallen Titanforged, tossing them into the molten pit of fire and equally emerald magma. Their basic shape was easy enough to reforge, and from the mass of pieces came a winged, four-legged obsidian shape that resembled the Tol'vir's form as it had once been, but it was Vek'lor who tried, and consistently failed, to empower the long fallen construct with new life.
After the twentieth such attempt, something changed. The fires flickered, for a moment, and a familiar, if terrifying, presence joined them. Power surged into the twins, and together, they brought forth the first of their new weapons of war.
Eyes still burning with C'thun's dark power, Vek'lor saw a similar essence infused within the construct, and as its head rose towards him with sentience behind the burning green eyes, the Qiraji chittered excitedly. "You are the first...the first of our masterpieces."
The construct spoke awkwardly, as if trying, and only just now remembering, how to form words with a throat of stone. "What...is thy bidding...my master?"
Vek'lor began to speak, when quite suddenly, the power that had aided him forced both himself and his brother to their knees. It was then that he noticed the construct's eyes had shifted to the center of the room, ignoring him as immaterial. The statue's words had come before its body had time to adjust its head towards the entity it addressed. A single, massive Eye floated before the three above the burning green flames that kept the eggs of the Qiraji hives warm and viable in the otherwise rather cold sandy underground.
]I grant the power to drain the Arcane mana of the Titan's hounds. Rip their essence from them. Use it to Eradicate any who oppose My will. You are no longer a Watcher. You are now...a Destroyer.
The obsidian entity saluted the Eye in a manner that was more leftover reflex of a life long forgotten, than anything else. "It will...be done." The being left the chamber then, flying slowly and awkwardly on its own power up through the entrance the Emperors had used to descend. The brothers glanced at each other, unsure of what to do now, and wondering if one such creature would be enough.
Obsidian fragments of stone rose up through the sand around them in massive chunks, and a single word accompanied them.
More.
Oneiros - Feralas
Laronar Stormclaw looked around at the druids he had gathered in the day and a half since they'd trudged from Tanaris to Feralas. Over the course of this conflict, the local settlement of Oneiros, once little more than tent camps gathered together, had gained stone architecture, and even a temple to the Moon. With all of the reserves now drawn upon and the barrow dens emptied, Thaon was with them, though Laronar had kept their patron's Fangs. They were the largest part of why he was still alive, and they helped him keep others that way too. Augmenting their Ashen forces were the Nightsabers that, until this stage of the war, Laronar had been keeping far from the fighting, save as mounts.
He gave Storm's chin a thorough scratch, and eyed his oldest friend. He knew the great cat wished to end the bugs that had killed no small amount of Nightsabers he himself had sired, but until now, the druid had been reluctant to send him forth. In hindsight, waiting had been the smart option. Of the Sentinels who had survived, very few had done so with their original mounts. Would that the Dragons had aided them sooner, but he supposed they had Fandral to thank for that. Now, they would need everything they had to fight with. Again.
Beyond the comparatively small division swarmed thousands of now fully corporeal Green Dragons, each of whom was preparing for war by way of magical enchantments. Anachronos had asked for aid, and not long after, the druids had arrived to reinforce the urgency of what the elves had stepped in this time. In the quiet before the conflict, many of the older wyrms stared angrily at the mountains to their south, a small obstacle for any Dragon, and the fields beyond where many good, loved, elves who had been friends of the flight had met their ends.
Shandris rode by the Ashen's encampment, followed as usual by a column of the most elite Sentinels who yet lived, each atop panthers that, by no coincidence, Storm had raised. They had the same look as the Dragons, and many, were wondering why they were walking. Their hard glares focused on the attention of their General, as she stopped before a smirking, green haired druid. "Ride with me."
Laronar felt his cheeks darken, especially as the combined eyes of Sentinels and Ashen were now wondering why the fel Shandris Feathermoon knew he existed. "I don't need a ride...but I will join you." He shifted then into his Cat Form, coming up to the height of her own mount, who he greeted as an old friend and the other druids did the same as they felt Ashamane's power manifest once more. Thousands of amber eyes now readied themselves for the relatively short run to the edge of the jungle. Cliffs were little trouble to panthers of their size. As with the first Sentinel reinforcements at the start of this conflict, they would ride over the steep mountains, and fall into the fray. The elves had no doubt that the bronzes would need aid soon, if they did not already. Even the greens had the same bad habit of underestimating the bugs.
Merithra, daughter of Ysera, led them all south from Feralas, and through the Bronze Dragon's shield, or rather they would have, if the shield yet stood. As they crested the southern edge of Feralas, the greens bore witness to a sight unheard of. Of all the Dragonflights, none were as powerful as the bronzes, for while the blacks and blues had strength and magic, time made sand of all of them. Yet even those who traveled the length of existence and guarded the very fabric of reality from being tampered with were, somehow, falling to the bugs.
The elves did not pause, for they were well acquainted with what a battlefield suffering from Qiraji shenanigans looked like, and before long, the charging column of druids and Sentinels slammed into the edge of the hordes. They found their path cleared for them as many of the bugs simply ceased to exist thanks to the overhead flying Green Dragons. It soon became clear though, as to what was taking down so many bronzes.
They flew awkwardly on wings of obsidian stone, and a magic shell surrounded their forms. They had four legs, two arms, and head decor that seemed like a bad copy of Zandalari royal headwear. Each hand held an implement burning with foul green energy, and when the creatures directed such things at Dragons, their scale color did not matter. Their magic was ripped from them, and the defenseless, weakened dragonkin soon found themselves swarmed by Qiraji, and brought into the hordes of Colossi below.
Each fallen titan crushed thousands of the bugs, but there was a very limited number of Dragons, and even at that moment, more bugs streamed forth from the spires in the distance. All across Silithus battle was joined, as the defenders of Kalimdor charged, and pushed at the swarm from all sides.
In the east were the blues, the only ones who had any success with removing the strange obsidian constructs, namely by teleporting them back several hundred miles behind their city. From the air, that direction appeared to only contain mountains, but thanks to the construct's slow speed, getting back took quite a while. They had proven immune to attack magic and breath attacks, as well as physical clawing.
Laronar had continued running with the Sentinels, and the cats complimented the riders rather well, namely by guarding their blind spots, and even keeping their wounded mounts from lashing out wildly. The strange amber eyed cats seemed to possess healing magic as well, and throughout the battle, more than one sister stayed alive thanks to the near constant regeneration provided by the ceaselessly slashing Cat Forms.
Ashamane's Chosen and the Ranger General, who had been given authority in this final conflict by both of the honored heads of their people, had little trouble making a path for the rest to ride through, and anyone with eyes knew that they'd done this before. From the air, or the ground, no matter how large, the two smashed through every bug that dared to test itself against them. With almost no warning, a massive crimson scaled form landed in front of them, magical warding gone, as Colossi began swarming.
Laronar glanced at the General, who nodded and pointed. With a roar, five other Sharpclaws followed him as they leapt over and atop the fallen Dragon, and Shandris took the charging column around. They were almost ready to spread out the lines, and begin the final push, but every Dragon they had, they would need.
The Ashen defended and healed the bleeding beast with continuous spells, and their finely honed claws caused any who came near to bleed to death not long after. These five in particular were rather good at what they did, and had, in Laronar's mind, proven themselves as Sharpclaws. One shifted into a Bear Form as the bugs swarmed again, and once more, the remaining four panthers tore into the focused crowd of insect scum.
As bears, and thanks in no small part to a lot of training with Druids of the Claw, his Sharpclaws used the mighty forms as damage sponges, and used the resulting rage of the beast within to continuously heal whatever punishment the form took. The downside was not being able to strike back, as the healing took quite a bit of mental focus to maintain, but given how that healing was their other specialty, much like their teacher, their frenzied regenerations lasted a bit longer than their bear favoring counterparts, and did not require a frenzy to use.
Behind them, the Dragon rose, the numerous cuts along its scaled body healed, and the wyrm was rejuvenated by the magic of nature. The Dragon seemed to enhance what spells had been cast upon him, and as he flapped once more into the air, ruby flames burned away every bug around the column, and then some. Strangely enough, life did not bloom in the sands of Silithus, even after being torched by a Red Dragon's breath. Nothing plant related grew from the scorched, glassy patches of sand. Below, the elves had taken their casting shapes, and Laronar, along with the others, reinforced the Dragon with what magical wards they could. Since they drew primarily from the wilds and not the arcane, they might hold up longer, or so they had reasoned.
A sharp whistle pierced the air, and the detached squad found their gazes drawn in the direction of their column. They were spreading out to either side of the cleared field, and the Dragons were regrouping in the air behind them. More reds arrived, and reinforced what their brother had lost. As thanks, they flew behind the Sharpclaws then, and bathed the battle in helpful gouts of ruby flame.
As the push began, black forms began appearing in the sky, and Laronar got his first look at what would come to be known as an Obsidian Destroyer. The being's eyes burned with unnatural green flames, and the one closest to them raised a strange scepter. "They're aiming at the Dragons!"
Laronar's ears flicked at Shandris' words, and as usual, he was the first to charge in and do something about it. Arrows and glaives proved ineffective, even those laced with magic. Once more, a crowd of his favored students followed, though many others simply did not do so because the bugs, even when losing ground, refused to stop trying to blindly charge ahead through the forming ranks of the elven armies.
All across Silithus, similar scenes were playing out, though in most, the Dragons found themselves losing more of their kin than they wished. The Destroyers were living up to their monicker, and the Dragons simply had no way to counter them. Thus, the mortals, and primarily the blues, were left to deal with them.
Once more taking the Owl's Form, Laronar again found the Fangs responding to the form change, covering his talons in the usual, magical metal claw coverings. He and the group of roughly ten druids sliced their way through the Qiraji in the sky, though thanks to the Red Dragons, there weren't too many to deal with.
They made their first several passes on the obsidian being, and Laronar soon discovered that, for whatever reason, only the Fang-encased talons he was using left any lasting mark. That was fine, for as he looked around the clear desert sky, he saw their numbers were not too terribly great. It would take time, but he could whittle away at them by himself, and force their focus from the Dragons.
With a single shriek from their leader, the other druids descended below, and rejoined the fray with savage landings among the bugs. Nightsaber fangs from above tore through Colossi silithids. Feeling slightly insulted by the sudden lack of targets, the construct's eyes flared, and it raised a scepter towards the owl. A beam of green energy arced towards the druid, but he was already dodging, flying upside down, and aligning his talons for a strike on the construct's head. They sank into obsidian eye sockets with an inverted grab, and then slid completely through, almost too easily. With the source of its power cut clean through, the construct fell, lifeless, towards the sands, its eyes gouged out by the sharp owl talons.
Spurred on by what appeared to be success, Laronar repeated the method with a nearby Destroyer, and hoped that the chunks of statue were crushing bugs below, not fellow elves. It was only when the proud druid glanced behind him at his trail of carnage that he saw the stone, somehow, reforming itself. The first had already taken to the sky again, and suddenly, he knew what they had to do. Many minds across the battle understood, all around the same time. They needed to seal this relentless force away. They could not stop it, not yet. Knowing what would be needed for study, the owl spun in the air, and this time the still gaping obsidian head of his latest opponent parted from its shoulders. The wings flapped a few times, and continued to do so futilely as the now magicless body pummeled the silithid below with death. Minus a head, it did not rise again.
The druid took stock of their forces once he handed the very angry glowing head off to an elven courier that would see it stored somewhere safe, likely with the supplies they'd brought with them. Laronar had tried calling on the Highmountain Tauren, or at least the Skyhorn for aid, but Shandris had refused, as had many others, chief among them being Fandral. They were of the opinion that guarding the world from this threat was the Kaldorei's responsibility, for the mantle of immortality had been given to them, and them alone. They had defended the world before, they would not fail now.
He'd pointed out that only by using many races had the tides of war finally turned in favor of the Ancients, but he was then reminded, by those who had actually been in the final battle of the War of the Ancients, that by that point, Malfurion and Illidan were already off succeeding on whatever their mission had been. The specifics were always vague, but everyone always attributed the closing of the demon portal to Malfurion, and sometimes his less popular twin. In the end, most elves, at least in Fandral's new political stronghold of Silithus, saw the other race's contribution to the ancient war as little more than an admittedly needed stopgap during the months of constant carnage from the front lines.
Laronar shifted back to his Cat Form then, and charged back into the fray as he spied Anachronos, alongside another massive Bronze Wyrm, tearing through the carnage with impressive results. Colossi, Anubisath, even a pair of Destroyers had not made the Dragons pause, though what exactly became of them was unclear. One second the Dragon killers were facing down the ancient wyrm, and the next, they had simply never been. The combined force of Ashen and semi-wild Nightsabers that was his to command rallied as one of their pack leaders charged by them, roaring, and infusing them with Ashamane's speed. Their latest push needed to gain momentum, and sure enough, as his druids clawed their way deeper, aided in no small part by the many gaps in the lines the Dragons left, they encouraged the units around them to fight that much harder to keep up. The bugs began to lose ground for the first time since the wolf-faced giants had taken to the sands, and slowly, the defenders drove them back towards Ahn'Qiraj. By that point, most of the Destroyers, what few there were, had either been beheaded, or magically shunted to the very southermost tip of Kalimdor, a mountainous, and inhospitable region, not to mention a long, slow flight back to Ahn'Qiraj.
Anachronos ascended into the sky then, as did three other equally large wyrms of various scale color. Laronar assumed they must be the ones leading the Dragonflights. The ancient wyrms, with the exception of the greens and a few reds, had largely ignored the 'mortal' defenders aiding them. Word of Staghelm's tactics at the Caverns of Time had soured many ancient allies on supporting the Kaldorei, but they had answered Anachronos' summons all the same. They were more focused on avoiding the Destroyers, and eradicating entire generations of Qiraji with their widespread attacks, than actually helping the elves. Most of the Dragons struck where they pleased, and eradicated years worth of silithids with each pass over their ranks.
Feeling hopeful for the first time in several long days, that hope faded, as the magnificent form of the larger bronze that had charged alongside Anachronos fell from the sky, a massive sword embedded in his wing. The surrounding area shook with the Dragon's rage, and the wyrm's forced landing was guided towards its assailant as he barreled through hundreds of bugs. Laronar grimaced. He knew that look, he'd seen it already, far too many times. It was the last charge of a Dragon who knew, even as bugs climbed his massive body, that this was his end.
The druid watched, very much impressed, as the beast mauled the obsidian giant, a leader of some sort judging by his headwear, who'd had the stones to challenge him. Both massive golden claws tore the grinning wolf-like visage to pieces, but before he had a chance to crush the rest of the body, Colossi charged Grakkarond, rising like a tidal wave of water, and forcing the wyrm into the sand. His mauled opponent's form sunk far too quickly into the sand below it, and did not reappear. Spurred on by his patrons, Laronar charged with the others, but by the time they came close enough to the Dragon to aid, he was already long gone.
Suddenly, every combatant on the field paused, groaning in pain as emanations of power surged from Ahn'Qiraj. The sound had stunned the Silithid...and then driven them into a frenzy. The elven lines threatened to buckle as the bugs entered an inexplicable rage that the elves had not seen before, and Laronar knew, this was the end. Here and now it would be decided. They would stymie the bugs, somehow, or they would charge over the elven corpses to the rest of relatively undefended Kalimdor.
Being what he was, Laronar knew quite a bit about how insects communicated, for such things were among the many exhaustively covered topics by druids who, apparently, had nothing better to do than speak to and watch insects go about their daily routine. Though it was rare in Kalimdor, in some smaller species, such calls that induced battle states usually originated from a leader of some sort, and as his sharp ears followed the source of the noise, his eyes noticed what the four Dragons hovering high above had already begun to deal with.
The battle was a constantly shifting sea of chaos, carnage, and spells. So very many spells. One side of Silithus lit up, drawing his eyes, as the result of several Starfires 'boomed' within Hive'Zora. The foul tentacles rising from the sands were burned away to stubby, charred remnants, and not long after, Hive'Regal suffered a similar fate. That booming lasted several minutes, as that particular hive had been the main source of new bugs for the entirety of the conflict.
Horns sounded across the front then, and the elves began their final push, as Ahn'Qiraj was in sight, and they still lived. Some, were beginning to believe they might just be able to stop this threat, if they could but reach the city's gates. The plan had been relatively simple, charge in as far as momentum would carry them, and then press the bugs back into the city from whence they came, removing their other hives in the process. By this point, every soldier fighting in Kalimdor's name was more than motivated. Too many had fallen to the bugs, and as Zora and Regal were toasted, the defenders pushed the bugs back to the very gates of the city. Then, once more, the minions of C'thun proved that there would be no stopping them. Ever.
The area around the gates became a bloodbath as frenzied bugs surged from Ahn'Qiraj in a wave of bodies into the waiting blades, claws, and staves of the elves who'd faced them since the start. Horns blew again, futilely, as the bloody stalemate continued, and even the druid's usual tactics of drawing focus and slashing from behind proved ineffective here. There were simply too many bugs, and they attacked whatever was closest, regardless of how loud the bears roared. It soon became clear that if something didn't change, the lines would break for a third time, and that time, they would never reform.
The Tauren and other races of Kalimdor did not have the numbers to stem this tide. It needed to end here, and the heirs of the Aspects intended to make sure it did. Several things happened at once. Massive forms of red, green, and blue charged into Ahn'Qiraj itself, forcing the bugs back with the combined fury of four Dragonflights. Then, the orders came down to the druids.
Fandral's infantry and the Sentinels would hold the line, and the druids would craft a barrier, with the aid of Anachronos, to imprison the Qiraji threat indefinitely, or at least, until the elves had enough forces to storm the city, and finally end the bugs for good. The structure that would come to be known as the Scarab Wall rose quickly before them, as the bronze heir worked the combined natural, arcane, and even holy energies into a barrier not even the insects could smash.
The Qiraji who tried flying past in the air found an invisible wall of nope that they battered uselessly against, and the bugs glared down at the exhausted elves with hate in their compound eyes. The elves stared back at them with much the same. Both sides knew, this was not over, not yet, but for the moment victory, of a sort, once more belonged to the Kaldorei and their immortal allies.
It had come at a heavy cost. Grakkarond, one of the 'generals' of the Bronze Dragons had fallen alongside hundreds of other Dragons who had been alive longer than most of the gathered elves, and now three of four heirs of the Aspects were imprisoned, or more likely dead, within the walls of Ahn'Qiraj. The entire desert was littered with corpses, mostly bugs, and while the fallen defenders had left piles of carnage around them, against the silithid, that hardly mattered. Even at that moment they could hear them, buzzing furiously as they realized this imprisonment was too much even for their slowly awakening master. His rise had been put on hold, but next time, when the wall came down, the Qiraji's rise would be unstoppable.
Laronar did not witness the breaking of the Scepter of the Shifting Sands, something he would later learn was apparently a key to unlocking the shield. He and the other druids, upon seeing the battle concluded, had begun the long march back to Feralas. Fandral's forces, what was left of them, would be cleaning up the fallen dead as he would still remain in Silithus for his actions with Vordrassil, and the Dragons saw to their own fallen. He'd found it strange that they had not bid the elves with so much as a farewell, until he'd heard what Fandral had done to the symbol of their alliance, the end result of all the death and pain and loss. He added yet another reason to dislike and distrust Staghelm to his already lengthy list of grievances.
Ashamane's Fall - Val'sharah
Overall, the Ashen had lost over six thousand of their number, and the rest of the elves had been hit just as hard, if not harder. Every day, new names were added to the ever-growing list of those now fallen as those responsible for such numbers recorded them. There were few who had seen the conflict in its early stages, and had lived through to the end, and each of them found themselves visited not long after the war ended.
It was high noon when Laronar placed the Fangs of Ashamane back upon the pedestal they had sat on for millennia prior to the bug's awakening. He felt the approval of his patron rumble through his being, a sensation that he, and every other Ashen, rather enjoyed.
"They have drunk much of the bug's blood. You wielded them well, Laronar Stormclaw."
Laronar shrugged. "I hope I do not need to wield them again. In fact, I hope they stay there, absorbing the natural power of this realm, for as long as elvenly possible. We will need that strength, when the Legion returns." The ancient panther nodded in agreement, and then faded away to rest. Though she would never admit it, the conflict's near-constant warring had taken a toll on her, as well. Her favored druid had drawn deep of her strength, but she was glad to give it, in a desperate time of war.
Laronar glanced up, as a surge of natural power poured into the Fangs, rejuvenating and restoring their depleted energy. A semi-corporeal Ancient of Lore was standing behind the altar upon which they rested, and Laronar slowly arched a brow as he recognized who this was. All knew of Leafbeard, and his stories. In his time in Val'sharah, Laronar had heard many of them, and had long since stopped sitting around nightly to listen. The ancient did not begrudge him that however, for many did the same after a few years.
"Archdruid Stormclaw. I am glad you yet live. I have spoken with Lea and Koda, as well as Isoraen, and those who lived through the War of the Shifting Sands. All have given me the same advisement: find you, for you often fought both in the sky and on the ground, charging bravely into danger numerous times, using only your Cat Form empowered by Ashamane's Fangs. I would hear your account of the war as well, so future generations will remember."
Laronar had walked over to the nearby stream that ran around Ashamane's shrine, and he saw the incorporeal panther, looking slightly stronger after the appreciated gift of power, eyeing him expectantly. She more than most knew his shy tendencies, but for this, he needed to speak. So he did, after quenching his thirst. It was a luxury he had enjoyed since returning, for water had been scarce throughout the conflict.
Laronar leveled his harsh amber gaze at the Ancient. "When you speak of this war, ancient one, be sure to end with this: It is not over. The Qiraji are not defeated, and some day, the Scarab Wall will fall. We must be ready before that happens. We must also keep in mind that the bugs will likely not simply fall asleep while they are trapped. Warn those who will listen, the Qiraji who come forth next will be prepared for everything we have already used against them." The Ancient gave a slow, single nod, and Laronar began recounting his tale, from his perspective.
From first arriving in Un'Goro Crater to the raising of the Scarab Wall, the usually quiet druid demonstrated, with some surprise to the Ancient and his favored Wild God, that he was rather good at storytelling. His words were complex and old, his style of speech, especially after extended periods, sounded more like a Night Elf from Azshara's time, rather than a modern druid. As he spoke, wisps gathered above them in the trees, and the druid's tone grew increasingly somber.
He knew who they were, he did not have to guess. Many of his Ashen's spirits had now returned here, by way of the Dreamway, preferring to rest near Ashamane's Fangs than within the Dream. As he finished his tale, he looked up to them. "I am sorry I could not do more to keep you alive, my kin. Mark me, some day, the Qiraji will pay for taking you from us before your time. I will personally charge into their foul city until they, and whatever spawned them, are rotting corpses beneath the sand. I swear it on Ashamane's Fangs. Rest, and know you will be avenged."
Seemingly satisfied, the wisps made soft ringing sounds, and circled around the shrine several times, before flying off at great speeds in whatever direction drew what was left of their attention span chose for them. Leafbeard left as well, after asking several questions, and proving his ancient mind yet retained its sharp edge. He had absorbed every word, as was his nature.
"What do you plan to do now, my Druid? I sense you do not wish to resume teaching."
Laronar gave a humorless smirk. "I taught my Sharpclaws every trick I knew, every skill, every healing spell, and it still was not enough to keep them from being overwhelmed by a horde of enemies. I am going to travel to what is left of Old Kalimdor, I am going to learn what foul power strengthens the bugs, and I am going to find a way for a smaller force to take down one whose number is legion. At the very least, there are two massive wars in our future, and even my libido will not replenish our numbers enough to match them. We need quality, over quantity." He fixed the incorporeal panther with an amber stare.
The panther nodded. "Go. Travel the world as you wish, and return when you are ready. Thaon shall take over in your absence."
Ashamane faded away then, leaving the druid once more alone. He sighed, shifted into his Cat Form, and began walking towards the Dreamgrove.
Chapter 17: Fateful Convergence
Chapter Text
Laronar Stormclaw spent some much needed time in the Emerald Dream after the War of the Shifting Sands, and during that time, he walked alone, to parts of the Dream that even Green Dragons did not know of, or venture near. He learned sometimes from the mind that, in his limited understanding, formed the base and shell of the incomprehensibly large dream realm, and with this knowledge, became stronger, and better able to defend her. Each lesson made him stronger, deepening his connection to the natural world, the only problem was that such lessons often had decades between them. For an immortal with a body that wouldn't quit however, that was not an issue.
For one hundred and seventy five years Laronar walked the Dream with his physical body, primarily with Ashamane and Storm. They traveled, spoke mostly only to each other and the recovering Green Dragons, and practiced friendly duels each rest cycle. Usually, the Wild God would pit herself against two of her favored males at once, just to give them a chance. It was adorable that they genuinely believed they could match her, but then, that was part of their charm.
After realizing almost two centuries had passed, Laronar emerged from the Dream refreshed, and with the horrors of war not constantly flashing before his waking eyes with every eyeblink. He did not linger in the Dreamgrove, for he had emerged into daylight. Rensar Greathoof shared a mutual nod of respect from the spot he usually stood watch in as the Feral Druid passed by, took his favored form, and headed into the wilds of Val'sharah. The Dream was beautiful, yes but he had always found Azeroth, and the reality he'd existed in most of his life, to be more so. No other area came close to matching Val'sharah. It was the best combination of both realms.
Laronar padded quietly through Val'sharah, and left Storm to reclaim his harem from the upstart males who had no doubt taken over in his absence. He padded silently past the Temple of the Moon, or what was left of it, as well as the elves within, through Azsuna, until finally he reached the shattered shoreline. From there, he flew.
From the air, the still-standing dome of arcane energy that sheltered, presumably, what was left of Suramar from the elder days drew his gaze. Across from the dome was a place once known to his people as Thal'dranath. Once, a great temple to the Moon Goddess had stood here, across from Suramar's Night Hold. Now, it had sunk into the ocean, and only the weathered stone heads of the elven maidens adorning its high towers marked where the top point of the tower had been. He eyed it with slight suspicion. When last he'd seen it, it had stood much taller above the waves. Now, most of the good perches were properly under the ocean. He supposed the earth below must have shifted. The wounds of the Sundering had not faded away, even after thousands of years.
The druid landed in one of the bowls for holding holy water held by the fair stone arms of a stone elven maiden, and he reclined in it, finding a surprisingly comfortable layer of moss within. He did what he usually did when he was alone, and pulled out the cat-headed pipe. Soon after, clouds of magically animated smoke drifted into the air before him. First, was a Nightsaber. Then he gave it friends, and they chased each other in Elune's light, until they were blown away by strong winds from the south.
Alone for the first time in almost two hundred years, the druid decided to let his mind wander as he toked and exhaled until the moons rose properly into the sky over the horizon to his left. He glanced down at his darkened skin, frowned, and realized he rather missed being his whole self. It had taken war and time training within the Dream to realize what the Moon Goddess had stripped him of, and while he would never relinquish his bond with nature and the Spirit of the Wilds, he knew then that he wished to enjoy the moon as the rest of his kin did. The pridefulness that had spurred his past words had faded somewhere on the sands of Silithus. Now, he just wanted to feel the light again. The sun was a bit harsh for his taste, but the moon always, every single night, avoided shining on him.
Moonrise was always a joyful time in his society, and yet, since their falling out he had been quietly left out of it. While the lack of light had undoubtedly improved his stealthiness, he did not feel the trade worth it. Ashamane was plenty stealthy naturally, and she had been right. He was less than he could be. The more he thought, the more he realized, with a slowly growing smirk, that the offers for physical copulation had ceased as well. More than a few of his race's females would not deign to socialize with one so obviously shunned by the Moon Goddess. One had even claimed he almost looked like a Troll, albeit with no tusks.
He glanced up at the blazing white orb, and waited, expectantly. And waited. He waited until she and her Child had climbed to the highest point in the sky, eyes never moving from her radiance, as he was rather determined to have some kind of acknowledgement for the amount of time he'd spent waiting thus far. But, as always, there was nothing but silence from the Moon Goddess. He bristled quietly, and took another toke. It was impossible to avoid staring at the moon now though, for she took up much of the sky above his perch.
His fallacious ideas faded as a sound filled his ears. He knew a musical tune when he heard one, the only problem, was that this one was in another...language...and said language evidently only had two words.
"Om nom nom, om nom nom. Nom nom om nom nooomm! Nom nom nom, om nom nom nom, nom nom nom om nom nooooommm!" The proud, and definitely male, voice echoed the catchy tune, and as its owner came into view, the druid slooowly raised an emerald green eyebrow. It was a bear, but it sat like a sentient, a Furbolg almost, but fatter, so very much fatter, almost to the point of silliness.
The absurdity of the sight only grew, as he saw that the fat not-Furbolg was holding naught but a bamboo shafted umbrella over his head, despite there being no rain on the horizon, but most silly of all was what the black and white bear was riding on. It was a giant turtle, of a particular species that, Laronar knew after much reading on the subject, grew to massive sizes, if allowed to. Many lived on the westernmost coasts of Kalimdor, where the waters were relatively clear of predators, and nature flourished thanks to the many barrow dens now once more home to sleeping druids.
He was still a little turtle though, and his rider, while young judging by his excited eyes, had already reached maturity. His mount, had not. The om noms stopped as the druid shifted in his mossy cradle, and pulled a pinch of soot and salt from one of his pouches. The inscribed leather chest straps had been stored, properly, for when next he would need them, but he'd kept the extra pouches the Sentinels had given him for the war, as well as the rest of his usual attire. He always needed bag space.
He traced an ancient sigil over the salty, sooty pile in his hand, and then blew it down towards the bear man and the turtle. Both sniffed, eyeing his spot curiously, as they caught a whiff of what seemed almost like skunk, buried beneath the usual ocean saltiness.
Laronar popped up from over the ridge of the bowl. "Hello there. Your little friend looks tired. Let me...aid him a little…" The druid raised two fingers slowly, and though the black and white bear clenched his bamboo umbrella tighter, he did not make a violent move. The elf transferred the power, and the Mark of the Wild appeared above the turtle, making his eyes widen, as his strength suddenly surged. He rose higher in the water, and Laronar realized, he was a bit bigger than he'd first guessed. Still not quite enough for a bear that large, but they had apparently made due.
The bear man glanced at his mount, and spoke softly to it. It wasn't more om nom, but even the elf's sharp ears didn't catch the words above the crashing surf around the sunken temple. The bear looked back up at Laronar. "Tell me, stranger. Are you a...Kal-dor-eye? I have only read stories, and old ones at that, of your kind, but all mention the glowing eyes, dark skin, and long ears. Do you happen to know where we are, and if there is a place to rest?"
The druid smirked from his lofty perch. "You are in what my people call the Broken Isles. I am indeed one of the Kaldorei. Follow me, I will guide you to the closest beach, and we can talk some more."
The druid shifted forms then, taking on the guise of a large, deep black-blue feathered owl. The eyes remained the same, and were just as intense, and the turtle followed the silent bird with impressive swimming speed. Once the pair reached land, Laronar resumed his elven shape, and began conjuring a campfire for the bear and he to sit at.
He approached the druid curiously as his turtle mount rested on the sand, falling asleep almost immediately. The obese bear bowed with surprising formality. "I am Liu Lang. I hail from Pandaria, a land to the south, enshrouded by mist. I was told the rest of the world was destroyed in the Sundering. Tell me, Kaldorei, is this the truth?"
Laronar shook his head, and soon, an emerald flamed campfire coalesced out of swirling nature energy from the druid's palms. "No. The world yet exists, though I can only speak for the northernmost and western landmasses. There is one to the east, but I have not been there in some time. My home, to the west, is called Kalimdor, as it was when my people ruled over its entirety." He eyed the bear again, for one of the words he spoke rang with a familiar sound. "Pandaria, you said? Are you...Pandaken? Pandakin? Hrrmph. My grandfather told me a story of your people once, but I cannot remember what he named you." The druid chuckled, and sighed. "After ninety two hundred years...give or take...that's to be expected, I suppose."
"Pandaren." Liu said, eyeing the elf with skepticism. Then again, this same being had just literally transformed into a bird before his eyes and with little trouble. Lots of things that seemed impossible before were starting to become realistic, maybe. It was clear to the Pandaren that he had much to learn.
They talked well into that night, and Laronar learned, slowly, of what the Pandaren had suffered since they'd lost contact with the world. Mostly, the night was spent recounting the tale of the War of the Ancients, and for that, he mainly borrowed from what Shandris had shared, as she had been there for the more interesting bits. Then, the creature wished to hear of the other great conflicts that his race had missed being a part of, or aiding in. By the time the druid mentioned the Shifting Sands, he spoke up again.
"These bugs...they sound...familiar. We have a similar affliction in Pandaria, beyond the Serpent's Spine. They are not...nearly as numerous though. Not enough to overwhelm the Shado-Pan, anyway." Liu stroked his growing beard, which dangled just past his chin, as he thought over what he had just been told. "I would see Kalimdor, or what remains of it. I wish to know its people."
The elf raised a brow, and then shrugged. He was due for a walkabout. It had been far too long since he'd prowled Kalimdor. Thousands of years, in fact. He wondered what had changed. "Very well. I'll take you to the less...hostile...tribes, but first, we need to teach you basic elvish."
The bear tilted his head. "Elvish? Why?"
Laronar chuckled. "Because this spell lasts only so long, and elvish is the language of trade. Or at least, it was the last time I did any trading over there."
The bear shrugged, acquiesced, and the pair spent the rest of the night learning. It was surprisingly simple to teach, which impressed Laronar. Any comparisons to a Furbolg's intelligence were nonexistent, the Padaren picked up the elder tongue rather quickly. He would refine the bear's speech as they traveled, and by the time they reached Kalimdor, he would be able to get along without the elf, if necessary.
Feralas - Central Kalimdor
"The Earth Mother consumed much of the spirit of balance in this world with her awakening. Because of this, our world's elemental planes have rarely found harmony. As a Shaman, and her chosen people, we Tauren must use the power she gives us to maintain the balance between the elements, and all living things. This is the difference between Shaman, and those like him, who defend the world, and her Dream, from forces that would see them ended." The Tauren speaking was a shaman of some respect in the tribe the pair was visiting, and he nodded towards Laronar as he spoke, who was at that moment passing on his own pipe to the Tauren beside him.
Liu, who had been the one to ask the difference between shaman and druids, nodded. "So the Earth Mother gives you this...fifth element, and with it, you convince the elementals to aid you? Hmm."
Laronar spoke up then, passing his pipe along to the Tauren beside him. "Not quite, my friend. Spirit and our...Earth Mother...they are two separate things. One is energy, present in all living things, and the other is a being who needed, and still needs, large amounts of that energy to truly wake up. I don't doubt that the Shu'halo are Azeroth's children, but she has many who grew here naturally, and were not...created by other entities."
The old Tauren chuckled lightly. "I did not know Druids knew so much of the spirits."
Laronar smirked, "One picks up such knowledge after a few millennia. I am curious though, Shaman. When last I prowled these lands, our people traded in peace. There was open communication, if not friendship but it seems to have...cooled. Many tribes turned us away before we found yours...and you all seem to be far more...nomadic, than I recall."
The shaman tilted his head at the elf. "I forget, some of you live so long you become unaware of massive, impactful events."
Laronar shrugged. "I was off on an island chain near the Maelstrom for thousands of years. That's as isolated as it gets."
The Tauren eyed the elf again, not for the first time, in yet another attempt to discern whether he was, in actuality, millennia old, or whether he was some Centaur's magical trick of illusion and deception. "Truly? Few of our Druids have seen it, and fewer escape being caught within its winds. Even Shaman find that our Air Elementals become wild when we go too near it from above. Hmm. What you have missed, it seems, was the ruin of Mashan'she. The Tauren of those bountiful days were convinced that the Earth Mother slept below them. They tried to wake her up."
The Shaman paused, as he toked on the pipe, and then exhaled into a coughing fit. "Hrrrmmph. They succeeded in waking something up...but it was not the Earth Mother. They awoke an Earth Elemental, a 'princess' calling herself Theradras, who proceeded to drain Mashan'she's bountiful life energy to replenish her own. When one of your Cenarion Circle came to investigate the massive loss of life, the Keeper, Zaetar, instead of killing the creature chose to mate with her instead. From that union came our doom. The Centaur. Unholy offspring of earth and natural powers, they killed Zaetar in their senseless rage, and have driven us from Mashan'she, as well as everywhere else, Night Elf. Your people have not aided us. They are of the opinion that we brought this doom upon ourselves, and must suffer it alone."
Laronar sighed. "I recall being told something similar, when our people's situations were reversed. But that is the problem, Shaman. If we keep leaving each other to suffer alone, our people will lose what we gained in the War of the Ancients entirely."
One of the other Tauren, the chief, judging by his headdress, snorted hard, and interrupted the two. "The War happened long ago, Night Elf. Much has changed for the Shu'halo. I welcomed you because you remembered the old ways of greeting...but I think perhaps it is time you rejoined your people…there is much you seem to have missed."
Laronar raised a brow, glancing around at the other members of the tribe. Their eyes were hard, but not hateful. He had not refused to aid them, after all. He was a friend to their people, an old one, but one unaware of what his kin's common view of the Tauren was in more modern times. Unbeknownst to the druid, Fandral Staghelm had returned to Nighthaven once Malfurion returned to the Emerald Dream and his influence had begun to spread beyond the Moonglade, which had only increased the elve's latent racism, and the entire 'Desolace incident' had served to fuel the druid's skewed, and depressingly popular ideas on the inferiority of the Tauren.
The druid nodded to his companion, who stood with ease that belied his hefty form. "Perhaps you are right. My very next words were an offer to help you with the Centaur, after all we have dealt with harpies by unifying our forces, but I see now why my kin are hesitant. Your people have indeed changed. You turn away allies older than your lineage because of something as trivial as race. Perhaps what the Centaur have to teach you will help you re-learn the wisdom you seem to have lost."
"And perhaps, it will not." Liu said, eyeing the Tauren chief, and stifling the angry response he'd been forming.
The two departed the tent, and then the nomadic encampment soon after. They made their way back to the western coast just north of Sardor Isle, where Shen-zin Su, Liu's turtle, was waiting, hidden well in a safe coastal cave. They had traveled much of Kalimdor's relatively barren west coast, even getting a glimpse of Ahn'Qiraj's spires, before heading to Feralas, the jungle which had a habit of bringing Kalimdor's sentients together in one place, and not always peacefully.
Now that he'd met a Tauren, the curious Pandaren was determined to find and learn about Trolls, and their brand of shamanism. He claimed that the Pandaren had similar methods of worshiping elemental spirits, but the spirits of this land were vastly different to those of Pandaria. He'd asked where he might find shamanistic kin who would share wisdom, and Laronar had given him the Tauren, and the Trolls. A journey to a Troll village was one trip Laronar knew he would never take, as Trollish hospitality and Night Elves did not mix well, historically. If the Tauren were stubborn in their dislike of the elves, the Trolls of Kalimdor had them beat, easily. They still held grudges for the defeat of an empire no living Troll, on Kalimdor, remembered.
"The Trolls reside mostly on islands east of the Barrens, in small tribes. Last I saw them, at least. They know better than to try raiding my people or the Tauren, but they may not hesitate to cook up a lone Pandaren just to learn the flavor. Watch your back, Liu." The druid finished with a bow in the elven style.
The black and white bear chuckled as he climbed atop the turtle. He had grown again, thanks in no small part to the six hour ritual Laronar had performed to ensure that he never stopped growing. The bear had confided in the elf that he wished to bring others of his kind and show them this wide, wide world, but his ride would only ever become so large. That was when the elf had asked the turtle if he'd mind growing well beyond his species' normal size, to one he would only have achieved with age otherwise.
Shen-zin Su had found that amusing, but had accepted, and already in the few days that had passed, he had gained bulk and size far quicker than normal. The druid had, after examining the giant turtle, known he would become rather large regardless. What he, and by extension the land, had given would only expand his potential. "I will be careful, Laronar Stormclaw. Good fortune on your journeys."
With that, the inquisitive bear and his turtle set off to the south once more, where they would swing around the southern coastline of Kalimdor and head up the eastern edge towards the many island-dwellers who had taken the only land that had remained unclaimed after the Sundering. Laronar headed north, towards his old grove, more than a little curious as to what a few millennia had done for it. As his silent wings soared free of the jungle's massive trees, Laronar found what was left of Mashan'she. He flew east from there, and everywhere he looked, the Tauren's territory had either been claimed by other species, or overrun by fast moving dust clouds. He ventured a guess that those were the aforementioned Centaur hordes.
It was only once he swung back around for a proper look at Mashan'she, or Desolace as it would come to be known, that he understood why his people had cut ties. The night colored owl flew silently above the northern wastes, though his heart lightened when he saw Stonetalon, and the first mountains of that region, still bearing life.
He also sensed his old grove, still intact, but flew first to one of his older apprentices, now very much a master in his own right after the better part of nine thousand years of teaching. Thal'darah greeted him, after taking a moment to adjust to his newer...appearance, within his grove.
The master druid sat them down at the top of the grove's tallest tree, for a look at Stonetalon's many valleys, and the view was impressive, as always. "Much has changed since Shan'do Stormrage sent you to Val'sharah, Laronar. Though the more...negative changes have only manifested since the Shifting Sands conflict ended. Every new acolyte we receive from Nighthaven over the past few centuries, every single one, has inexplicable intolerance for the Tauren. None would say where they learned such prejudice, but I think you, I, and most Druids our age, can figure out what is happening."
Laronar scowled out at the vista. "Most Druids our age are asleep, Thero'shan." He sighed heavily. "Staghelm again. He's becoming tiresome."
"Our people love him. The younger males especially, flock to his banner. As do the very 'traditional' older males, who aren't Druids. Malfurion sleeps endlessly in the Dream, and those who stay awake as his 'guards', or for training, all become influenced by one of the 'greatest Druids alive'." Thal'darah crossed his arms, and sighed as well.
"Are there any Tauren left in Nighthaven?" Laronar asked, eyes not moving from the mountains, though by no coincidence, he was facing north, and found himself glaring towards the Moonglade.
"Some...but I have heard chilling rumors. Stonetalon is rapidly becoming a hard, if peacefully shared, border between our peoples." Thal'darah sipped his tea as he finished. Unlike the Moonberry-loving northerners, the elves of Thal'darah's Grove had adopted the Tauren's favored drink, that didn't involve alcohol. Many who now slept under Stonetalon Peak itself had trained in this very grove, while Tauren druid aspirants from many tribes came as well, though in modern times, it was always to learn how better to combat the Centaur. Not all had given up on ancient elven wisdom, but Laronar remembered a time when there were far more Shu'halo acolytes.
Laronar glanced around, after sipping his own hot leaf juice, and suppressing a grimace. Making tea was a new trick for the elves, and it showed. "I take it the Cliffwalker Tribe has avoided the Centaur from the south?"
Thal'darah grimaced. "Here and in Feralas we have held them at bay with aid from the Green Dragonflight, or rather, their dragonspawn, and the Tauren native specifically to Stonetalon. The other tribes have fled west, but the Centaur will catch them. They flee even now, to the Barrens. That land Naralex wished to revive."
Laronar frowned, and then met his old student's gaze. "They're still running? Is there no way to help them?"
Thal'darah looked contemplative as he enjoyed his own view of the surroundings. Druids of all ages, teaching, talking, training. All branches, commingling together in peace. Two peoples with enough old hatreds between them to fill a library, and yet in druidism, they were united. "When one's enemy is chasing something you wish to keep alive, it is best to strike at where they are weakest, and hold their most valuable things." He said, quoting Laronar, who had at the time of teaching this lesson, been quoting Ashamane. "The Centaur are on the rampage. They are fury incarnate. Zaetar's power has not easily blended with the earth elemental's. Time has only made them stronger."
The Feral Druid smirked at his apprentice, as they stood slowly, at the same time, reaching the same conclusion. "Time has only made us stronger as well...let us teach these abominations of Cenarius's nature why they should be very afraid of the Druids who roam these wilds. Perhaps then they will stay in what is left of Mashan'she."
Elune's Brazier - Desolace
Another piece of satyr flesh was tossed into the silver flames of the ornate, and ancient brazier dedicated to the Moon Goddess. The priestess who was after her blessing had been guided to these relics of an empire long passed by way of visions. Remnants of the demonic taint had taken the area as a home, and Elune had wished them purged. As always, when the Mother Moon asked, Alaria Stormclaw answered her.
She sighed softly as she felt the blessing, and the satisfaction from her patron in the sky. Then, she set about cleaning. She had, for obvious reasons, taken claw markings upon her face when she'd reached maturity, and her deep blue hair, also covered in Satyr gore, was bound in a simple braid. She was not dressed like one might expect a priestess of the Moon Goddess to dress, but then, she'd stopped acting like the rest of her sisters long ago.
After Loreth'aran had been sacked by black dragons, and those upon the island slaughtered to the last elf, Alaria had found herself on Kalimdor, dropped there by her lover's drake, who had returned, likely only to die beside his rider. They hadn't come back. Hungry and alone, she'd wandered for days on naught but what she had perceived as guidance from the moon. That, was when she'd found the sword. Kal'serrar. It was a lengthy blade, with runes in elven script so old, few yet lived who could translate them accurately. It was an ancient two handed elven blade, but lacked the curve modern Sentinel greatswords used, possessing instead a straight, merciless edge that was always alight with silver. The old tongue called it a 'katana', and while as ancient as its wielder, if not moreso, it remained sharp as the day it was blessed by Elune, and taken up in defense of her order.
In those days, the demons had all but run rampant across Kalimdor, and as such, they had brought ruin to almost every elven settlement in the empire. Alaria had come across one such settlement as she wandered Kalimdor alone and starving, and found the slaughtered corpses of a group of fellow sisters of Elune, all dressed in silvery plate armor, and armed with blades like she had not seen before. All but one had been broken, and that one, she had been bid to take up by the Goddess herself.
Since doing so, Elune had empowered her, making her far better at fighting in close combat than from a distance like most priestesses. The young priestess had scavenged what plate armor hadn't been torn asunder, as well as the rations her departed sisters no longer needed, before setting off, again guided by the moon's light, towards demon sect after demon sect, rampaging wildly across the continent. She had continued this for months, slowly teaching herself how best to use the sword, when quite suddenly, the demons she'd tracked had been ripped away by an inexplicably powerful force, through the sky, and towards what she assumed was Zin'Azshari. After that, Elune gave her a vision of Hyjal, a mountain she'd not seen since last she was home, and the face of a beautiful elven woman, young in face, but powerful in the ways of the Sisterhood of Elune. Tyrande Whisperwind, the High Priestess of Alaria's order. Thus guided, Alaria traveled north.
Upon reconnecting with what was left of the Sisterhood at Hyjal, the new High Priestess had wanted to store the silver-glowing blade away, as a treasured relic of a now passed age, but Alaria had refused to give it up. Eventually, Tyrande had stopped asking, for the Moon Goddess had not weighed in either, and the blade had, somehow, burned the hand of whoever else tried wielding it, when other priestesses, at the behest of Tyrande, had tried removing it from her quarters while she was away. After that Alaria wore her sword everywhere, and eventually Tyrande ordered it covered it in a white cloth sheathe when Alaria joined the rest of the sisters for prayer. She was trained in the same arts as they were until the War of the Satyr broke out, though each night, instead of socializing in the new Kaldorei society where she might have run into family members, Alaria instead trained with her sword, readying for the inevitable return of the Legion. The thought that her brothers might be around still never crossed her mind.
After removing that sheathe when the War of the Satyr arrived, and proving her martial skills had been honed over the centuries despite Tyrande's teachings focusing on healing, Alaria had been transferred to the Sentinel's care after that, and after learning her surname, for reasons the Ranger General had never shared, Shandris Feathermoon had granted her leave to do as she saw fit, and take her commands from Elune first, and herself second. For the better part of her Long Vigil, Alaria had hunted the surviving Satyrs, guided by visions and feelings every so often. This current mission was only the latest in a long, long line of demon slaying sojourns into the wilderness.
Her silver eyes glanced out at the carnage now befouling the ruins of Elune's sacred site with demonic blood, and the 'war priestess' sighed. She wiped the silvery blade clean, and sheathed it once more upon her back, thinking her task was done. She paused though, as she felt a familiar guidance draw her gaze to the sky. She did not know why, until she spied a pair of birds, an owl and a Storm Crow, heading south towards one of the Centaur's camps.
Alaria glanced up at the moon, smiling slightly as the light rejuvenated her, and then pointed her in the same direction. She was more warrior than priestess by this point, according to her fellow worshipers at least, but she had always argued that while healing and light were essential, Elune also required those who could, and would, do the more grisly tasks she required. The priestess hopped on her Frostsaber then, and followed the birds. She knew they were likely druids, and for them to still be awake, they must have held some importance among the male's Circle.
From a distance, she watched as they descended on the northernmost centaur tribe, now mostly free of warriors, who were even then marauding to the east, and chasing the Tauren. She had never much liked the bull men, but they were typically peaceful, defended the land, and were historically on good terms with the Sentinels. She understood why the Kaldorei refused to aid them, namely because they were still recovering from their own most recent conflict, but it seemed these druids were intent on drawing the hordes back home. It was a sound tactical move, given that the majority of the hordes were off chasing the Tauren.
Lightning and wind tore apart the tents, and a massive black maned panther took care of the casters and female fighters the Centaur possessed. She did not see what happened to the centaur young, but judging by the flames and wrecked domiciles, she guessed the druids would leave them to their fate. It was not long before they were in the air again, heading towards the next encampment. Already, what few survivors there were from the now ruined one were heading east. It would not be too long before the hordes turned around.
Alaria rode up again to the second encampment, and this time, leapt into the fray. The light of her patron surrounded her with surprising intensity, and though the druids seemed startled by her appearance, clad in plate armor and covered in satyr remnants, and now pieces of Centaur as well, they welcomed her aid. Once the tents were aflame and the inhabitants all but wiped out, the druids again flew off, and Alaria followed.
Not far from the camp, the three Kaldorei met properly. Thal'darah introduced himself first. "I am the master of Thal'darah Grove, in Stonetalon. Thank you, Priestess, for aiding us. I am curious though...why is one such as yourself out here, of all places?"
The owl, who had just landed beside them, was eyeing her with amber eyes that were too intense for her liking, and yet, somehow so very familiar. For the first time in almost ten millennia, she found herself recalling her middle brother, and his own amber eyes. She never found out what had ultimately become of him, or Vehlar. The war had completely broken her ties to family, but then, that had been the norm, in those days.
"Well met, Master Thal'darah. I was guided here by Elune. Some Satyrs had taken up residence in the ruin of one of her old temples." She patted the hilt of the blade on her back. "I removed them." The druid nodded in approval, as the other resumed his own form. By this point, Alaria expected druids to, in some way, resemble their favored patrons, and this one was no different.
Other instincts guided her eyes up the ridiculously muscled frame, and the muscles adorning it, but those instincts vanished into the void as their eyes met. She knew that face, though it was now bearded, and the wrong color. He was even still lacking a shirt, and as he spoke, she knew it beyond a doubt. Her middle brother had survived. "There are three more Centaur camps out here...I say we split them between us. How about it, Priestess?"
Where the sister had recognized the brother, Laronar had evidently not caught on yet, which made some sense. He likely thought her long dead, and she had been a youthful teen when last they'd seen each other. She had mature assets now, generous ones, according to some males, and quite a few females, but that was to be expected when one brought children into existence. The process had never ruined her form, nor had it made her give up her sword. She looked to Elune for guidance, and that was when she noticed. The moonlight was pointedly avoiding her brother.
She stared at him for a long time, wondering what on Azeroth had possessed him to anger their race's strongest ally, when she noticed. He had the look of a druid who'd slept too long in one of their forms, as if he might bite at her with no warning or provocation. "Yes...that would be best. I spied outrunners already heading west...the hordes will turn around soon. They must not know who has done this to them."
Laronar shook his head. "We want them to know it was us, or at least, Night Elves. Better to have them rebuilding, and on the defensive, instead of constantly charging after the Tauren. They may try to retaliate against Feralas but...I think Shandris can handle them."
Alaria blinked, once, at the casual use of the General's first name. Thal'darah didn't seem to take notice, which implied he knew why her brother was on a first-name basis with the second most influential Kaldorei woman alive. She had heard rumor, of course, that the General had secret carnal relations with some druid once upon a time, but the odds of it being Laronar were astronomically sma- She paused in her musing, as the moon above drew her attention back to her task as only she could. Eyes narrowing slightly, Alaria nodded to herself. She'd just have to ask Shandris directly. "Very well...let the Centaur understand that they must be ever vigilant against us. The Tauren have suffered enough for their folly."
She drew Kal'serrar then, hopped on her Frostsaber, and began sprinting, rather obviously, towards the northernmost camp on the western coast of Mashan'she's now lifeless land. The two druids split as well, with Thal'darah heading almost to the edge of Feralas, and Laronar taking the camp in between them. Alaria swung around, avoiding her own camp for the moment, as she watched her brother's tactics once more from a distance.
He was as quick and efficient as any Nightstalker the Sentinels employed, and his form's fangs were likely as sharp as any of their blades. Even in his Cat Form though, the moon avoided lighting the black furred druid. In the far distance, smoke began rising from yet more lightning strikes and a massive tornado followed soon after. Not wanting to be outdone, the Priestess headed for her own target.
She hid her obvious colored mount away from prying eyes atop a small rise just outside the settlement. Survivors of the last two raids had fled here, apparently, and security was high. It seemed centaur females were just as capable warriors as their men, which meant those left behind must have been leading, or raising children. Likely both.
Even the young were, to her eyes, abominations of what they should have been. She had befriended more than a few Dryads in her long, usually solo travels during her Vigil. She knew what centaurs were supposed to look like, though she had never seen Theradras, or any earth elemental for that matter. "Moon's shadow, come over me…" she whispered, beginning the elvish chant that, after much meditation, her patron had shared with her by way of visions. She raised Kal'serrar into the night air, and saw those below begin to take notice of the harbinger of their fate. "Star sword...my light in the darkness... awaken!"
She felt her form double in size, and the rage of combat filled her vision. She leapt into the camp from her perch, and landed among the centaur with all the fury of an Infernal. Kal'serrar cut through Centaur flesh as easily as it had Satyrs, and everything else she tested it against. The Centaur tried to rush her all at once, but the priestess only grinned. That was what she had wanted.
Time seemed to slow as the moment to counter came, and her supernatural parrying of their blows ticked over. The priestess began to spin in place then, and Centaur limbs went flying as the whirlwind of death tore through the majority of the tribe. She mercifully executed those who survived the deep wounds she'd left them with, and pummeled those who tried to cast spells her way into bloody pulp. She let the sword guide her body, as she always had, for it knew how best to keep her alive, and where it needed to be to continue to do so.
Spears broke in half, casters were left armless, and one by one, the unusual priestess reduced her enemy to nothing. Then, she turned to the tents, and finished her chant. "Light of Elune, burn in the darkness!" She raised the sword high, and columns of divine flame came down on the flammable tents. Survivors began trying to flee, but Alaria charged after them, ending them one by one. The young, she largely ignored, unless they too tried to fight her. More than a few did as they armed themselves with fallen weapons and tried to end her, and hearing their cries as the life left them made the priestess as sick as she always felt when dispatching the young and foolish. Be it harpies or Centaurs, she did not know of an elf who enjoyed putting down youthful potential. But she did it anyway, for the blade had awoken and Elune demanded death, in return for her gifts of strength.
She walked out of the camp towards her mount, only to find that four enterprising outrunners had found the cat first. Three lay dead, torn apart by a frenzy of claws, but the last had her spear in the Frostsaber's chest. Alaria knew a mortal blow when she saw one, and as the light left her mount's eyes, the rage returned, in full.
Before the centaur responsible could so much as blink, Alaria was there, and with four very angry, very deep strikes, she left the mortal world alongside the cat she had killed, her form now lacking all of its barbaric limbs. Alaria raised her hands, calling on her goddess' healing light, but the spell did not take. There was no life left to heal or rejuvenate.
She didn't notice the tears cutting through the grime on her cheeks as she took her friend's fangs, but the two druids who landed nearby certainly did. Laronar came over first, and the priestess watched as she saw genuine sadness come over his features. "Frostsabers are among the most ferocious of Nightsabers...it is a shame such a powerful female has fallen in so small a conflict." He knelt beside the body, and placed a hand upon the cat's forehead. "Ashamane, guide her home."
"Home?" Alaria managed, noticing for the first time how her voice broke in the attempt at speaking.
Laronar nodded. "The Dream is home to many spirits of those long departed. Ashamane is the mother of all Nightsabers. She will guide your friend to the dens of her kin."
Alaria arched a brow, now more curious, as her brother seemed to know what he was talking about. "There are...dens in the Dream as well?"
He nodded again, tone as solemn as hers. "I have visited them. The Frostsabers in particular have a very impressive resting space."
"Like Frostsaber rock…" Alaria muttered, eyes moving back to her fallen friend.
"The pride I came across had a different name for theirs...but yes. It is similar, though much, much larger. She will be happy there. Now come, quickly, they will regroup in short order. There was a nasty Shaman among mine who managed to get away...definitely a leader. We should depart before they realize where we are." Laronar had patted her shoulder in the same friendly-yet-awkward manner he'd had with females in their younger days, and then stood as he spoke. "Do you wish to come with us? We are heading for Stonetalon."
Alaria shook her head. "I'm going to Feathermoon Stronghold. I have business there."
"Then go safely, daughter of the Moon." Thal'darah chimed in, approaching the two as the moment they'd been having ended. "We must return, and quickly, I think. That sandstorm on the horizon is not natural…"
"It is fueled by rage...the earth is filled with it...yes, let us depart." Laronar said, agreeing with his contemporary. He gave Alaria a nod as well. "Moonspeed, Priestess."
With that, the two druids shifted forms, and began winging their way towards Stonetalon. Alaria sighed, regretting not getting the chance to have a proper family reunion, but 'hey, by the way I'm your long-dead sister' had not seemed like the right thing to say in this particular moment of grief. She had, in fact, known her Frostsaber longer than her brother. She would find her brother again, but first, she wished to know why a certain General of the Sentinel army had failed to mention he was alive in the first place.
Blade drawn, the priestess headed for Feralas, fully expecting to be ambushed at some point on the road. Her once silver, purple, and white armor was covered in gore and blood, as was her blade. Any surviving female Centaur that saw her would likely correctly assume she had played a role in what was likely their kind's first racial tragedy.
Chapter 18: The Price of Rage
Chapter Text
Nighthaven - Moonglade
Laronar Stormclaw was perched upon one of the elevated peaks just outside of Nighthaven, in his Owl Form, watching the goings-on of the druids below. His sharp eyes noticed several worrying things. The Wardens of the glade, typically elves and Tauren devoted to defending nature, were now almost entirely elves, who were garbed in armor that any veteran of the Shifting Sands conflict would recognize. The plate armor of Fandral Staghelm's 'Cenarion Infantry'. Evidently, the Archdruid had brought his military with him back to Nighthaven.
The inn closest to him yet retained Tauren guards, and from what he saw, most of the Tauren populace of Nighthaven as well. It seemed that, at some point, they had all been moved to the establishment, though the elves within still seemed friendly with the bull men, which was something. Far too often though, he saw druids below, wearing the markings of the Cenarion Circle, sneering in the general direction of the inn, and the Tauren watching over it. Thal'darah had been correct. Nighthaven, the most consistently populated town the Kaldorei had since the Sundering, was firmly under Fandral's influence.
Laronar spent most of the day watching the Tauren go about their business, and noticed several other things. Vendors outside of their inn, refused them service. Druid trainers actively kept them away from both of Nighthaven's Moonwells, and whenever one of the trainees did leave the inn, he or she received silent, stony stares the entire time. Having seen Nighthaven as it was, in his mind, supposed to be, a place of peace, learning, and unity for both their peoples, seeing what Fandral had turned it into pricked a nerve. The druid fidgeted in place more than once as the simmering rage and frustration mixed within, and unsettled the owl spirit his mind had joined with. He barely noticed its discomfort, such was his rising irritation. It was as if Staghelm's deep seated racism refused to let them study in peace as nature, and Malfurion, had intended. Laronar's opinion of Malfurion had, however, staled after the Shifting Sands. His aid, and that of the High Priestess, had come far too late, and as soon as the conflict ended, Malfurion had returned to Dreaming, to help heal the Green Dragon's wounded in the conflict. That had been several centuries ago, and while Dragons were hard to heal, Laronar was well aware that their spells would've restored even a great wyrm to full health four times over by now, and yet, the Archdruid still slept. In the wake of his loss, none of the other Archdruids challenged Fandral's return, but they too had also soon returned to sleep, leaving the bereaved Staghelm with minds much, much younger than his own to mold as he saw fit. This was the result.
When he could finally watch no more, night had fallen, and every Tauren resident he'd seen had returned to the inn. The owl descended from his perch silently, and flew inside, landing on a rafter. Below, he spied several basic campfires, each with several Tauren looking up at him curiously. He gave them a friendly hoot. The innkeeper, My'lanna, looked up at him as well, hands on her hips. "Not in my inn. Down here, Druid."
If owls could smirk, Laronar would've done so, but in a show of graceful acrobatics, he let his form fall backwards, and rotated in the air, as he suddenly had legs again. It was a jarring experience for his eyes, but his body, much like a cat's, tended to automatically right itself. He bowed, smirking as he rose to his full height and looked down at the innkeeper. "My'lanna. I haven't seen you since...that one Lunar Festival...must've been several centuries back by now. Forgive my memory, Dream-walking tends to make me...scattered."
She blinked, twice, as her eyes ran up the shirtless torso she still sometimes envisioned, and if he didn't know better, he would've sworn she turned a shade darker. "Laronar Stormclaw. Of course you're here, tonight of all nights. Your timing really is terrible."
He arched a brow, as he glanced around at the Tauren. He did not know them personally, but a few seemed to visibly brighten at his name, and smiles appeared on their faces as those who seemed to know him shared their wisdom with those who did not. A good sign, hopefully. "Why? What happens tonight?" He asked, shifting the focus of the burning amber orbs back to the innkeep.
A familiar, and welcome, voice joined them. "Tonight, Fandral Staghelm will attempt to, not for the first time, evict our Tauren friends here from their jobs and homes, to wander Kalimdor, and be run down by the Centaur. I don't intend to let him...but honestly, until you showed up Archdruid Stormclaw, I was convinced he'd get away with it." A smiling Naralex offered a hand as he strolled down the inn's ramp with several elven acolytes in tow behind him.
Laronar grasped it, smirk widening into a rare smile. "Naralex...I haven't seen you since these woods threatened to be overrun with Satyr. It seems my arrival is timely, if You're awake to deal with this...Thal'darah said it was bad, but this is…" He gestured to the segregated Tauren.
Naralex sighed heavily. "It is...beyond bad. These elves from Silithus...they are scarred by the war...they came up here with Fandral when Malfurion re-entered the Dream, and have been spreading anti-Tauren rhetoric since they arrived. The younger generation, males and females both, were lured in by their war stories, and have since been...influenced. Now Staghelm's Cenarion Infantry is poaching promising females for its ranks as well. General Feathermoon left empty handed when she last came to recruit. It has never been this bad, brother…"
Laronar shrugged, and placed a reassuring hand on Naralex's shoulder. "Don't worry...Fandral Staghelm is many things, but he is still a Druid of the Circle, and a Kaldorei. We can talk this over, like civilized sentients."
"Can we now..." A new voice joined them, and Laronar didn't have to turn to know it. There was something about it, about the elf it belonged to, that made his hackles rise on instinct. But he pointedly ignored his own prejudices, and tried to stay objective. He turned as Fandral Staghelm, flanked by no less than twenty of a mixed assortment of druids and infantry, kept speaking. "You're woefully out of the loop on this, Stormclaw. These issues have festered for years in my town. No longer. It ends tonight."
"Ha! Your town?" Laronar said, failing to suppress a chuckle, "What issues have these good Tauren caused, Archdruid Staghelm? I admit I don't personally know them, but our friend Naralex does, and I knew their grandsires. I vouched for them in the past, and I will gladly do so again now. These are allies of Nature. You knew that, once... Nighthaven is to be shared. Or has Malfurion's decree been overturned by his own words? How about Cenarius? Remulos, perhaps? Has anyone, besides you and your heroic warriors from the south, actually changed their mind on this issue?"
Fandral's patience, already thin when Laronar had last witnessed it, seemed to have all but evaporated in the years since losing his son. He was different, that much was obvious, but Laronar still could not figure out why the druid rubbed him so wrongly. It went beyond his haughtiness and racism at this point. There was something foul about the odor around him. He was still keeping an open mind, and paying respect where, admittedly, it was due. Something dark was still pricking his sixth sense though. He decided to meditate on it later.
After a long moment, Staghelm spoke. "They would change their opinions, if they were awake. If they knew the trouble these...lesser beings...have been causing in our most sacred grove."
One of the younger bulls was on his feet, and snorting. His head was raised though, a good sign, since lowering it usually preceded a charge. "This...snake tongued schemer has stolen our homes and our businesses! In good faith we traded with him, and now, he attempts to banish us to tribes we do not remember, against an enemy we have never faced!"
Laronar glanced between Fandral, the Tauren, and Naralex, who nodded his way. He turned back to Fandral as he spoke. "Let me guess. You signed contracts with their businesses, using elven subtext to rob them blind, since they do not read our script very well."
The standing Tauren blinked at him. "How did you…?"
Naralex spoke up then, fixing Fandral with a glare as well. "He's tried this before...it helped get him sentenced to the far corners of the world with the bugs, but his racism persists, it seems, despite the punishments he has received for it…"
Fandral glared back at his contemporaries, and the more Laronar looked at him, really looked at him, the more insistent the wrongness he was feeling was becoming. He'd known Fandral Staghelm for the better part of ten millennia, and while they had not always been friends, it was not until that moment that Laronar considered him an enemy, one that seemed determined to oppose what the Circle stood for. "I have been punished in ways you wandering, loveless Ferals can only imagine in your darkest nightmares. No more. The Moonglade shall no longer be fouled by the presence of lesser Druids."
He focused on Laronar and Naralex then, ignoring the people he was displacing entirely with the callousness of one who considered their worth next to nothing. "Brothers, the Shifting Sands left us devastated...entire barrow dens, vacant. Archdruids of thousands of years, gone, their wisdom lost forever to the sands of that felish region. Join me in Nighthaven. We must rebuild...and quickly. We must be stronger than we ever have before. The bugs are not done. You both know this as I do. You were there, and next time, they will end us long before the Dragons get off their titanic rears to do something about the threat."
Naralex spoke first after considering Staghelm's words for about a second. "If racism and treachery are what you are building this...new Circle...around, you may leave me out of it." He glanced at Laronar then. "I will guide these Tauren south...and lend my aid until they find a tribe willing to accept them."
Laronar shook his head. "This isn't right. We cannot just...let this happen. Naralex, if we do, we backslide on the progress of thousands of years, and betray the memory of no small amount of Tauren lives lived in friendship within this very glade."
"And what are you going to do, Stormclaw?" Fandral's mocking voice cut through their conversation once more. The smirking, beardless Archdruid sneered at his contemporary. "Fight me? Maul me in the street, until I change my mind on these beasts you love so much?"
A low snarl rumbled through the inn, and Laronar soon found a pair of hands on his shoulders. One from Naralex, and My'lanna. "He's not worth it…" One of them muttered, but the Feral Druid was beyond their hearing now, and Fandral knew it, as Laronar muscled free of their grip, and stepped into the shadows just before the inn's entrance, towards him, amber eyes ablaze in the darkness. Fandral stepped forward as well, open palms flaring with sigils of entirely too much arcane magic. Worse, it was a spell Laronar recognized by its sigils, one of the many his brother had used to fling at helpless animals.
As Laronar stepped into the moonlight, Staghelm got a proper look at the fury he'd roused. Laronar's arms now resembled something between elf and panther as the shredded muscle was now covered by a fine layer of black fur, not entirely unlike how the Worgen had manifested their own changes. Each 'paw' flared with natural orange wrath that even the greenest acolyte was familiar with. "Is that what it's going to take, Fandrrrral? A duel? Once I knock some sense into your skull, you will neverrr again trrry to force these Taurrren from theirrr home herrre. What say you?"
Fandral answered him as he fired a series of arcane missiles. "So be it. To the faint." Laronar slashed through the druid's arcane barrage with claws wreathed in orange, as he closed in on his opponent. By instinct, he almost lifted his head to go for Fandral's neck, only to then realize he was still an elf. He made a final, if somewhat half-hearted swipe at Fandral. Not enough to kill, no, but he was in the mood to give this druid in particular a strong reminder of why nobody wishing to live messed with Feral Druids.
Fandral came away with bloody streaks down his forearms, which had risen to protect his face. Something came over him then, a shift, a change in the tone of the duel that got even Ashamane's attention, for Laronar felt her eyes upon him quite suddenly. "You're looking more cat than elf, Stormclaw. Losing to the rage, are we? Finally crossing that line?" The druid sneered. "I always knew you would follow a path similar to Ralaar's."
Laronar stared the other elf down, and when he spoke his voice came out in far too much of a growl, "If I was having the same problems as Rrralaar, Staghelm, I'd be down alrrrready…" The energy in his palms flared then, as he finished the spell. Silvery thorns protruded from his still mostly elven abdomen, as well as the rest of his body. After casting the Ironbark, he drew on the power to shift his shape completely.
The amber eyes of his opponent narrowed as he saw this happening, and several things happened at once. Ashamane urged his instinct to shift into her form quicker, for that could be far more easily healed by her. If his elven form was seriously damaged, it would take his own knowledge, or another elf's, to mend.
At that same instant, Fandral Staghelm took off his kid gloves, as fist of rock and earth upended one of Nighthaven's own stone paths, and took the Feral Druid in the chin with all the force of a Shoryuken. Laronar felt his mind go blank as his body responded to his patron's call, and in that moment, he felt it. The rage and fury of nature he had willingly embraced, but always had the mental fortitude to control, and limit, as needed. It surged, as the one person in the world he genuinely disliked became the center of his reddening vision. Pain clouded his mind, and in that pain, something else rose to the fore. The beast within, still a part of him, but struggling now to tear free and maul the elf before him. The rage was overpowering.
It wasn't with blind anger though. The wild part of him was telling him to end this elf, for reasons he could not rightly comprehend in that moment of blind pain. It was pure instinct, and his body reacted to it before he could think.
His fangs and claws became longer, the fur traced up his still elven arms, appearing over the rest of his body. Blood dripped consistently from his now much furrier chin, and a quick flash of green healed the slight fracture the strike had caused. That strike had been intended to kill him, of that, Laronar was sure. He knew when his opponents wanted his life, he fought often in the wilds, and in war. He felt Ashamane's remorse, vaguely, and glanced at his changing body. Whatever he had become, it was, to his inner monologue, a monstrosity of the form he so loved and honed.
He didn't have long to lament his new state, for his body was moving again on its own instinct now, focused upon tearing apart the other druid in a fit of justified, but very much out of control fury. He leapt, claws extended from his five fingers as he prepared to shred Staghelm to pieces. He likely would have, for he was quick, but another's timely intervention saved him from becoming a murderer, and upsetting plans none of the gathered druids were yet aware of.
Entangling vines bound his snarling form, and Laronar fought it for control, until he saw who was casting said vines. Remulos was a direct descendant of Cenarius, and a friend. The struggling elf-panther ceased, entrapped in vines as Ralaar had been, and though he tried to free himself, the roots remained deaf to his commands. He also noticed his spell fade, and knew he had messed up significantly this time. Reclaiming his actual shape would be much harder, and he felt his boots slide off his now much furrier feet.
"I am not mad at you Laronar...merely disappointed. For over nine thousand years you have been an example to those who follow your Feral Arts, a master of yourself, and now...you have perverted your patron's form with your rage. You have let the beast take control, and so a beast you will become...and a beast you shall stay." The Keeper's word struck home, and he lowered the roots entangling him, as he found himself instinctively standing, if one could call it that, on all four gangly limbs.
"Is...therrre no way...to stop this?" He found forming words suddenly much harder than normal, as his mouth was only half appropriately shaped to even make them.
Remulos shook his head. "You were warned when you and the other Druids first sought to expand your knowledge of taking the shapes of nature's defenders. Giving in to the rage, turns you into what you favor most. I have never seen a Druid, of any race, recover from this fate, and many who have given in to their wild side simply become part of the natural hierarchy...joining it even in death. You can certainly try to avoid this fate...but nothing I or Ashamane can do now will stop it."
Laronar glanced up at Staghelm, who was smirking entirely too smugly. He growled, and forced out words once more. "And this...rrrracism fueled banishment of the Shu'halo...arrre you going to allow it? Will you let this scheming rrrracist displace these innocent citizens of the Moonglade, and fellow prrrotectorrs of the Wild?"
Remulos raised a hand halfway through his increasingly angry words. "I do not take part in the politics of your races. None of my kin do. We keep to our own as you keep to yours. It is...better for all if we do not influence your civilization, beyond teaching you how to coexist with nature, and better defend it. All I ask as Keeper of this glade is that the peace not be disturbed. I saw who began this duel."
Laronar's eyes shifted from Naralex and the Tauren within the inn, to Fandral's group. All had similar expressions of disgust or fear, and finally, he focused them back on Remulos as he forced the words to come forth. His Rs were lengthy, and he had pauses in his snarling speech, but he managed. "All evil rrrequires to flourrrish...is the inaction of those who arrre good. You will regrrret this...Keeperrr...before yourrr days are ended...this Cirrrcle is no longer the brrrotherrhood I helped forrrm...we have let this obsession with Drrrrreaming cloud our eyes...to the darrrkness rrright underrrr ourrr noses! I will not be parrrt of it...not if this is what we arrre now."
He strode towards Remulos then, and a pair of Dryads appeared from the bushes beside him, spears raised. The Keeper raised his hand, though, for the druid had not attempted to attack him. Even in this stilted state, he had remarkable control, now the fight had ended. It would not save him though. Not now. Laronar spoke again, standing to his full height of roughly ten feet, in his new form. Being bipedal was not something his half-shifted spine liked, but as with the difficulty of speech, he ignored it. "The Moonglade is yourrrs to keep...Rrremulos. But it will not be, if you allow Staghelm to rrrule it unchallenged…with his own perrrsonal arrrmy." He turned then, towards the inn, and let out something between a snarl and a sigh. "If the Demons rrreturrn...summon me. Otherrrwise, I will have no parrrt of this."
He loped off then, through the inn, ignoring the looks and words of the elves and Tauren who tried to stop him. He tried running, and was awkward at it. His Cat Form's gait had always been smooth, ideal for a hunter, but this form, while it certainly had strength, was not evenly balanced, and his pace was slowed by his awkward limbs of differing lengths.
Laronar made his way through Ashenvale, still as stealthy as ever, and back into Stonetalon. He did not reach for Ashamane or his magic, not yet, as he only had one idea as to what he could do to save himself from becoming little more than a very strong animal for all of time. He enjoyed living in the wilds, but he also enjoyed thumbs, women, and the occasional foray into his people's civilization. To enjoy those things once more, he would need to fix himself.
He found mountain climbing surprisingly easy in his altered form, with long limbs and claws, he made short work of Stonetalon's tallest peaks, behind which was a grove he was long familiar with. As he crested the top of one such peak, he looked down, and spied a glade teeming with life. There were more trees than when he'd last visited, and from his lofty perch, he even spied quite a few of Cenarius' children. No doubt keeping the land, as they had promised they would.
He descended rapidly, which caught their attention, and the forms of the dryads and Keepers vanished into the foliage as the strange creature approached the woods. He paused at the edge, and waited. A Keeper of the Grove formed before him, appearing much as Cenarius had, in his experience. A whirlwind of leaves and detritus coalesced into a being whose upper torso was as aesthetically pleasing as any Kaldorei. "Laronar Stormclaw...it has been some time. I heard from Remulos that you might head this way...and why...you are not welcome here, if more violence is what you intend."
Laronar was surprised at the strength of his rage, the sudden urge to claw the Keeper to pieces for barring him from what he considered to be his oldest home, but he resisted all the same. The result, was a soft snarl. "This...is my home...Keeperrrrr. Do not forrrget that...you are herrre because I gave this land my enerrrgy...and made it flourrrish. You...arrre tending my legacy. I will do as I please...in my own forrrest…" The permanently angry looking predator eyes shifted from the Keeper then, as Laronar entered the grove.
The Keeper's neutral handsome expression shifted into a frown, but he did not bar the elf-cat's way as he loped into the woods, and towards the old shack that had been his shelter while learning Restoration magic. He found it in a state of disrepair, home to a number of squirrels, who had taken advantage of the fallen roof with the first of the winter chills in the air. Finding nothing of use, and noting that, at some point in the thousands of years since he was last here, someone had rifled through his stuff, he sighed, and left. It was a home no longer, not for elves anyway, and he did not currently have the magic to make it suitable again.
As he turned and left, fully ready to dash into the woods, sate his hunger, and leave, he sensed a shift in the trees around him, and whirled. He hated not having his sixth sense, the one that had always allowed him to detect, to an extent, other magical beings through his bond with the land. Had he possessed it still, he might have noticed the Tree of Eternity that had sprung up behind his house.
The massive Ancient turned towards him, and spoke. "Your...energy...I know it. I have...grown upon it...you gave much...to this land…" The massive tree leaned over his dilapidated house. "...and now...you find yourself...stuck. Cut off...this...I can help with…" Before Laronar had a moment to even blink, orange swirls lit the gnarled fingers of the ancient tree, and then flowed into his shifted form.
His perspective changed, the world became greener, and as he again looked at his house, he found it was gone. In its place, lay a massive, ash-colored panther, head on her paws. She let out a long sigh, as the elf she had favored for over nine millennia bowed before her in a form twisted by rage and poor timing. She felt slightly responsible, as she had pushed him to change in the first place.
"I was wondering when you would make it here...or if you still even could. You have properly messed up this time, Laronar. It will take some time to fix. Even for me." The massive, translucent panther stood, and walked over to the awkwardly crouching elf-cat.
He looked up at her as she came close. "Then there is a way to fix this? I do not fancy being a cat all the time." A smirk crossed the twisted visage. "Just most of it."
The panther Ancient chuffed at his words, an expression he recognized as her version of a chuckle. "I can fix your form, but it will cost you...you must become my Avatar on the waking plane. About six centuries you will have to sleep here, but, when you awaken, you will find your forms, both mine and your original, much stronger."
Laronar glanced at his body then, and frowned slightly. "Is there no way to master this form? It has potential...for war, if not stealth. Much like the Worgen."
"This shape is a twisted perversion of the gift I first gave you long ago. It is best if you forget it, and focus on honing that which you have already begun to master." The Ancient spirit loomed over his own semi-corporeal form. "What say you, Druid?"
Laronar glanced at the ground for a moment, and then looked back up at his patron, she who had always guided him well, answered his questions, and acted as a truer friend than most of his own kind ever had. She was essentially the closest thing he'd had to a mother, for the majority of his existence. "Very well. A few hundred years asleep is worth having my body back...and Azeroth will benefit from having you walk it again." He stood closer to her, and met her burning gaze. "I offer my body as your vessel, willingly and without coercion."
"And I accept, that which is freely given…" The panther's amber orbs flared, and that, was the last thing that Laronar remembered.
The Hinterlands - Eastern Kingdoms, Six Hundred Years Later…
From his perspective, the next thing Laronar was aware of, was an unfamiliar forest, in an unfamiliar land. He looked up, and found the moons in the sky, but the stars around them were different, as if he was not on Kalimdor anymore. He looked at his body then, and found himself once more in the shape of an elf, though the cat-like influences had only increased. His incisors had lengthened into sizable fangs, for an elf, and his muscles seemed harder, and there were more of them than there had been the last time he'd seen his limbs. He felt stronger all over, and it was not only physical.
His senses were far more attuned than they had been before, and while Kaldorei typically stood at the top of the sight and hearing spectrum, his own range of perceptiveness now included smells as well, for he could catch many, with a single inhalation. He was used to his animal form's perception of them, but eventually, he managed to sort that which he knew, from that which was unfamiliar. Then, he noticed his own scent had changed, and seemed to have some layered musky potency to it that his own nostrils appeared immune to. His skin was again that of an elf, the muscles again revealed under the shadow of the moonlight that even then, avoided shining on him. Amongst his musk, was the smell of decay, and immediately, he realized much of his reagents must have been left in wherever such things went when a druid shifted their form. For hundreds of years.
He thankfully found all his pouches where he'd left them, though the food within, recently procured from his perspective, had turned to rotten remnants of berry goo stuck to the jerky he'd kept alongside the fruit. He sighed, emptied the food, and then realized he was rather hungry. He reached out for Ashamane, but she was far, far away and seemed preoccupied. She did acknowledge him though, as energy surged within his form, familiar and entirely welcome. He shifted his shape, and again took the form of a cat.
He looked as much like his patron as he always had, but now, he sized himself at roughly the same size as Storm during the Shifting Sands, perhaps slightly smaller but just as well muscled, if his friend had continued to grow over the centuries he did not remember. He estimated he was likely slightly smaller than Thaon's own Cat Form now. He sniffed the air of the unfamiliar woods, and sighed. Nothing smelled familiar, and there was a predatory scent throughout the region's air. He ventured a guess that whatever hunted in this strange, albeit flourishing land, was an apex predator.
He did not run into whatever ruled over these woods though, as he hunted, and brought down a stag. He let his form consume the meal, an offering of sorts to his patron, and something his stomach could digest. Once he was sated with food and drink from a small river, Laronar shifted into his Owl Form, just to make sure he could, but once he was above the trees his delight at being able to fly again was replaced by disbelief, as one of the mountains on the horizon seemed to be staring back at him with a massive, stone, eagle-like visage.
He only had a brief moment to admire the very obviously carved mountainside, and wonder who made it, before he heard a pair of flapping wings, and a screech that tore the air, not entirely unlike his Owl Form's. To his owl ears though, it sounded more eagle than owl. The source of the shriek came barreling past, as he let himself fall in the air, suddenly, dodging a pair of large talons that grasped the space he'd occupied a moment earlier.
He got his first good look at the creature as it banked around towards him, but even then, his confusion only rose. It seemed half lion, half eagle, and yet he had never heard of such a beast. If they existed in Kalimdor, he was sure the Tauren would've ridden them. Two of their more popular totems in the same animal would've made for good mounts. The creature was large as well, looking more than capable of lifting a bull man, if it had to.
As the predatory hybrid creature, which seemed natural to his senses, and not a magical aberration, came towards him again he turned his wings towards a lake, near the middle of the region. A few tents were pitched on the southern shore of it, but they looked too small for Trolls, Tauren, or Kaldorei. That, was when things started to click. Small dwellings and masterful stonework? He knew of only one race that was short and skilled with stone shaping, but he had never actually met a Dwarf. They had been considered extinct, after the Sundering. Knowing Dwarves, or rather, what his people had known of them almost ten thousand years prior, they'd likely gone underground, hidden from the few elven eyes that watched this largely ignored continent.
Laronar flew close to the lake, snagged a fish near the surface, and then lifted up again, towards the mountains immediately behind the lake, that helped form the natural bowl-shape this forest inhabited. The creature had followed him, and roused the inhabitants of the tents with another shriek, but as Laronar arced upwards again, gaining height on the creature, he let the fish fall, and the bird-lion paused, eyes moving from the owl as the easier meal took priority. Laronar smirked to himself, and then landed on a tree on the mountainside, blending into the shadows as only his race could.
He watched the creature then, as it tore the relatively large fish apart in the air, and then remembered it had been hunting an intruder to its airspace. It looked around for only a brief moment, before a rope from below with a noose on the end landed around the creature's neck, and dragged it towards the earth. The animal squawked in protest, but then, another of its kind, one wearing metalworked armor plates, joined it in the air. The struggles lessened, and the pair landed. On the ground, the figures from the tents, who had revealed themselves to be Dwarf-shaped, swarmed the creature, feeding it, and then breaking into some kind of celebration when it accepted their food, and didn't fly off.
Somewhat curious, Laronar watched from above, still hidden, and needing only a slightly open eye to see all the Dwarves were up to. The sound of their words was cut off by the rush of a waterfall, leading into the lake to his right, but from the movement of their mouths, they were speaking the Dwarven tongue, and hearing their words wouldn't have mattered. About an hour later, another creature appeared, drinking from the lake, and again the Dwarves lassoed and dragged it down with the aid of the one they'd armored and brought with them. Again it found a partner, and again, the celebratory ale was brought out. Then, the Dwarves with a new pair of mounts to ride had them saddled with what he recognized as training saddles, not all that different to those used on Nightsabers, and they were in the air moments later.
Laronar chuffed quietly to himself. Flying Dwarves. Just when he'd been convinced he'd seen everything. He watched them for a time, curiosity genuinely piqued, as to how exactly they armored such a creature. One of the main reasons such suits were rare for Nightsabers was due to the cat's size steadily increasing as they aged through the centuries. That, and the fluid movement of their gait needing to remain unhampered. Historically, most Nightsaber armor was decorative, more than for defense in war. He knew Shandris had tried changing that, to better defend the Sentinel's precious mounts, but the elven attempts at armor, while finely made, hampered all but the largest females with their heavily bladed design. Still, against a foe that was legion, such Nightsabers would essentially become living blade walls. Like him, Shandris knew they needed to be better.
As they mounted their new catches and headed towards the peak that, Laronar now realized, resembled these hybrid bird-cat creatures in the visage carved out of the peak, he followed silently from above, and watched as they brought the beasts to a strange Dwarf. His clothing was mostly feathers and light mail, but as Laronar perched closer, he saw there was metal beneath the leather he wore too. The Dwarf wielded a pair of hammers that, instead of flat edges, were shaped with the metallic visage of an eagle on either side, which acted as the damaging part of the hammers, and after he measured the new creatures, he turned to his forge, and hammered out (with a smithing hammer) several plates for their heads, chests, and talons with impressive speed.
Once the armored creatures left with their partners, the hammering Dwarf retired to the back of his forge, lit up a pipe full of a brown herb Laronar didn't recognize, and sat in his bedside chair, scowling at the entrance as he puffed. Laronar let the sun fall below the relatively high horizon line of this land before he landed at the entrance of the smith's cave-forge, and fixed the dwarf with a stare from the very much unnatural amber eyes.
The Dwarf's bushy red-brown eyebrows crashed together as his beady eyes examined the intruder, and he traced a J-like symbol in the air, one Laronar recognized, and the accompanying pinch of salt and soot followed soon after. By the time it had landed on his form, he had shifted back to his elven shape, and bowed fist to palm before the Dwarf.
His hair was a rich reddish mahogany brown, with only a few grays mixed into it, and his impressively braided beard. It was clear that he was a shaman, for he radiated a connection to the land the druid recognized, and he appeared to hold some station of importance among his kin. He spoke first, with an accent that even the language comprehension spell couldn't entirely erase. "I had a feelin' we had elfie eyes upon us this night. Speak then. Why've ye come? Ye don' look like any elfie out o' Quel'thalas by my reckonin'."
Laronar blinked, as the spell translated a pair of elven words amidst the Dwarvish, and he wondered if the Highborne of old had continued to survive to the present era. After a few thousand years without sighting them, most Kaldorei assumed their ancient cousins were long gone. "No...I am not from...Quel'thalas...I am Kaldorei, of Kalimdor. From the west. I come in peace." He stepped closer to the Dwarf then, and the short, stout creature eyed him with suspicion, until he saw what the elf carried.
The cat-headed pipe made of well used wood was packed with a herb that, unlike the Dwarf's was green in color, and had bits of orange mixed within as well. A smirk came across the rough features, and he put down his own pipe. "Now tha's more like it. None o' that Bloodthistle hooka' nonsense like the elfies up north." Laronar lit the bowl for him, and the Dwarf's smirk only widened as the potent elven stash worked its magic rather quickly on the creature who was not used to the effects. "Kalimdor ye' say...our historians in Ironforge say tha' was the name o' all the world's lands in a time a'fore time. We never 'ad any proof it still existed. Dwarves don' do well with oceans, but p'raps such a journey is possible fer a flier, eh? If an owl can do et, I'd bet a gryphon could too."
Laronar nodded, taking his own toke on the pipe as it was passed back to him. The two sat quietly in the cave, and Laronar assumed that, now that he'd established friendly contact, this Dwarf of some repute could keep him from being hammered to death. Despite all the rumors he'd heard growing up in Eldarath, what he knew of their actions during the War of the Ancients directly contradicted the elven slurs. One thing he did not grasp, was why the Dwarf before him was calling himself a Dwarf. In the past, 'Earthen' had been the correct term. He pondered quietly as he remembered Dwarves, while long lived compared to Tauren or Furbolgs, were still very much mortal, or so he'd been taught. Perhaps the elven slur had become a proper name for their race over the long millennia. He managed to keep from laughing.
Laronar exhaled, before responding. "A gryphon, you call it? Hmm. Yes, I think one of them could make the journey to Kalimdor...but you would need to stop on the isles around the Maelstrom before trying to fly past it. Many...unsavory species live on those isles. Trolls, mostly, but other creatures yet linger. I would not try such a journey alone."
The two became friends rather quickly as the night wore on. Laronar learned the Dwarf's name was Bjaldi Galehamner, and much like Liu Lang, he was a shaman. They decided it was better, and easier for the rest of the clan, who called themselves Wildhammers, if they did not see the rare variant of elf. Bjaldi claimed tensions were high enough with the High Elves, and the latent racism would likely carry to Laronar, despite very clearly not being of Quel'thalas.
Laronar returned for the next several nights, adventuring with the Dwarf as the effects of the herb led them to do stupid, and potentially life-ending things for amusement. Laronar, for his part, kept him alive, and brought him back to his cave before the sun rose. After the seventh day of such escapades, he was ready to move on, and explore the rest of the easternmost continent.
Bjaldi bid him a fond farewell, after the druid shared with him enough seeds to grow his own stash of the potent herb, and the two agreed that in time, they would meet again. The gryphons of the area he had learned was called the Hinterlands, let him leave unchallenged, and he headed north, curious about the High Elves and 'Humans' the Dwarf had mentioned resided there.
What he found of Humanity was not all that impressive. They were tiny, pale, furless, and had a tendency to ruin natural settings in the name of expanding their giant stone cities. Those, were where he saw humanity's darker nature. Thieves bounded past his rooftop hiding places, thugs beat each other in the spaces between their buildings, and every human he saw at their trading market seemed far too obsessed with gold. More than once it had led to outright murder. Those too poor to afford food were mutilated and beaten, while those with more than enough gold to share bought more food than they could ever possibly consume by themselves. Most of it, he saw, ended up in the city's trash when the lavish feasts of the wealthy were finished, and the disparity of wealth between classes boggled his mind. If a Kaldorei came to one of their inns all but dying of thirst, the least they got was shelter and Moonberry juice. These Humans had no such compassion for their own kind. He spent roughly a week flying from Arathor to Lordaeron, and then leaving, somewhat disappointed. He'd expected more of the races of this continent, but it seemed Humans, Dwarves, and banished elves were all it had to offer.
When he came upon the northernmost tip of the world's eastern landmass, his sharp eyes saw nothing resembling an elven city. It took him most of a day before he realized that their lands were covered in magic, and indeed once he broke through that initial illusion, he found that the Highborne had literally drenched their land with mana. It permeated everything, and he flew towards its source, curious as to what his wayward cousins had wrought without the guidance of Malfurion and Tyrande.
He did not fly directly over the font of magic, for he knew it would be well defended and magically warded. He could sense it well enough from one of the mana-twisted trees upon the isle the Highborne had created it on. Despite being irritated that, somehow, they had managed to recreate the Well of Eternity to a degree, he was forced to admit that he had seen with his own eyes that living in harmony with mana and nature was indeed possible.
Of the elves themselves, he could understand their tongue, more or less, and learned that along with their height and muscles, the wayward Highborne had also lost their near-immortal life spans, now lasting, at most, only a few millennia before perishing to old age. With his curiosity sated, and two weeks spent hiding from the peering eyes of elves and Humans, Laronar flew south again, and headed for the only Kaldorei outpost on this continent, and one he had Staghelm to thank for existing.
The Twilight Grove was empty when he landed within it. He had found more humans in the bright woods around the grove, but evidently none had managed to find the secret elven hideaway. He found the portal inactive, and after repairing a few weathered runes upon it and giving it a magical jumpstart, it hummed to life, and he stepped through into the Dreamway.
He was met with the imposing snout of a green wyrm, and bowed, as it sniffed him, and spoke. "Laronar Stormclaw...we had heard that you had perished some time ago...and now here I find you, opening another gate to the Dream, one we had long given up maintaining."
Laronar chuckled. "Well, as you can see, good Dragon, I'm not quite dead. As for the portal...we should maintain it. The Highborne we exiled some millennia past still persist on that continent, or rather, their descendants do. They've made another font of magic similar to the Well of Eternity. It is at the heart of their lands, but they seem to be living in harmony with mana, and nature...we should keep an eye upon it. It will draw Demons to it like feces draws flies."
The Dragon, a female he realized, nodded once. "I will inform Stormrage, and set a guard. Welcome home, Stormclaw." The ephemeral Dragon lifted off, and Laronar headed for the portal to the Dreamgrove. He flew towards Ashamane's Fall then, to confer with his patron. He found a statue of her erected in the center of the area the Ashen had made 'holy', and knelt before it as he reached out to her.
"What brings you back here, my wandering Druid?" The ghostly panther's voice echoed in his skull, but she did not physically manifest.
"I have a...gap...in my memory. Six hundred years is a long time. I'd like to remember what we did during that time." He felt the panther's worry flood him as he spoke.
"You recall nothing? At all? That is...worrying. You are correct, six centuries is a long time to lose, but there are things we learned during that time that you must remember. Hmm…" The pause on her end drew longer, and longer. Eventually, he'd been sitting for several hours, but she did again reach out to him, eventually, well aware of how patient her Claw could be. "There is one who has agreed to help recover what you have forgotten...his power is more suited to this than my own...and...you and he will get along, I think. Travel southward via the Dream, until you reach the land of your friend Liu. Once there, you will understand what you need to do."
Laronar thanked his patron again, and almost left just as quickly, that is, until a pair of druids in their Cat Forms stopped him in the middle of the Dreamgrove. They shifted to their elven forms, revealing them to be a pair of sisters, rather lovely, with hair of varying shades of green. The younger spoke first. "Shan'do Stormclaw...we feared you dead. You disappeared for so long, and without a word...but Shan'do Moonclaw was convinced you were still alive, despite the rumors Fandral was spreading on the mainland."
Laronar stifled a yawn, and nodded. His arms crossed as he replied, and he did not quite realize the show he was putting on just by moving. His upper torso had become even more glorious. A prime example of how well-muscled a Kaldorei male could become. Unfortunately, he was not yet aware of its potency, and the subtleties of romance he had once known rather well had faded with over a thousand years of inaction. "Well, here I am. Alive. I've forgotten the past six centuries...but Ashamane has bid me to traverse the Dream in an effort to regain my memory. Did you two need something?"
The eldest spoke now. "I am Naria, and this is Saria. Ashamane bid us to follow you...a prospect I had not expected to look forward to, until now."
It took Laronar a full minute to realize that, yes, that was seduction in the elder sister's voice, or at least, a tone that suggested it. One lengthy green eyebrow rose up rather high as he realized his dry spell was akin to the Barrens by this point, but Laronar focused on the task at hand. "I see. Well, sisters, I welcome the company. Did Ashamane mention what you are to accomplish by joining me?"
The younger sister spoke again. "We are to learn from you, one of the oldest Feral Druids still living. Master Moonclaw said we were the most adept he had, but he could not bestow on us the title of Sharpclaw...he said that was your responsibility."
Laronar chuckled, and headed for the portal to the Dream. He'd stocked up on food as he'd passed through the Dreamgrove, and assumed the women had prepared as well. If Thaon said they were competent, he would trust his contemporary's evaluation of them. "So you wish to be Sharpclaws...I haven't trained a Sharpclaw since before the War of the Shifting Sands...very well. We will travel as you learn, and make use of the lengthy journey."
The sisters fell into step beside him as he entered the portal. Naria, the eldest, spoke again. "Where are we traveling to, exactly?"
"To a land called Pandaria...it is evidently hidden on the waking plane, but if we reach it via the Dream, we should be able to contact the Ancients who reside there. One of them, apparently, will help me regain my memory." Laronar glanced at the pair as they stepped through the portal. The elder sister was walking rather close, not that he minded, while the younger seemed immune to whatever charm he'd managed to work on her sister.
Once in the Dream, determining direction was difficult for the elves, and they relied on their patron to steer them in the right direction, at least. A vast expanse of green and various mountains, spiraling plants, and spirits lay between them and their destination. The further they went from the Green Dragonflight's influence, the more wild the Dream would become. Laronar estimated a length of several weeks for their trek, if they were walking, which would give them time to practice as well.
That first day they stopped after sixteen hours of walking in relative silence, and the elder druid put them through their paces, evaluating what they already knew, and offering advice for where they were lacking. When they finally fell asleep, he looked around the Dreamscape, and toked on his pipe. At that moment, he was rather glad he'd chosen nature's path as his own.
Chapter 19: Trial of the Tiger
Chapter Text
Somewhere within the Emerald Dream
Laronar had long since stopped keeping track of time within the Dream. Mostly because any attempt to do so, was pointless. One could feel it pass, if one entered as a spirit, but when one walked the Dreamscape with their physical body, their sense of direction and time eventually became muddled to the point of total uselessness. The three elves were lucky though, for they had a guide. Whenever they ventured off course, the ashen furred panther, their patron Wild God, would guide them back to the right direction. South. Always south.
Traveling with a pair of sisters had gone about how Laronar expected it to. Naria had...warmed to him rather quickly once he explained that Ashamane was responsible for the changes to his body. This had made Saria irritated with both of them, and her irritation was only compounded by their patron when, upon being told of the elder druid's sexcapades into the Dream foliage, she had shrugged, licked a paw, and claimed to have expected that such things would happen. That her 'chosen' as she'd called Laronar, had a persuasive scent to him now that females who followed her sometimes had trouble ignoring. Others, for whatever mystifying reason, seemed entirely immune to the pheromones his now changed body gave off.
For Laronar and Naria's part, the two had agreed that casual was the best way to keep things, though as the 9500 year old druid reawakened muscles he hadn't used in quite a few centuries, he found not falling for the Ashen female was becoming more and more difficult, when there was little else to do while they rested. Their several week journey was revealed to actually take several years, according to their guide, as they were going on foot. The use of her form sped things along, but with nothing substantial to hunt, that wouldn't last forever.
What the Dreamscape offered in the way of food was, for druids like them, less than filling. The Ashen were one of the few Druids of the Claw, if not the only branch of the Circle, that actively hunted big game, seeing the act as crucial for nature, provided it was done correctly. Guardian Druids were much more ceremonial with their hunts, either leaving them as offerings for the Twins, or communally sharing a kill once every blue moon. Laronar was unfamiliar with their more secret customs, but he knew most Druids of the Claw favoring the Twin Bears preferred to eat vegetables, and not meat. Thaon had told him once that he'd taken a tip from the Dryads, and used every part of the kill. Evidently, he'd taught their students to do the same, but in the Dream, hunting was not really an option. The animals were usually spirits, long deceased, and none of the three wished to anger them, and disturb their rest before their rebirth into the wilds. Berries, which varied between poisonous and delicious, always left them craving something more for their stomachs to digest.
They continued on though, for each desired to see their destination. Laronar had, in retrospect, realized that his friend Liu was likely long gone by now, along with many of the other shorter lived races he had, from his perspective, recently befriended. Only Bjaldi would still be alive, but Laronar had no idea how long had passed in the waking world while they traveled. Dwarves, for all their foul humor, love of alcohol and smoking, tended to live for a few hundred centuries at least, and in Bjaldi, Laronar had sensed a connection to the world. He would live longer, as was common for those who tied themselves to natural magic, but eventually, the cycle would claim him, too.
As the three druids continued to travel, spar, and learn, eventually they stumbled upon something best left alone. The presence of many, many Wild Gods in a region of the Dream covered in a chain of truly majestic mountains. In Laronar's experience, only Hyjal had felt so crowded, by comparison. Some of the Ancient minds were larger than the others, and yet in the weaker presences, he felt a strong instinct to not underestimate them. Deciding that curiosity was harmless, while their physical forms rested in the Dream, the druids settled into a meditative triangle, and sent their spirits to the waking world, traversing the realms with ease, as they had been taught.
When Laronar's vision straightened, and revealed the waking world, his companions were not beside him, and the hairs on his neck were rising, slowly. He turned around, and looked upwards as a pinch of salt and soot drifted over his dreamform. He spied what was making his instincts, even in an incorporeal form, rise to action. It was a Zandalari Troll, one beefy arm dangling, while the other and his feet gripped the branches of one of Zandalar's massive trees. "Hello 'dere, elf mon...you be walkin' in places ya aint welcome. Best go back ta Dreamin'."
He leapt down from the tree, and approached Laronar, who was staring at the Troll with increasing disbelief. In this form, he could sense much of a person's mind, and the power the Troll was radiating was very similar in nature to his own. He was almost as equally muscled, had dark blue skin, and long tusks bearing many carvings that had to have shared a base with the runes the Tauren and Kaldorei Druids used as well. Knowing how long the Zandalari had been worshiping Loa, the runes upon the Troll's tusks were probably the originals, or an improved version of them. "Mm...because you be one of Cenarius's, I won't be sendin' ya to Bwonsamdi today. But not all my bruddas an' sistas be so kind." He chuckled, and looked the elf over. "Now I see ya...I be thinkin' we aint so different, ya?"
Laronar nodded. His voice came out distorted but intelligible as he replied, "You are a Druid, then? Interesting. I did not think the Trolls had such magic...the tribes in Feralas and Tanaris do not."
The Troll laughed again, and then crossed his bulky arms as he finished. "I be no jungle Troll, or sand-dwellin' savage, mon. I am Zandalari. We have worshiped de Loa longer den anyone."
Laronar smirked. "That's a common claim. As far as I know, the Tauren were first, by all accounts, though early Kaldorei had ties to nature as well. Legend suggests that those ties were much...closer, than the ones a Druid makes." The Troll arched a hairless brow, and Laronar elaborated. "They say those who embraced nature in those ancient days became living trees, tenders of the forest directly under Cenarius. Perhaps it was before the Well changed us. Nobody was certain, even when we had records on such ancient events."
"Dat is de way it has always been wit history. But I 'ave little time fo' such tings. It does not matta who came first. Ya'd make a worthy enemy. Dat's what mattas. Ya best be goin' back ta da Dream, elfy. Before one of de Loa gets ya scent." The Troll actually made a waving motion, and Laronar suddenly got the impression he hadn't just been hanging around here for fun. He looked around, and his eyes widened as he sensed a familiar presence he'd felt only once before, and in the heat of war at that.
"I...spoke with one of your Loa, once. I think. Ashamane called him the Lord of the Hunt. He helped our people by sending saurians to aid us against the bugs of Silithus."
"Aye. Ya mean Gonk...yes...he been keepin' an eye on de remnants of de Aqir for many an age, all across de world." The Troll nodded, and then the hairless brow arched again as he saw Laronar's confusion.
"What...is an Aqir?" The incorporeal druid asked, genuinely curious now. As far as he knew, elves and Trolls had never spoken this long without devolving into combat, but here at least, was a fellow guardian of nature. Like Laronar, he seemed not inclined to start a fight, mostly because it was impossible to do so.
The Troll laughed. "Aye, de histories said it was before ya people rose...a great war, de greatest de Trolls ever fought, a uniting of all de tribes, all de Loa, against a t'reat as old as de world. Intelligent bugs, mon. Dey t'reatened ta swarm de world at one time, but now, dey are all but gone. We knew of de hive in Pandaria, an' dey got dere own Loa, but...Silithus ya called it? Neva' 'eard of it."
Laronar then began recounting the elve's conflict with the Qiraji, and the aid they'd gotten as they did. The Troll seemed more impressed that he'd run with Dragons and Loa, than anything the elves had done militarily, though even Laronar had to admit that particular conflict had seen them out-maneuvered multiple times.
The Troll's previous insistence on his leaving earlier, had all but vanished after he mentioned Gonk, and though he sensed the Loa was close, he didn't seem inclined to reach out. Laronar too hesitated, for he had nothing to ask of the Lord of the Hunt, and didn't really want to bargain, as the Trolls did. He was either occupied, or sleeping, and Laronar knew better than to poke a sleeping Ancient. If they wanted contact, they were more than capable of initiating it, something he had learned early on, when he'd poked Tortolla, and the ancient turtle had given him an earful on etiquette.
It was not long after his recounting, and the Troll's sharing of a few war stories on the island, that he returned to the Dream, only to find the sisters still meditating. Suddenly finding himself with free time, he did as he always did when he had a minute alone, and brought out the cat-shaped pipe.
They had chosen a spot surrounded by Dream trees for a reason, and Laronar sat below one as he began his form of meditation. His body had connected to the life of the Dream flora around him, and he was already levitating slightly in the air, supported by a warm, persistent breeze that wisely stayed away from his pipe.
He lost track of time, but to his slight annoyance, it was Saria who returned first, dashing his hopes of sneaking off into the bushes before they again moved southward. A look of disdain crossed her features as she eyed the druid, and Laronar wondered if she might finally challenge him. He'd been expecting it sooner. He heard her steps as she walked towards him, and he could almost smell the irritation, radiating off of her.
"Where the Fel were you? Do you have any idea what I just experienced?" Laronar opened an eye, and examined the woman's posture. All hostile, hands on hips, nostrils flaring. She wasn't quite angry enough yet...but he knew how to push buttons.
"Let me guess...you ran afoul of one of the Loa." He exhaled a cloud of smoke while he kept his eyes closed. That it flew in her face was entirely coincidental. "I came out near Gonk, but he was sleeping. Did you forget the first lesson of talking to Ancients, Saria?"
He opened his intense eyes as her nails came towards his face, but there was no intent to actually strike. He remained still, and her frustration only grew, as her feint failed and she pulled her hand back, curling it into a fist. "That's not...I didn't...you would've woken them too, okay? It was a tiger Ancient. I couldn't pass up the chance to learn something you don't already know."
Laronar chuckled. "I know not to wake a sleeping Ancient, especially a tiger. The few I have spoken with favor the Trolls, though they didn't show me outright hostility when we spoke. This is Zandalar though, which means it was...Kimbul? Mm. I think that's the name. Not the most friendly, towards our kind."
"No, really?" The younger of the sisters huffed, and gave the elven equivalent of an eyeroll. It was about that point she finally noticed, the druid was floating. She shook her head, and looked back to her sister. "You should check on her."
The floating druid, sitting cross-legged upon the persistent breeze that kept him aloft, raised one lengthy green eyebrow. "Me? Why not yourself?"
She fixed him with a glare from her amber eyes, which were not so uncommon in Val'sharah. "Escaping Kimbul took much of my energy. And you aren't busy."
Laronar stared her down as he floated past her, legs still crossed on his breeze, and towards her sister, where she still remained cross-legged, and slightly droopy. The body was asleep, but the mind was elsewhere. He frowned as he watched her for a moment. The sleep seemed uneasy.
He dropped to the ground after packing the pipe away with speed born of thousands of repetitions, and once more traversed the boundaries between the Dream and reality. The hair on his neck rose, as his perspective shifted, and he suddenly felt himself under the eyes of a predator. For some reason, it felt akin to the few but memorable times he had managed to irritate his patron.
Near this unsettling presence, he sensed Naria, and as he took in the sight of her, he quickly glanced around. Whatever was making his instincts demand he fight or flee, was not visible. All he saw was what appeared to be stone walls, deep under the earth. An old temple, in an old swamp, buried very deep, but still reachable, to those Zandalari who sought her power.
"Another of my sister's...my my...you are no novice...you must be one of the claws. Moon or Storm?"
As the booming, feminine voice inadvertently made clear the balance of power, and even fighting style, between Thaon and himself obvious, Laronar smirked. Thaon had always preferred the arcane, and he the wild magic of nature. Only now, did Laronar actually notice the dichotomy Ashamane had likely set up entirely on purpose. He felt even more pride, at being Her claw. "Laronar Stormclaw." He said, bowing low. "You must be Bethekk...tell me, panther goddess...why is your temple so low in Zandalar's crust?"
He couldn't help but wilt as the furious roar bore down on him. "As if you do not know, Kaldorei! It was your arrogant race that Shattered the World!"
That, the ancient druid rose to. He stared into the darkness, focusing, and he felt Ashamane guide him, as she always had. The smirk widened, as his eyes focused on the hidden panther Loa, who snarled in irritation, and melted from the shadows as she realized she'd been spotted. "Believe me, we did not...desire that. Those who summoned the Demons did so before anyone even knew what was coming...and banishing them exacted a heavy price on all of my people. We had cities across the entire world, and by the end, there were barely enough of us to cover Hyjal. Had my people not fought them, there would be no world left at all."
The panther growled low, as she took in the druid's words. Her eyes narrowed as he spoke again. "Perhaps I can help atone for my people's crime against you, and your temple. I am here, and in this form, I can influence the earth. Swamps are easy. Let me return your temple to the surface. It will need cleaning...but I can't really help with that." He waved a ghostly hand for emphasis.
The panther looked around, as she considered his offer. "And in return?"
"You let me and my fellow Ashen leave, in peace."
"I will...consider your request. Raise my temple to the surface, first. Then we shall see if it is worth giving you my newest plaything."
It was Laronar's turn to narrow his eyes, and as he eyed Naria closer, he noticed she was asleep even here, floating beside the ghostly form of Bethekk. Even drawn from the shadows, she was hard to see. He scanned the surrounding area, as well as the area above, with his senses.
He drifted towards the altar in the subterranean chamber, and then raised both hands. Both Bethekk and Naria were before him, but he put them from his mind for the moment, as he reached out to the earth. Even the land was stubbornly against him in this place, but after gentle coaxing, and explaining that it was a temple to a Loa he was helping, the reluctant stones, mud, and other swamp detritus parted for him, as the earth below the temple surged upwards.
Having no physical presence there, he didn't not feel it quake or tremor as the ancient stone building, a tiered pyramidal design, rose through the relatively soft swamp, and into the foul air of Nazmir once more.
He was sweating, that much he could feel, but once he was done, he looked at the panther expectantly. Rising mud had filled much of the chamber, but it was now solidly perched atop earth that, unless meddled with, would not sink again any time soon.
"Not bad at all...Stormclaw. I can see why Ashamane favors you. Your bond with Nature is strong. Take your lover, and depart these lands. In peace."
The ghostly panther, who reminded him less and less of his patron the longer he spent in her presence, smirked at him as she spoke the last few words. His dreamform gathered up Naria's, and in short order, he dragged her back to the Dream, where she woke slowly, and then returned to her body.
Laronar paused for a moment in the Dream, half expecting one of the native Loa to appear and try for their physical forms, but none did. They seemed more preoccupied with their Zandalari worshipers, and though he did not know it, his act of helping the sunken temple to the panther goddess had earned quite a bit of good will among Zandalar's Ancients. At the very least, they would not attack him outright should he ever pass by again. It would need to be cleaned, but now at least, Bethekk could find a priest and guide them to her.
Saria was eager to move on once they returned, but before they could, Ashamane appeared before them, and directed Naria and Laronar away from the impatient younger sibling. Once they had moved far enough to be out of earshot, she spoke, her concerned amber eyes focused upon Naria.
"You are perhaps the first of your kind to run afoul of my counterpart, and not be slowly torn to shreds, Dreamform or no."
"Laronar did all the work...I didn't think to try raising the temple. I was too shocked from realizing you have a sister! And one that favors the Zandalari no less." Laronar smirked as Naria spoke, and Ashamane had a similar expression.
"Sister is a...generous term. We are both panthers. The Trolls have appealed to many Ancients over the millennia, and my fellow Wild Gods have grown arrogant and greedy upon their singular worship. There are many spirits, and bears, cats, and birds are no strangers to the Zandalari. Though they prefer their saurians above all."
"I prefer our methods." Laronar said, stepping forward slightly. "No bargains, no blood pacts, no dark sacrifices...just a treasured bond, and power, shared in the defense of Nordrassil."
Ashamane chuckled at his words, and even that sounded different from Bethekk's. "You should be glad we do not limit you as the Zandalari Ancients do. But we agreed, when Nordrassil rose atop Hyjal, that singular worship would ultimately make you weaker defenders of Nature. Should you ever test yourselves against the Zandalari, we shall see whose method proves stronger."
"What of you, Archdruid? Did you encounter a Loa as well?" Naria shifted her focus to him, something Laronar did not mind in the slightest.
He shook his head. "I came near the den of Gonk...but the Lord of the Hunt was sleeping, or otherwise preoccupied. So I let him be. I didn't require a bargain with him, and poking a sleeping Ancient is a very bad idea. I did speak to a Zandalari though. A Druid, like us. A practitioner of the Feral Arts."
The two females seemed interested in that, and he recounted what he and the Troll, who hadn't given his name, had spoken of. Ashamane faded into incorporeal spirit essence after he finished, and gave him directions once more towards their destination. Suddenly alone, and rather far from Saria, the two Kaldorei locked eyes, and decided the younger sister could wait a few more minutes.
A few minutes ultimately became several hours, and by the time they returned, Saria was in a particularly foul mood. They departed all the same, claiming, despite their slightly tousled hair, that Ashamane had held them up. Saria didn't seem to buy that, though neither of the two older druids seemed to care, as they once more began heading south. Zandalar was close to Pandaria, closer than Val'sharah at any rate, which meant their journey would soon be at an end.
Laronar did not know how much time passed between their foray into Zandalar, and arriving in Pandaria, but he did know they were rather close once the Dream itself became laden with a heavy mist. As always, Ashamane guided them, and the druids stayed together in the thick mist until it finally parted, and they were granted a view of Azeroth's southernmost continent, as it had been at the dawn of the world. Majestic didn't do it justice. The mountains were massive in parts, less so in others, as fertile valleys carved between the lofty peaks. In the distance, Laronar swore he saw something green and slithering, moving through the Dream, over a forest he could tell still existed in the real world.
Ashamane directed their gaze, and her motherly tones filled their heads all at once as she guided their eyes towards the tallest peaks on the western side of Pandaria. "That, is where you will find the one each of you seeks. They will send you back to the Dreamway when your training is complete. From here on, I must leave you. Stretching myself so far is...taxing, and the mist is repelling me. Good luck, my Druids."
They had decided not to fly thus far on their trip, as doing so would potentially draw flying predator spirits, like Chimeras, to test them. Though they had refrained from hunting, many former hunters in life had no qualms about consuming other spirits in death.
As they took their flight forms, the pair of Storm Crows led by a black feathered owl began ascending towards the thunderous peaks that, the closer they came, seemed to blend with the real world. It took Laronar quite a while to realize there were Ancients here, as well...and easily on par with Goldrinn in strength. One presence in particular had a familiar essence, and he was not surprised that it was that presence Ashamane had pointed them towards.
He sensed the fear of the crows, as their nature attracted the lightning of the area's skies, but Laronar flew on, unfazed, even when one such bolt aimed for him, as well. He let his form's instinct guide his dodge, and continued on towards the temple that had melted out of the mist and cloud of the upper atmosphere.
The green tint around them faded, as a gong sounded, and the trio of birds shared a look. Being what they were, they knew when their bodies were, and were not, within the Emerald Dream. Whatever power they had been seeking had just transferred them through realities with naught but sound. A voice echoed in all three of their heads, as they flew over the courtyards before the main temple building.
"Come."
The black and white figures below seemed obese, and looked unthreatening, but Laronar had seen just how good Pandaren were at combat. He and Liu had sparred several times as they'd roamed Feralas, and the adventurous bear had moved with surprising swiftness. The Pandaren below, moved completely differently, and in a series of attack poses that, being a war veteran, he recognized as practice drills. Whatever they were practicing was likely considered an art form, and again Liu's knowledge helped. He had spoken briefly and vaguely of what had freed his people from the rule of whatever a Mogu was.
Liu had also spoken of the beings who helped them learn this 'martial art'. It was this knowledge that had made him the speaker for their trio, as advised by their patron. As the birds flew into the largest building, they paused at the entrance to the massive chamber, and as they retook their elven forms, they moved to the center of the chamber and bowed in the elven style.
Several of the black and white forms thinking themselves hidden in the shadows murmured as they did, and only Laronar rose as the white tiger did, tracing a familiar glyphic symbol in the air. With the power the Ancient before him was giving off, he did not require components to comprehend elvish. "Hail, Great Tiger of the August Celestials. We three come from Ashamane, seeking your wisdom."
"Ahh yes...Stormclaw. She's spoken highly of you...and your ancestors were not unknown to me. They too, once stood before me, as you do...but you are far more...connected to the world, than they were. It seems the Kaldorei have come far, since breaking the world."
Laronar blinked as he processed the White Tiger's words, and then chuckled. "Again with this...without us, we would not have a world to argue upon. No civilization is immune to corruption. Ours just happened to border the greatest source of mana ever discovered. There is no timeline where our civilization's fall was going to be a quiet decay. We were playing with forces we did not fully understand. The results of testing the boundaries of the Arcane have always been...explosive. It's a large part of why we mostly stopped using it, but we have found over these long millennia that when balanced with natural power, these spells can be truly...impressive, and focused, on small areas."
The white tiger seemed to huff, not unlike how Ashamane did when he said something that made her chuckle. "I know well the role your people played. You are correct. My own kind intervened far too late in the conflict, and there were not so many Demons, this far south. But that is not what is important. Did you fight, in that conflict?"
Laronar grimaced. "As much as a juvenile Night Elf on his own could. It helped that I had a ferocious thousand pound cat by my side, but even he wasn't fully grown. I've fought in every conflict since, leaving a...larger impact."
"I see. We have heard of your people's trials over the millennia. Satyrs. Silithid. Centaurs. I am curious, Children of the Stars. Why do you fight?"
The sisters, now addressed, rose and stepped up beside Laronar. He answered first, as he'd figured this answer out the deeper he'd delved into the Dream. "To defend the world...as the Dragon Aspects charged us to. As long as Azeroth lives, we have hope against the forces of the Burning Legion."
The White Tiger nodded. "The Demons are indeed a threat. But there are darker forces that have darker fates for the planet…" The tiger's blue eyes flared and sparked with electricity. "The Seven Breaths of Y'Shaarj are one such threat, and they are not the greatest of the lingering Void powers. We shall speak of these matters more, you who would defend the world." He turned his eyes to the other two expectantly.
Naria spoke first, when Saria did not. "To protect Nordrassil. The World Tree is what has been healing the land for the past nine millennia...without it, I expect our world would not have survived being sundered." When the tiger seemed to wait for more, she continued after a brief pause. "Naturally...that includes those who live in and around Hyjal as well. We are tied to the World Tree, as a species. To protect it, is to protect every Kaldorei." She smirked towards Laronar. "And the world, I suppose."
Saria sighed, and the sparking blue eyes turned towards her. "And from the youngest?"
Saria bristled at the Ancient's words, but kept herself from disrespecting him. "You asked why we fight...most would say they fight for the planet, but when it comes down to a choice between nature and a loved one, I think most of our people would choose their family first. It's true that by protecting one, we protect the other but...some choices are not so easy." She glanced at her companions. "If it came down to the world, or each other, could you really choose the world?"
The two older elves shared a look, and their features saddened, but they both nodded at her. Laronar spoke again. "We must. That is our charge as Druids, and the price for the power we wield. But take heart...rarely does such a situation occur, and our allies," He gestured at Xuen, "Would not willingly put us in such circumstances without dire need."
Xuen nodded at his words, and then his eyes moved up above them, to seemingly empty air. "What do you think, Yu'lon?"
"I will take the youngest." The feminine voice echoed from seemingly nowhere and everywhere, as a green mist appeared in Xuen's sight line, and coalesced into a massive jade Dragon, though she looked like no Dragon Laronar had ever seen. Every Pandaren lurking in the temple knelt at once, in the presence of two August Celestials. "There is much I can teach her about the ways of healing. The other two already possess similar knowledge, and are better refined by you, Xuen."
"I understand. Very well. Take the youngest, and send her home when she is ready." The eyes fell back on Laronar and Naria. "I will handle these two."
Saria gave her sister a look, and then after Naria nodded, she followed the jade serpent out of the temple, and into the air again, as they headed in a south easterly direction.
"Now...why have you sought me out, followers of Ashamane?" The White Tiger returned to a lying position, head resting upon his paws as he examined the elves before him with what seemed like interest.
Laronar spoke first, after glancing at Naria. "I lost much of my memory, when I offered my body as Ashamane's avatar for a few centuries. In fact...I don't recall any of it. I'd like to, and she suggested you could help."
The tiger regarded the elf with slightly more respect, as he knew the Zandalari could do something similar, and take on their patron's aspects. This, sounded different. His spirit had been so in sync with the ashen panther's that she'd been able to possess him, and manifest on the prime plane once more. That only left one question.
"Why? Explain to me the events that led to this...possession by a Wild God. Mortal bodies usually cannot handle such stress."
The druid allowed himself a small smirk, and shrugged. "The Bronze Aspect's Heir did...something to me, and a few others, when we defended their caverns beside them, in the War of Shifting Sands. My body doesn't decay, and while that's not unusual for our kind now, it barely changes at all. It remains as strong as it was during that war, and only gets stronger...come to think, I was holding her Fangs in that conflict...maybe that's why…" He thought for a moment, wondering if his form was now timelocked at what he considered the peak of his power, and then shrugged once more. "As for what led to the need for such an offering...I found myself in a confrontation with one of my contemporaries...Ashamane urged me to shift forms as he made an attack that likely would have snapped my neck, had it stayed elven. The blow did offset me though, and with the sudden shift, my...rage managed to burn out of my control. Made me into something resembling a cat, and an elf. Ashamane managed to fix me, but the price was a few centuries of letting her roam Azeroth in my shell. It seemed a fair trade to me, but from my perspective I went to sleep letting her in, and the next thing I knew, I was six hundred years out of date, in a strange land, unable to recall anything."
The white and blue tiger regarded him as he listened with the patience of a hunter. "I see. We are no strangers to anger and rage in this land. In Pandaria, our finest warriors purge such emotions. Unfocused rage makes you weak, but once purged of it, you will become strong. I can teach you this, if you use what you learn to defend the world, as you have so far."
Laronar bowed again, fist to palm in the elven style. "I would be honored, White Tiger."
Xuen's eyes shifted to Naria then, who was processing the story as well. She had heard Fandral Staghelm had dueled with another Archdruid within Nighthaven, sending him into the wilds when Remulos broke it up, but it seemed there was more to the story. They only got so much news, in Val'sharah. She'd never considered that it might be fake, or untrue, that members of the Circle would lie and willingly subvert the truth to sway opinions to Fandral's side...and yet, that's exactly what had happened. Even in Val'sharah, the Archdruid was held in high esteem. She made a mental note to visit the Moonglade to see for herself how changed it had become, at some point.
"And what of you? Why have you sought me?"
Naria smirked. "I wish to become a better warrior...to be a Sharpclaw. Ashamane suggested I train with Laronar, and you. He has shown me...much. I am ready to learn more, White Tiger." She bowed as well, and Xuen regarded both of them again, before speaking.
"Very well. My finest student will show you the secrets of our fighting technique, and once you know them, we will incorporate them into your Nightsaber Forms. Find Shin-Zu Thunderfist in one of the courtyards below. He will show you what you need to know. Return to me, when you have mastered the basics." As the tiger watched them go, he chuffed to himself, wondering how the immortal Night Elves would be taken by his finest pupil. He was of the opinion that the Pandaren were the strongest species around, and that mastering one of the fighting styles of the August Celestials made one nearly unbeatable. It wasn't entirely inaccurate, but seeing immortal masters of the dexterous arts in action would be a good sobering reminder for the Pandaren, that many races were naturally faster, and he needed to train all the harder to hope to match them.
The two elves bowed again, and departed. Asking around, they soon found Shin-Zu leading an entire group of Pandaren in a series of martial strikes focused on repetition, and the perfection it brought. The panda leading them raised a paw, and the students all stopped, at once, and gawked at the unfamiliar strangers in their midst. "Om nom, nom nom nom om. Om nom om nom?"
Laronar held up a finger in the universal sign for 'wait' as Naria looked at him with mild amusement and confusion. He once more traced a J shaped symbol in the air, and then a pinch of soot and salt covered the pair of elves as he refreshed the spell. "Now, we should sound like we're speaking om nom, to them."
Naria found that amusing, and giggled as Laronar strode forward a few paces among the ordered lines of students, and bowed. "Master Shin-Zu. The White Tiger bid me and my fellow Night Elf here to seek you out. We come from Val'sharah, and we wish to learn the White Tiger's style of combat. He said that you should be the one to teach us."
The elder Pandaren leapt with seemingly little effort, flying through the air with an impressive flip, and landing just before them. His bulk was deceptive, it seemed, and hid mostly muscle. His deep baritone and heavily accented elven filled their ears as he looked them over. "Night Elves...interesting. I have never trained an elf before. Come. We shall see what you already know, and go from there." He gave a nod to another Pandaren by the dais upon which he'd been leading the exercises, and said Pandaren stepped up, continuing the class as his master guided the pair of elves to a courtyard that currently was not in use, and had training equipment all over it.
He quickly determined that neither of them had any real experience with martial arts, and though the training was trying on their nerves, their teacher quickly showed them what they wanted to learn. The fast movements, the explosive strikes, the devastating power of a blow with the force of their entire body behind it, was exactly what they had been looking to master. Their bite attacks, especially as Nightsabers, were powerful already, but Ashamane had told, and shown them, that they could be even stronger. She wished for all who followed her to eventually master this, but for that to happen, someone needed to perfect it. Saria had a different mission, and had found the 'correct master' as Ashamane had called her.
As the master of the White Tiger Style taught the elves, he remarked, and lamented, at how quickly they absorbed his knowledge. It was, from a Pandaren's perspective, absurdly fast. They mastered each movement with unnatural speed, and their natural dexterity made up for their errors as they sparred, and practiced new sets. Neither of his new students had tired by the time the sun had risen, and thus, he kept training them. They did pause when the smell of his dumplings caused the male's stomach to roar, not unlike Xuen.
By the arrival of the next night, Shin-Zu declared that they had the basics down, and at that point, only repetition could perfect them. He sent them back to Xuen, who lifted his white head as they approached, and bowed.
"Ashamane said you had promise...but even I am impressed." The sparking blue eyes focused on the male of the pair. "It is time we drew your rage from you, Stormclaw. Take your strongest form."
The druid paused, as he debated between the Wolf and the Nightsaber. He asked for Ashamane's guidance, as he pondered, and she simply repeated Xuen's words, with what seemed like a sigh. Given Goldrinn's pride at that comment, Laronar felt that even the Ancients knew who was the stronger. Ashamane had other strengths, and he would always prefer his Cat Form, but the tiger had asked for his strongest, and the wolf of Hyjal was eager to test one of his kind who thought rage was a hindrance. It was an old argument between them. Goldrinn intended to let the druid use as much of his power as he wished, to prove his point to the old tiger.
Thankfully, Xuen knew the source of the druid's pause, as Goldrinn's blessing was obvious upon his leather kilt, and was thus not surprised when he shifted before him, into a massive, black furred, amber eyed wolf. The druid had impressive control of its rage, but Xuen saw hesitation, as the wolf god's primal fury manifested in Pandaria.
From the massive black wolf's body came a creature of pure shadow, rage, and anger. It resembled a Worgen, and its eyes burned red as it focused on Laronar, who was rapidly wondering if he'd bitten off more than he could chew. He felt Goldrinn's rage surge, and he lashed out at the creature, but it dodged him, easily, and Xuen's voice echoed around him, as he noticed Naria seemed to have vanished. He was alone in the chamber, facing down the shadowy being with scythes for arms.
"This, is a Sha of Anger, a manifested breath of the Old God, Y'shaarj. Conquer your anger, your rage made manifest, and you will become stronger. You must not let it overpower you, and weaken your strikes."
Goldrinn seemed to ignore the advice, and Laronar soon realized he was not as in control as he assumed. He lunged at the being, missing, but dodging when it retaliated. Back and forth they went, the slashing scythes coming ever closer. Then, something changed in the way the creature fought. Laronar let the wolf's instinct for survival completely take over the dodging required for survival, as he focused his power. Dark gray bark sprouted from the fur, surrounding the wolf, and not slowing it. Then, came the thorns.
The Sha, as Xuen had named it, found itself damaged, rather badly, when it tried to slice into the wolf, and as it went on the defensive, more and more of its shadowy essence was ripped from it with the savage fangs and claws Laronar was using to great effect. Yet it did not die. Xuen's eyes narrowed. The druid, skilled as he was and empowered by Goldrinn, should have killed the creature seven times over by now, and yet, the manifestation was not dying.
Eventually, the thorn covered wolf began to slow, and as it did, a scythe knocked it away, even as it was impaled by the thorns. It seemed not to care, as it grew bigger. It fed upon the rage of not just the druid, but also of the Wild God currently aiding him. The powers at work in Pandaria could not pass up the chance to corrupt Goldrinn, and have yet another agent close to the World Tree. The Wolf God would ensure their eventual hour of victory.
Shadow radiated from the being, and Xuen snarled. "You DARE to infest My domain? Before my very eyes!?" The white and blue tiger began sparking. Evidently, the remnants of Y'shaarj needed a reminder as to who now ruled in Pandaria. Or at least, this part of it.
As Xuen grew in size to match the threat, Laronar and Goldrinn remained on the defensive, and each scythe blow that landed on them tore away more and more of the bark skin defense. Finally, Laronar reached out to the wolf Ancient from within, where he'd essentially taken a back seat. "We need to change our strategy."
He felt the wolf god snarl, and his irritation grew. "Listen to me, Goldrinn! We need to change strategies, or we're going to fall. And you will fall with me. Whatever this thing is, it's tethered itself to you, now. Your essence, your rage, your savage nature."
Finally, the White Wolf humored him with an answer. "Then what do we do, Kaldorei?"
Laronar grinned within the Wolf Form, and after he explained what he'd learned from the tiger's martial arts, the important aspects of the style Goldrinn would understand, as well as the harnessing of one's inner energy, or Chi. Once the elf explained how, the wolf smirked as well. Xuen, who had been about to step in, paused as he saw a shift in the fighting style of the druid.
Size didn't seem to matter to the pair, as they began zipping around his temple leaping with impressive speed, from pillar to pillar and soon, they were little more than a very sharp, very thorny black blur racing through the air. Now all they had to do was hit. And then, they did. Claws and fangs tore through shadow as the bark-covered wolf leapt through it, landed on another pillar, turned, and leapt again. More shadow was torn away, and a scythe arm slashed at the wolf, but he was already gone, landing, turning, and launching again.
Seeing this, Xuen changed tactics, and instead let the druid draw from his power as well. Blue lightning sparked over the shifted wolf, and each time they struck, it jolted into the Sha, making it smaller, and weakening it. Finally, the druid focused their unified spirit, as best he knew how after a single lesson, and the final bite made the Sha dissipate entirely.
The enlarged form of the White Tiger looked down at the wolf, and although Goldrinn assumed it was with smugness, Laronar calmed his anger, and bid him to look closer. It was not smug superiority, but pride in the tiger's eye. The same pride he had for all who managed to take the first all-important step on the path to learning his style of fighting.
The wolf gave a slow nod to the White Tiger, and then, the form faded, leaving the dark purple Kaldorei panting, exhausted, but victorious. He stared up at Xuen then, as Naria melted from the shadows to rejoin them, by his side. She had moved at Xuen's request, more of a warning really, and had regretted not being able to help him as he fought off...whatever a Sha was. She had a feeling she would fight something similar.
Laronar panted heavily, but he managed to speak despite the lack of breath. "That...creature...I've seen others touched by a similar power...the stone guardians of Silithus...they radiated a similar black aura. Their stench...is familiar. You seem to know what the source of it is, White Tiger...tell me...what you know. Please."
The August Celestial of Pandaria's northern territory eyed the two elves, and then growled, not with irritation, but as more of a sigh. Enlightening them to the real enemy of the world, the oldest enemy, the one that was unified in its evil and its plotting, would take time.
"Very well."
Chapter 20: Hyjal
Chapter Text
Temple of the White Tiger - Kun Lai Summit
The first thing Laronar remembered, came from his time spent studying under the Green Dragonflight within the Dream, as Ashamane inhabited his body, in his Cat Form. Laronar remembered his tutor, Tyranikus, and became his Dragonsworn for a time. For many years he studied under and worked with Tyranikus in maintaining the Dream, but this did not stop him completely from practicing with his Cat Form. Several times, they came across ancient Nightsabers or Frostsabers who wished to challenge the Feral Druid.
This had, evidently, left Ashamane in his elven form, and she was amused by many things about humanoids, but ultimately decided she preferred her shape. The only thing she missed, was thumbs. Thumbs were so useful. She'd been able to force the cat mutations down to a bare minimum, though his elven body would always bear the marks of one who'd crossed the line between elf and beast. Though, in Laronar's case, he often erased the line altogether, preferring to all but merge with the animal of whatever shape he took. After well over nine thousand years, they had become aspects of his conscious mind, and ones he welcomed, for he viewed them as a sign of his bond with the Ancients.
Roughly thirty years before he awoke in the Hinterlands, Laronar recalled sensing an imbalance in the elemental planes that drew him away from Tyranikus. Within the Dream, he was contacted by the Spirit of the Wilds itself, and urged to head towards the roaming Tauren tribes. Some had established themselves in permanent settlements, in Stonetalon and Thousand Needles, but most, had been driven from the refuge of Mulgore by the centaur, left to wander the Barrens as their people's culture shrunk further and further from what it had been, and once more turned the Tauren into nomads.
Laronar's dreamform manifested in a circle of Kodo hide tents, above a female who radiated the primal connection to the elements that Kaldorei simply did not have. The low-burning fire sputtered between them, as she raised her head, and seemed surprised to see a half-corporeal elf before her. She was young, but the druid recognized wisdom in her eyes, and Azeroth had brought them together for a reason. She spoke first, in her people's tongue. "This is the aid I am given? A sleeping Druid of the Kaldorei?"
Laronar smirked, understanding her words, and the shaman's eyes widened as his half-heard words echoed in her head. "I am an old friend of your people, young Shaman...and even in the Dream we have felt disturbances. The elementals are growing restless. Something is stirring them up, weakening the barrier between this plane, and theirs...if they open into each other...chaos will reign."
"You tell us what we already know, sleeping Druid." Another, deeper boom joined them now. A male Tauren, an older one, but also a shaman, and one much, much stronger than the female. "We called upon the Wilds for an answer...not more questions."
The female spoke again, before either of them could. "Do not dismiss him so lightly, Oreg...some help is better than none." She turned her head toward the fire, then. "Please, Earth Mother, we must have more…"
The young female's power was answered, and an overwhelming presence silenced the three, as once more it manifested at the shaman's call. "Watch...and prepare…"
A vision overcame the three, as they bore witness to a ritual that had not happened yet, in a land neither of their peoples had a presence in or ties to, a mountainous region, tinged with red rocks. Their vision was dragged towards a truly impressively tall mountain, and within, they found eight powerful sorcerers performing a summoning spell, drawing from as deep within the Fire Elemental Plane as they could, and what they brought forth, was the Firelord himself. His entrance into the world ruined the surrounding lands, decimated cities, and turned the mountainous region black. As the incarnation of flame and fury raised its massive hammer, the vision's giver gave them one more word.
"Ragnaros…"
Then, the mountain within the vision erupted, and the strangely dark skinned Dwarves who'd brought the Firelord to the prime material plane, the ones still living at least, fell under his thrall, embraced his power, and began smoldering with his touch. Their eyes burned with flame, and the Firelord put them to use as he hovered over the molten core of their mountain fortress. Of the Dwarves who summoned him, only ash remained. For his part, Laronar felt the land, and knew that what this Ragnaros had wrought upon it was similar in scale to Mashan'she's devastation.
The vision faded, and the female Tauren spoke first. "That...that was…"
Laronar spoke then. "Probably the most powerful fire elemental in existence...and his arrival will scorch an entire region of the planet."
"What should we do, Kaldorei? Both our peoples combined could not fight a foe like that…" The Tauren called Oreg spoke, and the fear he radiated was genuine. The shaman had likely felt the Firelord's rise much more keenly than the half-corporeal druid, and he stroked his similarly incorporeal beard as he pondered.
"I will travel to the Dwarves. I will try to prevent this...but there are other warnings in this vision. Dark portents of times yet to come. We are entering an age of instability...and the world itself is terrified." Laronar focused his eyes on the pair then, "Gather your Shaman. Do as the Druids have done, bind them into a circle of as many fellow Shaman as you can...it may just be enough to counteract the imbalance that is to come."
Oreg frowned, and snorted. "And if it is not? If all the Shaman of Kalimdor band together, and we are still overpowered by this...Firelord...what then, Druid?"
"Then Azeroth is surely doomed. But take heart Shu'halo, the Druids will aid you, in time...I will warn the Cenarion Circle of what I have seen here...for all the good it will do. We will not awaken for anything less than the Burning Legion...a foolish sorcerer in a foreign land will not concern my people enough to act." Laronar glanced at the female then, as her eyes had again closed, and began moving rapidly beneath her lids.
"The Druid...is right…" She managed, sounding exhausted, "The Shaman of the world must come together...soon...we will know when the hour comes...but there is still time, Oreg. Some day...one will come, to lead us in our darkest hour, a Shaman of unmatched skill...and they will not be alone. Other heroes will fight with them...unity is our only chance." She opened her eyes, and looked again at the half-manifested druid. "You should do what you can to aid the Dwarves under the mountain...but know this...it will not be enough to stop Ragnaros. His arrival is but the first in a long chain of calamities yet to come."
That made Laronar frown, but he had sensed a presence drawing him back to the Dream as he spoke, and had given his words a tone of finality. "Bring the Shaman together...restore the wisdom of your people. You will need it for such a tumultuous time. Train well, Farseer…" With that, he had vanished, and then dream walked from one continent to another. The Eastern Kingdoms, as they would come to be known, were foreign to him, but he could already sense turmoil. Troubled dreams and rising tempers drew him to a land covered in snow, and Dwarven settlements the likes of which Kalimdor did not possess.
For over a year, he watched, learned, and lamented when the Dwarves under the mountain fell into civil war. Ashamane had brought their shared body to the eastern continent as he'd requested, and while she made great efforts in aiding the Dwarves under the mountain in their war against their Dark Iron cousins, the Farseer's words proved true. Ragnaros' arrival effectively broke the rebellious clan's armies, and the war between the three ruling clans finally ended. His patron had done what she could for the land, namely preventing the fiery shockwave from obliterating the entire range of red mountains, but the damage done was still a devastating loss of life.
What time remained of their bargain was spent healing the lands using her druid's connection to the wilds to help her, and eventually, Laronar's mind awoke to find she'd left him in the middle of the Hinterlands, the home of the Wildhammer Dwarves, a clan they had decided to help, in a roundabout manner, as they had strong ties to nature, and would need to prosper, before the apparent oncoming era of calamity.
His amber eyes opened in the real world once more, and Laronar glanced between Xuen, the White Tiger, and Naria, a fellow Ashen druid. "I...finally remember. The Spirit of the Wilds warned me of what was coming...but Xuen, that was almost a century ago by now…"
The White Tiger rumbled in his head as he responded. "The arrival of the Firelord is but the first in a series of events that will change the face of our world forever...and make no mistake, Stormclaw, his summoning was engineered by the powers I told you of. The Old Gods will make good use of the Elemental Lords, before their schemes culminate."
Naria looked at Laronar then, and the concern was obvious. Xuen had told them of the ancient conflict between the Makers and the Shadow, or at least, as much as he knew of it. One of the Keepers of the planet, by the name of Freya, had warned him, Ashamane, and many other Wild Gods of the dark shadows lurking below the surface of their world, trapped for eternity. She also warned that, were they to ever be freed, Azeroth would likely be doomed, as a result. What shape that doom would take remained to be seen. "We need to train harder, Laronar...we need to perfect what Xuen is showing us, and pass it on to as many Druids as we can."
He nodded his green head. "The Shaman have hopefully been doing the same in the years since I spoke with them...you are right, Naria. We must all do our part...and perhaps, in some small way, what we pass on will be the difference between life and death for our world."
Xuen rose then, towering over the elves as his form sparked with blue lightning. "The time has come, then...I will teach you how to combine your abilities in the most effective way possible...from there, it will be up to you and your Druids to make use of them. Watch closely, Night Elves."
The White Tiger shrank then, to roughly the size of Laronar's own Cat Form, and aimed himself at one of the training dummies that lined the courtyard within which they had been meditating, and speaking while Laronar attempted to recover his lost memories. He faded into the shadows, and then opened with a pair of claws raking down the sides of the dummy, and followed that with a whirl of claws that the druids recognized as one of the more useful skills that left multiple enemies bleeding. Three more times he shredded the dummy, before gathering his power, and focusing it into a single, perfect bite. The Ancient's sparking jaws tore the dummy in two.
The pair of druids spent the remainder of their roughly two decade long journey to Pandaria practicing the White Tiger's methods, and when the White Tiger finally declared that they'd learned all they could, he shunted them back into the Dream, not far from the Dreamway, and from there, they returned to Val'sharah. The next two long centuries were spent training the Ashen, and Druids of the Claw, into Sharpclaws who would make good use of their techniques in the wars to come. The techniques of the White Tiger eventually caused the Ashen to further diverge from regular Druids of the Claw, whose Bear Forms used different methods of attacking, and soaking up damage, and the Feral Arts were essentially split in two distinctly separate branches over time.
Two Hundred Years Later - Stranglethorn Vale
Forty two hundred years had passed since Vehlar Stormclaw infiltrated the Vault of the Wardens, and spirited Illysanna Ravencrest from their depths. They had fled Kalimdor, as Maeiv and her little cult of warriors pursued them. They bleated about justice, and how demonic entities could never, would never, belong to their society. The leader of the Wardens had made it her personal mission to hunt down the vestiges of what little Illidan and his own cult had accomplished when it came to training Demon Hunters. All but four of their aspirants had been captured or killed, and they fled across the planet, to the jungles of Stranglethorn, to hide from the ever pursuing Wardens.
Luckily for them, the local Troll tribes had taken great offense to the elven arbiter's presence, and had in turn hunted them, with their own shadowy skills until the overextended arbiters of elven justice were forced to retreat. Illysanna had captured one of the Troll's more skilled warriors, and after some interrogating on the part of Vehlar, they learned how to manipulate the shadows as their captive had. To a degree. The Satyrs within him had enjoyed extracting the information entirely too much, but with no demons to hunt, their Fel powers had waned in the long centuries spent hiding in a jungle cave.
Then, one day, far to the north, they sensed a disturbance. A rip in the very fabric of time and space, and once they moved north, positioning themselves atop the mountains that separated the vale from other regions, their spectral sight gave the six Kaldorei their people's first look at what would come to be known as the Dark Portal.
"It...it's corrupting our planet with its presence, Vehlar...you know this taint as well as I do." Illysanna had spoken first, but Vehlar kept watching, properly fascinated by the amount of energy his eyes were picking up. "Whatever made this portal...it is the Legion's work. I can smell their taint from here…" She shuddered, and glanced up at him. "The Demon within is salivating...it's Fel energy."
"Then we take a closer look…" Vehlar said, before turning to their pupils, now each Hunters in their own right. The years had not been kind to them. Their bodies had withered with the lack of Fel energy, becoming gaunt reflections of the power they'd once burned with. He turned back towards the disturbance, eyes flaring as he sensed them. Genuine demons, as well as those bearing their mark. "Theras, Netharel...you two are with me… Illysanna, take Loramus and Feronas. Scout the disturbance. Try not to engage whatever is coming through until we know more. Information gathering only."
The trio nodded, and then began moving towards the magical disturbance. Vehlar led the other two towards the morass to the north, a massive, volatile swamp that they had avoided, after sighting the Green Dragonflight within its center. The last thing they'd needed was word of their hiding place getting back to the druids, and the Watchers. Over the long centuries, the elves had mastered the art of moving silently through heavily forested areas, but their quarry was not difficult to find. The sound of their logging efforts was raucous, and as Vehlar and the two aspirants with him laid their unnatural sight upon the Orcs of Draenor, he frowned. Their Fel green skin gave them away as servants of the Legion, but some did not burn with their foul taint.
Indeed, most seemed almost part demon, but he knew the Fel. Whatever the hulking green skinned warriors had done to themselves to acquire the power coursing through their veins, it would eventually burn out, without a source of Fel. Their addiction to power was the Legion's most effective way of keeping their soldiers obedient, but Illidan's Hunters had solved that problem, though the solution drove them insane, more often than it produced a viable Demon Hunter. They watched the creatures create an encampment with disturbing efficiency and speed that told Vehlar they were indeed an army. Eventually, they began moving towards the portal as well, to link up with Illysanna, but the invaders from elsewhere proved their competence, as the stealthy trio passed between the small gap in the mountain range that divided one half of the swamp from the other.
The only warning they received was the sound of a weapon, swinging through the air, almost singing as it slashed at their hiding place, and revealed Vehlar. Theras and Netharel stayed melded in the shadows, as Vehlar leapt from them, to confront the creature. He was tall for his kind, green, heavily muscled, with burning red eyes. An unwieldy pole bearing a pennant with a flaming sword hung on the creature's back. He wielded a blade at least as long as Vehlar. It didn't seem to be a hindrance, either. The creature growled something in a tongue he did not recognize, before falling into a fighting crouch.
Vehlar held up a finger, the universal signal for 'wait a moment', and traced a J shaped symbol in the air, before covering himself with a pinch of soot and salt. "You are not from this world, creature. What are you? Why have you come?"
The green beast blinked in surprise, as to his ears, the lithe knife eared creature began speaking perfect Orcish. He didn't lower his blade, but neither did he charge, as Vehlar unsheathed his own crimson and bluish black blades. The Satyric souls trapped within them began clamoring, as they sensed Fel blood would again be spilled. By this point, they had all but gone mad with hunger, long since losing their once intellectual minds. Now, they sensed the Fel coursing through the alien warrior, and urged their wielder to sate that hunger. "I am Irogaidos, an Orc of the Burning Blade Clan. You do not look like the warriors Gul'dan promised we would find…" A grin broke the harsh features, and the red eyes flared. "You are not tiny, and pink, and weak...you...look like a challenge. I would know your name, warrior."
"I am Vehlar Stormclaw, of the Highborne." He answered, dropping into his own crouch, as he recognized what the warrior was doing. Exchanging names was usually a Tauren custom before battle, but he had never actively sought to fight the bull men. Large, lumbering foes did poorly against his tactics, and Tauren typically did more good than harm. He sensed no such weakness in the creature before him. His size would be an asset in their battle, rather than a hindrance.
"Your world now belongs to the Horde, Vehlar Stormclaw!" The Orc's grin grew wider, and his face made his brutish features that much more intimidating, though for Vehlar, he ignored them, and focused on his opponent's stance. The Orc was clearly experienced, perhaps more so than he was, with a blade. "Die well!"
With that, the Orc charged, and as expected, his size did not make him as slow as a Tauren, but rather his well-trained muscles allowed him to leap into battle easily. Vehlar met the slash with both of his elven katanas, blocking it, and evidently surprising the Orc when his slash was parried by the lithe, withered creature. Vehlar pushed up, knocking the Orc off his center, and then spun, leaving a pair of horizontal slashes across the absurdly muscled abdomen. Black blood spurted, and then slowed in its flow, but the Orc seemed undeterred. If anything, his eyes only burned brighter. "Finally! A challenge…it has been far too long…" His elven opponent inhaled, and the Blademaster swore he saw something merge with the warrior's body, but upon blinking, there was nothing to see but a smirk, and an ominous green glow from under the ragged hood he wore.
The Orc's blade had several holes within the length, small enough to not weaken it, but large enough to ominously howl with every slash. Vehlar had no doubt it had been used to kill, but unlike his own blades, it was not a magical weapon. He didn't think breaking it would be feasible though, for the metals seemed evenly matched in their toughness. The Orc made several slashes, and the Demon Hunter found that each one was unique, and irritating to dodge unscathed. Then, as he awkwardly parried the strange variance of what was apparently Orcish sword fighting, the sparks from the clashing blades caused the greatsword burst into flame, and the Orc howled a war cry as he pressed the attack. Vehlar telepathically warned his aspirants to stay hidden, and learn well, for in the Orc he too had finally found a worthy opponent. His very soul was tainted by the Legion and he was lying if he said he did not relish the idea of dragging the combat out. It had literally been an age since he'd had a sword fight this evenly matched. The Satyr within his head urged him to make the creature suffer, but Vehlar paid the demon as much heed as he ever had.
The Trolls of Strangelthorn, while powerful in their own right, typically had no defense against the onslaught of strikes Vehlar and his fellow Hunters relentlessly attacked with, when skirmishes did occur. The Orc was similarly befuddled, as he found each strike parried, or simply dodged with little effort. His rage grew as the elf continued to smirk, and remain untouched by the massive greatsword. For his part, the Orc now had several cuts, and while they would've proved fatal to a Human or a Troll, the Orc was burly enough to simply not notice them. Or so it appeared.
Vehlar gave credit where it was due. The warrior of the 'burning blade', a name that was evidently literal, definitely had skill, but he had no experience defending against the Fel based techniques the Demon Hunter employed. Vehlar once more danced around his guard, dodging the immediate counter slash, with one of his own as he again spun in place, and brought his katanas upwards across the Orc's torso, crossing his previous pair of slashes. And still, the creature did not falter, though he was panting now. Black blood had sprayed across the area, and as the Orc angrily raised his burning greatsword for a powerful countering slash, his red eyes went wide, as the strange green ones the elf possessed flared under his ragged hood, and hammered him with the fury of the Demon Hunter's unleashed and fully charged Eye Beam.
Vehlar had managed the trick when he'd first fused with the Satyr, that even at that moment urged him to give in to the desire to rampage, and he had since managed to turn the explosive discharge into a weapon that seriously damaged whatever he happened to be fighting, assuming they survived the volatile beams of Fel that shot from his eye sockets. The Orc staggered back a few steps, rasping heavily, as he gazed at the two holes in his bulging pectorals, and realized that this 'high born' would kill him if he did not claim victory quickly.
The Orc's stance changed again, and Vehlar's brows furrowed, as the invader from another realm held his blade horizontally, and began spinning in place. It seemed absurd, at first, until his parry was overpowered by the Orc's brute strength, several times. Vehlar leapt backwards quickly, avoiding the spinning greatsword entirely by gaining distance, though that didn't stop the orc from trying to close the distance, he moved slowly, continuing his relentless spin as he advanced.
Vehlar smirked, and a trail of ruinous Fel energy burned behind him as he leapt into the air twice and then left a trail of burning Fel in his wake, dodging the whirling Orc again and simultaneously damaging him, as the ancient elf bypassed his technique entirely. He landed in the same spot the orc had started their little duel from, and then the only visible part of his face, his mouth, shifted once more to a smirk as the Fel glow under his hood brightened again. The spinning Orc eventually ceased, and his blade's tip sank into the murk of the swamp as he panted heavily, and realized this fight was his last. Refusing to give in so easily to so tiny an opponent, the hemorrhaging Orc roared, tilting his head back towards the sky, before he charged again.
He might as well have been moving in slow motion, for Vehlar's eyes tracked him easily. His opponent was at death's door, nothing would change that now, but it seemed this last burst of Orcish rage was intended to bring Vehlar into death with the Orc. Unfortunately for the greenskin, he had no intention of dying in a swamp he didn't even know the name of. Vehlar dashed again, slicing his opponent, even as the Orc made a similar slash at him. Their simultaneous charges collided, and then passed each other.
Vehlar smirked, and sheathed one katana, as he heard the brute's last wheezing gasp of air escape the now sliced lungs within his chest, but his smirk faded, as the trail the flaming greatsword had carved into his own muscled shoulder spurted with blood. The dark purple armor like protrusions kept his limb from being severed, but the orc had managed to do significant damage. Fortunately, Vehlar and the others had found a remedy for the weakness that came from wearing light armor.
The Highborne stalked towards his dying opponent, and gave him a nod of respect, as he met the Orc's eyes. The red fury faded from his brown eyes, as his lifeblood soaked the swampy ground, and he realized the knife ear would not be following him in death. "You were...a worthy opponent." Vehlar rasped. "But I am stronger…" He inhaled then, and the Orc had a disturbing view of the Hunter's macabre eyes as dark blobs of what seemed like shadow, pieces of the Orc's very being that had been hewn away by Vehlar's blades throughout the fight, swirled into the horned Kaldorei as he consumed the creature's essence, and used it to mend his flesh. He smirked again, and rolled his shoulder. The Orc seemed enraged by the action, but all his failing body managed was a twitch in response.
Vehlar placed one of his katanas at the creature's burly neck, as his two aspirants melted from the shadows behind him, and came into the Orc's vision as well. He looked between the three, as he realized whatever he had been bested by was not the only one of its kind. If there was an army of these creatures, the Horde would be hard-pressed to stop them. "You fought well. Die now, and return to whatever hell spawned you." Vehlar's arm moved, black blood sprayed, and the Orc lay dead.
The Kaldorei's sharp ears each twitched as, not so far away, they heard something large lumbering through the flora. They dashed towards the gap in the mountains, and watched as more orcs came upon the sight of the battle. Most, seemed to be kin to the warrior Vehlar had felled, though they wielded dual axes, and sometimes a spiked shield, as well as proper metal-worked armor. The blade-wielder had lacked a shirt, and his legs had been covered in lighter armor, presumably so he could stay agile. While the other orcs certainly looked intimidating enough with their numerous armor spikes and plated armor, Vehlar noted many weak spots that, if necessary, he could slice through. He already had a measure of the force required to sever an Orcish limb, and since his blades hungered constantly, they would be all too eager to taste more of the black blood. It had reignited the souls within, and all they desired was more.
One of the hunched figures in particular caught the Demon Hunter's Fel gazes, as the Orc in question burned with Fel taint that, by comparison to the others in his group, was much, much stronger. He was hooded, covered in a dark robe, and Vehlar didn't have to guess that he was a spellcaster. He could recognize a fellow magic wielder easily enough, especially with his Spectral Sight, but this one did not wield the arcane, of that much, he was certain. Whatever these Orcs were, it seemed only a few among them, and likely the smartest if stereotypes held true, had been the ones to actually gain the Legion's power, whereas the rest were simply being empowered and corrupted by it.
The hidden elves did not linger, and while the signs of battle were examined by the Orcs, they were freshly arrived on this foreign world, and did not have any kind of clue as to what could have taken down a Blademaster of the Burning Blade Clan. Vehlar, Theras, and Netharel reunited quickly with Illysanna, Feronas, and Loramus, heading further west into the murky morass, before they exchanged information. The portal the Orcs had used to reach Azeroth was heavily fortified, by an army of the hulking creatures.
They decided on a plan, then. They would strike at the army enough to draw out the spellcasters, as Vehlar assumed they would be able to sense the Fel emanations he and the others used for combat. They would drain the invaders of their Fel power, and with it, revitalize their energies and teleport themselves back to Kalimdor. He and Illysanna knew that they could not defeat an army, and they also knew that the 'Humans' of the nearby kingdom would have the forces to match the Orc's army. Though, each of the elves doubted the smaller, stout pink skins would fare very well against the demon-fueled rage of the Orcish Horde. The obvious threat was the portal, as they observed that prolonged connection between Azeroth and whatever world had spawned the Orcs, would kill their world with enough time.
The consensus was that their continent was about to become much harder to hide on. More eyes would be drawn to such a force, and the Night Elves needed to know what was coming. Vehlar had methods of getting information to their people. As long as they were ignorant of the source of said information, they could potentially make use of it, if the greenskins ever managed to conquer the Humans, and sail to Kalimdor. Each of the surviving Demon Hunters was only too glad to return home, as at least in Ashenvale, though the Watchers would remain a threat, there were undoubtedly still Satyrs lurking about, likely in greater numbers, since the zealously blind and egotistical Watchers had driven their natural predators away.
Their group managed to slay four of the heavily tainted spellcasting orcs, before the Horde dispatched a force of forty armed warriors, and a much stronger spellcaster, to root them out. As expected, it had taken mounting losses before such a force was sent, and the Demon Hunters had replenished their depleted energy, to a degree. It was enough at least to help Vehlar empower the portal that would bring them to Kalimdor. The Orcs never found whatever had slain several of their aspiring warlocks and their retinues of soldiers, and with the Humans rising rapidly to meet them, as best they could, the Fel fueled army soon had other concerns to deal with, than some mysterious threat hiding in the Black Morass. Eventually, the loses were chalked up to some as yet unknown swamp monster, something they weren't too unfamiliar with, thanks to the Zangarmarsh back on Draenor.
In the end, only Loramus stayed, to continue to hunt the Orcs as often as he could manage. Vehlar and Illysanna agreed that his skill more than qualified him to keep an eye upon the portal, and he vowed to stay alive, until they returned. Vehlar had suggested that Illidan would know how to close the portal, but breaking him free of his prison would require a plan, and more Hunters. They returned to Kalimdor to attempt finding more aspirants, intending to eventually storm Hyjal's barrows once they had enough to not be overwhelmed by the Watchers.
Feathermoon Isle - Feralas, Twenty Years After the Dark Portal Opened
It was always amusing, dragging her kills through the Sentinel's island bound army barracks. After being accused of 'stirring up the centaurs', Alaria had been required, more by the High Priestess than Shandris, to bring back evidence of her kills, and prove that she was not wasting resources on useless tasks. She often traveled alone, and always stood out among the army, mostly thanks to the shining silver sword, and lack of a glaive. Thus, it was with a massive, scaled head, decapitated by the glowing silver sword she was still gripping, that she traveled through the island stronghold's idling army. The beast's foul ichor still covered her purple and whitish gray armor, as she strode up the ramp to where Shandris usually handled day to day matters.
"General. We have a problem." The General of the Sentinel Army arched a brow at her, and then frowned, as the wet thump of Alaria's latest prize hit her floor, and began staining it. "These creatures just recently started appearing along Kalimdor's coastlines. I tracked them back to the Isle of Dread, just south of us. They have an entire coven there. Or rather, they did. This male was leading them. He claimed they were once Highborne, before trying to kill me."
The General nodded at her attendants, and the other women left the pair to talk. This was something Shandris often did with Alaria, and she liked to think they were friends, if not allies. It was hard to read Laronar's sister. Her fairly appealing face was as passive as the druid's, and much like him, she only broke it with a smirk, before defaulting back to that blank, indeterminable expression. "Highborne? I...find that hard to believe, sister. I see no trace of elven ancestry…"
Alaria nodded. She knew Shandris understood how Elune utilized her...odd skills, and she remained grateful to the General for continuing to give her the benefit of the doubt. It was more than the High Priestess gave her. "I figured I'd run into skepticism. I found these in the ruins as well." She produced a pair of statuettes then, one clearly much older than the other, and yet both seemingly weathered by ocean water. Shandris did not have to ask who was immortalized in the marble. She recognized the face of the Kaldorei's ancient Monarch, the very woman who had sundered the world and allowed demons the chance to corrupt it. Azshara.
Shandris looked between the figures, and her brows furrowed. "This second one…" Alaria remained quiet, letting the General realize for herself what the carving irrefutably proved. The second had the body of a snake, six arms, and yet that face...while changed, and sporting extra eyes, undoubtedly also belonged to Azshara. "I don't...she can't possibly be...Tyrande must know. At once." She whistled, and an owl joined the pair of Sentinels moments later.
For all the issues Alaria had with Tyrande Whisperwind, the High Priestess trusted the General of the Sentinels explicitly. Shandris Feathermoon's word was pretty much the only one the ruler of the Kaldorei trusted to that degree, as long centuries guarding the land from various threats had hardened the High Priestesses' demeanor. The only other opinion she valued was her mate's, but the druids had been sleeping for ages. "Zin-Azshari sank into the Well by all accounts...and yet Azshara persists. Her Highborne yet live...something in the depths of the sea turned them into those." She gestured at the severed head. "They called themselves Naga."
Shandris packed the statuettes into the owl's leather carrying case, stuffing in a short missive alongside them. "Quickly, to Hyjal with you!" The owl took off, and the General turned back to the unorthodox war priestess. "You have done all that I asked you to, seven hundred years ago. I think it is finally time I stopped avoiding your questions."
Alaria smirked, and Shandris flinched. The similarities really were uncanny between the strange war priestess, and her brother. "When last I saw Laronar, his skin had darkened, his features were feral...and the light of Elune did not reach him. You were close with him, that much I've figured out. What happened? What did my fool of a sibling do to earn the wrath of our Goddess?"
Shandris' brows furrowed, and she suddenly regretted not taking the woman's questions sooner. "I was more focused on war than skin tone when last I saw him...you're sure his skin turned darker?"
Alaria's smirk widened at the General's choice of words. "Yes. It was a deep purple, almost black. A void in the night's light. It was...sad to look upon. You must've been pretty determined not to look at him, General. Still carrying a flame, are we?"
Shandris' face turned several shades darker purple as Alaria's tone and words insinuated a lingering attraction. "It's not my fault he never wears a shirt!" She sighed, composed herself, and willed the flush to go away. "Whatever Laronar did to earn Elune's wrath, I doubt we can overcome it. Have you tried communing with the Mother Moon?"
Alaria nodded, the smirk fading as she did. "Many times. On that issue, all I have ever received from Elune is silence...not even a feeling, or a whisper of an answer. It is...concerning."
Shandris sighed, and then shrugged. "Then that itself is answer enough. His actions, or words, have earned him this...fate. It does seem a cruel one...to be denied the Moon's touch...I bet he hates it. He always enjoyed the moonlight."
The plate clad Priestess covered in Naga gore smiled, at the sudden softness in the General's voice. "You would know, I suppose. Come, tell me what else he enjoyed, while I clean up. I haven't properly spoken with him in almost ten thousand years."
Shandris arched an eyebrow at that, and then nodded. "That's right…you never went out much before the War of the Satyr, with all your training. It's strange, but I have known him longer than you ever did, given how young you were when you stumbled your way up Hyjal."
The two Sentinels spent the rest of the evening chatting, sharing stories, and eventually coercing several other women to join them in a herb smoking session, once Shandris mentioned Laronar's favorite habit, and pulled out an ancient sealed jar of crushed green herb that was so potent, not even ten thousand years of being forgotten about in a desk could weaken the dank smell that came with unsealing it.
The session of mind expanding pipe toking ended abruptly, when Dori'thur flew into the General's office, with a message for Shandris. As she read the response, presumably from Tyrande Whisperwind herself, her face fell. She rolled up the parchment, and with a simple Moonfire, burnt it away, before turning to the gathered women. "Sisters, the skies over Stonetalon are darkening, and Tyrande senses a new threat...we are to mobilize the Shadowleaves, and join her in Ashenvale at once."
Alaria packed the hookah away, as the other warriors moved swiftly to gather their armor. As she was not part of the elite group of Sentinels, she met Shandris' eyes once the herb and hookah were stored away. "What do you wish of me, General? Elune has not offered me many visions of late...over the past few decades...it almost feels like her strength is fading."
Shandris' brows furrowed, at the war priestess's words. Tyrande had mentioned something similar, though it hadn't been noticeable in the High Priestesses' ability to cast spells and safeguard the land. "Stonetalon Peak is overrun with outlanders. Watch their movements, figure out what they're after, and then meet up with us in Ashenvale...I have a bad feeling, Alaria...much has been happening in our world of late that we know next to nothing about. That magical portal emanation a few decades back, the growing strength of far off, ominous forces...I fear we will soon pay a heavy price for our inability to monitor the other continents."
Alaria nodded, and stood. "We were charged to defend the World Tree, and the wilds...yet Kalimdor is not the only land mass anymore. Elune only knows what evil has been festering in these lands free from our watchful eyes...but Shandris...we can face these threats. We have done so before." She gave the General a blessing to her fortitude then, and the woman sighed, as Elune's strength filled her. She could cast the spell too, but there was something about Alaria's version of the blessing that made her feel...mighty.
The General gave the woman a nod, and in short order, Alaria retrieved her hippogryph, a rare pinkish purple variant of the usual breed the archers rode upon. She'd begun raising Kali shortly after realizing her brother still lived, and now the magnificent creature was large enough to carry her to wherever she was needed in a manner much more timely than walking. She headed for the embattled peak, not knowing what to expect when she arrived. Outlanders were rare in Kalimdor, as the Maelstrom had a habit of sending travelers to their death beneath the sea.
Stormclaw Grove - Stonetalon Mountains
Centuries of practice had only increased the power of the techniques Laronar Stormclaw learned under the tutelage of the White Tiger, and Ashamane had further refined them, showing him methods of attacking that were truly ferocious. Naria and Delandros Shimmermoon were leading the Sharpclaws and the Ashen respectively in Val'sharah, while Laronar and Thaon had agreed that it was simply more practical for them to split new druidic students between them. That didn't mean Laronar had only novices in his grove though, for several of his more recent students, Sharpclaws in their own right, had opted to stay and learn more from the ancient druid, and he rewarded their diligence with Xuen's techniques, and the permission to train disciples of their own.
Thaon's self-named sect of Moonclaw Druids had opted to stay within the elder Ashen's home grove in Val'sharah, and following his lead, Laronar had decided to split their operation, and return to Kalimdor. Time and training had inevitably soured things between him and Naria, as it always seemed to, and the ancient crotchety druid had withdrawn from Val'sharah soon after. He and his similarly named Stormclaw Druids took up residence in the same stretch of forest he had spent millennia tending, in better days now long passed.
Between himself and Thal'darah at his nearby overlook, the druids who remained awake training more defenders of the Dream, and the Tauren of the Cliffwalker Tribe, had shared the sacred mountain peak for centuries, in a peaceful coexistence that was only strengthened by yearly harpy culling efforts. Red lightning sparked over the master druid's Cat Form as he showed his Stormclaws, and the few Tauren acolytes who had joined them, how one could use the berserk rage of the form to strike faster, harder, and spend less energy while doing so. It was a short boost, but a well timed technique could often turn the tide between life and death in battle, and Laronar now only sought to keep as many of his students as alive as possible.
He paused in what had to be the fifth rotation of strikes Xuen had originally imparted, and the red sparks across his form faded, as he looked to the sky, along with the other gathered druids. Most of them were novices, and those who reached a level high enough to not immediately die in proper combat typically soon entered the Emerald Dream, or returned to the Broken Isles to guard the Dreamway. The Tauren druids that mastered the arts, and there had been a few, typically returned to their tribes, and attempted to pass on the knowledge they'd gained from the elves. As strong as Tauren druids had proven to be, the Centaurs were as relentless as they had ever been, and after the first sacking of their tribal homes, the creatures had displayed unnerving intelligence, and turned their smoldering villages into proper fortresses, becoming firmly entrenched in the area now known only as Desolace. Thankfully, they had also begun fighting each other over what little resources their home possessed, which kept them from testing the Sentinels in Feralas. They still raided the Tauren of course, but these raids were timed now, and there were always enough warriors left behind to guard their homes while they were off slaughtering in the Barrens.
A green comet burned through the skies above Stonetalon Peak, and Laronar shifted to his aerial form, as he knew what his Cat Form's eyes had seen. If he was correct, it meant that once again the darkness had come to test his people, and their ten thousand years of peace and Dreaming, was about to end. He spied an Infernal rising from the crater in the valleys and canyons below. More joined it, and soon, humanoid figures in striking red and blue colors he did not recognize began fighting the oncoming demons.
He flew in for a closer look, and recognized the pink skinned forms of Humanity, as well as several pale, slim, and smaller versions of his own people that he recognized as 'High' Elves, acting as their healers and casters. Evidently, the remnants of the Highborne had allied with the Humans at some point. The other, bulkier green skinned figures were a mystery to him, and they seemed to be embroiled in combat against red skinned members of their race. Flying as close as he dared, Laronar confirmed that they had indeed been tainted by the Fel, which meant that once more, the Burning Legion had returned to claim their world. It was time to see if all his long years spent training had paid off.
He fought down his emotions, a heady mix of panic, his Owl Form's instinctual fear, and the excitement of once more facing the Burning Legion in combat. These were not just Satyrs hiding in the woods conjuring a few Infernals to aid their agenda. Doomguard filled the sky, and Felstalkers hunted the magic users with disturbing efficiency. He spied walking corpses among their number as well, and almost too late, saw the figure responsible for leading them.
The refugees of the War of the Ancients had possessed a fairly decent view of the final battle of the war, and many had been shocked when a titanic demon had wrestled one of the most powerful Ancients they had into submission, and then death. Malfurion Stormrage had stopped the Archdemon, and in the end he too had been drawn back from whence he'd come, but Laronar recognized the beautiful, but twisted visage of the creature who had broken the White Stag. Archimonde, better known to many as The Defiler.
Laronar gave the erchdemon a wide, wide berth of many miles, and thankfully, he seemed more focused on moving towards his goal, as his army of demons and moving dead corpses headed north. Laronar followed their trail of destruction, a great line of death and corruption heading for the only target an archdemon would find appealing on this continent. Their race's sacred charge. The World Tree.
Realizing that things were about to become rather desperate, Laronar winged his way back to his grove, and landed on the railing that lined the walkway up to the treehouse that served as a shrine to as many Ancients as they'd been able to make statues of, and fit within the topmost level of the structure. "Stormclaws, Tauren, allies of Nature, hear me!" The typically unused baritone cut through the glade's typically silent air, and he felt their eyes turn to him. "The Burning Legion has returned. Archimonde the Defiler is, as we speak, heading towards Nordrassil with an army of not only Demons, but the undead as well. Undeath is the antithesis of everything we fight for! It is a perversion of life's sacred circle! Those of you who are ready will come with me to find Master Thal'darah, and from his overlook, we shall head for Ashenvale, and offer the High Priestess our aid! We move out immediately!"
The sleepy energy of the grove woke almost instantly, as Keepers and Dryads strode from the woods, giving the druids of the small Night Elven and Tauren encampment respectful nods. In minutes, the small force of druids in their Flight Forms, and the natural wisp-like shapes the Keepers used for air travel, descended on Thal'darah's Overlook. Five minutes later, with their force nearly quadrupled in size, the elves and their natural allies made haste to Ashenvale, flying up the continent's western coast, and then heading north-east as they sought their people, and simultaneously outpaced and avoided the Defiler.
As they winged their way over the shadowed forests of Ashenvale, they saw first hand the devastation the remnants of the Horde had already wrought, but most disturbing of all, was what they found lying amidst the stumps of ancient trees. Their natural allies descended first, radiating anger and loss, and Laronar guided the druids down behind them, their faces somber as they retook their elven shapes, and bowed their heads before the butchered corpse of Cenarius, the Forest Lord.
Cenarius lay face down with a massive gash in his heavily muscled back, a force of nature made manifest, brought low by a weapon of the mortal world tainted by Fel. Everyone, Laronar included, was overcome with sorrow to the point that they momentarily forgot what was coming towards them even at that moment. Cenarius had, for eons now, eventually trained each of those within his Circle, either physically or within the Dream. He was Shan'do to pretty much every druid alive, Tauren included.
Luckily, they had one warning that snapped them back to the reality of their situation, a single, deep rumbling note that echoed through Ashenvale, Moonglade, Felwood, and Winterspring, from where it originated. Wrathful orange energy rose from the demigod's corpse, and the druids suddenly found they all had amber eyes as intense as their Archdruid's. The leader of this Ashen sect rose first, and bowed in the elven style before Cenarius' dreamform as the manifestation of his spirit spoke. "Archdruid...you know that sound. I do not need to tell you what it means. Go. We will meet again."
Laronar nodded as one of his ancient teachers, corpse and spirit alike, simply faded into nothing, and then looked to the tear-stained faces of his amber eyed druids. He had not denied the few females of Kalimdor who had wished to learn the druidic arts and been spurned by Fandral. Several of the female druids had come with him from Val'sharah. Thal'darah shared his view that Nature did not discriminate with whom it endowed with power, and therefore, druids should not either. Despite their efforts to accept more females, few had advanced quickly enough to be ready for this conflict. "Brothers...Sisters...the Horn of Cenarius has sounded. The Druids are awakening once more...we go now to Hyjal! We will defend Nordrassil with everything we have!"
They gave him an invigorated cheer, but he heard the anger underlying it. The Horn of Cenarius had woken them, as well, though they'd not been dreaming. The desire for vengeance, and the fresh loss of their most revered patron, had made them ready to fight. They wasted little time in ascending to Hyjal's topmost slopes, and reinforcing the Kaldorei Sentinels who were already there. Their numbers swelled as they joined the awakened Druids of the Talon, and then again, when the Druids of the Claw rose from the depths of Hyjal as well.
Laronar had a brief, and grim reunion with his friend and Shan'do. Malfurion seemed...off, after awakening. Slower. Lost in thought, and stressed by the oncoming form of Archimonde in the distance, though after he'd shared Cenarius' words, the other half of the Kaldorei's leadership seemed far more resolved. It would take little time for Archimonde to arrive, and his force of demons and walking dead would be upon them long before the archdemon himself.
While Laronar personally had serious reservations about allying with the Orcs, especially after learning that one of their Chieftains had willingly imbibed demonic blood, for the second time apparently, and then murdered the Forest Lord, the Humans were, in his opinion, far more deserving of aid now that he'd had a chance to actually speak to them, a view many druids shared once the mortals explained what exactly had driven them to Kalimdor. The mixed forces of Night Elf, Human, and Orc battled in the shadow of Hyjal, as the first waves of the Burning Legion came upon them. Laronar was glad that his brothers were finally awake again, but he was also unaware of what else had been set loose from the depths of Hyjal's barrows.
Irontree Woods - Felwood
In the two short decades that Vehlar and the others had tried bolstering their numbers, they had only managed to recruit enough to push their little group into the double digits. Vehlar had despaired for quite a while, convinced that such a small force would be smashed apart by Maiev Shadowsong if and when they attempted to free Illidan from his prison. Luckily, it seemed fate, and perhaps even Elune, had other plans for the Demon Hunters.
Before them, after ten thousand years, stood Illidan Stormrage. In the end, they had not found him, but rather, he had found them. They had been strengthening themselves on the Satyrs of Jadefire Run, and capturing several more for the aspirants waiting back at their barrow, when he appeared. Vehlar could tell Illidan's imprisonment had changed him and affected his mind, but Illysanna and the others were blinded by awe. Vehlar, for his part, had always seen himself as near, or on the same level as Stormrage, but seeing him now, Vehlar understood the reason for his grim expression. Vehlar had become stronger than the imprisoned sorcerer, over the long, long millennia. Illidan knew it too, but he would not be comparable to the withered Kaldorei that had led his little cult, and more importantly expanded their knowledge of the Fel, for very long.
The elder Stormrage had taken control of the Demon Hunters without so much as a word, and just like that, Vehlar once again found himself playing second lute to Illidan. After ten thousand years of leading their little cadre, and being looked to for desperate guidance every time things turned dire, at some point, he had grown used to, even fond of, being in power. The Satyr within him whispered constantly, playing on his greed and desire to lead, but he resolved that he would not entertain thoughts of a coup until Illidan Stormrage failed in his role as their leader. He was, after all, the man who had first discovered and employed these techniques. Nobody else had even considered using Fel against the Legion, and at this point, there was no going back. Despite his tenure and luck during the Long Vigil, the Demon Hunters had always emulated Illidan Stormrage.
"This forest...is being corrupted." Illidan said, in his husky, unused baritone. "There is a great source of Fel power infecting it...weakening our people's defenses, as Archimonde approaches. He wants us to roll over and die for him…" The Warglaives of Azzinoth flared in his grip. "I don't intend to do that. I paid too steep a price to give our people the font of magic that has made their precious tree so powerful...I will not let Demons taint it, as well...the time has come, my Illidari. The Legion is at our door...and this conflict will mark the beginning of their end!"
Vehlar's neck tingled, as he sensed the admittedly superior gaze of Illidan, a gift from a Fel Titan, shift to him. "Some of you may be wondering if I am mad, after ten thousand years of being imprisoned...I tell you this...I have not spent my time idly. I have planned. I have thought. I have waited, so very patiently...follow my orders, and the Legion will fall. Follow my orders, and you will all have your vengeance!" He raised one of his glaives, and Vehlar glanced around under his hood, as he saw every single Demon Hunter gathered cheer. They were enamored. He resolved to remain the voice of reason, and not let admiration for their returned leader blind him. "Our people have begged for our aid...and before this battle is ended, they will be forced to acknowledge our sacrifice...and the necessity of it. I go now to take this corruptive source of Fel power for myself...go, my Demon Hunters...scour these woods and hunt our prey!"
The other Kaldorei cheered, unsheathed their glaives, and then dashed into the woods in different directions, some solo, some in pairs. Only Vehlar and Illysanna remained behind. Illidan gave them a rare, and seemingly genuine smile, as he beckoned them closer.
"You two have done remarkably well, for spending ten millennia on the run...I did not expect to have so many Demon Hunters by this point...but this battle will see our number grow. While I accomplish my task, while the others sate their desire to hunt, I would have you two out finding more for our cause...we must take as many as possible into our fold. I don't need to tell you two how bad the odds of surviving our rituals are." Though he spoke mainly to Illysanna, Vehlar saw his eyes shifting beneath the faded amber eye covering to him as well.
Illysanna gave him a salute Vehlar had only ever seen her give to her father, or one of his Generals. In fact, it was a motion he hadn't seen her make for quite a few millennia, and yet as expected, it was perfect. "We will not fail you. I will take the south of this forest...Vehlar, take the north, and then head into western Ashenvale. You know that area best."
Vehlar merely nodded, and seeing he was sticking around a bit longer, Illysanna left without another word. Once she was gone, Illidan exhaled, and gave Vehlar a small smile. "I don't know how you did it...but I am glad you did, Vehlar. I had a slim hope that you lived, during my long years in that prison."
Vehlar nodded. "Many of those we attempted to train were captured or killed by the Watchers. They liked raiding our hideouts...when they could find them. But it was the new recruits, more than once, that often led them right to our door. They can track Fel energy you know...and this power source...it's corrupting an entire forest, Illidan. If you take it into yourself, they will likely be able to hunt you down. Assuming you don't go mad before they find us."
At that, Illidan chuckled. "Do you not already think I am mad, Vehlar Stormclaw? Ten thousand years, and only ever able to move nine steps...I lost my claim to sanity long ago...but that no longer matters." He fixed the Highborne with a hard stare. "If we are to defeat the Burning Legion, I must become more powerful...eventually, to match Sargeras...but for now...I must be able to contend with one of Archimonde or Kil'jaedan's lieutenants. We will surely fail, if I am not able to match their strength. Tichondrius will be the bar by which I measure the power I am about to take… Go now, Vehlar. Time is short, and we must bring the desperate survivors into our fold before the Demons turn them into food."
Nordrassil's Summit - Mt. Hyjal
"Hear Me Night Elves! The Time For Reckoning Has Come!"
The deep baritone of Archimonde the Defiler rang throughout Hyjal, as it had several times before, on his march north. Hyjal's greatest defense had always been its height, but as the Archdemon approached, it was evident that he would have no trouble ascending.
Laronar and his Stormclaws had spent much of the conflict finding leaders among the Scourge and Legion forces, and decapitating them before they could fully understand what was upon them. Lesser Liches and Death Knights rode alongside demons, and everywhere they advanced, they had conquered. Hyjal itself, was different. The smaller forces of Archimonde's army had to climb the same way every other mortal did, and it was this that the Kaldorei took advantage of, as the titanic demon on the horizon loomed ever closer. There was a slight indent in his breastplate, but otherwise, the Defiler seemed untouched by the Orcs and Humans that had stood against him thus far.
They too had now joined the Night Elves, or had retreated to Winterspring, to await the culmination of the ancient race's plan. The Oracle of Stonetalon had convinced them to work together, but it had been Malfurion Stormrage who had come up with the plan...and its cost. Laronar was in the southern half of Hyjal's forests, striking from the shadows, and melding back into them each time the demons or corpses were brought down.
Around him, were other Kaldorei forces. Everything they had, from Stone Giants to Chimaeras was aiding them now. Even the natural forces of Azeroth knew that they had to defend the World Tree. An Infernal came down in front of him, taking out at least three archers, and then the sky began to rain more of them. Behind their position, a smirking Archimonde spared them a glance, and nothing else, as his mana-saturated prize was within reach. He began effortlessly scaling, and breaking through, the wall of mountain that surrounded Nordrassil. More demons, mainly Doomguard, saw where he looked, and joined the battle, for their senses seemed to indicate that little defense had been constructed around Hyjal itself.
As Laronar readied his form for the taste of yet more Fel infused stone to break against his fangs, his target was engaged by something else. It certainly looked like a Night Elf, and yet it had horns, deep purple tattoos, and a pair of reddish purple elven katanas, radiating foul Fel energy. A Demon Hunter then, one of Illidan's. Tyrande Whisperwind had overruled the Watchers on the matter of their Fel presence among the elves, claiming that defeating the Legion was all that mattered now. Those who would argue against their incorporation would have to wait until the end of the current conflict to demand their death, or banishment.
The admittedly capable figure seemed to have the Infernal under control, as his blades sliced away an arm, then a leg, forcing the burning battering ram to its knee. From behind the embattled Demon Hunter, no less than six Satyrs appeared, leering faces grinning with pure, undiluted hate. "We have you now...Slayer of Satyrnaar!" They raised their foul hands, and dark energy engulfed the Demon Hunter, locking his nimble and lightly armored form in place. Fel green cracks appeared on his skin, as the twisted demons, having once been Night Elves, urged the souls this particular Hunter had taken in to rebel, break free, and be reborn anew.
Or, at least, they would have, had they not suddenly recoiled, and shifted their focus from the weakened and now panting Demon Hunter. Laronar's ears heard the chants of Elune's warriors, and then, one he recognized took the fray. The Priestess who'd lost her Frostsaber in Desolace, when the Centaur were still young, the warrior with the strange sword. Two Satyr heads went flying as the war priestess executed them both with a single strike, and the Demon Hunter turned to deal with those not occupied by the priestess' arrival. Unfortunately for both of them, they had forgotten the half-defeated Infernal, who raised its remaining arm, as the surviving goat demons forced the pair back to back, and lined them up beneath the Felstone demon's massive fist.
That, was when Laronar struck, as he often did, waiting patiently for a moment in the battle that he could turn to their advantage. He'd found that if he did that often enough, the tide would slowly turn, assuming everything on the other fronts of the conflict was going well. A single, perfect bite tore the infernal's head into pieces, and the massive ashen furred Nightsaber rode the collapsing Fel boulders down, joining the other two as imps, Felstalkers, Succubi, and a host of other foul entities charged towards them. Other hidden Night Elves, seeing him leap from the shadows, also joined the battle, and soon, all was chaos.
It was in that chaos, that Laronar finally noticed who exactly he was fighting beside. The Demon Hunter's cowl had been burned by the Fel covered claw of a Satyr who'd gone for his head, only to then be gored by the Satyr-like horns the elf sported, and blasted into atoms by Fel energy from his macabre eye sockets. Vehlar's disturbing visage often entered the druid's thoughts, and thus, it was one he recognized.
The three melee specialists tore through the group that attacked them, and then charged towards Winterspring once the scouting owls reported the area around them was cleansed of demons. Their charge towards other embattled forces, who were using Stone Giants to combat the Infernals as they focused on the lesser demons, soon found themselves free of combat as the Night Elves began their charge down Hyjal's sacred slopes, and with their momentum building, they soon merged with the outlander's forces, and the Tauren. The combined armies soon began rolling over the demons, pausing only to burn down their temporary structures, before moving on to find more enemies.
By the time they'd finished, Archimonde had reached his prize, smashed down the final gate before the World Tree, and had begun to feast. He longed for Titan magic, and this tree was infused with it. The elves moved swiftly up the mountainside, and entered the forests around the World Tree. As expected, demons still lurked here as well. They fell, usually silently, as Wisps of fallen Kaldorei settled in the branches above them, preparing the trap that would hopefully see Archimonde dead.
Dori'thur shrieked above them, and Laronar dispatched the three Felstalkers he'd been facing down with a pair of his students beside him. All around them, Moon Priestesses and Sentinels began moving into the trees, and disengaging from battle as the time to spring the trap arrived. Laronar nodded at the other two, and they split off, easily outpacing those on foot, and matching those on mounts. As one, they roared, and the entire force of Kaldorei appeared to vanish, as the demons were suddenly left behind with nothing to kill. The tall rim of Hyjal's summit kept any from pursuing. All wanted to be present once Archimonde had more power to infuse them with.
The hidden elves who'd survived the lengthy attack while Malfurion laid his trap cleared the area immediately around Nordrassil, and hid themselves in the forests below and around the summit. Naturally, everyone had an opinion on the Archdruid's plan, but Laronar noticed that only Fandral Staghelm had the fortitude to question their Shan'do. In this, however, nobody agreed with him. The Legion had come over them too quickly to be stopped. Archimonde had appeared on their doorstep, all but catching them while they'd been asleep, and his army this time was ferocious indeed, augmented as it was by the mindless ferocity of what the mortals called the Scourge. But victory could still be attained, if Archimonde went down, and the corruption was contained.
The Horn of Cenarius sounded once more, and the massive archdemon soon found himself overwhelmed with wisps, distracting him long enough for the magic within the ancient draconic blessings to be ignited. The inferno of the explosive spell was brief, and druids surged towards the World Tree the moment it burnt out. Many, directed waves of water over the terrain, while others, masters of Restoration magic, went immediately to the roots. They poured every healing spell they had into the burned tree, and for four hours straight, none of the females who had stayed awake these long millennia could get the druids to focus on anything else.
Naturally, Tyrande did not waste time, and the forests to the south were purged, as she personally led her army of panther mounted Moon Priestesses into the sputtering remnants of the Legion. Many of Archimonde's surviving demons had been caught in the inferno of magic Nordrassil unleashed, and those who remained fell quickly under the blades of the Orcs and the Humans as well. The two army groups crushed the demonic remnants, and eventually, succeeded in routing the Legion completely, despite the cost doing so had incurred.
Laronar did not hear what the High Priestess had said to the outlanders once they parted at the border of Ashenvale's ancient forests, but Shandris later told him that the Orcs had been warned to stay away from Ashenvale's lumber. Nordrassil had survived, according to the druid's best healers, and after Archimonde's foul corpse had been removed, any lingering taint was purged by Hyjal's tenders.
Nordrassil lived, thanks to their efforts, but the blessings of power it had once possessed were gone, as was a large portion of the tree's trunk. New roots had been guided into the Well beneath the tree, as the island that had supported its base was obliterated in the blast, and from there, Nordrassil had spread out as it needed, in order to survive. Some had grimly remarked that the Betrayer's 'gift', bought in blood, was what had almost solely been responsible for saving the World Tree's life, as the mana-infused water had kept Nordrassil's roots alive.
That no longer mattered though, for Illidan Stormrage had been banished, and his followers, while not immediately killed because of the aid they'd given, were encouraged to leave Kalimdor, and not cause tension. Many of the new aspirants had acquiesced to Malfurion's request, and were only too eager to follow after Illidan. If the druid knew, and understood that doing so would put them in the path of the rather zealous eyes of Maiev Shadowsong, he did not tell them so. They would learn, before long. Though, if they didn't pursue his brother, they'd probably live longer, and that, at least, they had earned.
Chapter 21: Kalimdor's Might
Chapter Text
A murmur went through the elves tending the roots of the charred World Tree. Even after four weeks straight of endless healing and powerful rejuvenation rituals, the tree remained small, alive, and still mostly green. One could no longer even see where Archimonde's body had lain, tainting its surroundings even in death.
Laronar Stormclaw glanced up from his own healing efforts, to see the source of the angered whispers. He recognized his brother by his horns, and the druid also had his scent. It smelled more like a demon, but there was yet enough elf that Laronar could suspend some of his prejudices towards those who used Fel to fight Fel. The Priestess he'd met years before with the still glowing sword was also with him, and it was the presence of the Sisterhood alone that kept the druids from slaughtering one who was so casually parading marks of Fel magic usage around Nordrassil. Laronar strode towards the pair before any of his more 'traditional' cohort could. "Vehlar. You know you should not be here. Especially not now."
The Demon Hunter sighed. "Relax. My powers will not negatively impact this place...unless I wish them to." He paused, awkwardly, and tilted his head towards several rather angry looking Balance Druids behind him. "I don't wish it harm. The World Tree benefits Azeroth...and our kin."
By that point, one of the elder Archdruids, of the Talon going by his garb, a black ravenshead mask covering raven black hair, and a pair of pauldrons sporting a replica of what Laronar recognized as the Ancient of the Storm Crows, came up to the trio of elves in a huff. "Brother Laronar...you know this abomination?"
The shirtless Feral Druid sighed, as he felt the disapproving glares focus on him. Many had suggested one as feral as he so obviously was should leave the healing efforts to those who specialized in it, but he had proven that his own Restoration spells were not weak. He was able to outlast many of the others with his stamina, as his healing was continuous, if not as initially powerful. He eventually found a rhythm between how much mana his body could draw, and how many healings he could cast on a particular root section before running out entirely, and needing a rest. "He is my brother. I...trust his word in regards to Nordrassil. He actually sounds genuine...but do not linger, Vehlar. Speak. Why have you sought me?"
The other Archdruid cut in, as Vehlar opened his mouth, the only visible part of his face beneath his hood, to speak. "I care not what the abomination has to say! It leaves, or I will personally blast it apart!" He gestured with a hand to Vehlar, as he leaned close to Laronar's face.
The emerald haired druid let out a low growl. "Do not test me, Talon. Family is still family, and even you cannot deny their effectiveness…" He sighed, shaking his head with more disappointment than anger towards his brother. "I will never agree with their methods, but we need all we have to fight the Legion." He gestured to Nordrassil's still mostly shriveled trunk. "We cannot keep sacrificing everything every time they come back!"
"And they will...come back, that is." Vehlar said, as the Archdruid of the Talon gave him a look that seemed to ask how he would dare to speak in his presence. The Demon Hunter smirked, and continued anyway, despite apparently seeing the Archdruid's face. "Demons only die when you end them within the Twisting Nether. Killing them in the mortal realm only sends them back to the Nether to be reformed. Archimonde will appear again. And he, and the entire Legion, every single Demon we slayed, will be back with him. Stronger. Wiser. Some for the third time. Even if you heal Nordrassil and restore the magic imbued within, detonating it in his face again will not be an option. He'll scour the planet from above, before landing and conquering what is left. You have no idea of what we face, and just how outmatched we are, little bird Druid."
A look of genuine fear and anger overcame the flustered Talon, as Vehlar stepped close, and gave him a better look beneath the cowl, to his apparent horror. Having seen his brother's 'eyes', Laronar couldn't blame him for being disturbed. At least Illidan covered his burnt out sockets, but Vehlar's just seemed to intensify as he snared the Talon Druid's gaze. "The Burning Crusade is almost over. Millions of worlds just like ours have already fallen to Sargeras' march. Azeroth may be all that manages to survive, and even with our help, little bird Druid, our odds are not good. Suicidal, even. Yet...we fight on, and the Demons learn to fear our names." He stepped back from the Archdruid then, his unnervingly charismatic baritone had them all properly on edge, after the equally unnerving amount of truth the satyr elf put into his words. "I came because it is long past time for a reunion."
Vehlar gestured then, and the Moon Priestess with the silver glowing elven blade stepped forward. Her armor was better than it had been when they'd last crossed paths, but it seemed her bulky boots and gauntlets had been charred a blackish purple from smashing and stomping so many volatile demons so recently. The Archdruid of the Talon sighed heavily, and Laronar could tell he was quickly reaching his limit after having so many emotional shifts in such a short period. Many of those who had been asleep the majority of their ten millennia long nap tended to be more mercurial, and stressed, as they dealt with the reality of their newly mortal waking world, and not the fantastical endless Dream they'd been tending for so very long with immortal bliss.
He knelt before the woman, and the other druids, those who had paused in their healing efforts, knelt as well. "Priestess. I apologize. If the abomination is with you, then it is the Goddess' will, that it has not yet been slain." Looking appreciatively at all the male praise and attention brought a smile to the woman's not entirely unappealing visage, and the Archdruid of the Talon continued. "I have not felt Elune's blessing since before I went into the Barrow Dens…"
The woman smiled. "I understand." She looked around at the gathered, kneeling druids, and nodded. "One for everyone, then." She closed her eyes then, and despite it being near noon, for that was when life flourished best, an aura of silver light surrounded the Priestess as she called up the relatively simple blessing she'd been taught as a child, and sent it out amongst those gathered in a silver wave of stamina enhancing magic.
It was as she unleashed the magic, that Laronar finally realized who she was. For one disturbing moment, he saw his mother standing before him once more, casting another nightly blessing on crowds of Elune's faithful in Eldarath's own temple. The expression, the hand motion, even the spell itself and the power it gave were identical. He must've shown his shock on his face, because she met his gaze once the blessing was given, and smirked.
"Finally figure it out, brother of mine?"
The intense eyes narrowed, and shifted to Vehlar. "You could have mentioned our sister was alive…"
Vehlar simply shrugged. "It didn't come up. And I only found out recently that she was still around. Last I saw her, she was on an island of Dragon riding elves...and all I found upon returning there was ruin and wreckage. Apparently you met her before, and did not ask her name? It seems it is true. Manners disappear, in the wilds."
"I was trying to alleviate the burden of being systematically slaughtered from the Tauren. I had other things on mind." The druid shifted his gaze back to Alaria then. "I am glad you're alive, little sister. And no less impressed. I recall your...martial prowess. You must be the Stormclaw the Goddess favors. She won't have aught to do with me, and Vehlar…" His eyes narrowed, further. "Vehlar has his own issues. As I'm sure you have noticed."
The little group had attracted eyes now, from other tenders around the part of the base Laronar had been tending, eyes of elves, and of Cenarius' daughters, who often guided the less experienced healers with overly cheery guidance that had irritated many of the cranky, recently awakened old druids.
Undoubtedly knowing this, Laronar's brother decided to speak again, and manifest a pair of wings that any of the elves present could easily recognize, to their shock and horror. Seeing them on an elven form was disturbing, to many. "What you call 'issues', I call power. I felled a Dreadlord in Ashenvale during the invasion, some respected commander, or something. Very sure of himself. I took his wings, and as many of you no doubt recall, they were rather useful in saving...what was it…seven Druids of the Claw at once?" The smirking abomination eyed the Fel appendages with what looked like admiration as he flexed them, though the manifestation of such obvious Fel in the presence of Nordrassil was enough for many of the surrounding druids to start drawing power for spells of death, rather than healing.
Laronar moved before any of the others did, with silent swiftness his Satyr-bound brother came close to matching...when he paid attention. Hands swirling with orange Wrath, he gripped the edges of the foul wings and forced the Fel appendages back into his brother's shoulder blades, leaving the horned Kaldorei smoking, and snarling. "You look like a Satyr…" Laronar snarled, in his face. "We have a long and storied tradition of killing Satyrs."
"So do I-" Vehlar began, before Laronar interrupted him. "Illidan and the rrrrrest of your cult went north. You should be with them. The Fel has done enough damage to Nordrassil." With an angry wave, he refreshed his own healing spell on his root, and he eyed it carefully, but was content with no immediate signs of reaction to the nearness of Fel magic. The less it had in this early stage of regrowth, the better.
"Excuse me for wanting to see my family after ten thousand years…" Vehlar snarled back, flexing his shoulders free of his brother's grasp in one movement. He padded away from the tree, and the other druids visibly relaxed. "I'll not stay where I'm not wanted."
Laronar sighed, as that hadn't been the point. From his perspective, the danger of any Fel near the World Tree at this stage was potentially disastrous, and Malfurion, among other druids, would be all too eager to kill Vehlar, or attempt to, rather than letting him leave to be exiled if he somehow harmed it. Many Demon Hunters had been forced to leave already in the battle's aftermath, either by the Cenarion Circle, or their family's disgust at what they had turned themselves into. Few of those new initiates could blame them, for they had all known and felt the wrongness of consuming a demon's essence. For many, as long as vengeance was achieved, the path to it mattered little.
The Archdruid of the Talon, who had only risen after glancing up at the Priestess, and seeing what the Felborne was doing, spoke up as the foul abomination walked away. "You surprise me, Laronar. I had heard tell of your high kill count, but to see you spare such a creature…"
"Spare me." Laronar muttered, turning back to his healing efforts. "Shan'do Stormrage ordered them banished, not slain, Avanicus. Or are you suggesting we ignore his judgement?" The intense amber eyes flared, and the feral Archdruid slowly turned his head towards the bird druid as he met the Talon's gaze with his intense eyes, daring him to suggest that was what they should indeed do. Not many yet living knew who Laronar was by this point, and those who did know him, often were not aware he had been among the first of the Circle. Avanicus however was aware, at least, of how loyal he was to Malfurion, and of the rank he held in their Circle, a rank they shared, but one that the Feral Druid had held much, much longer than the Talon. It wasn't something Laronar touted often, as for him, it was just another title, though others, like Fandral Staghelm, reminded their contemporaries often that they were old and wise. For Laronar, if it came up in conversation, he answered calmly, rationally, with the accuracy of one who had lived those long gone days of training and discovery. Otherwise, he stayed as quiet as he always had. Bragging served no purpose, for him.
A murmur went through the crowd of druids, and some began to do as Laronar had, returning to focusing on reviving the World Tree. Avanicus looked around, grumbled, "Of course not…" And then shifted into his Storm Crow Form, as he joined his kin in working their rejuvenating efforts on the World Tree's crown. Alaria joined the healing effort as well, and mainly focused on eagerly telling her stoically focused, but attentive, middle brother of all that had transpired while they had assumed each other dead. She made a point of mentioning Shandris several times, but her brother's face had hardened into an unreadable mask a long time ago. He had something similar as a child, but it hadn't been half as good as his current facade. Whenever the General came up, he expertly steered the conversation to something else.
Alaria stayed at Hyjal for several years, as did many who wished to see the World Tree restored. Alaria was of the opinion that if they managed to restore its vitality, the magic that had been imbued within the World Tree as it had grown would return in time as well, thanks in no small part to the Well of magic below it. Without meaning to, the idea from the lips of one of Elune's chosen had spread like a wildfire among Nordrassil's druids, igniting hope in the hearts of those who should have known better, as Malfurion himself had told them the enchantments had been eradicated by the force of the explosive magic. Their power had atomized an archdemon. Malfurion was convinced utterly that the blessings Nordrassil held were gone, but that did not diminish the tree's importance to Azeroth as a whole.
It was that very sentiment that Laronar echoed solemnly, to the sad nodding of several other druids rejuvenating their mana in one of the Moonwells being used to fuel the healing of the World Tree. His cat-headed pipe was being passed around the circle of elves, and it was a habit that Alaria had taken to as well, when she mentioned Vehlar did something similar with what he'd called 'Fel Weed', but had advised her not to try it.
She responded after toking on his pipe, passing it, then exhaling with a sigh into the shimmering water of the inground Moonwell that filled the lowest floor of one of the many temporary tree-inns grown to handle the living needs of the sheer number of druids tending the World Tree. "I have seen many magical enchantments on my journeys, Laronar...enchantments of those who shaped the world, still functional, still working, even after ages and ages of time. You were in Un'goro as well, no? Did you not wonder what kept the bugs from slaughtering us?"
Laronar stayed quiet, pondering her words, and remembering the spire which had, after falling, allowed the bugs a foothold in the jungle. He knew some magic could indeed last, functionally, forever but the only ones to achieve such spells had been Highborne of old, and Dragons. The Highborne had, as he'd learned over the past ten millennia, come only so close to the measure of arcane prowess all dragonkin possessed. Their magical enchantments, and the longevity and restoration of such items once they were drained, was well known to the Circle. He looked up, as Alaria continued.
"If you think the magic of the Dragon Aspects is so easily spent, I'm afraid you've much to learn of the Arcane, brother. It's a possibility we should look into. Can we not guide where Nordrassil's roots grow? I've seen each of you manipulate them at one time or another. Why not guide them into the Well itself? Imbuing Nordrassil with that much mana, constantly, should speed up your healing efforts, and perhaps give us a chance at refilling the power of the Aspect's magic."
Before Laronar could speak, he paused as a massive shadow covered the entrance to the tree-inn. Laronar sent his eyes floating upwards as his heart sank, in recognition of the unmistakable crown that topped the head of Malfurion Stormrage. The massive Archdruid, looking well fed and easily as muscled as Laronar since his re-awakening, blocked the door as he ducked into the tree, undoubtedly hearing their conversation.
The calming baritone echoed from behind Alaria, who had the luck of having her back to the co-leader of their people, from where she had chosen to sit in the Moonwell. "It is a fool's hope, Priestess. Our immortality will not return so easily, and even if it does, we shall all be long dead by the time it is restored enough to activate. You are correct...the Aspect's magic is powerful, but that power will take millennia to restore, if indeed it comes back at all. It would require mana and power the likes of which we simply do not have in this era, and even if we did have the Well of Eternity...I would not use it on Nordrassil. But, your idea with the roots...has merit."
Malfurion walked forward then, smiling down at the Priestess in a fatherly manner, as he patted her shoulder. "It is good to have hope...but do not blindly trust it. Expect the worst outcome, that you may be that much more delighted by a better one."
Alaria looked seemingly confused, Laronar nodded sagely, agreeing with the Archdruid, and the druids around him seemed more like they were still pondering the wisdom of his words. Malfurion moved on then, ascending to the top of the tree, presumably to speak with someone in charge of organization.
Laronar glanced around at the elves, who met his gaze and nodded, and then he turned the intense amber eyes to his sister. "We will feed the roots into and around the Well...it may be a foolish hope, but it's one worth pursuing."
"Certainly better than what Fandral suggested we do...had you heard, Stormclaw?" One of the other druids asked, looking his way as he passed the Archdruid's pipe.
Laronar scowled. "No...but I can guess. He wants to take a branch of Nordrassil and plant it somewhere else as some sort of substitute World Tree?"
The other druid shook his head. "Worse. He wants to take Nordrassil's Seed, and plant it. Grow an entirely new World Tree. The claim he is making, is that a new one will restore what we've lost."
Laronar rolled his eyes. "Assuming Nozdormu even agrees to bless it, for his is the power needed to resume that state of immortality. Alexstrasza and Ysera might...if asked correctly...but Bronze Dragons seem to take some sort of pleasure in denying mortal requests."
Alaria chimed in then, sighing, "That's what we get for belittling their Heir's sacrifice. Fandral shattered the Scepter of the Shifting Sands...they've never gotten over it, as I hear it."
The druids shifted uncomfortably, or rather, those who were old enough to have survived the sands of Silithus did. No veteran of that bloody campaign wished to relive it. Evidently Alaria had served as well, as reinforcement from Feathermoon Isle, in the later stages of the war. It was no understatement to claim that she and the other fresh Sentinels had been a large driving force behind that final push towards Ahn'Qiraj, and the final brutal melee keeping the bugs penned in the city, as the Dragons and spellcasters wove their spell.
"That war is not over." Laronar said, frowning, as he watched the expressions of those gathered. "The sands will someday begin to shift again. We sealed that evil. We couldn't defeat it, and it won't stay buried forever. If we wish to end that threat, we would need the Scepter to even get in, and the pieces are held currently by full grown Dragons. Without it...the city has a rather impregnable shield. Let us hope the Silithid do not manage to sneak beyond the barrier."
Several Years Later, The Chamber of C'thun - Ahn'Qiraj, Silithus
"Mighty C'thun! The Hour approaches! We beseech thee with these humble offerings...awaken!" The deep tones of the two-headed ogre mage known as Cho'gall rang throughout the chamber beneath the city of Silithid. The dreams and visions had guided him here, the whispers urged him on, promising power, glory, all for him, if he but proceeded with the ritual.
Before him were several prisoners. Humans, an Orc, and even a Kaldorei, they totaled ten in all, and were what Cho'gall's Twilight Cultists had brought him, when he expressed a need for blood, to awaken the God sleeping beneath the sands of Silithus. Most, had been taken in the jungles of Feralas, as had the last forty lives they had offered up to C'thun's glory, all for naught. Their lifeblood had soaked the sands of the innermost chamber of Ahn'Qiraj, but the dark god remained asleep.
Now, that would finally change. Cho'gall was sure that fifty would do...and if it did not, sixty was not so great a demand. There were always dregs to capture, roaming the wilds of Kalimdor.
One by one, the captured innocents were killed, their throats cut by the cultist's knife. When the final throat was severed, the lifeblood of the gathered humanoids moved unnaturally towards the center of the room, filling in a previously hidden runic circle, covered by sand in the long centuries between his last awakening.
Cho'gall and the other magi continued to chant under their breath, as they weaved the spell shown to them in fragments of dreams. Pulled together by old elven tomes from Dire Maul, and the knowledge of Cho'gall's own mages, the spell would direct the life energy of their sacrifices into C'thun's chamber, though none present expected what happened next.
A gaping black hole appeared in the middle of the chamber, and from it, two figures were unceremoniously vomited forth. Vek'lor and Vek'nilash had been taken into an alternate version of reality by their furious god when they failed the first time. After centuries of punishment, they returned to Ahn'qiraj stronger, darker, and with less...quirks, that would only serve to make them incompetent. With his Emperors, came the booming voice of their God.
Well done, Ogre...your efforts will be rewarded...there is more you must do…the elves are weakened...the Dragons, divided...the time of Ahn'Qiraj's return is nigh...
Cho'gall and the other Twilight Cultists fell to their knees before the voice of C'thun. It boomed across the chamber, and had a physical presence to it that convinced its worshipers that it was indeed a being akin to a deity.
The clock moves ever closer towards the Final Hour… But your place is not here...your path will take you across this pathetic rock...sow discord wherever you walk, conquer in My name, and do not allow the Horde and Alliance to reach a lasting peace…
Cho'gall rose, as kneeling was arduous for an ogre of his girth, but he still bowed low to the swirling mass of darkness, even as he peeked at the shadowy bug men their spell had seemed to conjure. "I live to serve the Old Ones...the circle will be completed…"
A single black tendril rose from the swirling black circle, and touched the two-headed ogre's foreheads, as its' tip diverged. Knowledge, spells, and other black thoughts were passed from master to minion. When it was finished, Cho'gall was given a single word, his mission, and how to proceed with it according to the Old One's scheming, clear in his mind.
Go…
And he went.
The Twin Emperors left as well, for they needed no commands from their patron. They too knew their duty, and they had long waited to enact it. From within their own chamber, they awoke the breeding bugs with spells of their own. As their minds woke, so too did the slumbering Silithid, who had mostly gone dormant with C'thun when their master's mind had faded away.
With the hives waking up, the brothers turned to their first task, namely, replenishing the Obsidian Destroyers the last battle of their war had seen shattered into pieces. Their remnants had seeded the sands of Silithus with foul obsidian crystal obelisks, and as the pair began to weave their spell, the obelisks, once hidden, began to rise from the sand.
Once more, the hives of Silithus began to swarm, and tunnel, and it would not take them long before Silithus again played host to their hives, as it had done in the last war. Only time would tell if the mortals of Kalimdor would rally in time to meet them once again.
Nordrassil Inn - Mount Hyjal
"The woman actually transformed in the middle of the damn Throne Room! Right there, in front of the Light, and everyone. We could use some...elven assistance on this, and the High Priestess suggested you and your sister might agree to help. Many of Staghelm's ilk have refused us, and the lack of Druidic healing is something we can't afford, if we want to survive this. There's a few others on this mountain I was advised to bring on the raid. We're going straight into her lair, and ending this."
Laronar Stormclaw eyed the human sharing a cup of Moonberry Juice in the Inn, which had long replaced the tree wells in the early days of Nordrassil's regrowth. Many returned to being actual trees in the forest that had survived, or regrown in the years following Archimonde's assault. Much had changed in a short time. Fandral Staghelm had taken official control of the Circle, despite his history of bad decisions under pressure, and in general.
In truth, Laronar knew their other contemporaries, druids who had also survived since the beginning of the Circle, were too passive, or uninterested, in the growing 'politics' of the organization. Many, were all too glad to let Fandral deal with it, while they tended to Malfurion, and his seemingly trapped state within the Dream, or focused on their own personal pursuits.
While nobody suspected this appointment following the, in Laronar's opinion, very convenient entrapment of their leader, the overeager Archdruid had already clashed with Laronar over another event in their Circle's history, one that, as usual, Staghelm had opposed, and Stormclaw had wholeheartedly supported. That time, Malfurion had yet been awake enough to take a side, and the majority of the other druids sided with him. Hamuul Runetotem had come to them, requesting to learn. With the condition that, should the druids of the Cenarion Circle find him capable, they would offer training to other Tauren, as they had in ages past. Some younger blooded druids sided with Fandral, as they pointed out that the Tauren were wont to turn around and use their teachings in the assistance of the Horde's goals, but on that too, Stormrage had emphasized their neutrality. The Wilds, and their defense, took precedence over politics. What one did outside of the Moonglade was to be kept separate from the Circle, and its goals.
Having been forced to drop the issue, Staghelm had gone on to concoct his absurd idea of planting Nordrassil's Seed, and once Malfurion entered, and seemingly became unable to leave the Emerald Dream, the Archdruid had gone through with his plan, and it was one that Tyrande Whisperwind, while initially opposed, had taken full advantage of. Nobody had the will to stop the ambition of Staghelm, while the majority of the elven leadership was focused on skirmishes with the Horde, or waking their Shan'do.
Darnassus had quickly been adopted by the Sisterhood of Elune, now sometimes also called the Priesthood of Elune, as they had taken to training male members of their society, once the newest Temple of the Moon had been completed. Tyrande Whisperwind had turned the World Tree into an offshore bastion of Kaldorei culture, from which they could coordinate their many holdings in Kalimdor.
Since that event, the Night Elves, as the Alliance called them, had begun to aid the Humans, Dwarves, and Gnomes. The Alliance aided the Night Elves in turn, primarily from Theramore, in maintaining the fragile 'peace' between the factions. They sent their best and brightest to aid the Kaldorei across Kalimdor, when the threat of the Horde on the rise, again, had them readying for war. Skirmishes were common, but everyone knew it was a matter of time before the two factions would clash again, despite the friendship the Alliance's ambassador Jaina Proudmoore and the Orc Warchief Thrall shared. The greed of the Horde couldn't leave the timber in Ashenvale alone, and while heavily armored 'adventurers' had thus far been the answer to not mobilizing armies, even they knew it would not last, forever.
Mathias Shaw, Laronar had been told, was to be given whatever he needed, as one of the key figures in the Alliance's structural composition. The Human Spymaster seemed a straight enough shooter, for a spy, and Laronar was simply not the kind of person to decline aid, if it was asked for. He had come to appreciate the Human sense of honor, and while he doubted Shaw showed it to his enemies, he came off as the type of man unwilling to use spy tactics on his allies. Not without cause, at least. "You'll have my aid, Spymaster. The spawn of Xaxas has plagued Azeroth long enough."
Shaw arched a brow. "Xaxas?"
Laronar blinked, and the intense, almost unsettling amber eyes bore into Shaw's, as he explained in his usual monotone that tinged his Common. "The word my people use for...what did you mortals call him...Deathwing? The Black Dragon Aspect, and leader of his flight."
Shaw nodded. "Aye...we know of Deathwing. He played the majority of the Human kingdoms for fools, and set us upon each other's throats. Our...Draconic contacts would also very much like to see Onyxia dead."
Laronar smirked, knowingly, as he took a swig of juice. "But they won't be sending anyone to help, will they."
Shaw seemed to stifle a sigh, and finally, his eyes shifted from the elf's, to his juice as he took a swig as well. "No, they won't be. Not directly, or so I was told." He shrugged, and rolled his eyes. "There's gear, if you need it, at SI:7's headquarters. The other raiders will be gathering there, and once Varian arrives, we move. Do not be late." Laronar kept his smirk, as he knew he'd be there long before the King, but nodded at the Human anyways.
Nobody but the eagle eyed captain helming the ship from Auberdine's port saw him, as they traveled to the Grand Alliance's central hub. The druid napped most of the way, hidden in his favorite form, but the smell of their destination's harbor, and the Canals beyond, was enough to wake the druid, with a sigh. He knew this stench, having visited twice before, out of curiosity. It was amusing to watch how the primarily pale residents turned red, when the 'kitty' they were giving pets to suddenly became a towering, and absurdly well muscled, elf man. He usually entered shops, or inns after that. His main mode of transportation was his Cat Form, and the mortals seemed enamored with following a giant cat that didn't seem to mind the attention from the Keep to the Park. They had been amusing trips but this one, promised to be more interesting.
For the chance to kill one of Neltharion's offspring, he could withstand the truly unique and foul stench that lingered beneath the city. He was convinced that the Human's weak senses were used to, or too blunt to detect, the pollution building in the lake beneath the city, and even most of his own kin seemed blind to it. Other druids though, he'd found, preferred the Moonglade to the human capital, solely because the smell was enough to drive one to madness.
The stink of iron and smoke from the Dwarven District did not aid the mix, as the ship pulled up to the harbor dock, to transport supplies, adventurers, and receive more things in return, for the journey back to Darkshore. Laronar was at the Spymaster's not-so-secret headquarters within a few minutes, and he stayed hidden, as he watched the group below. Many were Guardsmen of Stormwind, arming themselves with enchanted arrows, but there was no small number of adventurers too. By his count, roughly forty of them had gathered. Each one was interesting to look at, for the adventurers of the Alliance and Horde both had a reputation for their semi-insane tendency to launch themselves at dens of evil across the world, and come out stronger for it, usually with new pieces of armor. Naturally, attacking a Dragon in such a manner was practically their specialty, for she could not fly away unscathed past so many warriors.
Many of those gathered had methods of ensnaring her, should she try to escape, and the racial composition of the group was as varied as their methods of killing evil. Dwarven nets would be working with druidic roots to keep her from fleeing, if she tried. Though from what Laronar had gathered of 'Lady Prestor', she had seemed confident that she could take anything the Alliance or Horde threw at her, in her lair.
King Varian Wrynn arrived with his usual fanfare, though beside him rode a scraggly looking human that, upon closer inspection, seemed identical to the King. Laronar leapt down from the tree he'd been chilling in, and beside him, two other druids in Cat Form he simply hadn't noticed, appeared as well. They stared at the massive, maned Nightsaber, and their eyes eventually found their way to his shoulder, and the symbol etched into the fur. They gave greetings in the language of cats, and then trotted towards the rest of the party. Alongside Varian and his grumpy twin was a Blood Elf, a Night Elf sporting a pair of antlers, and a Dwarf whose attitude was as boisterous and rude as every other Dwarven stereotype Laronar had observed for more than a minute.
Laronar's eyes, were drawn to the Night Elf. Broll Bearmantle was, in his opinion, one of Staghelm's lap dogs, or rather, that had been what Laronar assumed he was. Recalling the druid's comparatively young age, it seemed he had defied the Archdruid on this, and came to aid his friend anyways. Seeing for the first time that perhaps not all who reported to Staghelm were lost causes, Laronar kept quietly to himself, among the raiders, as the Varians tried to give them a speech.
The posh noble spoke of honor, and rescuing Anduin, while the grimy counterpart on a different but still equally well armored warhorse interrupted the speech, with a yell for Onyxia's head that inspired all present, and likely most of the Old Town, with the desire to slay a Dragon. With that, Jaina Proudmoore and the other magi teleported them to Theramore, and the swampy morass it bordered.
The trip into the foul smelling bog was relatively quiet, and while many complained about the smell of swamp gas, Laronar found it to be comparable to flowers, after sitting in Stormwind for forty minutes. The first sign of trouble came as they passed into the southern end of the swamp known as the Dragonmurk. Roars filled the air, and the cooler Varian shouted again. "Her dragonkin come! Prepare for battle!"
Magical buffs appeared over all present, and boosted everything from intellect to stamina. The combination of it all almost reminded Laronar of how he'd felt during the Shifting Sands, and he started to understand how these foolhardy mortals survived the dens of evil they had apparently regularly cleared out. It was not all magic boosts that fed their hype though, for as the four legged wyrmkin covered in orange-red plate armor charged them, scimitars in each of their malformed hands, the adventurers kept the contingent of ranged Stormwind guards from being overwhelmed.
They saved their magic arrows for their real target, as the Dragon's scales would be immune to non magical attacks, but regular arrows worked just as effectively on her army of minions. For his part, Laronar picked off the weaker ones with strikes to the back from the shadows, or aided those driven away from the group by three or more, evening the odds as he dove on them from behind, and aided the adventurer in question in dispatching the group, and catching up to the main force.
Many stragglers found themselves similarly drawn away, and Laronar was running with the sizable group, as they finally caught up to the initial charge, paused as they were at the gates to Onyxia's Lair. The carnage around them was impressive, and those adventurers who fell were soon raised back to life, by the healers within the group. When cast quick enough, and with strong enough spells, even death could not stop these heroes.
Broll and Jaina led them in, straight into the blades of four Onyxian Warders. They faced down two each, one using roots to great effect, as he had outside, the other, using a torrent of icy death meteors that pummeled the draconic roadblocks between her, and Anduin.
It did not take them long to find Anduin, for the foul spawn of Deathwing was dangling him over a clutch of eggs and snapping whelps, as the mortals arrived. Both Varians shouted his name, which made the Dragon pause. Her claw went from dangling the morsel, to wrapping around him, one claw purposefully resting near his pale neck as she did.
"Now now, mortalssss...not another step...or he dies…"
"Don't listen! She's going to kill me anyway! Attack!" Laronar's opinion of the boy-turned-ruler rose, as he shouted, and the adventurers behind the Dwarf known as Thargas Anvilmar shifted into two groups, as he gave them the signal to prepare. As they readied, the more rugged Varian threw one of his swords across the entirety of the lair, at the Dragon's leg. Thargas and company were already charging, as the blade sank home through the dragonscale, and the Varian who was clearly better at fighting ran with them, making an impressive leap across the lair for his blade, and grimacing as the wounded Dragon dropped his son into the nest of her own foul offspring.
Broll shifted into a Storm Crow, and grabbed the boy before the whelps got close, that is, until Onyxia saw him, and answered his heroism with dragonfire. Anduin fell again into the nest, but by that point, other members of Varian's squad surrounded him, and all became chaos, as the raid began firing at Onyxia, and she turned her attention, and flames, to them.
Thargas Anvilmar was a sight to behold, as he faced down the Dragon. "Com' ye scaly bitch! I ain't done with ye an' yer foul babbies yet!" The Dwarf leapt into one of her as yet unhatched egg clutches, once he had her eye, and smashed them to goo before her. Rage overcame the Dragon, and an explosion of magic and air sent the mortal gnats battering somewhat uselessly at her scales flying, before she charged Thargas with the intent to tear him apart.
The gold and black plate clad dwarf was surprisingly nimble, dodging the snapping jaws of the Dragon, before answering her strike with a smack from his similarly gold and black mace. The rest of the raid was soon on her again, and as more potent spells, and lingering bleeding cuts, started to take their toll, Onyxia decided to change the battle entirely. Her tail suddenly spun, sending Laronar, the other melee fighters, and Thargas, sailing into a nest of her hatchlings, eager to eat them.
She roared then, and the sound of it shook the lair, as the other unhatched eggs answered their mother's call, hatched into the world, and began their lives with the violence they craved. Putting down the mad, honking hatchlings made Laronar sick, and few of the other raiders seemed to be enjoying it, as their mother continued to scorch the group as yet not embattled in whelps with annoying shifts in flight pattern, and blast radius.
On Laronar's left, he heard "Enough…" Moments later, massive vines rose around them, shooting through the throats of the whelps, and ending their miserable existences before they could truly begin. Broll's attack did not stop there though, for from both sides, and around the lair, vines shot up in a similar manner, spearing the other whelps. Onyxia, who was again enraged by the slaughter of her children, also found herself pinned, as the druid gave them all the chance to, finally, focus on her again.
"Fire!" The posh Varian shouted, and enchanted arrows sank into Onyxia's softer underbelly, soon followed by varied spells, from Fireballs to holy Smiting, each hammering the stunned Dragon. The Dragon was not done yet, however, for she glared at the druid responsible for the carnage, and instilled within his weak, malleable heart the fear that all mortals should have had, when it came to Dragons. The spell faltered, the vines lowered slightly, and with an explosion of magma, Onyxia upended the field, scattered the raid, and sent everyone, Laronar included, flying into an increasingly more lava than rock area of her lair.
"It is long past time for the House of Prestor to replace the House of Wrynn…" Now alone with the Varians and Anduin, both of whom had taken the chance to leap at her and their son when she was bound, Onyxia began chanting a spell that echoed through the chamber like her voice, and presumably, would end the Kings of Stormwind. Laronar's ear heard the nobler Varian shout something, light flashed within the cave, and as he shook off the remnants of the fear-inducing magic, and lava, he peeked over an upended boulder to see the High King of the Alliance, as armored as he was when the elves had first joined the Alliance, stride forth from the spell's mist, ancient elven war sword in hand, as he faced the Dragon down. The posh Varian and the cool Varian were gone, now somehow turned into a single, balanced warrior whose skill was respected the world over. Laronar watched, and learned why the hype around the Human King was so deserved.
Onyxia's rage rose, and as her throat lit with magma breath, the King of Stormwind leapt onto her head with no jump a normal Human could mimic, and drove the blade into her skull, finally ending her, as she fell to the floor. The magma cooled rapidly, and Varian hugged Anduin, while the rest of the adventurers and guardsmen slowly recovered, healed themselves, and then began trading laughs and jokes, about how they'd finally killed a Dragon after so many dungeons. Laronar never got the adventurer's humor, which seemed to be a series of in-jokes, and did not rejoin the Humans on their march to Theramore, and a teleportation circle that would send them within marching distance of Stormwind, along with their prize, Onyxia's head.
Satisfied that his commitments were fulfilled, Laronar made to fly north, as the Humans carried the head of the Dragon from the cave, but he found himself stopped by the firm hand of Mathias Shaw once more, before he could. "That was some good claw work in there, Laronar. Not to mention some decent, and timely healing. SI:7 could use a Druid of your talents."
Unlike most of the raiding party, Laronar's immaculate and shirtless torso was suspiciously not covered in ash and whelp blood, as it had fallen from him upon shifting forms. The druid pondered the Human's offer, and then nodded. "I will aid you…" He looked skyward then, and spied a raven overhead. His mind convinced it to land on his outstretched arm, and after explaining what he wanted from the bird, and the bird agreeing, he chanted a spell, that would bind the creature to his service when needed. "When you have need of me, send a letter using this raven. Whistle, and it shall come to you. I expect you could train it to deliver other messages too. In fact..." He pulled out an ancient scroll that had been sitting in his bag for longer than he even remembered. He'd undoubtedly looted it from some elven ruin at some point, but now, he offered it to Shaw. "This, when mastered, will allow the user to speak with animals, for a time. It's very simple, Arcane based magic, with just a hint of Druidic runes. The rune looks like this..."
Shaw watched the druid trace it in the air, and then mimicked the motion his shredded arm had taken almost perfectly. He then imprinted the whistle he would use on the bird, and after receiving a berry from the druid, the raven hopped onto Shaw's shoulder. "He will journey to the Eastern Kingdoms with you, and will be able to hear your whistle from a decent distance, no matter how loud you actually make it. So long as you cast the spell beforehand, and say his name." Laronar said, as the stone faced Spymaster eyed the bird, who met his gaze in turn, and nodded with obvious intelligence. "For now, I must return home. Safe journey, Shaw."
The Spymaster gave him a brief wave and sighed, watching the pinnacle of muscled male form stride away, oblivious in every way to the subtle vibes Shaw had been putting out since they'd met. Little did the Human know, Laronar was enamored with the female form and had not once, in ten thousand years, even considered sexual relations with another male. A fair number of his students had been so inclined, but they, like Shaw, had learned quickly how oblivious and one track the ancient druid's mind could be, when it came to physical release. Shaw gave the raven a pat and a name, before marching on alongside the adventurers and soldiers returning to Stormwind to enjoy their new status as dragonslayers. Laronar spied the entrance to Onyxia's lair being blocked with vines as his Owl Form ascended in a spiral into the sky, and he headed for Ashenvale, and then the Moonglade, content that the Dragonmurk now had significantly less Black Dragons within it. While Deathwing himself had not been seen for some time, he had no doubt his daughter had been furthering his goals.
Upon returning to Hyjal, Laronar had been informed by the Guardians that his aid, while welcome, was no longer necessary. Evidently, the hierarchy of Restoration druids had been all too eager to replace what they called his 'outdated healing techniques' with their more modern spell variants. In terms of growth, they both worked equally well, the only difference was the toll his spell took on the caster, for one had to carefully draw life energy from nature around them, channel it through their body, and then into their target. Most druids of the Restoration branch did not have his kind of stamina, and he recognized Fandral's hand in the order for his removal from the healing efforts. It had been penned in his hand, but the smug bastard hadn't signed it. It had smelled of Staghelm, and Laronar knew his writing. He also knew the scent of saliva, and while the discolored patch on the parchment had gone unnoticed by the healing focused druids, he knew, as Fandral had known, that he would smell what the Archdruid had spat upon the paper, as a final, subtle insult. With snarl that surprised the Restoration Druid acting as Staghelm's messenger, he shredded the order, and left.
Laronar did not even bother going to Nighthaven then, for he knew Staghelm's orders included shunning him. My'lanna had said as much upon his last visit, and as much as he enjoyed the tranquility of Darnassus, as his sister did, he was not overly fond of Teldrassil. The bastard offspring of Nordrassil had been doomed from the start. Unblessed by Ysera or Alexstrasza, surprising no one, Nozdormu had also refused to indulge Staghelm's arrogance. While Laronar would've normally found that amusing, it was depressing that such vaunted allies of old, who had stood with them against the demons and worse in ages past, now viewed them as impertinent mortals, worthy of naught but their scorn. Over ten millennia successfully defending Nordrassil, and not even the Green Dragons, whose realm they had also defended and tended for just as long, deigned to bless their new racial home.
Laronar had returned to his grove in the Stonetalon Mountains, which now played home to more elven druids than just he and Thal'darah. The Cliffwalker Tauren had remained friendly, despite the Horde's call to kill Alliance members on sight, in what the Horde considered their territory. Over the better part of ten millennia, the healing energy he'd dumped into the westernmost forest of the area had started to spread. What had once been barren hills now were now home to an entire forest. He knew others had likely set up here, in the time he'd been gone, but the Keeper who had promised to watch and tend this area was still present.
After Hyjal, and Fandral Staghelm's latest poor decision as the most awake leader of the Cenarion Circle, many druids he had simply never met or heard of across the millennia came to seek out the 'old Shan'do' in Stonetalon. They were, primarily, younger male Feral Druids who had, under Fandral's regime, been limited in how strong they became or how much influence they had on larger matters of the Circle. In fact, many found that, upon sharing stories and some happy herb, they had similar experiences of training under Staghelm, being lauded as defenders of the Dream and the Wilds, only to then be looked down upon once they chose to venerate the Ancients and master their forms. Evidently, with no Tauren to oppress, the elves under Fandral's sway had turned their ire towards Feral Druids.
This ire had also led to a lack of knowledge, like what Dreamwalking while shapeshifted could potentially cause, if one held it for millennia. Fandral and his ilk were well aware of what happened to average druids that spent too long in their forms. Even Laronar knew better than to enter the Dream whilst shifted.
This lack of knowledge had, according to Malfurion, led to the loss of several of their brother druids who'd entered the Dream in their Bear Forms, and come back to their bodies upon hearing the Horn of Cenarius to find a fully formed bear mind ready to fight them for control of their body. Not all had successfully tamed the beast within and failure of control only left a crazed, confused animal behind, which had led to them being put down.
When word of Silithus' awakening finally reached him, by way of one of Thal'darah's students, the news was unnerving in a way it hadn't been, the first time. Then, Laronar recalled, he'd been in the Dream, and Ashamane had been with him.
This time, when the news of the once more shifting sands spread through the elves of Kalimdor, he was awake for it, and prepared. He had no intention of dragging his new and inexperienced apprentices into a war with the bugs though, but some of the older druids had fought in the last war in Silithus as well. It was those elves, and two of the Tauren he deemed ready enough to not immediately die, that he offered to send.
They met up with Thal'darah's students, and Laronar led the flock of them south, to the Cenarion Hold, stopping only in Feralas on the way, to find Thaon's group, and move with them. The Fangs of Ashamane had stayed in Val'sharah this time, as this time, the Kaldorei would have aid in stopping the Qiraji menace. Times had changed, and they were no longer alone, or reliant on the help of mercurial Dragons.
They were already waiting by the portal when Laronar and the others descended, and he learned that the Alliance was helping as well. Not to be outdone, it seemed the Horde had answered the call to fight too, and both factions had all but ceased hostility, for the moment, as the Silithid returned with a vengeance across Kalimdor. Somehow, they had tunneled past the Scarab Wall, and Laronar suspected that if the Scepter had been intact, that would not have happened. Fandral's rage had weakened the spell enough for the bugs to tunnel through, granted it had taken them a millennium.
Laronar was more than happy to give the task of leading their combined forces to Thaon, as he had despised commanding in the last conflict. The commanders of the Alliance and the Circle this time had finer heads than Fandral, who by all accounts was staying in Darnassus during this resurgence. He sent adventure-filled elves their way, but beyond the Cenarion Infantry, he contributed little.
Laronar would live to regret not being more curious about what Staghelm was up to, that he would miss a chance for vengeance against the Qiraji, but in that strange time of forced camaraderie, after months of increasingly bloody skirmishes, the forces of the Horde and Alliance were focused on two things: gathering supplies, and finding the shards of the Scepter of the Shifting Sands. Laronar left that 'quest' to those crazy enough to willingly hunt down and face three Dragons who had, according to rumor at least, fallen to some kind of peril unique to each of them which had turned them mad. He would also live to regret not investigating what force could turn three elder green wyrms to madness.
Laronar's task, was more subtle. He arrived at the Cenarion Hold with his stealth-favoring druids in tow, and almost immediately, he and Thaon were directed to different parts of the region. Laronar had heard of Baristolth in the first war, of how he had gone into the bug's hives and wrought havoc, repeatedly. How his actions had also earned him some favor with the Bronze Dragonflight, and how he had ultimately become one of their Dragonsworn, retaining his immortality, even as the rest of his race did not. It was to his section of Silithus that Laronar and his pride prowled in silence and shadow.
Laronar found he liked the elven warrior, for they were very similar in their manner, and each respected the other's service in the previous conflict. Anachronos had bestowed upon Baristolth a gift similar to what he'd given Laronar and the other druids who'd defended the entrance to the Bronze Dragon's whelping grounds. The old druid had found a few silver hairs in his mane of forest green since Nordrassil's sacrifice, but otherwise, his body remained as physically fit as it had been a thousand years in the past, while wielding Ashamane's Fangs. His senses to this day remained heightened, enhanced, and time-locked from the effects of decay. It was as if he still held Ashamane's Fangs, something his fellow Ashen noted, when he tore into the bugs in this conflict. As in the last, the druid fought with a slight cloak of their patron's power around him, in a faint shimmer of orange. The only difference this time, was that now, it was sparking with traces of red-orange lightning, and said lightning followed his claws as well, further damaging whatever bug had the misfortune of getting in the massive Nightsaber's path.
Baristolth tasked him and his four best prowlers to hit Hive Regal alongside him, for as in the last war, that particular hive was rapidly becoming the biggest, outside the city. Laronar found that having a commander who understood the usefulness of stealth tactics was a nice change of pace from the irritation he'd felt under Staghelm, who had tossed him and his students at the waves of insects as callously as every other warrior he'd been commanding.
As hard as they struck the breeding caves of the Qiraji, the group of stealth fighters found that, without fail, they had regrown and resumed spawning warriors the next day. Even when all the druids but Laronar had taken their Moonkin Forms, for Sharpclaws were required by Thaon to master that shape as well, the resulting flood of Starfire eradicated every bug in the hive, and yet hours later, there would be more, and by the next day, the new flying Silithids along with all the others, returned in force. Though supplies were coming in from Ironforge and Orgrimmar regularly and in quite a bit of bulk, it would mean little if the Scarab Gate remained closed. What had started as a prison now became a useful shield; the bugs retreated behind just long enough for their mortal adversaries to tire, and return to the Hold for a rest.
Eventually, Laronar found that his sister had also returned to the sands, as had quite a number of priests, old and young, female and male. It was strange seeing male elves in the garb of the Sisterhood of Elune, but Laronar welcomed their healing light all the same. He did not feel Elune's light as the night fell, but neither did her magic fail to heal him. Though his wounds knitted shut, the warmth of the Moon Goddess never fell on the scorned druid, and often when the Moon Priestesses tended to him, he would stare up at her with his intense amber gaze as if to say, 'really? Still?'. Then one night, the moon finally answered, shining brighter, and he followed its shift in light towards Ahn'Qiraj. Shortly after, the effect ended, but the priestess tending him confirmed she'd felt the Mother Moon's guidance, though she could not divine her intent for the bug's city. To Laronar, he could guess her intent, but he needed a second opinion.
Eventually he brought it up with Alaria one night, as their group rested by the Hold's Moonwell, and regained their spent mana. "I'm telling you sister, I think she may finally be open to forgiving me. Though, I do not know how to continue on this path to redemption…if it lies within Ahn'Qiraj, I will enter that foul place."
Alaria snorted, and glared at her brother, for after several rather revealing chats with Shandris Feathermoon, she had a better understanding of what exactly her druidic brother had done to offend the Goddess of their people. She was not the only Moon Priestess to have pleaded his case, it turned out. "You traded your inherent gifts for Goldrinn's favor, Laronar. You put a wolf above She who made us what we are today. Your task in the city is likely the same as those she imparts upon me. Purge the bugs."
At that, Laronar scowled. "I always intended to be there when we finally purged their nest. And calling Goldrinn a mere wolf is like comparing the light of Elune to a glowlamp. You know that, sister. I do not see why the two must be at odds. Compared to several millennia past, Goldrinn is quite agreeable these days."
The war priestess sighed, and washed her face with the water from Nordrassil, shining in the moonlight. "And yet, you cannot safely take his form even now. I've seen you try. The rage is always there, and it always will be. Elune knows this. She has a right to be upset. You traded her blessing for something you will never master."
The druid responded, as the rest of their unit either talked amongst themselves, or watched the brother-sister argument with mild interest. "One does not simply master a Wild God. That's not how the Feral Arts work. Much like Elune, they are patrons of mine, and much like Elune, their favors can be fickle. I know why I struggle to control the Wolf Form, both Goldrinn and your High Priestess have explained it. Even after removing my blessing, even after training to temper my rage, Goldrinn's fury is relentless, for the slight he perceived from your Goddess. It is not the Moon's place to judge Nature for embracing its natural state. What harm is there in letting the White Wolf run wild once in a blue moon? Nature is chaos, and life emerges when that chaos finds a balance. Trying to forcibly guide it might work on plants, but fauna are a different story entirely, especially Wild Gods. They are creatures of Natural magic. Telling them to deny their nature simply isn't going to work. It's just going to anger them."
The priestess's silver eyes narrowed, and she sighed as she stood, evidently done with the conversation, as her brother had a fair point. What right did Elune have to try to order nature? Alaria knew, of course, and she intended to enlighten her brother, and perhaps by extension, the White Wolf himself. By contrast, Laronar remained as chill as he always was as he sat against the well, his tone calm, his face impassive, and his arguments rational. Alaria was having none of it, and neither was the Moon Goddess. "Brute savagery may make one most fit to survive Nature's harshness, but as you said, Goldrinn is no mere savage wolf. He has a mind. A spirit. A purpose. His power is legendary, and crucial to the defense of the world. It is Elune's right to demand the best of all who revel in her light, and instead of embracing what he could be, much like you, Goldrinn insists on clinging to his base nature, rather than moving beyond it, and becoming all the stronger for it. I see now why Elune persists in keeping her Light from you. Thousands of centuries you have been without her warmth, and you have still learned Nothing."
She stalked off then, silver glowing sword drawn, as she headed for the front lines of the escalating war. Warriors from the world over were battling to contain the Qiraji, even as they rested, and it seemed she intended to offer her blade's aid to those still fighting. The others around the Moonwell left soon after, leaving the druid alone once more, eyes on the night sky as he toked on his pipe, and wondered what exactly it might take to mend the rift between the Wolf and the Moon.
An idea crept into his mind, as he spied one of the newer male Priests of Elune's Priesthood. The ancient druid padded over to him, footsteps not making a single noise, and the poor man jumped, as the druid tapped his shoulder. "Pardon me, brother, but I would seek the wisdom of a fellow male in Elune's service."
The Moon Priest looked him over for a moment, before a look of recognition appeared on his beardless and, like most elves, not aesthetically unappealing face. The midnight blue haired elf gave him a small smile, but seemed as reserved as every other Elunite Priest he'd spoken with. "Shan'do Stormclaw...I heard of your efforts in Hive'Regal. What can I do for you? Your wounds seem...well tended." The male swallowed quietly, as the immaculate panoply of muscles on the tall, dark druid all but popped in his general direction. There was something in the air, too, though the poor priest could not determine what it was, he felt hotter under his collar.
Laronar nodded, completely oblivious to what he was causing within the reserved man. "They are quite healed, thank you. I have a question, actually. One that your female counterparts have ever refused to give me an answer to." The small smile faded from the other male's face, but Laronar pressed on. "How exactly does one...commune with Elune? I know half a hundred methods for contacting the Guardians of the Wilds, but for our people's own patron, I have never received a clear cut answer on the method. I wish to try, you see. I...think the Goddess may have words for me. Though, that would be a first in ten thousand years of existence...I believe it is worth trying. As you're probably aware...I offended her in the past, but...I sense I might finally have a way to mend this rift. I ask your aid."
The priest nodded. "I had heard of your...decision...to eschew our race's patron for more power from Goldrinn, and bare control of the Pack Form. You walk a fine line, Stormclaw. Many think you are already a Worgen, though you hide it well."
The intense amber gaze narrowed, slightly. "I do not bear the curse of the malformed Pack Form. I was not fool enough to try binding a Fang of Goldrinn to a Stave of Elune...if anything, I'm one of the only Druids alive save for Shan'do Stormrage that can even enter the Pack Form and not immediately go insane. I traded Elune's blessing for a closer tie to the Wilds...but I fear she may have mistaken my intent. Life flourishes best beneath the Light, and even the cycle of night plays a part in nature's circle. I wish to bring nature and our race's patron closer together, for most of the Wild Gods call Elune an ally. It is Goldrinn specifically with whom the issue lies...and it is Goldrinn I would have words about, with her, if you would but show me the ritual for communing."
The priest looked skyward for a moment, and then seemed to nod to himself. "Very well. It is not a complex ritual...but it may not work for you, as you are not one of Her Priests."
The druid kept the priest's gaze as he answered. "I will take my chances. Show me."
The pair walked towards the Moonwell then, and the priest dipped a small glass vial into the water before offering it to the druid along with a pair of incense sticks. "Pour this atop yourself, and then chant the Moon's Prayer for a full minute. I will leave you to speak with her, should she deign to answer...my duties require my attention."
The druid thanked the priest as he walked off. He jabbed the incense sticks into the foul sand that marked the terrain even in the Cenarion Hold, and lit both with two fingers pointed towards the moon while the rest curled down. A simultaneous burst of twin Moonfire hit the sticks, and began the smolder. Then, he poured the well water over his head and body as instructed, and his senses detected magic guiding it over his form as it wound its way down. Evidently, Elune wished to speak as well. Or that was how Laronar took it. Feeling slightly emboldened, he began chanting the ancient prayer of the Sisterhood, adjusting the language for modern times, and the inclusion of males as he muttered it.
As he felt the spell work, he sensed a presence within the back of his mind, from where he usually drew his mana and spells from. It was calm, serene even, but attentive. In his head, he heard a feminine voice, and he kept himself calm, as for the first time in his life, he realized it was Elune.
You have three questions, Druid...ask them.
Mentally, he responded. "What must I do to mend the rift between yourself and Goldrinn?"
There was a lengthy pause, before he sensed mild amusement, and received an answer.
His fate...is not yours to change. Varian Wrynn...will make of him what he was always meant to be. You have aided in his shift, but you will not complete it.
Laronar put aside wondering how the split-personality of the High King of the Alliance could ever hope to reach or help a Wild God as powerful as Goldrinn, as he pondered his next question. "What must I do to regain your favor?"
This time, there were no words, but visions. He saw Ahn'Qiraj, and his vision, guided by Elune, entered a tunnel to the lower hives. Too fast to properly remember, he saw flashes of the various and powerful enemies within, though eventually the vision faded to blackness, as Elune's sight was blinded by the evil at the heart of the city. It inspired dread in the druid, but Elune's confidence filled him. The vision shifted again, to Darkshore this time. From the view he was given, Teldrassil was to his back. The sky was orange, and soldiers of the Horde were engaged in open warfare with the Night Elves. Ash filled the air.
Ahn'Qiraj he understood well enough. Purge the bugs. The vision of Darkshore left him confused, and it would be too long before he realized its significance. Finally, he asked his last question after formulating several others, but deciding not to ask them. "Will you watch over Alaria and Shandris in this latest of conflicts?"
Genuine warmth filled the druid, and he gasped slightly, as he realized he knew it. For a brief moment, he felt the light of the Moon, which he'd lacked for quite a number of millennia now, as the answer echoed in his head. He didn't notice the tears leaking from his eyes as it filled him in a manner he found he'd been craving for eons now.
Always.
The warmth left just as quickly as it had come, and with it, went his connection to the Goddess of the Kaldorei. He opened his eyes, to find that the incense had burned low, and his cheeks had stripes of liquid that hadn't been there when he'd started. With a heavy sigh, made slightly lighter by the knowledge of his eventual, and hopefully imminent redemption, he strapped on the leather straps engraved with runes, which criss-crossed over the dark, purple-skinned, muscle-bound chest, and flashed orange as they empowered him once more for battle. He rose, as he headed back to the ongoing war. It felt less hopeless than the last one, though the scope had been extended. Evidently, the bug's reach had extended across Kalimdor over the long centuries, for their mounds and foul crystals had reportedly popped up all over the continent. Faith was a new experience for the druid, but he found it preferable to the perceived coldness he'd believed Elune had for him, and though he did not notice, it made him fight all the harder, as the sands of Silithus once more were drenched in the blood of bugs and mortals.
Chapter 22: The Temple of Ahn'Qiraj
Chapter Text
The newest war on the shifting sands of Silithus had been going on for weeks, by the time word finally reached Supreme Commander Saurfang, and the rest of the combined forces that made up the organization now formally called the Might of Kalimdor. It was Saurfang's admittedly brilliant mind that had sent Laronar and Thaon to different parts of Silithus to enact stealth raids on the bug's breeding chambers, and it was Saurfang who, by his orders, kept many of their forces alive, even if they fell.
There were enough reagents and skilled spellcasters to bring back the fallen, and often, those priests who could use a Mass Resurrection spell were able to turn the tide on the bugs, as the warriors who'd faced them earned another chance to do it all again. As usual, the bugs adapted their tactics, targeting priests, druids, and others capable of reviving the fallen, while also killing the mortal defenders by way of ripping them apart. Not even high level healing magic could revive a body that was torn into five pieces, and partially devoured.
When the Supreme Commander announced to the rest of the weary forces that the random group of roughly eighty adventurers, forty from the Alliance, and forty from the Horde, had successfully managed to work together to gather and reunite the shards of the Scepter of the Shifting Sands, the only challenge that remained, was reaching Ahn'Qiraj itself. Before that assault began, Laronar found himself being summoned to Saurfang's war room, which was based in the Cenarion Hold's largest chamber.
The Supreme Commander wanted the knowledge of those elves who had seen the Scarab Gate before, and knew well the spells enchanting it. To that end, he'd been calling on veterans of that first war, to recount their experience. As Laronar approached the elven wood and stone building, the guards gave him their usual beady Orcish glares, and he resisted snarling at the black blooded invaders from another world responsible for killing Cenarius. Old hatreds could wait, until the Qiraji were no longer a threat. They barked something in their barbaric tongue, and moments later, a lumbering form from within came towards the entrance, revealing the heavily armored badass that was Varok Saurfang, beneath the fading moonlight. Plate armor covered everything but his head, which was sporting gray hair in long braids.
Laronar eyed the Orc, even as he knew the Orc was eyeing him, in turn. After a tense moment, it seemed both had agreed that they would not wish to fight. Laronar fared poorly against enemies with so much plate, though even they could bleed out, and while Saurfang was sure he could cleave the absurdly well muscled but still comparatively lithe Night Elf in two, he also knew druids were clever opponents, and this one walked without making a noise. If he wanted, the Orc correctly assumed the druid could sneak up on him, and strike something vital. He liked the intensity of the druid's gaze though, and grumbled a single word in common as he moved back into the tent. "Come."
Laronar got a look at the massive axe Saurfang was bearing on his back as he turned, a genuinely impressive weapon, with a skull placed between the massive curved blades, and a Horde-appropriate number of spikes jutting from the long hilt. The Orc gestured to the map, and then spoke again, his rough mouth butchering the common based words as he did. "Forgive...I speak this tongue not...well."
The druid blinked, and then held up a single finger, as he started searching through his pouches. One of the four equally well armored and armed Orcs stepped up behind him, and while the druid was very aware of him and his axe, he ignored the Orc, and withdrew the required components. He held the pinches of soot and salt in one palm, as his other hand rose, to trace a glyph in the air. He snarled, as he felt the Orc behind him grip his shoulder, and say something in Orcish that he assumed meant 'no spellcasting' but he persisted anyway.
Saurfang, for his part, merely watched, one bulky eyebrow raised as he observed the druid carefully. The magic didn't seem hostile, and if it could help with the language barrier, he was willing to wait. As the Orc behind the druid grew more agitated while Laronar traced the magic symbol in the air, the Supreme Commander held up a hand, and with impressive dog-like obedience, the overeager grunt backed off. Laronar released the magic, and sent the empowered sooty salty particles floating over Saurfang. "This spell will allow you to understand and be understood by Alliance forces for the next twenty four hours. I extended the duration, as I thought you might find it useful, Supreme Commander."
Both eyebrows raised now, the Orc gave the spell a try, as he spoke Orcish, and the spell turned it into common for Laronar's ears. "You...can understand me now?" The elf nodded, and the Orc gave a rare grin. "This will help! Your...people have had difficulty understanding my Common. Now...we can focus on the bugs."
Laronar nodded again, and the Supreme Commander gestured to the map of Silithus drawn upon what the druid assumed was kodohide, draped over the circular table that sat in the center of the Hold's building, and took up most of the space in the stone room's center. "Your egg raids have done well. The bugs finally struggle to replenish their fallen, but we can see the city. It is overrun with them. You were there, a thousand summers past. How many does the city hold?"
At that question, Laronar sighed, brow furrowed. "Maybe a million. Probably more. The ones you can see are just the ones that can fly...and then there are also the Anubisaths...and the Obsidian Destroyers. You'll know when the Anubisaths show up, but if you see a Destroyer made of black obsidian, move your mages away from it. They eat magic, and can redirect it. Normal weapons don't work on them, so maybe assign some adventurers to killing a certain number of them during the conflict."
The Orc nodded. "I have some in mind. Now...their General...I was told you fought near it. That you saw what it could do."
Laronar nodded, eyes on the map as he remembered. "Rajaxx...if he yet lives, he will be hungry for vengeance. Have the Dragons still not agreed to aid us?"
The Orc gave a heavy sigh that was more akin to a growl. "Anachronos is willing...but he is alone in his willingness. The Bronze Dragonflight guided us towards the shards of the Scepter...but defeating the Qiraji is left to us Mortals." He thumped his chest, and the other Orcs present mimicked him as they chanted in unison. "For the Horde."
"For Kalimdor." An emphasizing voice said from the shadows, and all present but Laronar, who had smelled their new arrival, but had thus far been unable to pinpoint her, jumped and drew their weapons at the sound. Even Saurfang had a hand on his axe, which left it, as he recognized the female Kaldorei's sultry tones.
"High Commander Windstryke. I was just plying your people for information." Saurfang gestured to Laronar, who met the elven rogue's eye, then. To say there was a rivalry between the Ashen of the Cenarion Circle and the Shadowstalkers of the Sentinel Army was an understatement. The elves did not engage in pettiness though, preferring instead to outdo each other by deeds over pranks or other such petty tricks. From what he'd heard, only Thaon Moonclaw had been able to give the vaunted Sentinel Commander a challenge.
She gave him a nod, which was returned in kind, before she spoke again. "From what I hear, Stormclaw fought in the last war. His insight should be helpful. Though unless my ears deceive me, his magic has been of aid as well." The almond shaped silver eyes darted to the Orc, and then back to the shirtless druid with the intense stare.
"I was almost a mage...in my youth. Eldarath had many useful cantrips and low level spells on their academy shelves." Laronar offered, without quite knowing why. "A simple spell, but useful, for this conflict." He dragged his eyes away from the Sentinel's and back to the Orc leading them. "When we open those gates, hell itself will break loose. Expect Anubisaths, and wave upon wave of their Colossi."
"That is not the only threat." The High Commander added. "The zeppelins have reported odd sights as they flew in to us with the gathered supplies. The strange crystals my scouts found outside the Scarab Wall have been sighted across Kalimdor. If each one has a nest hidden beneath it, they may overrun us back home before we ever come close to breaching the Temple."
If Saurfang was worried, the Orc did not show it. He merely nodded, and gestured to a corner of the room. A young Troll, too young for war, but just old enough to deliver messages, saluted Saurfang, as did the Human messenger, who looked to be just as young, around Prince Anduin's age. The Supreme Commander scribbled something on a pair of parchments, gave one to each messenger, and sent them dashing off to find a mage of the Horde and Alliance respectively, to send them home and warn Varian and Thrall of what was potentially about to appear all across the planet.
Laronar paid little attention to that however, eyes shifting back to the not unattractive Sentinel, as he processed her words. "You're going into the Temple? Willingly?"
The High Commander nodded, and Saurfang spoke as well, though he was amused by the seemingly building tension between the famously reserved elves. "We are. The strongest of the adventurers who gathered the Scepter will split into two groups, twenty to scour the ruins of the city, and eighty to charge into the depths of the city, and end this threat at its source."
A slow smirk crossed the druid's normally passive countenance. "I'm in...if you're going into their hives, you need those who understand their tactics. I can watch for their tunneling tricks, and cover your back."
The High Commander had a soft smile of her own, though she seemed not to notice it. "Your aid is most welcome...Thaon Moonclaw was regaling me with tales of your skill. I look forward to seeing it in action."
Saurfang looked between the two elves again, and hid his smirk, while his guards did not. Neither of the elves seemed to pay his guards mind, but they both listened attentively as his rough tones filled the stone room, and were translated into an easier tongue by way of elven magic. The Orc placed a small crystal on the war map before Laronar as he did. "This will tell us if you all die down there, and we need to send another group. I am not worried. The adventurers in the Temple group are from the Horde and Alliance both, and many have experience facing down Dragons, and worse. Your odds of survival are not likely to be much higher than they currently are."
Laronar nodded, and took the crystal. Half of the Alliance's crest, and half of the Horde's, was emblazoned on it, and as he glanced at the High Commander, he saw she had one as well. He pocketed his, and responded. "I'm glad to be of aid. The 'dark god' of the Qiraji must be felled if we're to win this war. They'll never stop, otherwise."
Outside the tent, the three around the map table flinched as an Orcish horn broke through the silence of the early sunrise. Another horn joined that one, Human, to Laronar's ears, and then others followed. Dwarves, Night Elves, Tauren, even Gnomish trumpets were all sounding off and preparing. Saurfang's baritone cut through the growing cacophony. "Today...we break down the Scarab Wall...one way or another, this war ends here."
The hulking Orc marched from the building then, his guards following him in even formation. The pair of elves, left alone, shared a glance, before following. Laronar shifted into his Cat Form, and didn't blink when the rogue jumped onto his back. He glanced back at the smirking Commander, and then continued trotting on, content to be ridden, for the moment. After spending many centuries with Storm, Laronar knew when an elf understood the necessary hip motions for riding a Nightsaber, and he had to resist the urge to purr as they followed after the wolf-mounted Orcs, and the mainly horse-mounted Alliance soldiers joining their charge.
In minutes, the Might of Kalimdor had assembled before the Scarab Gate, and Varok Saurfang gave them his Orcish version of a rallying speech, though Laronar was able to grasp his meaning, and judging by the cries that followed, the allied forces had as well. He hadn't known the Supreme Commander was kin to Broxigar, and there were several elven veterans from the War of the Ancients who visibly twitched, when the Orc mentioned that name. As the speech ended, and several people tried, in the moment, to create a cry both Horde and Alliance could rally around, they succeeded in only silence. The High Commander had a better one though, and it caught on quickly as the front lines of Orcish and Dwarven fighters began to charge. When the High Commander gave her own rallying cry of "For Kalimdor!" Laronar roared, though it was lost in the sound of the Scepter striking the gong.
The gates of Ahn'Qiraj opened and the entire world shook, as a millennium of pent up voidspawn anger flowed forth from the city, with General Rajaxx at their head. In the distance, not one, not two, but three massive Anubisaths rose from beneath each of the reborn hives the Silithid had managed to create. As they built up speed and charged the mortal forces of Kalimdor's Might, they were met by several Bronze Drakes, and Anachronos himself appeared, manifesting from the sand below as he took on one of the obsidian wolf-faced giants in single combat. Random mortal adventurers handled the other two, as well as the General of the Qiraji forces, and all was chaos, as once more, the Feral Druid charged into war.
Rajaxx's voice echoed in their minds as they charged, yet none of the Orgrimmar infantry or Ironforge Dwarves making up their front lines seemed to falter. "Soon you will know the price of your meddling, mortals... The master is nearly whole... And when He rises, your world will cease!"
His roar had sped up the twenty five closest people, and it was nice having a Sentinel to literally watch his back. She didn't hit bugs through the eye sockets like Shandris and her arrows, but her daggers were timely all the same. Lynore had a bad habit of letting him tank the damage from the Colossi and Qiraji, while she stole the killing blow, but he was beyond caring about numbers and kill counts. In war, he had always focused on surviving, and keeping as many of his allies alive as he could, and this conflict was no exception.
For several long, blood-soaked hours the forces of the Alliance and the Horde fought as tirelessly as the minions of Ahn'Qiraj, and at the end of that period of time, General Rajaxx was dead, the Anubisath were in pieces, and no Destroyers had yet been seen wreaking havoc. If there had been some, Laronar hadn't encountered them. The might of Ahn'Qiraj had flowed free, and the mortal races of Azeroth had soundly smashed them into bug goo. Even now, those who had fallen and could be revived, were returning to life.
Saurfang addressed the Might of Kalimdor, looking as gore spattered and tired as the rest of his soldiers, though the Horde's healers had his wounds sealing up even as he spoke. "The battle is won! Watch as they flee to the safety of their precious Temple. Soon all will be razed...their leaders destroyed!"
The Orc then gave a nod to a Tauren that, by his garb, seemed to either be important, or exceptionally powerful. Next to him was a Human paladin, who seemed much the same, garbed as she was in fine plate armor. They each brought out a horn, blew it simultaneously, and from the ranks of the Might of Kalimdor came eighty individuals, each with a humming crystal, signifying that they were the ones who would be entering the Temple of Ahn'Qiraj itself, and razing it to the ground. It would take no less than that, to finally end the Qiraji threat.
Though not all of the original eighty that had united the Scepter of the Shifting Sands were present, replacements had been found for them, and as the hundred chosen mortals charged the Gates of Ahn'Qiraj at a standard running pace, twenty of them broke off, and made for the ruins of the city itself, damaged heavily by the last time mortals had made it into the city, before being swiftly driven back towards the gates.
Laronar's group went a different direction, to the right, and towards the temple itself. The first of the many challenges awaiting them was five groups of Qiraji, designed to break their formation. They were slaughtered as handily as every bug outside had been, and the adventurers moved on with practiced swiftness, with only a few pausing to collect what the bugs had on them.
The Prophet of the bugs, an abomination calling itself Skeram, was the first real challenge they faced. His voice also filled their minds, as Rajaxx's had, as they charged. "Are you all so eager to die!? I will be happy to accommodate you…"
The plate clad warriors among their group split, as the Prophet opened with what would become his signature technique, a spell Laronar knew as Mirror Image. The bug's version seemed to have some tweaks though, as his images were real down to the foul scent, and figuring out which was the original was all but impossible.
When the Orcish warrior tanking the blows from the Prophet in Laronar's group suddenly ran off, charging at nothing as he shouted, "For the Horde!" And swung wildly at the empty air at visions only he could see, the druid shifted to his Bear Form. He didn't usually call on Ursoc, but he had practiced with the Bear Ancient's Form over the long millennia he'd stayed awake, and the results had been enough for the Ashen druid to deem acceptable. His skin became stone, and turned darker, moss covered his now rocky hide across his massive body, and formed a beard of green atop the primarily black stone of his form, and with a roar, he focused the Prophet's attention on himself, as the healers switched to keeping him alive, and freeing their warrior of whatever mind control he was under.
The magical mirror images came out several times as the group whittled the Prophet down, but even in defeat, he had naught for them but laughter. "You have won...nothing. You only delay...that which is...inevitable." With a final hissing laugh, the bug finally died, and the same Orc from before turned his head into orange bug goo. The raiding party took a second to catch their breath then, as the whole battle had taken almost half of an hour. Those who had fallen were revived by the top notch healers among them.
Being a druid, they overlooked Laronar's wounds, as he was taking care of them himself. As one of the damage dealers, he was easily overlooked, as their role was by far the most numerous. The High Commander appeared next to him from the shadows. She hadn't taken a leadership role in this endeavor, and had stayed near Laronar, as they both had similar styles of attacking. "You gave me a proper scare, when you faced that thing down yourself. I always forget how useful Druids can be."
Laronar shrugged a shoulder, wincing, as he felt the cut upon it brush against the black fur and leather that made up the 'claw' that was his shoulder armor. He popped another Regrowth and Rejuvenation combo upon himself, and that wound, among others, began to close quicker. "Somebody had to. The Orc went mad for a minute there."
While the party recovered, some of the other stealthy members had scouted ahead of the group, alone, but had resisted the urge to jump into combat, as they instead reported back that below were three Qiraji, being treated like royalty by the bugs around them. The general consensus was that any dead bug was a good bug, and killing important bugs made the other bugs bug out. Without their leaders, the Silithid were much less dangerous, almost non-violent, unless attacked. Taking out the leaders would likely let them traverse the underground temple in relative safety, or rather, that had been the theory.
As the raid began to charge into the temple's depths, Laronar and others in animal forms all made gagging noises, as their stronger noses caught a whiff of what they would be descending into. Their first encounters within the darkness were smaller versions of the Prophet they'd just faced, with equally annoying magic. Against the blades, claws, spells, and arrows of eighty hardened warriors, they did not last long.
The bug 'royalty' was a different story. The warrior like Colossi variant colored a sickly orange charged them first, and it was he that the raiders focused on felling first, though as the guard died, the fury of the other two awakened. The healers began burning through their mana, and as they started to run low, the damage dealers went into their own overdrive, and brought down the smallest and evidently female member of the trio next. Last was the obvious leader of this band, though without his allies, the inevitability of so much damage hitting him made it obvious he was, eventually, going to fall. He appeared to intend to bring others with him, and almost succeeded, before finally falling to a well-placed hammerblow from a Tauren shaman, limned with lightning. Said Tauren reduced the bug to goo and parts, and after a moment of rest, the trek continued.
Silithid guardians waited, as the raid charged down the twitching tunnel before them and further into the hive, and before they knew it, their next challenge was on them, alongside her warriors, shouting as they hovered above the ground, and charged them. "You will be judged for defiling these sacred grounds! The laws of the ancients will not be challenged! Trespassers will be annihilated!"
A flying Qiraji leader of some sort, and her cohort, awaited them within a circular chamber that was reminiscent of the Hives outside the walls, though far more corrupted with whatever influence was driving the bugs. As the raiding party whittled the flying bugs that looked vaguely humanoid down, the Qiraji decided to jump among the healers and hunters and mages in the back, tearing through them in a whirlwind of death and blood with her scimitars, before being drawn back by the tankier members of their group with top tier taunting.
Once more, the healers struggled to keep up, but as the guards began to fall, the focus became the largest, and most vocal guard. This time, it was a Fireball from a Gnomish mage to the face that ended her, and stifled her dying gasp. She tried saying something else, but burnt flesh made for a poor method of delivering words, and she expired before they came out.
The next tunnel they came to was filled with bugs, and went on for as long as they could see, in the foul gloom of the undertemple. The rogues, Laronar included, padded forward silently past group after group of warrior bugs, until finally, they found a room at the end of the roughly mile long tunnel that appeared to be empty.
Lynore made to enter, but Laronar stopped her, as his smaller fangs sank into the back of her garb, and held her up. She glared down at him, but he merely pointed from the shadows, at the slight but visible disturbance within the sandy bottomed room. Whatever awaited, was lurking below, and seemed to have sensed her, if not the rest of the stealthy members.
With a series of hand signals, they retreated, and the combined raid group formed a plan, then. The plate armor wearers and druids in Bear Form would charge the tunnel in two rows, the healers would keep them alive, and the ranged damage dealers would pick off the weaker bugs that the charge didn't finish off. Those who were better at dealing damage up close and personal kept an eye out for packs the scouts had originally not noticed, and when they tried to flank the advancing mortals, they found only death, though it didn't seem to unnerve them. Each of the Silithid smart enough to speak seemed to embrace death, as if they knew something that the rest of the group did not.
When the group finally cut its way down the tunnel, the massacre they'd left behind them was a small victory, and as they healed up again, the sand within the room before them started to rumble. It seemed the occupant wasn't going to just sit and wait for them. A massive brown Silithid shaped more akin to a worm than a Colossi or warrior bug variant popped up from below, and roared at them. With six legs, and a tail that would soon prove to be very lethal, the creature was seemingly easy enough to handle, that is, until it started summoning more bugs.
Smaller scarab variants crawled up from the sand and out of the adjoining tunnels, oozing through gaps in the hive the raid would never fit through. With them, came ferocious worms that, if ignored for too long, would start rampaging through the ranks of the raid. The Horde side took heavy casualties from those before they realized they needed to die quickly, and when they started coming for the Alliance, their group was better prepared.
Plate wearing damage sponges shifted off once the bug's tail left their armor in rent ruins, and they masterfully manipulated its focus, while managing to keep most of their number alive. By the time the beast finally fell, many members of the raid were on the ground, bleeding out or already dead, and the healers went to work on bringing them back. Laronar also helped, as his reagent-fueled magic could pull them from death's edge, but for those already lifeless, the priests and paladins had to step in. Several of the Horde's shaman, after willing themselves back to life, started calling the spirits of their own fallen back to the mortal world, and the raiding party spent a good hour in that chamber, as the blacksmiths among them started making field repairs to what armor was still salvageable.
Nobody complained, as food and water were munched quietly in the low hum of the temple. The foul smell was persistent with every breath, and to scarf down his own Moonberries, Laronar had had to drop his Cat Form. Every inhale while shifted was an almost mind numbingly nauseating affair, and his eternal patience had started to erode. The bugs down here took longer to dispatch, and the constant distant hum of the seemingly endless hives was, by itself, enough to drive some of their group slightly mad. The priests kept them all sane, as well as they could, in a hive of madness.
Eventually, the raid split. The Alliance warriors wished to press further into the tunnels from the massive worm's cave, while the Horde wanted to press on, and get to either the leaders of the hives, or their 'dark god' as quickly as possible. Thus, they decided to split into two forty strong groups, who agreed to meet up later.
For Laronar's group, their next challenge was an ooze with a suspiciously Troll-like skull, that the Alliance raiders attacked for a solid twenty minutes straight before they accepted they needed to pull back, and re-evaluate their tactics. Mages brought out their frost spells, as the ooze returned to a puddle after they'd retreated, frost oil was applied to claws and weapons, and the idea of freezing and then breaking the creature worked well enough...until it split into numerous globs, and reformed itself.
After that, it was a simple repeat process of freezing, and smashing the globules until nothing of the fierce creature remained. Not far from that room, they came upon the Horde, embroiled in a chaotic battle with a larger bug. It had wings, a stinger, and seemed to have already taken down several of the Horde raiders over the course of their own fight.
The Alliance poured into the chamber with refreshed reinforcements. The additional bugs went down, and soon, the combined might of both parties brought the 'queen' to death as well. The Horde divided up the loot, as it was technically 'their kill', and their refusal to share any of it with the Alliance was the first inter-faction tension that had risen thus far. It was the High Commander herself though, who suggested that, since the Alliance got some treasure from their own strong enemy, the Horde should be able to take the loot from this one. Several trades then occurred, but there was still grumbling from both sides, and hate in quite a few pairs of eyes.
The raiders recovered themselves in faction-separated groups, and once more they embarked into a long tunnel, full of increasingly stronger bugs, alongside what seemed to be smaller, but no less deadly, Anubisaths. It turned out that the bugs and stone guardians had been guarding the Twin Emperors, and as the raiders entered the chamber, they all paused, in shock. The Emperors were kneeling, and between them, floated a massive, disembodied eye. Dark power unlike anything any of the mortals had ever felt permeated the space, as the eyeball turned to look them over.
After several moments, there was dark laughter, and a voice echoed through each of their heads.
Naught but animated flesh... It turned back to the Twin Emperors, then. Eradicate the mortals.
Vek'nilash began chittering as the eye descended into the floor, and drew his greatsword, while Vek'lor hissed out an answer to their 'god'. "C'thun's will...be done." His hands began glowing with magic as he too examined the eighty mortals, come to claim their heads. "Only flesh and bone...mortals are such easy prey."
Vek'nilash flourished the massive greatsword with ease, and stepped down from his side of the room's altar. "Where are your manners, brother? Let us...welcome our guestsssss."
Vek'lor followed after him, and he chuckled as he started approaching the mortals as well. "There will be pain…"
Vek'nilash chittered again with glee. "Oh...so much pain…"
The Horde raiders split from the Alliance, and aimed for the greatsword-wielding bug emperor, while the Alliance grouped together, and moved for Vek'lor. The spellcasting emperor chuckled again, "Come, little mortalssss!"
Vek'nilash let out a similarly gleeful cry. "The feast of souls begins now!"
As the attacks started coming from both sides, the Horde's plate wearers weathered the first greatsword hit, and struck back, buying time for their casters of darker persuasions to inflict their curses. As fireballs and Fel powered bolts of shadow lanced towards the warrior, he laughed and chittered, as they bounced off of him harmlessly. For the Alliance, there were similar issues, of a different nature. Laronar found his claws were doing absolutely nothing to the magic user, and Lynore's daggers had a similar issue. Their own plate wearing fighters also appeared to do nothing, while their spellcasters were matching Vek'lor almost spell for spell, and appearing to have some sort of effect.
Vek'lor countered then, gesturing at a Human mage, and lifting him into the air as dark magic tore at his buffs and protections, stripping them away, until finally, he was consumed by black-purple flames. "Your brash arrogance…"
"Shall be your undoing!" Vek'nilash crowed, as he speared one of the plate armored Orcs trying to face him in honorable combat on the edge of the massive greatsword, and sent his corpse flying. Scarabs throughout the floor of the room piled onto the body, and began partaking of the foul Orc flesh, uncaring that it was tainted by Fel. It seemed that only made them more eager to consume it.
Chaos ensued, as the raiders tried to compensate, and Laronar eventually switched from dealing damage, to helping to heal, as Vek'lor struck down their casters one by one with glee, some of which were healers. He shouted to Lynore, as the Horde was similarly embroiled in chaos. "This one doesn't take physical damage, and his brother is immune to magical strikes!" He said, as he watched one of the Horde's Orcish warlocks cast a series of ineffective curses that only bounced off of the greatsword wielding bug. "Tell the Horde! We need to adapt our strategy!"
She nodded, and called for the Alliance's physical damage dealers to follow her, to reinforce the Horde. Having figured out what the Alliance already knew, the Horde was also shifting, and their spellcasters went to reinforce the Alliance, as the melee and physical damage dealers joined the Horde's efforts to bring down Vek'nilash. Through soul stones and shamanic rituals, several of the healers for the Alliance were brought back, and Vek'lor was forced into a corner of the room as the combined group of spellcasters hammered him relentlessly in a truly epic display of magical power from all sources of magic.
The physical fighters did something similar with Vek'nilash, albeit, slower, as he liked to randomly charge members of their group, who then had to brace for a titanic hit from the sword. They corralled the vicious warrior eventually, but it was Vek'lor who went down first, and his death made his brother shriek an ungodly noise into the chamber. "Vek'lor! I feel your pain!" Eyes burning with hate, he turned them on his adversaries. "Your fates are sealed!
Vek'nilash went into a frenzy of sword strikes, but the Horde's healers, more druids and shaman than priests and paladins, kept them alive. The other half of the raiders came down on Vek'nilash as well, for though their spells could not affect him, they could affect the ceiling above him. One particularly large chunk of weathered temple fell, crushing the bug as it did, and the combined might of the physical attacks finished the mostly crushed bug off, sending him to death alongside his brother.
It was a longer rest once quiet filled the chamber, but the eye of 'C'thun' did not reappear. Some of those who had fallen had done so in a manner that made reviving them impossible, and the raiders took their first real losses, setting the bodies in a line, once they'd pieced them together. The scarabs had left little but bones and clothes, and while one of the Forsaken priests offered to try reviving them into Forsaken, the overwhelming majority of the raiders were against that, on both the Horde and Alliance.
The raid moved on, finding yet another tunnel, but judging by the inhabitants, they were getting close. Champions of the Qiraji, along with smaller Anubisaths and even some Obsidian Destroyers were waiting for the raiders, and though they were all exhausted, battered, and were down several key members, they charged through the final defenses to what the Horde rogues claimed was the final guardian, before the chamber none of them had dared to even peek into, without backup.
Yet another giant worm turned out to be the final guardian, and while it regularly bashed their plate wearing tanks into walls, the more agile of them used the opportunity to brace against the impact, and then leap back at the worm, using the wall as a base. Scarabs appeared as it tunneled beneath them, but the remaining raiders were organized enough to dodge the suspiciously rumbling earth pile that preceded the worm bursting up through the sand.
Armor repairs were again set up, as both Alliance and Horde scouts reported that it certainly seemed like this C'thun was waiting for them next. The smarter minds of both raiding parties huddled together on the sand, encircled by the worm's curled corpse as a kind of privacy wall, as they concocted their strategy. The High Commander was also consulted, and she brought Laronar, who had gone with the scouts as extra, but ultimately unnecessary muscle.
After about an hour of deliberating, and guessing what kind of attacks a giant eyeball would use, they had some sort of solid strategy. One of the Gnomish magi was convinced that it was going to shoot massive death lasers at them, and that they needed to be ready to move if that occurred. At the end of the discussion, it was a Human paladin who gave the raiders the plan, and Laronar gave him a Comprehend Language spell to get the point across quickly to the Horde raiders.
"Listen up, people!" The paladin said as he began. He was what Laronar had come to recognize as something of a stereotype. Blonde hair, some of it gray, plate armor, a glowing two handed greatsword, and a jaw that was as chiseled as the druid's own abdominals. His baritone reached all of them, as Alliance and Horde alike came together for what many were convinced, or hoping, was the final fight of this long, smelly tour in the bowels of the Silithid's largest hive.
"We're going to be splitting into eight groups. From what we've seen of the chamber we're entering, we'll be able to surround the bastard on all sides. We don't know exactly what this 'god' of the bugs will be using to combat us, but we should all be ready to adjust our positions at a moment's notice. Your group leaders will be responsible for calling out when." Just then, the same Gnomish mage interrupted, and her slightly panicked and high pitched tones made most of the raiders smirk. "You won't need to call it out! I'm telling you, EYE LASERS!"
The paladin pinched the bridge of his well-defined nose and sighed. "Yes, we are aware, eye lasers, thank you Glitzy. Anything this abomination summons to aid it should be focused down by our damage dealers immediately. Those of us who can take more of a pounding," He said, emphasizing with a fist bump against the chest of his own Alliance branded plate armor, "Should be ready to draw their focus, and the eyeball's. Pay attention to what the rest of the raid is doing, don't get trapped away from your group, and above all, stay alive...we've lost enough people already." The Human looked at both Horde and Alliance members as he finished, and donned his equally well fortified helmet. "Are we ready!?"
The raiders roared in agreement, but Laronar was already readying a different kind of roar, one that paired well with the paladin's next order. "Charge!"
The sound his Nightsaber throat made echoed loudly, and Laronar liked to think that C'thun felt the rumbling of almost eighty well-armored adventurers, coming solely to claim victory over it, and its foul minions. Laronar's roar and the paladin's mounted speed sent him almost thirty yards ahead of the rest of them, and his horse deftly turned the corner into the chamber, as the paladin cast his shield of total protection. His faith held up before the unsettling green energy laser that arced towards him, and while the Human survived, his horse was reduced to a puff of light and sparkles. Already furious, he shouted, as he heard the raid arrive behind him. "Stay back, this energy wants to jump like a Shaman's lightning! Spread out, surround it, and start attacking!"
And in short order, the seventy something heroes did, splitting off into eight different groups. Those with close ranges closed on the menacing eyeball as the plate wearers drew its focus, but what was most unsettling, was the whispers. In Laronar's head, he could hear them, though what they were saying was muffled, by the holy spells and buffs protecting his mind, and the minds of every raider present as well.
As the damage and spells began to increase in intensity, C'thun interrupted the bursts of damage with several well placed tentacles bearing claws. The Dwarf in Laronar's group drew it away with an array of insults that made the cat chuckle inwardly, despite the eldritch horror they were facing down. He and the others with him made short work of it, and the tentacles sporting eyes that came after it. True to the Gnome's words, they also fired 'lasers' at them, but their healer, a Tauren shaman who'd established herself as one of the best healers the Horde had brought, kept them all alive.
Someone shouted, "Incoming!" As the eye focused on one group in particular, the one aiding the Human paladin who'd charged in first. C'thun turned a dark, menacing crimson, and there was an audible 'bwooommm' sound, as the massive eye discharged an equally massive laser, and began moving it towards the fleeing group, slowly. The paladin shouted again, "Don't panic, stay ahead of it! He can't keep this up forever!"
The groups were on the opposite sides of the chamber from where they'd started by the time the 'god' ran out of death laser juice but the slowly moving death beam hadn't managed to snare any of them, and once more, the damage came rapidly, focusing down tentacles, before shifting to the eye itself. With a furious howl, and a wave of energy that stunned all of them, the Old God assumed his final form, as a mass of flesh and toothy maws rose from the infernal pit he was situated in.
The raiders soon found that their attacks did nothing, and worse, the tentacles had returned, larger than before, and much stronger as well. Healers began running out of mana as eye beams and massive hits from equally massive claws started taking their toll. It was around that time that Laronar spotted the Gnome from before, Glitzy, shouting 'I told you so' incoherently, over and over, as she desperately shot spell after spell at a tentacle that, for some reason, also had a toothy maw.
As it lunged to swallow the gnome, Laronar dashed, picked her up by the neck on the back of her robes, and kept running, only to mildly panic as the tentacle followed him, and dragged him within it as well. The pain was immediate as he was plopped out into a foul chamber full of what he assumed was stomach acid. Within the green haze were two tentacles, and the Gnome shared a glance with her feline 'rescuer', before he set her down, and they both began tearing into a fleshy tentacle with spells and claws.
This deep in C'thun, the whispers were more clear, and insistent that he stop what he was doing immediately, and instead turn his fangs on his Gnomish ally. They promised him power, and mentally, he declined, claiming he had enough power already. They promised him wealth, and he compared what wealth they offered to the endless bounty of nature he'd subsisted on for over ten millennia, and again preferred nature. Then, they turned violent, petty even, and he ignored them, silently mocking the whispers as he ripped and tore into the Old God's flesh at what his predator's instinct was telling him was a weak spot, on the otherwise impenetrable 'deity'.
It was as he mocked C'thun that he decided checking on his Gnomish ally might be a good idea, and as he saw her hands, seemingly against her will, turn towards him and form a spell, other raiders were plopped into the acid of the chamber, one of which was another mage, also a Gnome but this time a male, who cast a counterspell. The Eye of Dalaran appeared over Glitzy's head, and her eyes refocused, but she didn't have time to apologize, as the amount of gas within the chamber increased.
More of the raiders, from both factions, began joining them as they too were plopped out into C'thun's intestines, and while the plate wearers ran immediately for what turned out to be a portal, presumably to somewhere that wasn't an Old God's stomach, the healers who stayed kept them alive, as the acid ate at them. They had to leave eventually, but once they saw the damage they'd dealt, and how dire things were turning for the raiders up above, they had a new plan. Glitzy sent messages to each group, and before long, spare healers and most of the damage dealers were eagerly offering themselves for consumption.
That didn't stop the other massive tentacles though, as they were very intent on ending the raiders who stayed outside of the Old God. Laronar found himself dodging eye beams, and being driven towards a devastatingly powerful claw tentacle, when the Dwarf from his group appeared seemingly from nowhere, to taunt it. "Oi, over here ye fekkin' spoopy marital aid! Aye, oi'm talkin' to ye', ye' feckless eyestalk. Yer piss poor lazers're a bloodeh joke. Oi've seen bett'r aim from a Leper Gnome!" The Dwarf paused in his accented tirade to wink at Laronar. "Oi've got'im cat-lad. Go an' prod 'is belly tentacles with them mass've fangs."
Laronar glanced at their healer, who gave him a nod with her horned head, and he nodded back, before moving towards another mouth tentacle. Lynore joined him as well, and it was all too happy to swallow them both, only to drop them once more into the bowels of C'thun's mass. It was somewhat crowded down there, and after about a minute of helping the raiders trapped in the acid deal damage, the call for a retreat came, and they all made for the exit at once, bamfing to the chamber once more, just in time to see C'thun become more thin than wide as it stretched higher. A final, keening cry tore into their minds, before the abomination finally collapsed, dead. A cheer went up, as one of the Orcs tore into the corpse slightly, and shouted, "Loot!"
C'thun's corpse didn't react, the whispers faded to nothingness, and the raiders breathed a sigh of relief, as their long tour into the depths of Ahn'Qiraj came to a close.
Laronar watched as Lynore carved a piece from the eye, and then hopped down to join him. "Saurfang will want proof...and now the threat is ended, so too is the unity we have achieved thus far."
The druid looked over at the Horde adventurers, who'd decided to share the loot this time. He saw Orcish barbarians interacting peacefully with Human priestesses as they traded armor that wasn't suited for them, for something that would make them stronger, in true adventurer fashion. The elves turned to leave, only to pause, as three spirits, a Gnome male and a pair of Kaldorei, appeared before them. Then, they became tangible, and as one bowed before Laronar and Lynore, as well as the rest of the raid, who'd started to queue up behind them in order to make for the exit.
As the elven male in red clothing addressed the group, Laronar blinked, and found his gaze falling on the softly smiling green-clad elf woman beside him. Her voice echoed in his head, and immediately, he knew he was addressing one of the Green Dragons. "You did well to aid them, Laronar Stormclaw...the Druids contributed much to this victory."
Laronar inclined his head, and responded mentally, as was the custom with the green flight. Rarely did they actually verbalize their words, as even those tended to be ephemeral. "I merely wished to use my power in defense of Azeroth." He glanced back, at the pile of dead C'thun. "I would say I have succeeded."
The woman's smile shifted into more of a knowing smirk. Her good mood was infectious. "Quite. I would ask a favor of you, one of Ashamane's Chosen. I have had...unsettling visions, lately. I do not doubt that the Old God had some sway over them...what I do not understand, is why. All I know, is that answers lie...or will lie...on Azuremyst Isle. Take several Druids you trust, and scout it out, won't you?"
Laronar inclined his head again, by this point recognizing, and realizing in hindsight, just who he was speaking with. "For the daughter of Ysera, I can easily accomplish this. But you have earned your rest, my lady. Do not let us keep you from your long awaited return to your kin. Your mother has missed you."
That, seemed to make her smile widen again, and she tapped the arm of the red-clad Kaldorei, presumably one of the other Dragons who'd flown into Ahn'Qiraj at the end of the last war, right before the Scarab Wall was raised. He nodded, and then turned to the raiders again. "Bring proof of C'thun's demise to Anachronos, in the Caverns of Time. He will see you are sufficiently rewarded. We," He gestured to Merithra and the blue Gnome whose name was escaping Laronar's mind, "will be returning home, now. You have our eternal thanks for freeing us, mortals."
The 'Gnome' conjured a portal then, as he glared at the raiders. "Everyone who wants a ticket to the Cenarion Hold, hop in." As seventy eager adventurers began queuing to leave, and embark on their latest Dragon-given quest, Laronar waited patiently beside the High Commander, and walked with her to Saurfang, once they were back within the Hold.
A cheer went up from the Might of Kalimdor's armed forces, which by this point had withdrawn to the Hold, as three Dragons, one red, one blue, one green, took to the skies, and headed in separate directions for their respective homes. Once Saurfang was apprised, and the Might of Kalimdor's purpose officially resolved, adventurers began flying and teleporting for Orgrimmar and Stormwind as well, for none were too eager to remain in Silithus.
Laronar did though, as did Lynore, and once they were alone in rejuvenating by the Moonwell, he finally spoke. "Merithra bid me to go to the Azuremyst Isle. Do you wish to come along?"
Lynore thought for a moment, and smirked at him. "Did she mention why?"
Laronar shrugged. "Something about prophetic dreams. That's about as specific as Green Dragons ever get, but their insights are usually worth looking into."
The lovely rogue thought for another moment, and then shrugged. "Why not. I can think of worse places to be, with far worse company. I could use a break after...this." She gestured to the fields of dead bugs that littered the horizon all the way to the now crumbling and ruined structures of Ahn'Qiraj. The battle with the god of the Qiraji had shaken the ancient city, and collapsed many tunnels the bugs used, and occupied. If they ever recovered, it would take a very long time. Her gesture brought a smirk to Laronar's feral visage and he shifted into a Stormcrow, one large enough to carry a passenger. Once Lynore had climbed on and situated herself, he too launched into the air, and flew in the wake of Merithra, towards Feralas, and then the coast.
Chapter 23: Strangers in a Strange Land
Chapter Text
The Vector Coil of the Exodar - Tempest Keep, Outland
"I still don't like this place."
There was a sigh, as the Sin'dorei working on the Vector Coil's maintenance, what little the elves yet understood of it, turned to glare at his haughty, crimson haired companion. He was a mage, and a son of one of the noble houses that had guarded the Sunwell. The last alive, after Arthas' razing of Quel'thalas. "You don't like anything, Anarion. This 'place' gives us mana. Which, as you know, is invaluable to us."
The jade green eyes of the pale skinned mage turned to return the glare, and locked with his companion's. "Yes, but now that we have it, it is not as popular as consuming Fel. Capturing that...Light creature...was wrong, and you know that Kvo'thei. Every time we abandon our moral principles out of 'necessity' we are losing something. Something important. Our Priests no longer call the Light. Our Blood Knights are powerless, last we heard of them. We've allied ourselves with the bloody Horde! None of these choices have worked out for us so far...Illidan is using us as fodder for his...experiments...consuming the Fel is warping our kin in the Netherstorm, and the Naga are hoarding the water supply. These 'alliances' are going to get us all killed."
Kvo'thei simply rolled his eyes, for while some elves under the Prince of the Blood Elves might've branded Anarion a traitor for his views, he knew that at his core, the mage was scared, and hated ingesting Fel to survive. He had forcibly primed his mind to react with nausea instead of pleasure or hunger whenever he had to consume it, and since they had acquired a source of mana, he had switched to crystalizing, and consuming it as needed. Even then, the hard-minded mage, once a respected teacher of a far more racially tolerant Dalaran, had worked his consumption down to a more reasonable amount, after sating his initial thirst, of course.
He had not been alone in cutting off Fel consumption, and it was that fact which Kvo'thei pressed. "You're spending too much time with those book worms. You're starting to imitate them. You sound like Voren'thal."
"I sound sane, my friend. And you know it." Anarion said, turning now, arms crossed as he faced his companion.
"I'm just a mechanic. I have a knack for these machines...the nimble fingers help. I try not to think above my station. It's a good way to have your brain fried by a Magister." Kvo'thei muttered the last sentence in a low whisper, as he finished the last repairs, connecting a series of wires to their color-corresponding crystals. A simple enough task, for a fledgling mechanic.
"I resent that. I am a Magister. We're not all like that. Don't try to pretend you wouldn't rather be wooing the women of Silvermoon with your 'magic fingers', playing on your Lu-"
The swiftness with which the mechanic moved and physically cut his sentence off surprised the mage, and he blinked, as the other elf's face was suddenly very much in his own. His Fel green eyes almost seemed to flare like a twin pair of Felstorms as he stared Anarion down. "Do not...bring that up...we need to focus on surviving, not pretty concepts like morality and goodness. They did nothing against the Scourge. Or did you forget."
Before Anarion had a chance to give his own retort, both men twitched their sharp ears, as they heard the door to the Vector Coil's maintenance chamber slide open with a crystalline whir. By the time Matis saw them, Anarion was tuning crystals via telekinesis around the top of the structure, while Kvo'thei pretended to do the same task he'd just finished. Hunched over and faced away as he was, it certainly seemed like he was working hard.
"Magister Sunrune. Thank you for your assistance. Prince Sunstrider has requested the presence of all the Magi, in the Eye." Matis focused on Kvo'thei then, who pretended to just be finishing his work. He turned and stood in one swift, fluid motion as one of the few still-living Blood Knights in their section of Tempest Keep approached him, and sneered. "As for you, the Botanica is acting up again. The flora has turned hostile. You are to fix it, posthaste."
Kvo'thei blanched, as he'd been down this road before, "Am...am I to accomplish this alone?"
Matis, who appeared to have, once concluding his dispensation of orders, turned to leave and do more important things, stopped, and gave the mechanic a side eye glare. "Yes. We have no one to spare as a guard for you. Illidan Stormrage is calling on us to dispose of the Draenei lingering in Shattrath City. Now get to your tasks, novice." He walked off then, nose held high, as he traveled further into the Exodar, to give out more commands, and generally abuse his authority for personal gain.
Anarion sighed, and teleported to the Eye. About ten minutes into the Prince's speech about honoring their alliance with Illidan Stormrage, and the supposed benefits of seizing more Draenei artifacts in Shattrath City, the entirety of the Tempest Keep began shaking, as the Exodar portion began powering up. Recognizing vaguely what was happening, the Prince gave an order to all those with engineering prowess, battle smarts, and minor levels of magical knowledge to stop the infiltrators that appeared to be stealing part of the Keep.
As Anarion would later learn, Kvo'thei had eventually found a mage acolyte who could guard him in the Botanica, and after completing their maintenance, was able to bamf directly to the Exodar, to carry out the Prince's command of sabotage. The elves who remained in Outland would not know what became of their brethren for quite a long time.
Voren'thal later used the imagery of the Exodar's escape as an accurate metaphor for how their Prince's plans were coming apart, and as he led the coalition of armed magi to attack Shattrath, Anarion was among those who became the first Scryers, and pledged his loyalty to the Light, and A'dal, for as long as he remained trapped in Outland, at least. The Naaru had assured the Blood Elves that, despite their abhorrent act of imprisoning a being of the Light, they would have a chance to redeem themselves, and the Scryers pledged to take it.
Those elves trapped on the Exodar as it warped time and space to enter the Twisting Nether had their mechanics sabotage the Vector Coil, causing the entire wing of the Tempest Keep to materialize out of the Nether, and crash straight into Azeroth.
Nestlewood Hills - Azuremyst Isle
Laronar Stormclaw returned to his makeshift hideaway, dragging a stag carcass by the neck with his massive saber-fangs as he dropped it before the female he was currently sharing all aspects of said camp with. After facing down an overwhelmingly powerful manifestation of Shadow together, the former High Commander of the Might of Kalimdor had traveled to the untouched isles for a well-earned rest away from society.
He felt her eyes looking over his Cat Form with approval, though she frowned as they fell on the dead animal. "Must we eat meat?"
Laronar shifted back to his regular, shirtless self. His armor was tucked away, as were his pauldrons and bark gauntlets. All he had on now was his kilt, and that was rather easy to remove with gravity's help. "Venison...is not merely 'meat'." He said, sitting beside the woman who had been in the midst of enjoying yet another toke on his pipe. She'd become quite the Herb Head over the weeks they'd been 'recuperating'. The local Moonkin had directed them to this unoccupied spot in the Nestlewood Hills, from which they were still close enough to the village to socialize, and share whatever Laronar cooked. The bear-owls also enjoyed venison, but his last stew had gone entirely to them, as a gift, leaving Lynore without a chance to sample the druid's evidently masterful cooking. "Venison is the tastiest of meats. Soft, delicious, and it works best, I have found, in a stew. Don't think too much about where it came from. I've already honored this one's spirit. Just focus on the taste."
She nodded, as she took another deep toke on the smoking instrument. The carved head of Ashamane on the bowl had her eyes flare orange as the slow burn turned the ground up plant remnants into smoke and ash. She looked away, as Laronar shifted a single finger into a claw, and began skinning and carving the meat beside the fire. In about thirty minutes, he was done, the broth was suitably brothy, and he was ready to begin the slow process of cooking. Venison didn't take nearly as long as some other meats, but he usually preferred his a bit tougher than melt-in-your-mouth. This time though, he would leave it tender, as he knew his latest romantic interest preferred the softer things. When she could.
The smoking continued as the two elves passed the pipe, and waited for dinner. Once the stew was bubbling, Laronar left the remnants, viscera, and other organs far from their camp, near a wolf den that he knew had cubs. He had done this once before, and Goldrinn had sent him a rare feeling of appreciation. Thus, whenever he cooked now, he left the remnants for the family. He felt the mother's eyes upon him, but unlike last time, she did not snarl from the bushes, and neither did her mate and the rest of her pack.
Being a rather large specimen of stag, there had been more than enough to feed two elves, and most of the wolves, and while a few tried following him back to his own camp, he shifted again into a Nightsaber, and easily lost them in the woods, before circling back to the stew. The wolves wisely stayed away from the humanoids, despite the aroma wafting out of it. At that point it was finished, and the pair had several bowls of it, as once Lynore tasted it, even the staunchly vegetarian elf was forced to agree; it was delicious. Almost no chewing was required, as the meat did indeed almost 'melt' in one's mouth, and the taste was worth experiencing.
Laronar felt her eyes upon him as he munched on his third bowl, and lamented not being able to find a carrot or two. The Azuremyst Isles were an untouched paradise for those like him, but that unfortunately meant some root vegetables were simply unavailable. He swallowed, as he heard her speak, "Have you always eaten meat?"
The druid thought back, for the first time in a long while, to his early days as a novice. "Since Ashamane took me for herself, I've enjoyed the taste. The hunt. The simple beauty in furthering nature's cycle."
A grimace crossed Lynore's face. "I did not find gutting a son of Malorne to be beautiful."
Laronar chuckled, and gave her a knowing look. "The beauty is in the act of the hunt. Stags are a good representation of life. Nature. The Druids of the Antler in Val'sharah use Malorne's power to heal, and their skill is on par with any Restoration Druid on the mainland. But where their domain is life, and mending it, Ashamane's is death, and dealing it. Predators are also part of Nature's cycle, as is death. This is why most predators in our lands only go after solo, or aged prey animals. This is the way it has been for thousands of years. Long before our empire rose. The weak of the herds are culled, and the strong remain alive."
Lynore looked at their dinner, then. "And this stag. Was he a weak one?"
Laronar made a noise somewhere between a grumble, and a growl. "No. He fought bravely, and accepted his fate in the end. His spirit will return from the Dream eventually, but for now, he keeps us alive by his sacrifice."
Lynore shrugged. "I don't think I'll ever enjoy eating meat. I don't like killing aspects of nature."
Laronar chuckled again. "And do you not think the same of plants? They too are alive. I have spoken with them. They too understand that some humanoids and animals must eat them to live. It does hurt, to be plucked, or to have 'limbs' cut away from them. The only real exception is fruit, as that is meant to be eaten so the seeds might be scattered by whatever eats it."
Lynore seemed slightly concerned as she processed his words. "You mean...the plants also feel pain?"
Laronar's well-defined muscular arm went around her then, pulling her close. "Not as you or I would...but they can feel it, that much I am certain of. Most I have spoken with are willing to bear the pain, and can usually regrow whatever is cut off...the plants of our world are not strangers to sacrifice, to giving their power that the planet might live. At least, that is what Shan'do Stormrage said of them. Life needs other life to keep living, Lynore. Plant, animal, it matters not. Some Druids might enjoy a lifestyle of complete non-harm, eating only fruit and nuts, but I cannot. It takes quite a bit of energy to keep my body, and my forms, functioning. You have seen my Cat Form. Do you think such a creature could reasonably subsist on berries and plants?"
Her eyes had narrowed, but not in a bad way, and he had a feeling his natural musk was once again working on her, judging by the other smells that were starting to permeate their camp. There was a well-recognized tone to her words that made the druid's heart start to race a bit faster than normal. "No...all of your forms seem like they'd require a lot of food to keep alive."
He watched her eyes fall to the heavily muscled and similarly well-defined pectoral and abdominal muscles he regularly left on display. Before he could respond, and likely start yet another mating session, the sky broke open.
Both elves jerked suddenly, and looked upwards, at the loud boom. A massive, seemingly crystalline object began falling from the sky, heading west of them, as it lost altitude. Laronar swore quietly, and Lynore simply stared, unable to quite process what she was seeing in the sky. It was no illusion though, for as the trail of crystal tore through the sky, millions of fragments, and one very large, very red fragment, went hurtling away from the object.
Then, the entirety of both islands shook, as the object crashed. There had been lighter tremors, likely from other bits of debris, but the main piece had likely just crashed as well. The horizon took on a slightly greenish purple hue, and electricity sparked through the clouds where, moments before, there had been none.
It did not feel like natural lightning, and as it was usually purple, Laronar figured correctly that it was a byproduct of whatever the object was. He stood, as did Lynore, and the two locked gazes again. "Looks like the daughter of the Dreamer was correct. We should investigate the area, structures like that do not form naturally."
Lynore shook her head, however. "I need to report this to General Feathermoon. As quickly as possible." She gave him a meaningful look, but Laronar had better ideas than to once more act as a taxi. He closed his eyes, inhaled for almost thirty straight seconds, put his fingers to his mouth, and whistled sharply. Several moments later, a black and greenish-cerulean colored hippogryph descended through the canopy above their hideaway, exposing it to the outside world as he crashed through the trees, and landed.
Laronar said several very old, very unfamiliar words in what Lynore recognized as ancient elvish, as he approached the creature, and gave it scritches, and several Moonberries. "This one will bear you to Feathermoon Stronghold. Tell Shandris that I am already investigating these events...I'll have more for her when she arrives."
Lynore arched a brow, the casualness with which the druid referred to one of the most famous and influential elves in their society did not go unnoticed. "Shandris? Do you know the General, Laronar?"
The druid wisely stayed focused on the hippogryph as he answered. "We go way back, she and I. To the War of the Ancients, in fact. But that is a tale for another time." He turned, and met her gaze, his face a mask of passiveness. "By the time she sends scouts, I will have seen what I need to see. Be careful. Debris might still be falling around here."
As Lynore mounted the hippogryph and took to the sky, Laronar saw it was indeed filled with debris. Tiny crystalline objects were hurtling down over this area of the isles, though none seemed large enough to deal damage. Presuming the Moonkin were safe enough, he returned to his Cat Form, and began prowling towards the massive wreck in the west.
The first piece of the structure he came across was swarming with blue-skinned humanoids, many of whom had horns, hooves, and tails. They bustled around the crash site in a panic, speaking a language that seemed to be Common. Nightsaber brows furrowed, and the druid spied upon the settlement for several hours, eventually discovering that a Pandaren traveler, one he'd been unaware was also on the isles, had already met and parlayed with the strange creatures. Laronar stalked closer, ignoring the weaker creatures that moved through the fields around him.
In only a short few hours, the land had become twisted by the arrival of these creatures, but from what the druid saw, their actions seemed intent on mitigating, or removing, the taint their landing had caused. This was all that kept his fangs from them, but he refused to take lives when, from what he was hearing, these creatures intended to aid the wilds, rather than ignore what they'd done to them. Not knowing the circumstance of the crash, Laronar assumed it had not been intended as the blue creatures, that upon closer examination disturbingly resembled the Eredar of the Burning Legion, appeared to have shaman in their ranks, as well as priests using magic that he recognized from his time in Stormwind as the Light.
The druid continued his silent prowling, moving not even a blade of grass as he moved towards the main crash site. He stopped halfway, as he saw another rapidly formed settlement made from debris, and surrounded by blue skinned figures. Most of these, spoke in a tongue his ears did not recognize, and among them, with the injured, he saw a fellow Kaldorei woman, lying unconscious, as her healer tasked one of the menial blue-skins with fetching what turned out to be herbs he knew would aid in the healing process.
Deciding these new arrivals to Azeroth had seemingly good intentions, he continued to travel north, that is, until his sharp nose caught the scent of unwashed Human, and Goblin stink. Moving towards Kalimdor, the druid eventually came upon an Alliance ship that appeared to have encountered some trouble, and among them, was a Priestess of the Moon. With an inward sigh of relief, Laronar approached the crew's makeshift camp, appeared from the shadows before the guards, and after calming the emotions of their initial reaction, was brought before the Priestess. To her, he spoke in Darnassian.
"Priestess. I'm sure you saw the object in the sky a few hours ago...it has crashed into the isles, and is warping nature around it. Those within seem to be more focused on mitigating the damage, and saving their survivors than causing more harm to the land. They look like Eredar...but are not. That much, I am certain of. They appeal to spirits as the Tauren Shaman do, and wield the Light as well as any Alliance Priest. They may have a relationship with the Legion similar to our own...and the Satyrs."
The Priestess pondered for a long moment, and then met the druid's gaze evenly. "If what you say is true, we shall welcome them, when and if they arrive. We have our own issues to deal with, however...the Captain believes we were sabotaged...he may have a task or two for you, if you're willing to help."
Laronar chuckled humorlessly at the idea of walking into a hostile group of enemies to retrieve some random object for a Human he owed nothing, and knew nothing about. "I would, but General Feathermoon is expecting a report from me, and I've yet to see the main crash site. I will leave informing the High Priestess to you."
She nodded again. "I will send an owl, and mention that the General is on her way. Go with Elune's blessing, Druid." She raised a hand to give one, and then her brows furrowed. "Odd...apologies...I cannot seem to...cast one upon you."
Laronar sighed, as he turned to face the northeast. "It is no fault of yours, Priestess. Good luck with your mutineers." With that, he leapt into the air, landed as a Nightsaber, and dashed off into the shadows of the forest their makeshift camp was bordering.
As he came upon the main crash site, he winced at how damaged the massive structure had made the surrounding landscape. Mountains now existed where once there had been none, and they curved over the crashed structure ominously. Below and around it, he spied much stronger looking blue-skins, and kept well away from their sight as he prowled closer. Eventually, he found a pair of guards clad in almost crystalline armor, conversing in Common, to each other and those who passed by. As he sat patiently and listened, he learned much.
The new arrivals were known as the Draenei, their leader was a prophet of some sort, and while the guard's bearing was as stern as every other city patrol member Laronar had encountered, there was genuine kindness below it, and within those who passed by them. These Draenei, he soon learned, were largely peaceful minded, and seemed to have little desire to conquer all around them, like the last extraplanetary invaders Azeroth had to contend with. In these, he sensed the potential for rather strong allies, as the damage to nature their landing caused was among their first concerns, but their methods of stopping the contamination were strange, if effective. Some of what the druid saw was not entirely magic, and it reminded him of a Gnomish invention or two. These were much more advanced by comparison, and he soon realized the Draenei were using some kind of crystal based magic to establish themselves around their crashed ship with rapid efficiency.
When one of the guards casually pointed out an owl flying above them, Laronar followed their gaze, and his sharp eyes recognized the bird as one belonging to Feathermoon Isle. He was being signaled. He reached out to the bird, and bid it to lead him to its owner. For one who defended the wilds, this was a small favor, and the silent creature guided him as he ran along below it, still hidden, and still utterly silent.
Elune shone down upon the squad Shandris had chosen to bring with her, and the Shadowleaves' heads turned as one as the druid reappeared under the moonlight atop a slight cliff overlooking the area they'd chosen to wait within. Nature magic shifted him from a Nightsaber to a Kaldorei, and he bowed in the elven style towards the only female that was truly holding his gaze, in that moment, looking as radiant as she always did under Elune's light. "General."
Shandris and her mount prowled forward, and he winced, as he noted that it was not the one she'd had in the Shifting Sands. Time was harsh on everyone, it seemed. Laronar was glad Storm was safely living in Val'sharah, as being that close to Cenarius was a good place to be, for an apex predator. "Archdruid. What have you learned?"
"I assume the Commander mentioned what we saw. It turns out, it was a...ship of sorts, that travels something called the 'Nether', or maybe 'Outland', I'm not...sure. Much of their talk is in their tongue. I do know they are led by someone called Velen, one they see as a prophet, and evidently their leader. I overheard one of his direct commands, to contain the damage their crash caused to the environment. I think these...new arrivals are definitely Alliance material. Their devotion to the Light exceeds many of the Humans in Stormwind."
Shandris nodded, eyes on the ground, as she listened to the druid's monotone ramble. "Interesting...your aid is appreciated, Archdruid. My squad shall inform the High Priestess. If they are indeed potential allies, it will be our High Priestess who confirms their quality." She made a gesture then, and the Sentinels rode on from the clearing, towards the shore, not one of them sparing him a second glance as they did.
Lynore's stony gaze had not gone unnoticed by him, and he could only imagine what rumors or lies the gossips of Feathermoon Stronghold had spewed in her time with them. Her knowledge of his history with Shandris was bound to have been acquired eventually. With a heavy sigh, he shifted into his Flight Form, and began heading for the Feralas portal to the Dreamway.
The Black Temple - Outland, Four and a Half Years Before the Fall
Vehlar Stormclaw drew his Satyr soulblades as he faced down Illidan Stormrage. They had just taken the Black Temple, and their allies were spreading through Outland to establish the Illidari's rule over it. Once settled in the Broken's precious Black Temple, Illidan had summoned the worthy Demon Hunters among them, less than twenty in total, to witness the techniques that he intended to pass on, and make an organized regimen out of their fighting style. Vehlar, was honored with being the practice dummy Illidan performed them upon, but his role was not merely that of punching bag. He too had several tricks to share with their leader, and had agreed with Illidan, when he'd claimed that they needed to combine ten thousand years of hard-won knowledge, with the prowess that came naturally to those who embraced and mastered their Fel gifts.
The two elves bowed, as the duel began, and Illidan gestured to Vehlar. "I hear you have learned to use the eyes as a weapon...I would have you show us this first, Stormclaw."
Vehlar nodded. "Prepare your defenses...this is one of my strongest techniques. I would not risk it in sparring matches."
Illidan waved a clawed hand. He had definitely changed since absorbing the Skull of Gul'dan, but how much madness was the warlock's influence, and how much was just the result of being caged for ten millennia, was impossible for the grizzled Highborne to determine with any accuracy. "The weak will fall in the initial stages of what is required to become a Demon Hunter. The strongest will survive, and it is the strongest that we must cultivate, Vehlar. Hold nothing back."
Vehlar nodded, and then did as Illidan asked. He dashed forward, leapt twice, and then flared his stolen Dreadlord wings as he locked his eyes on Illidan Stormrage. The sorcerous Demon Hunter's warding tattoos flared in expectation. Twin beams of bright green Fel energy burned into him, and Illidan snarled, taking the hit on his forearm as Vehlar channeled them. When the attack ended, twin black holes were left on the tattooed arm, smoking from the intensity of the magic used to damage it. The skin all along it was charred, but regrowing even as the first Demon Hunter examined the damage.
"Fascinating…" Illidan said, staring at the wound. "Had I not prepared, you would've burnt right through my arm...potent indeed."
Vehlar bowed, with his swords still drawn. "As promised. Perhaps we should practice that one on boulders, or something. Our progress will be slow, if we constantly injure ourselves."
Illidan chuckled in a manner Vehlar could only describe as 'cracked', and his eyes flared under the worn amber runescarf that covered his unsettling orbs. "If we're teaching this to everyone, it's going to be used in the heat of combat, and they're not going to be able to hold back. Almost every Sin'dorei candidate we've tried so far has failed, gone mad, or just exploded. Some, even let the Demons take them over. Only one survived..."
Illidan paced, as he monologued and let the aura of both shielding and damaging Fel green flame fade with the lack of combat. "We need someone to help aid those Kaldorei displaced by the latest conflict find their way to us. If we practice on them, with some successes, we can perfect the method for the Sin'dorei. Who wants to sneak back to Kalimdor, once we return to Azeroth?" Illidan turned, as he finished and flared his permanently popped out wings slightly, grinning at the small crowd of Demon Hunters. None came forward, as going back likely meant facing the undead, and the Wardens, who would kill them on sight and were able to track their Fel essence. Illidan did not seem concerned about the suicidal survival rate of such a mission.
Vehlar looked around, sighed, and stepped forward. "None here can go unnoticed as I can in the Warden's jurisdiction. I can...find my way back to Kalimdor." He waved his hand then, and the visage of the Highborne Sorcerer he used to be reappeared from the depths of his many memorable hours admiring himself in the height of Kaldorei fashion. "If I roll in some mud, stick some leaves in my hair, I'll fit right in with our adventuring kin." He thought for a moment, tilted his head, and smirked. "Maybe I'll go as a Priest. Males can be Priests now, apparently. What do you think, Illidan? Perhaps our traditional gender roles kept you from your true calling."
Illidan gave a rare smirk, and his head tilted slightly, as he tried to imagine himself in Moon Priestess attire, but male, praying and kneeling to the Mother Moon every night. He went quiet for a moment, and the smirk faded as he pondered if perhaps that might not have been a better way of reaching Tyrande's heart before Malfurion. At the very least his chances would've been higher, due to proximity. He shook his head then, as he put the nonsensical 'what ifs' from his mind. "The Well of Eternity had its claws in me from the beginning. Once Rhonin showed me how to project my mind to the source of our power, I was set upon this path. At least, until I discovered how to wield the Fel."
One of the other Demon Hunters spoke then, one of the few females they had with them. She was new, as Vehlar hadn't trained her, and sadly, only a few of his ancient students had survived to see Illidan's return, and lived through the battle of Hyjal thereafter.
"How did you learn to wield it, Lord Illidan?" The female known only as Painkiller asked.
Illidan chuckled. "A Felhound happened upon me while I was...in a dark mood. Instead of letting it drain me, I tried draining it instead, once it attached its appendages. I took its magic into me, and from there, managed to learn quite a bit more." He nodded at Vehlar then. "Stormclaw has been accruing knowledge of the Fel and how to wield it, master it, and not succumb to it, for over ten thousand years. The initiates who reach the same level as all of you, shall learn from this repository, as we train them. Now, enough talk. There is more to demonstrate."
Illidan leapt then, and Vehlar went from feeling the eyes of the group, to being on the defensive, as one of his oldest allies began trying, very believably, to disembowel him. His form became shadow, and Vehlar knew what came next. Illidan slid across the broken ground of Outland in several directions as Vehlar barely managed to so much as parry his strikes. They were far too fast for dodging. Finally, Illidan came down with an overhead slash that caused their locked blades to screech in protest. They spent several hours after that display drilling the forms of blade and glaive usage. By the end of the 'day' Illidan had selected Alandien, Netharel, and Theras to be among their best teachers. Over time, they were instructed to train the others in the methods of teaching as well, and from this small group, would come an army of well-trained demon killing machines, bent solely on defeating the Legion.
Illidan called Vehlar and Vehlar alone to his newly crafted and refurbished Chamber of Command once the training finally ended, and waved away the pretentious Blood Elves occupying it before they had so much as a chance to squawk. Once alone, he waved a hand at the map table's carved depiction of Outland, and projected an image of Azeroth above it. "If we are going to recruit more Kaldorei in any significant number, we must have a plan. A route. A method of getting them to the Temple alive and unsavaged. Any ideas?"
Vehlar nodded, and pointed at a small cluster of rocks relatively close to the Black Temple. "I'm told the Dragonmaw Clan of Orcs resides here...taming Nether Dragons. If we had a few of those, we could ferry the trainees across the Nether between the Hellfire Peninsula, and Shadowmoon Valley. Once in the valley, I can guide them back easily."
Illidan nodded as well. "Not a bad idea...and once I employ Magtheridon to his full use, it's one we could use to great effect. The Orcs will obey, once I am done with them...a team will be formed to ferry your group back. You're on your own for figuring out how to sneak through the Dark Portal from Azeroth. Dalaran has its eye upon it."
Vehlar stroked his unkempt beard, a mix of deep blue and hints of silver. "I imagine I'll use the same methods as you, my 'lord'." Vehlar said, smirking lightly as he bowed genuinely. "Kil'jaeden will torture your very soul to the brink of existence if you fail to slay the Lich King. The Death Knight Arthas Menethil guards his Frozen Throne with Frostmourne. Even your blades will be hard pressed against that one. I've seen what it wrought. It wields Death Magic with unusual effectiveness."
Illidan let out a powerful snort, but his shifting hooves gave away the slight tremor of what might have been fear, but Vehlar assumed was anticipation. Illidan Stormrage was not the kind of person to give in to fear. "I have met the Human princeling. I was not impressed then, and from what I am told, lately, he has become even less impressive. My brother may have thwarted our attempt at eradicating his patron the easy way, but this time, Northrend will feel the might of the Illidari, and all our new allies. While we handle Northrend, I want you and Sindweller to scour Kalimdor, and lead the dregs with the most potential to our base of operations. Between your efforts and Kael'thas' donations to our cause, we will have an army yet."
Vehlar gave Illidan a skeptical look. "Didn't all the latest Sin'dorei recruits die?"
Illidan grinned maliciously, and even Vehlar felt a chill up his spine as he watched it dominate the narrow wolf-esque features of the Lord of the Illidari. "All but one...but one is all we need. He shows great potential. I would have you be his final test, if he manages to survive everything else."
Vehlar nodded absently, already not caring about the runt-like offspring of the Highborne who had shattered Azeroth in their bid for power. He'd seen their fighting styles, their architecture, and their culture, what little remained. He was not impressed, and did not expect to be. In his mind, the reason Illidan wanted more Kaldorei was obvious. They were, by far, superior specimens to the addiction-addled, power hungry Blood Elves. The desire for revenge was potent among those who suffered through two of the Legion's invasion of Azeroth, and it was that rage that made them quite a bit stronger. Only the final product of their spells and tattoos would deliver an example of what the Blood Elves could become.
"When are we departing again for Azeroth?" He asked, glancing at Illidan.
His contemporary waved a clawed hand, and dispelled the magic over the map, leaving naught but a carved representation. "Soon. Demons lack patience. Your mission will take far longer than I expect ours to. You will have to return on your own power."
Vehlar nodded. "We will manage."
Illidan nodded as well, and then turned, heading into a deeper chamber, that nobody was allowed to pass, not even his Demon Hunters. "Good. I will await your return, after our victory in Icecrown."
With that, the doors of the alien temple slid closed, and Vehlar teleported himself from the room, and back to the staging area for the upcoming assault on Icecrown.
Four Years Later, Present Day - The Black Temple, Outland
While the Icecrown assault had gone poorly, Vehlar's mission had been far more successful. He and Feronas had managed to stalk the wilds of Kalimdor, and gather quite a few Kaldorei displaced by the Legion's rampage. Most were eager to wreak havoc upon the Legion in any way possible, but just as many sought vengeance, for all that had been taken. In their travels, Vehlar had learned that the isles home to the Alliance's newest allies also had several Sin'dorei upon them, and he had managed to recruit an entire group of the promising candidates, with one that easily matched Vardeis' affinity for combat from the estranged elves. Even with their Prince's rumored betrayal of Illidan, from what they had heard from Outland, they decided Illidan would be a much more powerful master than Kael'thas, who was rapidly proving to be little more than a puppet for Kil'jaeden.
One of those Sin'dorei recruits became an apprentice of Vehlar himself, as he had opted to train those who still retained their minds, and their intelligence, himself. He left the eccentric offshoots to Varedis's methods of training. The sole survivor of the initial Sin'dorei recruits had proven to be a prodigy, and he had even managed to best Vehlar in his final combat trial, earning him the rank of instructor among the Illidari. From him, aspirants were sent to the other instructors, to hone the skills the individual was best suited for.
Vehlar's own apprentices were a smaller group, and one he usually kept separated from the general masses of the small legion of Demon Hunters. Veras Darkshadow had also eventually joined his recruiting missions while coordinating several others at the same time, as he found the ideal Kaldorei candidates upon Azeroth, and then left it to the Demon Hunters on recruitment duty to invite them into the fold. The process of becoming a Demon Hunter had eventually been perfected, and while Vehlar had initially disliked Illidan's subtle methods of brainwashing their trainees with the visions and emotions he himself had felt at the mercy of Sargeras, the results spoke for themselves.
Vehlar looked out across the training grounds of the Illidari, and saw an army. He knew Illidan was concocting something big, but over the years in Outland, Vehlar had stopped being someone he confided in. Illidan had never mentioned why, and Vehlar had not cared to ask. Illidan's sense of self-importance had almost seemed to eclipse their larger goals, especially after his loss to Arthas, but lately, he had become focused on personal training sessions with the Illidari who ascended through the ritual, and the days following it, as they transitioned from elf to demon.
Vehlar's ears twitched, as he heard someone drop in next to him. "Kvo'thei. Welcome back. Did you find the camp?"
The mutated Sin'dorei nodded, speaking in a hoarse whisper that he'd had since becoming a Demon Hunter. "The Forge Camp is active...the Legion's assault on Outland continues to grow larger…"
Vehlar waved a hand. "Illidan will send someone to clear it. Worry not. Focus instead on our newest mission...we are preparing for something big...but the specifics are unknown to me, at least. Illidan has been personally training the 'newbies' for months now."
Kvo'thei nodded, and his eyes seemed to flare under his hood. His attire was similar to his mentor's, in that he too had not bothered with an eye covering that would burn up over time as he unleashed his eye beams. His hood, and entire outfit, was more of a faded crimson set of leathers. Several near-perfectly carved glyphs of Fel protection were embedded into his armor, and as a result he was as agile as every other Demon Hunter.
Like Vehlar, he too had opted for elven swords instead of a warglaive. The crimson and black blades formed one blade, when put together, and they sat as one when hilted, on his back. The blade's runes were customized in ways that Vehlar could barely follow, but their effects were tangible, and could not be denied. Illidan had paired them himself, when the Sin'dorei had asked to consume a Satyr instead of a Fel Hound in the middle of his trial, and their Lord had acquiesced.
Illidan Stormrage's voice echoed in both of their heads, causing the pair to flinch when they heard it's authoritative command. "Come to me. We must speak of the coming mission."
Vehlar glanced at his apprentice, who nodded, and the two leapt down from the parapets surrounding the well-guarded Demon Hunter training grounds. Vehlar glided on his stolen Dreadlord wings, trailing shadow through the air as he drew a number of eyes from the newly ascended Hunters. He smirked, as he was enjoying the memory of how he'd acquired them, as he did every time he brought them out. It was a memory that both he and his Satyric souls found deeply amusing, and it seemed the Highborne of old had not been overly fond of the scheming Dreadlords.
They made their way to the Chamber of Command, and found their Lord perched upon the railing edge that surrounded the chamber's focal point, the map of Outland that displayed the Illidari's holdings. "Come to me, my Demon Hunters." Illidan said, smirking with obvious pride as he watched the gathered group arrive. They were, in his mind, the best, and most suited for the opportunity their journey to Nathreza would provide.
Illidan turned then, and pored over the map as he waited for them to obey. Those gathered were not the kind to jostle or rush the ramps leading up to the map, and they had enough iron control of their demonic natures to resist lashing out or snarling like many of their 'younger siblings' did when in close proximity to other demons. The new generation had far to go, but every day more of them learned to control their power, or let it consume them. Explosively.
"Those of you I have summoned have demonstrated enough skill to be worthy of my strongest technique. Vehlar...you've already begun to experiment with this kind of attack, but I have developed it into my own personal style, which I will teach you, all of you, once you have your own wings." Illidan's face curved slowly into a sinister grin of anticipation as he finished speaking, and paused for the questions that would no doubt follow.
Allari the Soulrender was the one who spoke up first. Surprising nobody within the chamber. "How are we to acquire these wings, my Lord?"
Illidan let out a rare chuckle. "Our first serious assault on the Burning Legion will give us an opportunity to steal the power of Demonic flight from Dreadlords. I have chosen you, to be the ones to rise to this challenge. If you succeed, the tales of your slaying will be legendary. If you fail, then die well. Do not be captured by those we are about to face, under any circumstance."
Allari looked down then, as she pondered, and Vehlar had a feeling that he knew exactly what they were going to try assaulting. His mind was racing. How had Illidan found Dreadlords? DreadlordS. Plural. Where had he discovered so many? Was this linked to the arcane and Fel power he'd been gathering over the past years? Vehlar concluded their leader had found some sort of Dreadlord stronghold, which meant he was after Legion knowledge. Knowing Illidan, he would go to the largest source of such a thing, and Vehlar quietly fought down his bound Satyric soul's terror at the idea of jumping into a Dreadlord stronghold, or planet, as some of the gibbering cowards claimed had to be the plan.
Vehlar calmed himself, as he assumed if Illidan thought they were ready, and that those here were strong enough to claim the power that came with such wings, he would help them reach the heights he thought he had, only to learn that apparently there was much more to aerial fighting than he'd thought.
Illidan spoke again, and the softly murmuring crowd of Demon Hunters quieted. "Those here will make up a platoon's worth of our forces, as you accomplish this task. I am forming you into our Shock Troops if this mission succeeds, you will be the ones we send in from above, when we need an area reinforced with overwhelming strength. In the coming days I expect you all to find others you think would be worthy, and capable, of handling this kind of power. Many here have trained worthy candidates, but you know the new Hunters much better than I. Find the best, and practice your killing combinations as a unit. You will need them."
Illidan turned, and leapt, striding out of the Chamber of Command as he went to do some other no doubt important task that consumed most of his time. Vehlar and Kvo'thei were quieter, but the group adopted a democratic style of rule, as they agreed there had to be a method to their madness, and the madness that would come from working together with those who were not as in control as their elders.
They did not have long to gather new potential winged Hunters, for Illidan called them, all of them, only a few weeks later. They emerged, somewhat clueless, to the summit of the Hand of Gul'dan, where Illidan had crafted his masterful portal. Vehlar eyed it with appreciation rather than the hunger some of his fellow Hunters were displaying. Illidan's spellwork had always been impressive, if a bit crude, but this demonstrated just how good he was when he could focus his mind without interruption or imprisonment.
Some of the gathered Demon Hunters knew better than others what was coming. The rumor of an assault had spread like Fel fire, but only a few groups, namely those leading, had specific goals or tasks given by their Lord for the attack. Illidan gestured, and without fear, his well-trained army of Demon Hunters began their first real assault on the Burning Legion.
The portal trip was brief, despite the distance they had to have crossed to reach a place like this. Vehlar's eyes took in the unique structure of the planetoid, admiring with some degree of awe how easily the Dreadlords had molded a substance upon which to base their world's operations. Judging by the amount of Dreadlords in the demonic ranks that had come to greet their magical intrusion, this had to be the Nathreza that several of his gibbering Satyr souls were so scared of. As they stayed in the shadows, Illidan strode out to glare menacingly at the oncoming forces. They were outnumbered, but given the average Demon Hunter's kill count, that kind of force would not be enough to win the day.
Any apprehension Vehlar had burned away in fury and hurt Satyric pride as the Dreadlords laughed at the force that had come to greet them. Vehlar knew well that their eyes, if not the eyes of their troops, could see they were hiding, and at least, make out their size. Illidan's scowl intensified, and it was moments before battle was joined. The Fel Hounds at the forefront were the first to feel the rune-empowered blades of the younger Illidari in the vanguard. Many, had been chosen for their bulkier physique, and unrelenting attack style.
Vehlar, for his part, followed along with his own group, that did not decloak themselves. The Dreadlords would assume such a small force would attack with all they had just to win, and it was that arrogance that would make them easy targets for their platoon's goals. They split off into groups of five, and decided as they ran who would be gaining the wings first. Only a few began arguing, with the calmer heads eventually emphasizing that they would be killing more than enough Dreadlords for everyone to acquire them.
Vehlar's group did not bicker, and Vehlar decloaked himself with a roar as he summoned his own wings and leapt, hammering the ground as he landed in front of their quarry. The seemingly obese Dreadlord guffawed at the lean, raggedy elven swordsman flexing stolen, and rather impressive, Dreadlord wings that challenged it, only to soon find that not one, but five such enemies were now hassling it. Kvo'thei had stuck with his mentor, but the rest of their group had warglaives, gleaming with Fel runes and the Illidari insignia as they whirled and slashed the much taller demon.
Kvo'thei dashed, and then uppercut the obese Dreadlord, which was when Vehlar leapt, soaring upwards and taking advantage of the titanic figure's temporary lack of balance. Both Satyric soulblades sank deep into the Dreadlord's neck, though such an injury would barely slow it, and only kill it if Vehlar could cut through the thick skin enough for a beheading. Anything less, the demons could recover from.
He snarled, and shouted "Now!" and their chosen candidate dashed behind the demon, slashed off the wings, and began consuming pieces of them with unleashed eagerness. It was a macabre sight, but after a few bites the wings faded into shadow, and then with a flex of his shoulders, the Kaldorei Demon Hunter flared his new, stolen wings. They had been a bit stubby on their owner, but had reformed to suit their new owner's aesthetic as if by magic or something. Like Vehlar's own pair, shadow trailed from them, in a steady flow to the ground.
They repeated the process three more times, and then scattered amidst the chaos of the battle to aid the groups faring less well, usually by jumping, and then gliding in from above with an Eye Beam. The tide turned as Illidan watched his forces go to work, and the proud smirk had returned. Only a few of their newer members had died, as expected, but the losses were less than twenty, once the first battle finally ended. None lost their control and started consuming relentlessly. Nobody exploded. The Demon Hunters grinned, as they found they enjoyed the taste of victory, and their cocksure leader led them onwards, towards one of the Dreadlord's spires, that seemed to contain whatever it was Illidan was after.
Vehlar's report that everyone, who had survived, in their unit had acquired wings seemed to put Illidan in a brighter mood, as they dashed towards what Vehlar eventually realized was a library of some sort. A repository of knowledge. He and the other Demon Hunters held the door, as their Lord searched within for whatever the goal of this assault was. Everyone, Vehlar included, trusted Illidan's plan to guide them out alive, probably.
They made short work of the Doomguard and Fel Hounds that came to test their fortified position, and it was there in that corridor of death that the Shock Troops made full and effective use of their tag-team strikes. They lost no one, while other units, again usually of fresher Hunters, fared far worse against the Legion's forces.
Finally, Illidan emerged from the room he alone had entered, a single disk orbiting behind his head as he dashed wordlessly past all of them. "To the portal!"
They didn't need to be told twice, but it was as they were leaving that more demons came to test them. Once more they took losses, and Vehlar had stared, several times, as he saw Illidan end his own Hunters, that he seemed to think were too wounded to carry on. Vehlar would have argued that a few could've probably lived, but the escaping to survival part of their assault was not the time to argue the worth of a life with a mad elf.
Illidan did as he pleased, and always would, but Vehlar noticed that like him, Kvo'thei watched their leader's mercy in action with the same discontent frown. Neither's frown disappeared as they worked in tandem to cut a path through all kinds of rank and file demons, now that the alarms were well and truly triggered. Vehlar was impressed that rank and file Kaldorei had been able to survive against such foes, for while he survived the attacks, many left him wounded, until he drank in the essence of the fallen, and healed his wounds.
It was these shards of demonic souls that largely kept the Demon Hunters alive. Those in Vehlar's unit were capable enough to avoid them, when there were others who needed them more, and the spoils their rune-engraved weapons gave them were shared almost equally among the Hunters that Illidan seemed determined to train in aerial combat.
Vehlar's platoon was one of the first back to the portal, and without commands, they backtracked into the frenzied fray of Demon Hunters and their favored quarry, freeing up those having trouble with timely arrivals. Before long, the majority of the Demon Hunters were through. Vehlar's unit, and about three others like his, were the last to go through, with Illidan himself lighting the fuse on the explosive gift they left for Nathreza on their way out.
Once on the other side, Illidan revealed their prize: the key to finding Argus, the supposed homeworld of the Legion, or at least, a very strong central staging point for it. With what Illidan had taken, reaching it was now far more possible. Vehlar had no idea how he'd managed to find Nathreza, but with that disk, he could certainly find Argus.
It was later, when they had retired to the Demon Hunter's wing of the Den of Mortal Delights, that Kvo'thei finally spoke. "What do you know of Argus, Vehlar?"
Vehlar passed his bottle of some sort of wine to Illysanna, who was being affected by it far more than he. "I know it is a Demonic stronghold, perhaps the largest...the Satyrs within feared going there, for only Kil'jaedan and Archimonde have cause to do so. Most of the Legion has no cause to return to Argus, so long as the Burning Crusade continues." He paused, then tilted his head. "Interesting. Apparently, it was once their home."
"Archimonde and Kil'jaedan's?" Kvo'thei asked, seemingly with disbelief, but Vehlar nodded. "The homeworld of the Eredar...surely Illidan can't think we're ready to assault such a target...a snatch and grab on Nathreza was risky enough, and half a hundred of our fellows are now dead. The Demons will know what he is doing, once they examine, or even revive one of the corpses we left behind."
Vehlar gave a dark chuckle. "You went through too quickly. I saw Illidan unravel the portal. He left the Dreadlords a...memorable parting gift." At his words, Illysanna let out a soft giggle.
Kvo'thei tilted his head. "What kind of gift?"
This time, the rather tipsy female Demon Hunter answered with an excited "Boooom!" Before she laid back, still giggling at the idea of the smug, overconfident Dreadlords having their planet infiltrated and then blasted to pieces by a being they considered so very much lesser than themselves.
Vehlar nodded, smirking at his lover as he watched her antics. His macabre sockets shifted back to Kvo'thei then. "Indeed. Boom. The way he unraveled the spell, the energy likely blew apart most, if not all of Nathreza...though, they will likely rebuild it in time. That was not a natural world we assaulted."
Kvo'thei's tone was less excited. "And so, the Legion will repair, rebuild, and grow...they are relentless."
Illysanna's face fell, as did Vehlar's, as neither could deny the truth of their situation. Vehlar stood then, and offered a hand to Illysanna, helping the tipsy Demon Huntress achieve the goal of standing up. "We are relentless as well, my student. Now that you have your wings, we will be all the more skilled at killing the Demons. The future has hope. Trust in Illidan's plan."
Vehlar tossed the wine to Kvo'thei, who caught it, as he watched the pair of Kaldorei leave, presumably to do what they always did after enjoying the Den's delights for a time. He chugged the entire bottle, tossed it behind him without looking, or caring that he almost hit a fellow Sin'dorei attendant, and then retired to a parapet to brood over the Fel green landscape of Shadowmoon Valley.
His eyes turned to the gates of the temple, where his own people had been led by Illidan and his people's mad Prince to their untimely, and futile deaths in disturbingly large numbers. How many blood elves had died, just to take this monument to demonic hedonism and torture? He briefly considered leaving, as he did not trust in Illidan, or his plan, after what he'd seen on Nathreza. It had gone unnoticed by Vehlar, but Kvo'thei was painfully aware that most of their Lord's victims had been Sin'dorei. The Kaldorei had been pulled onto their feet, or dispatched if wounded grievously. Illidan was mad, or simply cruel by his nature. He did trust Vehlar though, and he knew his teacher would endeavor to keep him alive, as he had with all those he'd trained.
Even with his mentor's projected confidence, Kvo'thei was simply not convinced that the future was as bright as Vehlar seemed to think it would be.
Chapter 24: The Final Verdict
Chapter Text
The Black Temple, Eve of The Raid - Shadowmoon Valley, Outland
Illidan Stormrage looked out over the embattled mortals below, giving Supremus their best showing in combat. In the distance, his unmatched eyes spied the Fel chaos given form that was the Doomwalker, a Fel Reaver of massive size heading their way, and undoubtedly sent by Kil'jaeden to accomplish a single task. The Fel Iron construct was the Legion's answer for the raid on Nathreza. If the mortals fighting blindly for the Light did not bring him low, and he doubted they could, the massive reaver would see to it that everything he had built in this long perverted Draenei temple would be smashed to pieces.
His wings sagged, as he let out a heavy, weary sigh, and then mentally contacted his followers. "Come to me, my Demon Hunters…" He set the message on repeat for those slow on the uptake, and soon enough, they all gathered at the topmost level of the Black Temple. There was barely enough room for them, and while he had seen their effectiveness in true combat against the Legion, he knew either the small army of mortals or the Doomwalker would likely succeed in slaughtering them, if they engaged in combat. He had other plans for them, though. He resolved to, somehow, handle both of his oncoming problems but there was a far greater prize they needed to acquire, if his plans were to succeed.
Vehlar Stormclaw was among those gathered, sitting quietly off to the side, as he was wont to do. Around him, were the other shock troops the newer Demon Hunters had begun calling Dreadwings, each with their arms crossed, waiting, as their Lord monologued.
"Illidari...my...Demon Hunters..." Illidan flapped down from his perch, and landed on the edge of the structure closest to the Hand of Gul'dan, still erupting in the distance. "With countless worlds burning in the Legion's wake you answered the call… Yet these mortals in their…ignorance… have come to destroy their own salvation. Our time is short." Illidan turned, and snarled. "I will deal with these...intruders. You must venture to Mardum, and retrieve the Sargerite Keystone." His hand flared with an image of the object his Demon Hunters would seek, and the crowd of blind elves burned it into their memory.
With a simple motion of his hand, Illidan gestured, and opened the portal he'd been gathering energy for all 'day'. "Now go." He turned his horned head then to an unremarkable elven Hunter as the monologue continued. "But remember, should you fail…all worlds Will burn!" Properly motivated, the Demon Hunter in question dashed for the portal. As it began to close, Vehlar and his squad moved for it as well, only for Illidan to hold up a hand. At once, they stopped moving.
The portal closed, and Illidan turned to them. "For you...I have another task. Some of you will guide our forces to that wretched Felhole, and reinforce our troops. Vehlar...pick three to stay with you, and remain here. The rest of you…move." Those Dreadwings who were heading for Mardum received their mental instructions, and moved quickly off through the temple to rally the requisite forces for their reinforcement portals. Assuming the Demon Hunters on the other side could even open them.
Vehlar's chosen three were the best at striking from the shadows, striking from the air, and controlling the demon within. Two of them were also Kaldorei, like the majority of the shock troops. Illidan looked over Yeraeth Felgazer, Feronas Sindweller, and Kvo'thei and nodded as he seemed to approve of Vehlar's choices. He waved a hand at an outcropping that shared the temple's top with them, and a group of ten acolytes, newly tattooed and armed, walked towards the older Hunters. Illidan put a hand on Vehlar's shoulder, and led him away, as he spoke in hushed tones, for all the good that would do among sharp eared elves. "This day may very well be my last...the weight of Fate is upon us…" He gestured to the middle distance, and Vehlar followed his gaze, just then noticing with his Spectral Sight the Doomwalker headed their way.
"Kil'jaeden has sent his answer for our assault on the Dreadlords...if the mortals below do not crush our troops, that machine surely will. You are the insurance against total destruction, Vehlar Stormclaw." Illidan finished, as he turned towards the comparatively smaller Kaldorei. Vehlar looked downwards, and shook his own horned head. "The Illidari serve yo-"
But Illidan cut him off. "I will remain to deal with these threats...I do not intend to fall to them...but all we have worked for cannot be lost here...if the worst comes, if this Temple falls, it will be up to you to rebuild us, Vehlar. Nobody knows the rituals as intimately as you...no other possesses the experience to rebuild the weapons Azeroth will need to defeat the Legion. We are beyond death now, my friend. Even if I fall here, I will return, in time. Prepare for that. Take these aspirants, and sequester yourselves once more."
Vehlar still seemed torn about this decision, as he wanted to test either the mortals below or the Doomwalker against his Satyric soulblades, but it seemed Illidan had other plans. He could not argue with his Lord's logic, for it was more sound than many of his commands of late had been. He knew he was likely not the only one capable of rebuilding the Illidari, as Illidan always had backup plans for his backup plans, but he acquiesced all the same. "I will do as you ask...we will keep the fight alive. Where would you have us go?"
"Azeroth." Illidan said, with no hesitation. "You survived there once undetected...you must do so again. Take our fastest Netherwing Drakes, and make for the Dark Portal. Beyond that…you must lead them."
"I would rather fight…" Vehlar snarled, turning towards the others, "But I cannot fault your contingency plan...stay alive, Illidan. Without you, the Illidari will come undone. I do not have your...charisma. They will not bow to me."
"Do not worry over me, Vehlar Stormclaw...I have survived too long to end here. Go! Before the mortals find their way up here…"
Vehlar half sighed, half snarled, and then moved for the other Dreadwings. "Come...we are leaving." He led them through the temple, away from the sounds of fighting. He was loathe to leave without Illysanna, but she was already on Mardum. Ideally, the Mardum assault would be over fast enough to reinforce the Black Temple. His fellow Dreadwings formed a triangle around the less stealthy aspirants, as they descended from the Black Temple's northernmost side. There, Vehlar summoned the Netherwing Drakes on standby in the temple, and minutes later, they descended, enough for two riders per Dragon.
"Kaineraku…" Vehlar said, approaching his mount, "You and your brood will take us to the Dark Portal. Once there, you may return to the wilds, and live free...do not go back to Shadowmoon Valley...it will only lead to your recapture."
The Nether Drake seemed caught by surprise at his words, and seemed somewhere between rage and appreciation as he growled a response in Common. "Free…? Jussst...like that? No...whipssss?"
Vehlar nodded, and the other drakes hissed in excitement. That just meant they would fly that much faster. "Yes. I've never cared for how the Dragonmaw brutes have treated you...your kin are fascinating creatures, and undeserving of such brutality. You are free to devour them as you please...I would grow a bit larger first, though." Kaineraku grinned at Vehlar, and then crouched low, as he and an aspirant climbed atop his neck.
Their journey was rather swift, and quite perilous, for the Nether Drakes brought them to the far northern edge of what was left of Shadowmoon Valley, flying along the deserted, mountainous area high enough to be out of range of spells or nets. Within half an hour of flapping through the void upon the edges of the Twisting Nether that what was left of Draenor was slowly being swallowed by, their goal was in sight. Vehlar and the other Demon Hunters were focused on the Twisting Nether, however. It was an awe-inspiring sight, especially to their eyes as myriad patterns of volatile magic and mana twisted through eternity. With his eyes, Vehlar understood just how primitive the spellwork that had ripped Draenor apart truly was, and the Nether had no qualms about devouring the rest of the planet's energy.
He heard the Satyr within whisper to him, suggesting he slide off the drake, an easy mistake to make, and fall into infinity. He promised doing so would grant him more power, but Vehlar knew better. Abomination that he now was, his soul would be trapped within the Nether, where the demon would be free to grow more powerful, along with its kin's aid, to escape the perpetual prison his blades held them in, and be reborn in service to the Burning Legion once more. He resisted the whispers, and the others did the same, though several of the newbies almost tried to comply.
Once they landed behind the Dark Portal in the Hellfire Peninsula, Vehlar cut the bonds of slavery from the Nether Drakes' legs with little effort, and set them to do as they pleased. They winged towards the Netherstorm, where he assumed they would feast on flesh and mana until their size was enough to resist the Dragonmaw Clan's attempts at capture. They were in for harsh draconic retribution, and Vehlar felt no pity for the cruel, malformed Orcs, more than happy to leave them to their deserved fate.
As Vehlar handled the drakes, the stealthiest of his chosen Dreadwings, a female Kaldorei by the name of Yeraeth, found a Sin'dorei Rogue of the Horde hiding in the shadows. With lightning fast movement Yeraeth dashed behind her and grappled her. The superior strength of the Demon Huntress had the smaller elf held in place, and open to attack. Feronas Sindweller moved to stab the blonde female. In the space of a second, Vehlar had slid over to his ever-eager apprentice, stopping his stab by simply bringing one crimson katana-like soul blade down vertically on the stabbing warglaives. They sank into the dead, crimson earth and Vehlar's ears twitched as he heard what sounded like crunching bone as they hit the ground around the Dark Portal. "Hold, Sindweller...this one may yet prove worth sparing…"
Vehlar turned to the woman, who was panting, but otherwise wisely motionless. His speech shifted from Demonic to Thalassian, and he addressed the rogue. "Your name, Blood Elf?"
"Just eat me, and get it over with Demon." She answered. She moved to struggle, but Yeraeth's knife dug into her pretty little throat, and she stiffened again.
Vehlar chuckled. "Is that what you think we do?" The visible part of his face darkened, and he frowned. "Or perhaps you've mistaken us for the mindless beasts out there." He gestured eastward, towards the ever-raging fight by Legion forces to reclaim the Dark Portal. For now at least, the Azerothian armies held them at bay.
"You are all mindless beasts!" She said, though as she started to raise her voice, Vehlar leaned in towards her. Shadow enveloped them, as the Dreadwings used the shadow magic inherent in their stolen appendages to hide their forms and sound from any overachieving guards that heard her squeak.
"We are Illidari." Vehlar said, after several moments of quiet. His smirk returned as the woman's Fel green eyes widened in recognition. "We slay Demons...we take their power, their knowledge...we use it against them...and we win."
"Liar…" The Sin'dorei hissed, "What have you won...a wasteland. I have heard of your Demon infested Temple. A defiled place of Light in a Fel ridden hole."
Vehlar tilted his hooded head in the gloom of their outstretched wings. "You have a point...but our lodgings were surprisingly comfortable...for those who survived. But this is not worth discussing...we assaulted Nathreza, the homeworld of the Dreadlords, little Blood Elf, and we returned to this Fel ridden hole victorious. We did not have to sacrifice everything just to achieve a single victory, we gave everything we were for the power to defeat the Demons...we use their own magic against them, and it works. We could show you how."
The Sin'dorei's expression shifted from skepticism to angered shock, as if the idea of her joining the Illidari was offensive. "Boasts and lies from a withered, tree-hugging husk. You have never even seen a Dreadlord. Lies will not avail you, my loyalty is to my people. Now kill me or release me, but spare me this drivel."
Vehlar rose slowly, and shifted his wings until the female could see his shoulders, and the different colored pale skin that formed the bony outline of the appendage. He tilted his hooded gaze upwards then, and the Fel green glow beneath became obvious to her, as was the source of it. She was both entranced and horrified, going by her expression, and she shifted back, against Yeraeth, who was watching, expressionless, for the slightest aggression in the Sin'dorei. "Where do you think I got these wings, ignorant Blood Elf? A prayer session with the Light? The evidence of my 'boasts'," He said with actual air quotes before gesturing to the other Dreadwings, "Is right before your Fel Green eyes. Do not mistake my appearance for age...though I am rather old...I've more than enough power to deal with you. So. How shall we deal with you, nameless Blood Elf of the Horde? Do you want to spend another day watching your barbarian friends die by the hundreds? Or do you want to become a potent weapon against the Demons, that will help more of them live? Make your choice."
The Sin'dorei just stared at him, and spoke in a hoarse whisper. "You...did that to yourself...on purpose? You realize that taking in their evil makes you as evil as they are, right?"
Vehlar lowered his hooded head, and smirked. "We are similar yes, but there is a difference between Demon and Hunter...and that is our ever-burning desire for vengeance. Understand, Hordeling, nothing is more important than the Legion's demise. We have given everything to reach a level of power capable of matching theirs. They fear us, as they fear Illidan. They could fear you, as well, once you learn how best to slaughter them. Choose."
From the angle they were at, the ever-present butchery of demon and mortal Azerothian races alike was just visible in the distance. The Sin'dorei glanced over at the latest battle, and winced, as she saw a stereotypical brutish Orc juggernaut be torn in half by one of the Eredar warriors with minimal effort. Her eyes then shifted back to Vehlar, and the wings of his people. She knew who was behind the Scourge that had ravaged her home, her planet, and had been responsible for sundering her people from the Kaldorei. It was hard to rationally deny a viable option against the demons that didn't involve sacrificing a massive font of power just to win a single battle. Outland had shown her, and many others, that the Legion could always field more troops, that such sacrifice was unsustainable, and would not win the day.
Finally, she spoke. "My name is Jesalia Fireseeker...if you and your kin can make a difference against the Demons...I will aid you. Fighting them the way we have been...it's not going to work. It hasn't worked for all the other worlds they've burned through. If we can take the fight to them...show me how."
Vehlar nodded at Yeraeth, and the hulking but agile woman let the tiny Sin'dorei go. The group moved to the back of the Dark Portal's platform, and hugged the wall. Jesalia spoke quietly then, returning to the shadows. "I will distract them. Watch for my signal, you'll know when you see it. That will be your chance to move through the Portal."
Vehlar nodded again, and the Demon Hunters waited quietly in the gloom of their shadow magic. Even if she did decide to simply return to the Horde and her place in it, Vehlar was confident they could handle whatever guards came for them, and still get through the portal. It was escaping on the other side, that would prove difficult.
Up above, as the latest battle raged, Jesalia arrived to find herself face to face with a Human mage both of Dalaran, and the Alliance. To one who had experienced the racism of both, Jesalia saw little differentiation between the two. "Jesalia." He said, approaching her. "My Divination has detected a Demonic taint behind the Dark Portal. Did you see anything down there?"
Being one of the few Horde members that could understand Common after years of being allied with the Humans of Lordaeron and their first Alliance, Jesalia often ended up as the liaison between the two factions sharing the Dark Portal's entryway. "Demonic? Nope. Nothing dangerous down there. A few Fel infused creatures wandering aimlessly, but otherwise, we are secure."
The mage peered at her and her spine tingled, as she got the sense he'd seen through her lie. "Very well. If you're not busy, we could use your blades on the Legion's officers. The battle below is not going well."
Jesalia nodded. "I will aid however I can. Reinforcements should be coming through soon, right?"
The Human's eyes narrowed slightly, but it was momentary. "Yes...in about a minute. I'll leave you to your work." He turned then, and by all appearances seemed to be returning to the Alliance side of the platform. Jesalia faded into the shadows, and waited. The Human began chatting to one of the Kaldorei druids, who was healing and invigorating those who managed to return from the battle below with minor injuries and a lack of mana.
Minutes later, a fresh batch of warriors from Azeroth came roaring through the portal. The Horde was high on berserker rage and the imminent din of battle, while the Alliance soldiers seemed to be quieter, and grimly determined not to die. They joined the clash below, and the tide turned. As it always did when fresh meat arrived. Unfortunately, meat was something the Legion had in bulk, and their teleporters could bring in entire squads at once. Once the soldiers marched through, Jesalia hurled a throwing dagger over the edge of the platform, where it stuck in the dirt just before the slightly darker than average shadow that she believed was one of her new allies.
She watched somewhat impressed as they climbed the massive stone base of the Dark Portal in bursts of two jumps and a wing flap. Once they were all atop the platform, they would have moments before being seen. Unfortunately, the Human mage was still wary, and had been glancing in Jesalia's last known direction when Vehlar and his Dreadwings arrived atop the platform. Seeing their wings, tattoos, and familiar green eyes, he raised the alarm immediately. "Demons! Demons have snuck behind our line!"
The Horde atop the platform knew the Common word for their foe, and saw where the Human pointed. From both factions, came warriors on standby who were a cut above the grunts being fed to the unending carnage by the stairs. One, was an imposing Draenei Paladin wielding a hammer with a surprising amount of sharp edges for a blunt weapon. From the Horde side came a Tauren, wielding one of their signature battle totems. They charged at the group of shadowy green eyed elves by the portal's entry, but by the time they came close enough to act, they had already dashed through.
Seeing the demons were going to get into the gap in reality that led to their home world, several people acted at once. The Draenei outstretched a hand, and from it, a hammer composed solely of the Light appeared, sailing for one of the slower elves. The Human mage, for his part, chucked a fireball whose tail was made of ice their way. As the Demon Hunters leapt through, the spells impacted the portal seconds later, and the entire thing began to swirl. The image of Azeroth faded, and it became a black hole in reality, showing nothing but emptiness.
Some Time Later...
For those in Outland, the Dark Portal soon reverted to normal, and minutes later, troops arrived on schedule from Azeroth. For those inside the portal, things were a bit different. Vehlar knew something was wrong when the temporary feeling of being in-between worlds lingered for almost a minute. He tried breathing, and thankfully, found that he could. Somehow.
His surroundings were a murky gray void that he seemed to be moving through though it was impossible to tell for certain. Then, he spied a familiar group of figures. One of the aspirants had been hit with a significantly powerful Light based attack, at the joint of his wing and shoulder, and the others were mending his wound as best they could.
As Vehlar joined them with a nod, still not sure what he was walking on exactly, another pair of figures emerged from the void. One was a determined looking Sin'dorei, at least to Jesalia's eyes. To the Demon Hunters, they knew a Dragon in disguise quite easily. Their aura of magic spells protecting their valuable hides gave them away. This one, was of the Bronze Dragonflight, and to Vehlar, that meant they were somewhere lost in time. Yet, a Bronze Dragon was the ideal creature to run into in such a situation.
The mortal guised Dragon paused, as he walked past the elves. Behind him, was a truly massive Orc. Vehlar noted that his tattooed skin was brown, not green, and his expression seemed to be perpetual anger. Massive manacles covered his wrists, and the Dragon was all but dragging him, in the direction that Vehlar had come from. Finally, the 'elf' spoke. "Now that's odd...how did a group of Demon Hunters end up here?
"Demon eating filth…" The Orc spat. "Weak, mewling Elves...they must consume stronger beings just to have a hope of matching them. Pathetic."
Vehlar didn't rise to the brute's bait, or understand how hypocritical the Orc was being, but merely turned his hooded head towards the Dragon. "We jumped into the Dark Portal in the midst of some...intense spellwork...care to give us a hand, oh wise and scaly master of time?"
The elf sneered at him. "In my timezone, that power has been...stripped from us. But I can send you on the right path to Azeroth. You'll end up there eventually...maybe."
Vehlar tilted his head, and tried not to sound exasperated. "Maybe?"
The elf-dragon nodded, and then tilted his own head, one hand on his chin, as the other held the imposing Orc's chains. Vehlar noted he seemed ready to break free, but was waiting for the opportunity. Lost in the middle of time would probably be a bad place to lose his guide. "Time is...a weird, wibbly wobbly...soup. You could end up anywhere. Azeroth. Pandora. The dawn of the Titan's war against the Elemental Lords, or the Hour of Twilight...it's a gamble, really."
Vehlar just stared at the 'elf'. "Time is a weird soup?"
The elf nodded, seeming to chuckle at a joke none of them would ever understand. "Exactly, sometimes people, places, things, just get...tossed into and lost in the swirl of the sands. I suppose I could guide you out of it...by why would I?" He eyed Vehlar the way an aristocrat eyes a filthy beggar on the street. "Your Demonic souls are probably better, locked off in...here…" The Dragon's eyes trailed, as he glimpsed their futures, and the potential timelines without them. It was a shadow of what he had once been able to see, but from what little he could glimpse, he saw Azeroth's demise quicken, mortals and Dragons alike dying by the hundreds, if they did not return.
With a heavy sigh, and a continued annoyance with just how influential the Stormrage brothers, and their pupils, tended to be to the Time Stream, he moved on, but not before gesturing at the Hunter who had spoken. "Follow your instincts, and picture your home. You should make it back to Azeroth around your era...keep her safe, Demon Hunters."
"Always." The Dreadwings answered, as one, and they followed as Vehlar and his group began to walk in the opposite direction of the odd pair. Vehlar closed his eyes to the void as he walked, and pictured his latest 'home' in the Stranglethorn Vale, a hidden barrow, much like the one he had in Ashenvale. As they walked, the indistinct gray began to fade, and around them, a jungle began to emerge. The air grew humid and hot, and before they realized it, the Demon Hunters somehow found themselves in the Stranglethorn Vale, outside of Vehlar's cave, as they emerged from the dense jungle foliage around it.
"Finally...we're here." Vehlar said with a weary sigh, but he straightened again, as he heard a growl. It was not the first time his home had become den to some bloody panthers, but as the source of the growl appeared, he lowered his blades, and tilted his head. It was a Stormsaber, of that he had no doubt, and it was a massive Stormsaber, to his eyes. One with a touch of nature magic in its soul. The potential even, to become a Wild God. It was like looking at an ancient who had not yet bloomed, because it yet resided in a mortal form. Beside the massive panther, another saber-fanged Nightsaber came. He was slightly smaller than his friend, but his pure black mane that looked both fluffy and ferocious was much more impressive.
The second panther walked towards Vehlar, cat lips pulling into a smirk before nature magic warped and shifted its form into that of an elf Vehlar was all too familiar with. His attire hadn't changed much from the last time they'd met, save that his kilt now had several more paw/hoof marks upon it. Laronar Stormclaw leaned casually on his ancient friend, and smirked at the group. "Hello there...brother."
That, made the other elves lower their weapons slightly, as Vehlar had. The withered elf snarled, "Of all the caves in this panther-infested jungle...you chose mine!? You've got to be kidding me…"
Laronar shrugged, embodying the essence of chill as his idle left hand rested on Storm's head, and gave the massive cat rather delicious skull scritches from his strong fingers. The Stormsaber's eyes closed slightly, lips rising into an approximation of a smile as he enjoyed it, but the stiffness, the readiness to pounce, did not fade. "It was empty when I found it, and besides...it had so much room in that secret chamber. I assume you added that?"
Vehlar half sighed, half snarled, as he answered. "I did, actually. Why are you here, Laronar? Find another cave."
"Honestly, it was the familiar but unplaceable scent that led me here. Turns out it was just yours, but older. I thought you'd died, or been captured like the rest of the Demon Hunters, once Illidan was killed."
The nonchalantness with which the druid spoke did little to stop the shock the others displayed at hearing his words, and one even snarled that the druid was lying, in the tongue of demons. "What?" Vehlar snarled, "Illidan was the only Demon Hunter left at the Temple...we left it not more than an hour ago. The Sha'tari army was barely holding against Supremus."
Laronar arched an eyebrow at his brother. "Oh, they handled Supremus. And every other horror your little cult created after we banished them. Then Maeiv Shadowsong encased Illidan's slain corpse in crystals. The way I heard it, more Demon Hunters appeared out of nowhere, killed a few Wardens, and then suffered a similar fate. Those Ashtongue, the Broken, they helped the adventurers bypass your traps and kill your defenders. Then they killed Illidan. They're all imprisoned now, Vehlar. You can guess where. They will never see daylight again. Most of our people assumed the Illidari were done. But that was...almost a year ago. Much has changed."
Vehlar shook his head. "We are still here...and the Legion still exists. Our exit from Outland must've moved us forward in time...but that does not change our purpose."
"And what is that purpose, exactly?" Laronar said, tilting his head. "I know, slaying Demons, but then, your hideout was brimming with Demons, according to a few friends of mine that were on the assault teams. They said it very much seemed like a Legion outpost."
"Our purpose is to stop the Legion, brother of mine. We will use any methods, even theirs, to do this. You must know your enemy, and where possible use their own strength against them, especially if they have superior numbers. Now stand aside. This will be our new base, from here, the Illidari will rebuild." Vehlar took two steps forward, and Laronar put up a hand as Storm went from enjoying a skull rub, to snarling at Vehlar. He remembered well the cruelty of Laronar's brother, and Storm's dislike for him had only increased now that he was part demon.
"I wouldn't go in there." Laronar said, petting Storm, trying to calm him to no avail. The snarl was low and constant, rumbling like the storm for which he'd been named.
"Why not?" Vehlar answered.
Laronar gestured upwards, and above the cave, in the trees, on the branches, and some even clinging to trunks by their bark were what had to be at least forty druids, in their Cat Forms, their amber eyes burning to life as they melted from the shadows. "They think this is our cave." Vehlar jumped back, and his blades were out in a flash. The chorus of snarls grew, and the other Demon Hunters followed Vehlar's lead.
Laronar's eyes widened from being half-closed, almost sleepy, to wide awake very quickly. He interposed himself between Storm and his brother. "Easy now...how about we all...put our weapons away, and talk, like civilized beings?" The druids stopped growling, but Storm's low rumble was persistent, and it heralded Laronar's next words with remarkable synergy. "How about this...my best students, versus yours. Three rounds. Three duels, to the faint. Winners get the dank jungle cave, and nobody has to die."
Laronar had brought his Stormclaws to Stranglethorn to train upon the Trolls who prowled its jungles, and thought themselves tamers of panthers. Through targeted attacks, he had begun making them honor the panther Loa, all the panther Loa, in an effort to stop their hunters from being ambushed. Seeing their numbers thinned and Ashamane's power grow, Laronar had paused their activities, and the newly arrived Demon Hunters presented a chance for their respective groups to bond, rather than kill each other.
He was willing to find a new cave, if it meant what remained of the Illidari could be kept focused on slaying demons, instead of being hostile to everyone that wasn't them, and delving too far into the Legion's magic. He was still convinced that path led to naught but madness, but the evidence, the records, kept in the Black Temple had been shared, by those in the know. Laronar may have perched outside SI:7 to read them as an owl, but their demon slaying counts were verified, after the fact. Unsurprisingly, Shaw kept that knowledge hidden, and soon, they had all begun to train for a much greater threat.
The Lich King had begun to stir again, after years of isolation in Northrend. The Scourge rumbled awake, the forces of Death marshaled themselves, and champions of Light and life had risen to meet them.
The Dragonblight - Northrend
Alaria Stormclaw looked around the barren, frozen tundra, and sighed. Elune had sent her to this continent of death to purge the specters of undeath that festered in the darkness that other adventurers missed, or never found. She wiped Kal'serrar clean of the cultist blood it had been bathed in. She had no idea who the cultists had been, only that Elune had guided her to their hidden coven beneath the Dragonblight's ice, and swift, merciless justice had been brought to them. She shattered their dark purple crystals and magical experiments for good measure. Whatever they had been planning, she had just set it back years, or stalled their plan completely.
After the Lich King's first attacks on Orgrimmar and Stormwind, a disturbing throwback to his atrocity at Stratholme, every race had pledged to take the war to him. In Darnassus, few had been affected by his grain, and many druids had been the first to suspect it, having sensed the taint in their city from their enclave. Being a primarily fruit and vegetable eating people, only a few Kaldorei had turned, but there had been enough to once more deepen the sorrow in the ancient hearts of her people.
Alaria let out a sharp whistle, and called to her a pink and purple colored hippogryph that had served as her mount for decades now, and set her apart further from her fellow Sentinels. Despite her supposed uniqueness she had found more and more other elves like her, wielding Elune's light not unlike a Human, Dwarf, or Draenei Paladin. Clad in heavy armor, they claimed to follow visions from Elune as she did, though she neither knew nor cared if they were copying her, or had been called as she had so very long ago, by their Goddess. Either way, Shandris let them operate as they pleased, provided they helped the Sentinel Army, and did not hinder it.
Alaria put her sisters from her mind as she and Kali winged their way back towards Icecrown, and the Argent Crusade's hastily constructed base camp within its Scourge-ridden borders. As always, they flew higher than Frost Wyrms were wont to, but that did not make the sight of the Scourge below any less terrifying. Their sheer number always astounded her, and no matter how hard the armies of the Light fought, whatever the Scourge lost in number, they regained from corpses. From Tuskarr to fellow Kaldorei, the Lich King cared not who he raised, only that they did his bidding. There was a rumor that some of his Death Knights had managed to resist his call, though she personally doubted the Ebon Blade were anything approaching trustworthy.
She had seen, and slain, several Death Knights that had been very much loyal to their Lich King. They cared only for slaughter, their endurance was unending, and the only spark of life that she saw within them was one that would always be bound to the Frozen Throne, and its master. As she brought Kali in over the stables she spied Illestria Bladesinger and Airae Starsinger, eyeballing her approach. They were standing between the two sides of the lengthy stables that housed the Crusader's mounts. Perched on the roof of the right side stable was Darnassus's own chosen Champion, Jaelyne Evensong, a longtime archery rival and friend of Alaria's. She hopped off Kali, and landed in a three point stance from the twenty foot drop as the hippogryph went off to eat and do hippogryph things.
Jaelyne nodded to her, as she approached, and sat. It seemed the Champion was conversing from above, and the two women below fixed the two above with hard stares. "Alaria Stormclaw. I was about to go looking for you...its been a few weeks. You missed all the excitement."
It was at that moment, that Alaria noticed. The Crusader grounds were teeming with builders, and the sounds of their trade. Ballistae were being armed, spell components were being gathered, and adventurers scurried about almost frantically, trading in seals that proved their contribution's worth in exchange for mounts that belonged to the Crusade's quartermaster. "Are...are we finally assaulting the Frozen Throne!?"
Jaelyne nodded, and Alaria heard a sigh from the two below. "Arthas himself made an...appearance, at our grand tournament. The Alliance and Horde forces fought each other, surprising literally no one, and now Tirion Fordring has sent out the word. Prepare for the assault on Icecrown. Adventurers have been arriving daily from Dalaran and other places, some green, some very much not. I've never seen such a collection of so many powerful warriors."
Alaria glanced around at the Kaldorei tents, and the druids who hung around them. "Is my brother here yet?"
Jaelyne nodded. "He and his Stormclaws arrived a few days ago, looking surprisingly battered for those who can heal themselves."
"Laronar was fine!" Illestria shouted up from below, and Alaria peered down at her, arching a brow.
Airae jabbed her ribs with a sharp elbow. "Too fine, for the likes of you." Illestria started to say something about him preferring her to Airae, but the pink haired Kaldorei turned her gaze upwards and spoke over her. "Of all of them, he was the least bruised. They rested for a day before Highlord Fordring put them to work."
Alaria nodded, and then turned to Jaelyne. "What of the assault on Mord'rethar? Did we make any headway?"
That question brought a sigh from all three elves. "No." Jaelyne answered, scowling. "The damned Horde attacked from behind, and instead of aiding our forces, fought them. Between the Horde and the Scourge, the Lich King won, the dead hold the gate, and the factions are once more thirsty for the other's blood. Thrall all but killed the commander responsible, but...too little, too late. The brutes are more a hindrance than help. The Ebon Blade managed to take the Shadow Vault...with some help. Then they set about crippling the Scourge. They took out the Fleshwerks, and have been using eager adventurers to do the rest of their work ever since, to great effect."
As the female elves chatted, none noticed the arrival of a black feathered and magnificently crested owl, until it landed beside Alaria, and hooted affectionately. Well used to her brother's forms by now, she scritched his chin, and made his Owl Form shiver in response. He shifted then, resuming his elven shape, and Alaria sighed. "Honestly, Lar. It's below freezing out here. Put on a shirt."
Laronar, for his part, was clad in his war attire, which meant the rune-engraved straps of leather sitting over his bulging pectorals that functioned as his armor was back, not that it did anything to hide the heavily toned upper body that visibly steamed in the cold of the northernmost continent. The incorrigible druid nodded at the ladies below, winked at Illestria, and then turned his unsettlingly fierce amber eyes on his sister. "The Highlord bade me look for you and Jaelyne. He is gathering the strongest warriors here for a...unique mission. He asked for you by name, sister. Said something about you being the hero of...some kind of breach?"
Alaria sighed. Being what he was, and being rather good at flying silently and out of sight, Laronar would lack the knowledge of the hard-won breach into Icecrown, that Highlord Fordring had led himself. Alaria had been present for that battle, though her part had been little more than a rallying cry at the right moment. Elune had granted the blessing that had given the warriors of the Argent Crusade the momentum and drive needed to push into Icecrown itself, and finally establish a foothold. Laronar being Laronar had probably simply flown over the mountains with his druids, without so much as an alarm being raised.
"It's a story for another time, brother. If the Highlord needs us, we should go." Alaria finally said, and both Jaelyne and Laronar nodded. The girls whistled, but by the time their mounts arrived, Laronar had already flipped into the air, and resumed his owl shape.
As they gathered in the Highlord's tent, Laronar saw the only other 'heroes' around seemed to be members of the Ebon Blade. One, he knew as Darion Mograine, once a Paladin of some renown as he heard it. The other two Death Knights, a Human with the edgiest eye markings Laronar had seen in the camp, and a Sin'dorei with a massive and unsettlingly Fel green greatsword on his back, were unknown to him. From the Horde, there was only one other contribution: a shaman of the Frostwolf Clan, judging by the sparking wolf headed shoulder spaulders outlined in the Horde's classic insignia, and wolf head helm he was sporting as armor. Moreover, his tattooed skin was brown, marking him as one of the Mag'har that Garrosh Hellscream had brought with him from Outland. Unlike the Kor'kron under Hellscream, Laronar did not sense a simmering rage, but an inner calm not unlike his own, and a focus on the task at hand. He was glad the Highlord had found a level-headed Horde member for this.
As Alaria and Jaelyne finally joined them, Tirion nodded. "My thanks for gathering them, Archdruid Stormclaw." Laronar inclined his head in a deep, respectful nod, which Tirion returned, before speaking. "Just this morning, my scouts informed me of a Cult of the Damned procession leaving from Icecrown Citadel to the Cathedral of Darkness, bearing an artifact. And now I learn that it might be Arthas's own heart... a thing containing the last bit of his remaining humanity. This is a sign from the Light. As long as such an artifact exists, there is a chance that Arthas Menethil can become a man again!"
The Kaldorei, Death Knights, and Orc Shaman all shared looks of disbelief, but the Highlord of the Argent Crusade was determined, as he finished, and pulled on his helm. "Meet me at the cathedral's entrance. Be sure to bring a cultist's hood—we're going incognito."
Laronar spoke, once they were outside. "You'll find spare hoods on the cultists around the cathedral. I don't need one...I will be backing you up from the shadows. Stay alive, friends." With that, he became a massive black furred Nightsaber, and melted into the shadows. If the Death Knights or shaman were impressed, it did not show.
The rest of the group acquired their disguises in short order, namely black cloaks to fit over their armor, and hoods to hide their faces. The Shaman's wardrobe was barely hidden by these efforts, but he was a suitably black mass, to those around the Cathedral of Darkness, and none of them were stopped, as they made their way in beside Tirion Fordring. After casually asking where the heart would arrive, the group was directed to the cathedral's courtyard. They fell in somewhat casually with the other cultists, as the procession carrying the heart ground to a stop.
Tirion Fordring dropped his cloak, and unsheathed the Ashbringer, but before he could so much as step forward, the sky darkened, and a toothless maw of darkness opened in the fabric of reality, vomiting forth none other than the Lich King himself. Tirion brought the Ashbringer up in a swirling upwards slash, only for Frostmourne to catch the blade easily. The two legendary swords screeched, as they held a blade lock.
"Pathetic…did you think to go unnoticed in my own domain?" Arthas hissed, as he disengaged from Fordring, and leapt backward. He leveled the Mourneblade at the group, and a wave of darkness burned their disguises to ash. The Lich King's voice rang out through the courtyard. "Slay them all!"
Tirion nodded at his group of chosen heroes, and they groked his plan in the moment, as the Light surrounded the Highlord of the Argent Crusade. He summoned a Battle Charger, and as one of the bulkier cultists tried to bar his way, the Charger trampled him to re-death without a second thought, its aura of Light burning it to dust, empowered as it was by the Ashbringer. Tirion leapt from the saddle as the magic that had temporarily brought forth his trusted mount faded, and sent him back to safety. Once more, Frostmourne and the Ashbringer clashed, and Tirion proved himself the quicker swordsman, unveiling the Lich King's heart with an outstretched hand and a hammer composed of Light, while simultaneously matching Arthas's strikes, and calling out to him. "You sound awfully confident that we will be slain, given what happened at Light's Hope, Arthas!"
Arthas's fury was a quiet hiss that came from beneath the Helm of Domination. "Lasssst time...we were on Holy ground...you will find that our situation has been...reversed!" Arthas tried to counter with a slash of his own, only for the older Human to dodge it, and bring the Ashbringer around on one of his epaulets. It rebounded off the Saronite plate, but not without leaving its mark.
The others began fighting their own battles, and from the shadows, Laronar did his own work, making a timely appearance as a pair of greataxe-wielding skeletons broke the shaman's guard. He was wielding two massive hammers, but it seemed some foul magic spell from one of the cultists had slowed him, and he could barely hold them off, despite the thunderous power he possessed. Laronar took out one, as he lunged from the shadows, brought it to the ground, clamped his mouth firmly shut, and sank his lengthy saber fangs into the skull of the Scourge zombie like a pickax into stone. Foul ichor sprayed his jaw, but he did not open it, as he knew that would lead to infection he didn't have time to fight off. His claws drove back the other skeleton, as the spell upon the Orcish Shaman faded. Laronar dodged back into the shadows with remarkable synergy, as the furious warrior brought down his thundering hammers, and reduced the Scourge warrior to bone dust. The Feral Druid made himself similarly useful for each of their allies, and they aided him in turn, as the two leaders had their own duel.
Tirion had managed to start with a commanding series of relentless strikes, but eventually, even the fires of Redemption needed a moment to cool down, and it was in that space of time that the patient Arthas struck back, and struck hard. A blizzard of pain and entropic, deathly cold surrounded them as they dueled, and he smashed through Tirion's guard, and a fist of shadow magic sent him flying back towards the former Prince's frozen, dead heart. Seeing it from the ground, Tirion finally realized he had come in vain. The Heart of the Lich King was a frozen, dead organ that the Scourge had planned to destroy anyway, no doubt in a manner that would not damage their lord. "I do not...require Holy ground...to drive the Ashbringer into your dead heart, Kingslayer!"
"I call your bluff…Paladin…" The Lich King answered as he spat the word, and reminder of what he had once been. Arthas's heavy saronite boots stomped ominously towards him. "You would not destroy the last hope of redeeming Humanity's most wayward son…"
The old Human coughed up a bit of blood, not enough to worry about in the moment, as he gave the fallen Paladin a grim smirk. "Wouldn't I…" With a spin to his feet that belied his age, Tirion Fordring rose, swirled, and struck the dead organ all in one swift, beautiful demonstration of sword mastery as he shouted, "There is nothing left to redeem! For Lordaeron!" Thunder boomed, and the clouds above were blown away, as the heart exploded, and caught Tirion in the blast of icy Death Magic. Arthas fell to one knee, panting raggedly through the Helm as he struggled to recover from the shock.
From the shadows, Laronar had a choice. Strike the heavily plate armored Lich King while he was vulnerable, or leap to the Highlord's defense, and carry him away. His choice was made for him, as the Sin'dorei Death Knight in their party gathered the attention of the shaman, Alaria, and Jaelyne. "The Highlord is down! Defend him!"
Seeing Tirion covered, Laronar began to move for Arthas's neck, only to pause, as his form's instinct, and his patron, bid him to stop. Then, he saw. Frostmourne was gathering power, each foul Death rune glowing an intense blue, as it readied an attack that would, he surmised, slay all of them. He leapt from the shadows, onto another Scourge skeleton warrior that had been hassling Mograine, and stamped on its skull with a massive paw. Then, he gestured his head at Arthas. Seeing quickly what the druid had, the Death Knight began conjuring a means of escape, and Laronar fell into holding off the Scourge, and spending his charged Regrowth spells on those who had begun flagging, namely the Orc Shaman, and Jaelyne.
"Tirion's attack caused him significant damage…" The Human with edgy eye paint hissed, through his panting.
"We should slay him!" The Sin'dorei snarled, as he leveled his greatsword at the wounded Lich King.
"No!" Mograine said, as he finished conjuring what Laronar recognized as one of the Ebon Blade's portals. "Be patient...we will get our chance. Be glad that the Highlord is now in our debt…" With that, he hefted Tirion's form onto his shoulder, grabbed the Ashbringer even as it hissed in his dead hand, and leapt through the portal. The others followed suit swiftly, and as they reappeared on the other side of it, they could see the cathedral in the distance. A pillar of frosty blue death erupted from the courtyard, with a scream of rage to match it, and the Death Knights quietly agreed then, that Mograine's call had been the right one. Such a blast would've killed any and all of them.
The Crusaders carried Tirion back to the Argent camp, where he soon regained consciousness, and once he held the Ashbringer, was back on his feet later that same day. Several days later, the Argent Crusade and Knights of the Ebon Blade launched their first attacks on the citadel that was Icecrown itself. Jaina Proudmoore and Sylvanas Windrunner, along with a requisite band of adventurers from both factions, evidently made their way into the chamber where, according to rumor, Frostmourne lay unguarded, after Arthas's injury. From what Laronar and Alaria heard, one of the spirits in the Mourneblade had told the group of how to defeat Arthas, that it had to be atop Icecrown, and this information was carried back to each faction via its respective gunship in the area as they beat a hasty retreat from an evidently temporarily stunned Arthas.
With this knowledge, the Argent Crusade and Knights of the Ebon Blade gathered before the Citadel's gates, as both factions brought their forces to bear. The final product of this tenuous alliance was named the Ashen Verdict, and as the heroes of Azeroth readied themselves in the Lich King's foyer, each and every one of them paused, as a truly malevolent laugh echoed through Icecrown Citadel, followed by a voice they had all come to recognize over the grueling campaign.
"Fools...bring everything you have...Frostmourne Hungers..."
Chapter 25: Nightmare Rising
Chapter Text
"I will keep you alive to witness the end, Fordring. I would not want the Light's greatest champion to miss seeing this wretched world remade in my image." Arthas crowed as he sealed the Highlord of the Argent Crusade in a block of ice, along with the Ashbringer. Alaria Stormclaw and the thirty nine other warriors made up of twenty of the best from both the Alliance and the Horde, began converging on Arthas Menethil. Barely noticing their attacks and spells, and with a casual wave of his hand, ghouls and other horrors of flesh rose from the Frozen Throne's floor to answer the call of their King. Infestations of plague manifested on the raiders, but was countered by one of the many combinations of light, natural, and arcane spells to remove such things. The healers of both factions, by this point very used to working together, were on point for this, the climactic battle of their lives. Probably.
Massive shambling zombies waded into the sea of eager damage dealing champions, but were soon brought down with ease that unnerved Arthas. Slowly but surely, the damage from their spells, bleeds, curses and arrows were making it through his magical defenses, and hurting him. Finally sick of it, he moved to the center of the Frozen Throne, and raised Frostmourne skyward. The sky above roiled with what almost seemed like black smoke, tinged red, and then a surge of Death Magic erupted from Arthas, manifesting as a bitter, remorseless blast of wintry death. "I will freeze you from within until all that remains is an icy husk!"
Anyone close to Arthas began to freeze, but their healing was quick to fix them up, and free their movement away from Arthas. For some reason, his icy power did not simply blast them off the top of the throne, a surefire way to kill pretty much anyone, no matter how good their gear was. The raiders held on the edges of the icy circle of nope, as yet more shambling horrors and ghouls assaulted them. From within his safe space, Arthas lashed out at the raiders with black lightning from Frostmourne that seared their very souls, and spirits trapped within the blade, driven mad and summoned by its wielder, joined the corpses in attacking Azeroth's finest.
Then, suddenly, Arthas changed tactics. "Watch, as the world around you collapses!" The icy ridge the raiders were standing on began to crack and crumble, but every champion present was ready for Arthas's shenanigans. Alaria in particular had grown tired of his lightning, and as the lines of his power surging through the Frozen Throne faded, she leapt, beating Fordring to the rejoined melee, as Kal'serrar tested itself against Frostmourne. The other raiders soon followed her lead, and Arthas's eyes narrowed. He tried to defile the Moon Priestess with his magic, but she leapt away, as the Death based spell sloughed off her form onto the ground, to create a damaging morass of pain.
By that point, the Lich King looked quite rough. His cape was more tattered, his saronite armor was pierced and the blackish-red blood of his Human body beneath ran over the cold, corrupting metal. Arthas, growing tired of not killing at least one of the powerful champions, readied Frostmourne. All he needed was a target. At that moment, Alaria came hurtling back into the fray, as she brought Kal'serrar down on the Helm of Domination itself, ringing Menthil's head like a bell.
Even that failed to so much as stagger the Lich King, as his flaring blue eyes settled on one of the more powerful healers, a druid, in their Treant Form. His target chosen, Arthas raised his Mourneblade at the Restoration Druid, and he crowed triumphantly, even as Alaria and the other raiders continued to whittle at him. "Frostmourne Hungers…" The sword drained the life from the druid, who lost their form, and then their life as Frostmourne consumed their essence. Their tenure within the blade was mercifully short though, for Arthas then turned it on Alaria, and pelted her with a barrage of tormented souls, a payment for her earlier critical strike.
Despite their untimely death, the druid was soon restored, by a Balance Druid, who called for their spirit to be rebirthed, and had the reagents on hand to do it. Their body rose again, despite Arthas's efforts, and they rejoined the raid, once more falling into perfect sync with the other healers, as if their soul's foray into Frostmourne hadn't happened. Alaria, and others hit by the discharge of volatile spirits was revitalized, and the raiders pushed harder, as they sensed victory was close.
That, was when Arthas snatched it from them. The fury of Frostmourne rippled out through every member of the raiding party, killing them instantly, as the Mourneblade claimed their souls, and its wielder started monologuing. Alaria only heard pieces of it, though the Lich King's intentions were now clear. Assemble the finest fighting force on Azeroth, hone them against the Scourge itself, and then turn them into leaders among the dead, before sending them into the world to corrupt and kill in the name of their King.
"Light…grant me one final blessing…grant me the strength…to shatter these bonds!"
As the Lich King began enacting his penultimate plan, the Light answered the call of the Highlord as he finally broke free of Arthas's prison, and leapt higher than a man his age, and garbed in plate armor, should've been able to. The Ashbringer swung mid-air in a holy arc, and finally, shattered Frostmourne to pieces.
Arthas just stared, in genuine disbelief, as the blade he had sold his soul to, the blade he killed his own father with, lay shattered on the floor before his throne, in pieces. "Impossssible…." He hissed, as the souls trapped within Frostmourne began to howl with their newfound freedom.
"No more, Arthas! No more lives will be consumed by your hatred!" Tiron said, as the Lich King was drawn into the nexus of escaping souls.
Then, one soul in particular floated free, one Arthas had, in the deepest pits of what was once Human, dreaded seeing again. "Free at last…" The shade of Terenas Menethil rasped, "It is over, my son…this, is the moment of reckoning." He raised a hand, and even in death, the former follower of the Light had one big spell left within him, the result of a lifetime of faith, and a moral choice made, in regard to the fate of the Orcish Horde. "Rise up, Champions of the Light!"
Light surged within each of the fallen corpses, and as the breath returned to their bodies, forty pairs of angry eyes focused on the trapped, swirling form of Arthas Menethil. And with the Light empowering them, they put a final, decisive end to the Lich King's reign of terror.
The events that followed after were either purged from the minds of the less trustworthy raiders by the gathered priests, or simply not spoken of. Not publicly, at least. Alaria did eventually return to Darnassus, covered in grime and the remnants of war, and dying for a bit. Tyrande and Shandris were told of Bolvar's fate, but it was one that let the leaders of the Night Elves focus on other tasks, with the worry of the Scourge now ended.
The Dreamgrove - Val'sharah
While many druids stayed and faced Arthas in the same formation of roughly forty of their faction's strongest fighters, Laronar gave his spot up to his sister, for he, and several other Archdruids, had received a summons from Malfurion Stormrage himself. Since Nordrassil had begun to regrow, Malfurion had taken a less involved role in the Circle, while Fandral continued to hold, and grow respect among druids both old and new. These druids were loyal to Malfurion, but against Staghelm, the word of a druid like, say, Laronar, carried little weight.
Thankfully, the arrogant Archdruid had enough sense to stay out of the Dreamgrove, and Val'sharah, to the point of detriment. In the absence of Kalimdor's restrictions, several very powerful druid sects rose to even greater heights, as the Horn of Cenarius had woken up most of them, too. Druids of the Antler, Moon, and Branch, created new techniques for their chosen specializations, now finally having a chance to test them after thousands of years within the Dream. The Ashen were no exception to this, and Thaon was just as active as Laronar was, in sharpening the fangs of their followers, though after he heard about how only a few of Illidan's Demon Hunters had taken on most of his new generation of Stormclaws, the two Ashen agreed they needed to take things to the same level. There was no shortage of Fel taint left in the world, and the Ashen began departing on solo or trio missions to deal with such threats, over the course of which, they became stronger.
It was in the Dreamgrove, far from Fandral's reach, that Malfurion seemed to wish to hold this gathering. Only a few druids had been pulled from combating the Scourge, and they were all Archdruids, or old enough to be considered such. New titles would have to be awarded after what had been lost defending Hyjal. That, was the first thing their Shan'do did, when they had all arrived. Laronar glanced at his contemporaries, finding that many had begun to grow moss or leaves on their person, rather than keeping such things in a pouch. Most likely, they had slept in one place for too long, and being what they were, the bits of leaf and moss were a part of them now. He checked his own mane, and found more than a few stray leaves that shook loose easily enough.
Malfurion described to his contemporaries the shadow of a threat within the Emerald Dream that had corrupted five of Ysera's wyrms, trapped him for a time, and was continuing to spread throughout the Dream. He intended to investigate this corruption, by entering the Dream once again from the Barrow Dens of the Moonglade. He was convinced that such a sacred grove protected by Elune and Remulos both would keep his physical form safe from whatever corruption had ensnared him before.
Laronar was, naturally, one of the three or so Archdruids that seemed to be against this course of action, and he made a good argument for it. Azeroth, real, waking Azeroth, had never needed them more. The Scourge, and the rot it spread, had wreaked havoc on many races. They were an abomination that directly defied everything the Circle stood for, and they could no longer be ignored. Not only that, but another void power, similar to what Laronar had faced under Ahn'Qiraj had appeared in Northrend, but had been dealt with, thoroughly, by entire guilds worth of adventurers. The younger generation of the allied mortal races had, somehow, found a way to achieve power usually reserved for the legendary figures who governed Azeroth. With it, they had struck down menace after menace, and each time it had made them stronger. The 'old' ones taught the new, and the cycle repeated with each year.
Despite his well reasoned words, Malfurion had assured Laronar, and the others, that this would not be like before. It became clear to Laronar then, that Malfurion had gathered those who vocally did not approve, or had not approved in the past, of Fandral's decisions specifically for this impromptu meeting. Malfurion then set each of them a task, to find the source of the shadow based corruption, to study it, and how to remove it, that the Dream might be saved.
Laronar was one of the last to be set a task, and it appeared that was because his Shan'do and old friend had words for him. "I know you think this is folly Laronar…"
The Feral Druid sighed, though from him, it sounded more akin to a snarl of exasperation. "It is folly, Shan'do. The damage the Scourge left in their wake will take time to repair. We should be helping the High Elves, if only to heal their land. A gesture of good will to the Horde. If we don't keep them sated, they will find an excuse to rampage again, and eventually, we will be forced to eradicate them. Even now, they hack at the Ashenvale. How long, before they want Teldrassil? Nordrassil? How long before they decide World Tree lumber makes better ships?"
Malfurion shook his antlered head, and Laronar had to admit, not even the stags he hunted tended to boast such a magnificent rack. "The Circle must remain neutral. Unless the Blood Elves ask for our aid, we will not give it. They were exiled from our lands for a reason, and the threat to the Dream takes precedence. We cannot let it fall to this darkness. I need you, Stormclaw. You have faced this evil before, and lived. Those who left here as newly raised Archdruids have done the same, in Northrend. If I am trapped again, I leave it to the group of you to handle."
Laronar raised a lengthy green eyebrow. "And what of Fandral?"
Malfurion's visage darkened, and his tone grew shades of irritated, and disappointed. "Fandral will do what he always does, to try to atone for growing Teldrassil expressly against my orders. Ask forgiveness, instead of permission. I want you, and the others, staying focused on rooting out this corruption in the Dream. The rest, will likely do as Fandral desires, whatever that may be. I am still master of this Circle, and you, Archdruid, now have duties to attend to."
Laronar acquiesced, as Malfurion directly confirmed that he did still hold that title, despite Fandral's wishes. Evidently, the arrogant bastard had tried to strip it from him, and to those concerned, that had seemed to work. It had been many years since the Circle had sought him out for anything, but once Malfurion woke up, Laronar had begun receiving invites to gatherings, and new students sent his way by Malfurion's authority. Since Fandral had not gotten his way, Laronar expected that now, Fandral would turn to slander and libel to keep any would-be students from finding the reclusive master of the Feral Arts, and learn instead from those under his sway. Laronar had seen the techniques of the Feral Druids under Staghelm's influence, and while he was irked that credit for them had been personally claimed by Staghelm, countering his lies with a show of who the superior Feral Druid was would only seem petty, and after all, Xuen had wished for him to pass that knowledge on. Evidently, the mastery of flowing between a single killing bite and bleeding a foe to death had been effectively passed on, and that was more than enough for Laronar. It didn't really matter who took credit for it, so long as the techniques kept people alive, and defending nature.
There were still one or two of the stronger Feral Arts that hadn't made it into the mainstream quite yet, and Laronar was still working on many of them. They required one to control their rage with intense focus, and in his Cat Form, Laronar had learned to cover his claws, and then his Nightsaber body, in intense natural lightning at will during such a frenzy. The undead Scourge had made for good target practice, but now, he would learn if his techniques would be effective on this new form of void madness infecting the Emerald Dream.
Several Weeks Later...
"Four hundred and ninety eight...four hundred ninety nine...and five hundred. I'll take my Reagents now, ladies." Laronar Stormclaw said, as he hung upside down from one of the sturdy building signposts, this one in particular being outside the Retreat.
The two Dryads he was speaking to, chuckled, and around them, the forest flourished with their amusement. "Very well, Archdruid." Said the less flushed of the pair. She paused, and whispered to her sister, who broke down laughing, and nodded, as she hid her face in her hands. The bolder Laughing Sister looked back up to Laronar. "Get to a thousand, and we'll double it." She said, sounding confident.
Laronar shrugged, and took five deep breaths before swinging back upside down. It was about ten minutes later that he finished, panting hard, as he hit a thousand inverted ab crunches, and dropped from the sign with a graceful flip. He landed in a tri point pose, and rose slowly, towering over the two Dryads. They flinched, as the Archdruid snarled, and red-orange lighting sparked briefly around him, then sank into his body. He held out a clawed hand then, and smirked at the pair. "Double, was it?"
The now equally flushed but still bolder Dryad nodded, and tossed a hefty sack of natural spell components at Laronar, before she and her sister dashed off into the forest, giggling. "Having fun?" Came a voice from a druid that Laronar recognized, and even liked. Rensar Greathoof strode up through the relatively empty grove, and stopped before the sweat-covered Feral Druid. "I'm surprised you're goofing off with Dryads, and not at the Convocation on Teldrassil."
Only a few elders of Val'sharah, who were awake, had been invited to the new World Tree. Many in Val'sharah had seen the planting of the Crown of the Earth as a rash one, but then as now, Malfurion Stormrage had once again been trapped in the Emerald Dream by a mysterious force that Laronar was aware Rensar had been investigating. Like him, Greathoof had fought in both Silithus conflicts, and survived. Many druids had made studying the powers that aided the bugs a priority, and Laronar had helped with a few of the spells, mostly runic enchantments that allowed weapons to damage shadow beings, and their widespread use. Removing curses was another recent but useful trick that had been developed, and mastered, after much study of shadow based magic, and how to disperse it.
Laronar raised a lengthy dark green eyebrow. "There's a Convocation?"
Rensar nodded, as he affirmed how much Fandral Staghelm disliked his feral contemporary. "Yes, a Convocation that Fandral has called to heal Teldrassil." Rensar gave Laronar a look. "He took the Idol, Stormclaw."
Laronar's eyes widened. "That would serve as a powerful source, if it was corrupted…" He knew how the Void Gods fought. Even in his own epic clash in the bowels of Ahn'Qiraj, some of their number had, briefly, been turned against their fellows, until their priests freed their minds. For all Fandral knew, he might be corrupting Teldrassil, instead of helping it, and even after all their clashes, Laronar did not once think the Archdruid would betray them purposefully. Staghelm was an ass, but he'd been with the Circle since the early days. There were precious few of those first students left, but Laronar was convinced none of them would betray the Circle. Getting an idea for the problem Laronar had been facing, namely, the newly found severe corruption in Stonetalon Peak, he bowed to Rensar. "Your wisdom has given me a fresh idea for the corruption we face in the Dream. Forgive my abrupt departure."
Rensar just gave the Feral Archdruid a light smirk. "This is not the first time you've abruptly left. I doubt it will be the last. May the Forest Lord watch your path, Archdruid." Laronar nodded, and with a front flip into his Owl Form and a few power flaps, he was heading for Kalimdor, and Stonetalon Peak.
The trip, as the owl flies, took several days, and while his landfall was made in Horde territory, the savages in the midst of training and questing never saw so much as a footprint. He was sorely tempted to remind them who Kalimdor belonged to, to make them far less carefree and secure behind their truly primitive walls carved from the stolen wood of Ashenvale, but he had other tasks to see to.
The whole trip took the better part of a week, and in that time, Laronar could sense a vague change in the Dream. What he sensed from the planet itself however, concerned him far more. He'd smoked up enough shamans to know when the spirits were crying out in pain. It wasn't too terrible yet, but he knew with time, whatever was making them scream would likely erupt onto Azeroth with the same amount of terror and imminent death as the last two global catastrophes. He didn't know what was up with this decade in particular after ten millennia of relative peace, but it seemed like everything was kicking off.
When he finally came within sight of Stonetalon Summit, he immediately sensed the wrongness of the corruption here. Being a 'neighbor' of the mountain, with his own favored grove not being far at all from Stonetalon Peak, Laronar had a vested interest in keeping it, and the druidic den there, free of void corruption. From what he sensed, things had only gotten worse, in his absence.
The exact moment Laronar landed, Azeroth cried out, stunning him as what had to be every earth elemental screamed, like a female about to give birth. The planet's crust was heaving, and as Laronar sensed this, the ground beneath him began to break. Foul fumes filled the air, and he quickly covered his breathing holes with a large hand as the intense amber eyes searched the area. He saw corpses of fallen Sentinels, even what looked like a sleeping Ravenoak, a druid he had trained and befriended, when he'd woken up to take a brief respite from the Dream.
Without warning, Laronar was suddenly trapped in a dense fog, and as he wandered it, a familiar green glow lit it up. He kept walking, and emerged from sudden inexplicable foliage to a memory he'd purposefully suppressed for the better part of ten millennia. His father, sprinting for all he had away from Eldarath, Storm in hot pursuit behind him. Then, came his younger self. Gangly, awkward, thin, weak, he'd forgotten how pathetic he'd looked before Kota trained him, and his muscles filled out.
He knew what came next, and wanted to avert his gaze, but couldn't. The hellbeast from his nightmares emerged soon after, in this version of events, scenting Laronar, and chasing him. His mother's impaled corpse, was still atop the spear.
You Failed them…
He didn't even notice the voice, until it repeated. You Failed them…they Died…defending You…
"I was a child…" He snarled, more by reflex than anything. His sharp ears knew nothing had actually spoken to him, and vaguely, he knew this voice was entirely in his head.
The scene continued, as he knew it would. C'thun had used similar tactics, but whatever voidspawn was responsible for his current vision was a lot more subtle than the Qiraji had been. He watched himself trip, and unceremoniously sail into a bush, which would have been comical, if it hadn't made his father stop, and turn around for him. It was weird seeing this from a new angle.
He knew it was a fabricated lie, drawn on what his subconscious and repressed memory contained. It didn't make seeing his father's face, worried and in pain for his child, any easier. Laronar had almost forgotten what it looked like, but in this moment it was faithfully recreated, no doubt to inflict more emotional damage. Once more, the Doomguard struck with the lance, and once more, his parents came face to face in death.
This time though, he could understand what the foul demon was saying, and that, was where the void made its edit, which was also what Laronar was waiting for. His perspective changed to that of his younger self, and the stench of the demonbreath was almost overpowering as it washed over his face.
"Your World...will Turn…" An image of Azeroth, somehow from above its skies, filled his mind. The planet slowly began exploding with purple energy, becoming quickly engulfed by the void. "Your Only option is to Submit...give up...hide... your world Cannot be saved! We are Endlessss….."
"You're right…" Young Laronar mumbled weakly. "If we give up, we'll never save Azeroth from your endless, entropic hunger!"
"What!?"
The source of this illusion, and the leader of this attack in particular for this stage of the Old One's plan, recoiled in shock as the mind, and only the mind, of the ensnared druid shifted its form from a child, into an orange-gold, opaque Nightsaber. Because of what he was, and the time he'd been strongly pressured into spending within the Dream, Laronar was able to keep his real self, and his Dream self separate. Whatever entity was attacking his mind, it was even then trying to take over his body, and corrupt it with void energies.
In short order, Laronar's Dream Cat Form had torn out the throat of the Doomguard, which then in turn became the tentacled, writhing form of the Nightmare creature, and reality shifted back into the primary focus of their fight. Laronar was already shifted, and he stood before the physical source of the mind he'd fought off.
The aberration screeched at him, with a multitude of hoarse, high-pitched voices all at once as barbed, flailing tentacles erupted up from the ground around him. "Heeeaaaarrrr the Caaaaall!"
The amber eyes of the shifted druid narrowed, and crimson lightning sparked around his claws as he sank into the shadows. Normally, such tricks wouldn't work on a creature of the void, but Laronar was not a rogue, and employed a very different, more natural form of stealth. He'd tried passing it on to the Human Shaw, and his minions, but only Shaw had been able to understand how to read the natural shadows of the world, and bend them to cover his movements.
Thinking of his allies, and his past fights, Laronar realized he needed to take the advantage of numbers. He could bleed and shred the tentacles supporting the creature, but he would need consistent damage on it, to keep it from recovering. Several Qiraji had bodies that had writhed like this one, and they'd been quite hard to kill. Thankfully, Stonetalon Peak was home to significant forests, steeped as it was in the energy of nature. He awoke the trees around him and they began to form into Treants. He blinked in surprise, as within the stand just behind his current hidden position, directly behind the entity, there had been a sleeping Ancient of War. Laronar broke into a wide, cat grin but he would need his elven form to rouse an Ancient like Old Ironbark.
The last Laronar had heard of his old friend was that he had faded back into the Dream after aiding some adventurers in Dire Maul. Evidently, he had joined the druids resting here, in this place of natural power to recover from his ordeal. Laronar silently shifted forms, kneeling on the ground, and staying Shadowmelded. Perfectly still. He summoned nature then, and gave his own energy as well, to the sleeping Ancient, who was almost healed.
Seconds ticked by, as the faceless monstrosity began ordering the tentacles to surround him with constant spinning strikes, that would reveal anyone coming close.
Then, suddenly, the earth began to rumble, and the aberration screeched, flailing as it lost balance. The trees behind it leapt with suicidal abandon onto the flailing mass of void tentacles, and their sharp bark claws tore into it. Then, a shadow loomed over the creature, as Old Ironbark rose under the light of Elune. His magical protections meant for war burned to life, with runes not unlike those Laronar used on his own chest 'armor'.
A massive gnarled foot came stomping down on the Harbinger of the Old Ones, pinning it in place, and then, like a crimson meteor, came Laronar, leaping down from Ironbark's 'shoulders'. The tentacle monster didn't have a 'neck' like other life forms, as a long piece of chitinous armor hung down its face and nose bits, making a bite hard to land.
Laronar laid down his bleeds instead, tearing into the mass of tentacles. Black and blue blood spattered everywhere, but Laronar kept his jaws firmly clamped shut to avoid contamination. He continued his clawing efforts, as Old Ironbark began smashing apart its armor with titanic blows.
The creature screeched incoherently, and its foul words seeped into the minds of the creatures attacking it. "Yoouuur foooorm is Meaninglessssss! We are Endlessssss!"
Despite the screeching, the following punches reduced the creature to void goo, and finally, it gurgled and died. The summoned Treants, those that yet lived, collapsed into a pile of tinder as the spell animating them faded, and though the fissures in the earth remained, the void taint receded. Laronar cast a Remove Curse on himself and Ironbark just to be sure.
Old Ironbark rumbled to Laronar as the foul mist covering Stonetalon Peak began to fade. "The Dream is under siege. Malfurion calls for our aid, Stormclaw."
Laronar nodded. "See to the locals. Then head into the Dream. There's a portal nearby I can use to join you."
The Ancient of War rumbled an affirmation, and stomped off to handle checking on the unconscious locals, but determined that they would not be free until the Nightmare war ended. Once Ironbark was on his way to answer Malfurion's call, Laronar had several places he wanted to check, before leaping into the Dream in its current state. The shadows had fallen, and the extent of the corruption spreading within that realm was felt even by him, one who had never really prioritized going there, when he could hone his physical skills in the real world.
First, and closest, was Shandris and Alaria, who were both in Darnassus at that moment. He could see the faint outline of the World Tree even from Stonetalon, though he tended to avoid the new capital of his people.
Laronar, like his Shan'do, had never been overly fond of the newest World Tree, but the rest of their kin were, and so the Cenarion Circle had devoted significant amounts of effort to protecting the tree from Nightmare incursions under the guidance of Fandral Staghelm. That, was another reason Laronar avoided the otherwise rather lovely boughs of the Kaldorei's latest capital. The Cenarion Enclave was home to those with undying loyalty to Fandral, and all of them knew Laronar by sight and scent. The closer he came, Laronar saw more of the tree, and instead of starlight and a faint purple glow, Darnassus was now seeping mist from the boughs of the capital city. He reached out to the owl, and urged it for more speed, as he began flying upwards towards the boughs. He was unaware of the portal that sat at the World Tree's base.
Darnassus - Teldrassil
Shandris Feathermoon and the other Sentinels of Darnassus were fighting a losing battle. This 'Nightmare' as the druids had termed it, was unlike anything she or the others had fought before, and evidently, it was what had snared one who was like a father to her. Indeed, the only reason they were not yet possessed by Nightmare was because of the sheer amount of Moon Priests among their forces, keeping the void based entities struggling to manifest at bay with the power of Elune's light. None was more effective than Alaria Stormclaw. Recently returned, victorious, from defeating the Lich King and then witnessing the events that followed, Tyrande had given her leave to recover, and for the first time in Alaria's recent memory, praise for her efforts after she'd shared the worst kept secret on Azeroth, the new identity of the Lich King.
Regular weapons were useless, and those who remained either blessed their blades with Moonwell water, or were capable of wielding her light. For Alaria's part, the Nightmare kept assaulting her brain with images of her death. How easily she'd fallen, how dead she would have been if Tirion had not been able to escape, and shatter Frostmourne. She shook the visions off, and summoned a storm of divinity, smashing each of the foul visions trying to manifest into reality back from whence they'd come. There were always more, though. Eventually, she returned to Shandris, bags under her eyes. "General…what are we…holding out for? This enemy is endless. We cannot keep this up."
Shandris' brow furrowed further. If even Alaria was running out of stamina, things were more dire than she'd originally thought. "We hold out for Malfurion, and the Druids. Now that he's back, surely we can defeat this…" She fired another arrow that spun a holy swathe through the horde of Nightmare creatures, but as always, they simply reformed.
Seeing the dire straits his sister and the General were in, Laronar's Owl Form let out a furious, attention grabbing shriek as he dove into the fray near them. The Nightmare creatures fell upon him, but Shandris knew what came next. If a swarm of Qiraji couldn't kill Laronar Stormclaw, a pile of shadowed dreamforms would do little. "Everyone back!" Shandris ordered, and shortly after her Sentinels retreated, the pile of void creatures was illuminated by crimson lightning, the empowered version of what Xuen himself used.
The Nightmare pile exploded in gobbets of 'flesh' that soon faded into nothingness, and Laronar's somewhat iconic Cat Form made short work of the foul entities. With his bleeds applied, Laronar resumed his elven form, blasting the creatures left with bolts of Sunfire. The orange-gold energy of their planet, and nature's ferocity, burned them to the nothingness their companions now enjoyed. Shandris just stared for a minute, remembering just how strong and fast the druid could be. He also seemed fresh from another fight, as the tentacle lashes the void creature had given him had not disappeared with his shift in forms. He hadn't noticed, but they were actually rather deep wounds. Alaria noticed though, and she ran to her brother, giving him several flashes of healing light as the foul wounds purified, and closed.
Seeing the threat in this part of the city waning, he turned to Shandris. "They're not real! The Nightmare is playing with your minds. The better to hide the Real danger." He glanced at the Sentinels then, each of whom were young enough to have a genuine connection to Darnassus, but old enough to hide their despair. "The Nightmare feeds on your hopelessness. Don't let it! It takes much for it to actually kill someone living, and far less to make them sleep, and pervert their Dreamforms. Those afflicted may yet survive...if we end this quickly. Keep your minds sharp, and it will find no purchase in you!"
"Malfurion goes even now to combat the taint within Teldrassil! The Enclave could use your aid too, Archdruid. The rumors say Fandral has fallen, and Broll Bearmantle has been leading them with other experienced Druids." As Shandris all but ordered him to rejoin his kin, he saw the General had things in hand. His dynamic entrance had given them a welcome reprieve, but already there were the figures in the foul mist reforming.
He sped over the short distance to the Cenarion Enclave, and found a group of their kin, surrounding a bound and gibbering Fandral Staghelm, as well as a pitiful few of his followers, the very elves Laronar knew were responsible for 'blacklisting' him from having new students, or generally being welcome in settlements like Nighthaven or Darnassus. As he arrived, and shifted from his Cat Form, there was a fresh quiet over the gathered group. His face must have shown his intense dislike, for Broll Bearmantle met him with a firm hand on his shoulder, as he stalked towards Fandral. "His mind is gone, Stormclaw. This isn't the time-"
"Oh, this is Exactly the time, Broll Bearmantle. Time for a reckoning long in coming." Laronar shouldered past the antlered druid, and stood before the bound, gibbering Fandral.
"They killed him…they killed my son…the Traitors! They killed him…Valstann…Valstann…Valstann…" Fandral's psychotic babbling continued, and as Laronar took him in, very aware of the eyes of his contemporaries, most of whom were his juniors. Archdruid Fandral Staghelm rocked in place, his eyes unfocused, and the more he gibbered, the more his followers looked down in shame, eyes and faces blank as they understood they'd been yoked to a madman.
"Fandral Staghelm." Laronar said the Archdruid's name, and the unfocused silver eyes shifted to him. He saw recognition in the other druid's features.
"Laronar…Stormclaw…but you…you turned feral. Vanished into the wilderness. You were little more than a beast!" Fandral's eyes widened then. "YOU are behind this, aren't you! You helped them kill my son! My Valstann! I always knew you were a Traitor!"
Seeing his longtime adversary in this state slowly abated the anger, and indeed, the hatred Laronar had been harboring for his contemporary. Now, all he felt was pity, and loss, for the respectable druid Fandral had once been. Laronar knelt down to Fandral, and stared him down. "Fandral, listen to me. Valstann died thousands of years ago, in the War of the Shifting Sands. In Silithus."
Remembrance came over Fandral's features. "Silithus…you're…you're right…they…they…my son…" For a moment he seemed lucid, and then the moment passed, as the whispers returned. "Malfurion…Malfurion did this to my son!" The man broke down again rocking and gibbering, and Laronar realized that even here, surrounded by druids, the Nightmare was still twisting Fandral. He pumped a Remove Curse into the Archdruid, and his eyes cleared again. Only to then be clouded by sparkling tears, as he relived the horror of watching his only boy be ripped apart by the Qiraji general.
"We have never been friends Fandral…but even I grieved for your loss. Nobody should outlive their offspring. I would not even wish that fate on you…and now the Nightmare has made you suffer it twice over. You should die, for your betrayal…for what you have wrought in this Tree, and our newest generations of Druids. But that is not how the Cenarion Circle does things. Perhaps someday…you can atone for this. But right now, we've more important worries than You." With a deep exhale, Laronar let the hate go, at least for now, and he heard a few exhales of relief, from the other druids. It seemed they were well aware of his quarrel with Staghelm, and his feral tendencies. He wasn't bothered though, for Feral Druids had long been the butt end of many a joke among Fandral's ilk. In the future, Fandral would likely be more himself, and with that, Laronar had no doubt his dislike for the man would return.
Just then, Malfurion's voice echoed in their heads. All of their heads. Every druid on Teldrassil was called upon by their Shan'do. "We are healing the World Tree. Prepare yourselves." Sensing the gist of what Malfurion had in mind, Broll, Hamuul Runetotem, and Laronar led groups of druids through the Nightmare spawn to points all around the edges of Darnassus. The rest of the tree, they would leave to Malfurion.
Over the next twenty or so minutes, the gathered druids gave all they had to Malfurion's spell, and Laronar sensed him guiding the tree's roots to draw deeper from Azeroth. Slowly, the taint of the Nightmare faded. Then, a roar from above made those who heard it pause. A golden crimson light suddenly bathed the World Tree, and Laronar blinked in disbelief. "I…know this power…the Dragon Aspect of Life has decided to bless Teldrassil."
The druids around him murmured, but felt the truth of his words. Laronar, for his part, was sad though. It was one more sign that the times had changed. Nordrassil was put even further out of mind, and he could already tell, efforts would be made to focus on the growth of this new World Tree, rather than healing the old one. He knew Nordrassil would recover in time, though whether its blessings did as well remained to be seen. Many of their order argued that the roots of Nordrassil, embedded in Illidan's recreated Well of Eternity, would eventually restore magical power to the Dragon Aspect's blessings as well, including their sorely missed immortality. Now, it seemed, even Malfurion was willing to leave that behind, and embrace the new era.
Not long after that, Malfurion called the druids back to the Enclave, where it was revealed that Fandral had somehow created his own portal to the Emerald Dream, something Laronar had wanted for his own grove, but had been told was impossible to make by mortal hands. Alexstrasza herself appeared then in her 'elven' mortal form, and offered to hold the portal open, for this next part of their war against the Nightmare. Evidently, that was the catch-all term they were using for the void-fueled madness creeping through the world.
Broll Bearmantle and Hamuul Runetotem went with Malfurion, while the ancient druid began mentally handing out assignments to the rest of the Circle. With Laronar, he had a brief conversation, but one that seemed to confirm Malfurion's fears, when Laronar recounted battling the tentacle void monster, with some help. Malfurion charged him then, with calling on as many allies as possible. Nightsabers. Moonkin. Anything and everything with the capability to dream, and fight, would be needed.
Laronar went back to Old Ironbark, who was halfway to Ashenvale when Laronar found him. Once he found somewhere safe within the shadowed forest, he promised to enter the Dream, and answer Malfurion's call. Laronar flew on then, to his own grove, and the Ancient of Eternity who grew there, just outside his hut. Fangorn, as he was called, was slow to awaken, his own dreams of late darkened by the surging power of the Nightmare.
Laronar called together the other denizens of his now ancient forest, and instructed them on what Malfurion needed of them. As one, they both protected Fangorn, and used his powerful connection to the Dream to appear exactly where Malfurion guided them, and like so many others from across the planet, they joined the incorporeal army fighting for the continued existence of Azeroth.
Laronar did not enter the Dream however, as he had another stop to make. His dreamform swallowed the miles between Kalimdor and Val'sharah, where he found the essence of the Nightmare surging through the Forest Lord's part of the Broken Isles in particular. He found the Moonclaw Den, suffused in Nightmare, but dispelled it with an area of effect fusion of Dispel Magic and Remove Curse. The foul mist receded from Thaon and his acolytes, and once more, Laronar told him of what their Shan'do needed. In short order, the Moonclaw Druids were also among the dream army with their stormy counterparts.
His dreamform flew to the Skyhorn tribe then, and like the rest of the planet, the Tauren of Highmountain seemed caught in the foul mist. Most of the druids Laronar floated past were already trapped firmly within their dreams, but there was one in particular that wasn't moving, that made Laronar stop. Kota, the ninety third son of Kota, his first mentor, lay dead, claimed by the Nightmare. Beside him was Kota, the ninety fourth son, and the latest scion in the lengthy line of his proud Skyhorn ancestry. Again, Laronar bid him enter the Nightmare willingly, to join Malfurion Stormrage in the fight for the Dream. Having met Laronar once, albeit as a child, Kota trusted the disembodied druid who'd befriended quite a few members of his lineage, and did as he was asked in lending the aid of Ohn'ara to the war in the Dream.
Last, but by no means the least of his allies, Laronar appeared not far from Ashamane's den, amidst a pride of Nightsabers ruled by a massive, powerful male. Storm was in his peak, the very definition of all that an adult male Stormsaber should be, and then some. Like the matriarchs of the other Nightsaber prides around Ashamane's area of influence, Storm had been blessed with great size, a clear sign that the panther Ancient favored him as she favored his oldest friend. His pride was yet awake, and as Laronar bid them to sleep and fight, he also joined them, transforming his dreamform into a passable vestige of Ashamane, and the form she blessed him with in the waking world.
Almost immediately upon joining the throng of dreamforms, Laronar felt that the entity behind this conflict was doing its damnedest to try to demoralize the defenders. The foul mist hid their true numbers, and all around the various races, be they Dwarf or Orc or elf or something else entirely, visions appeared of their 'allies' in this dream war dying violently beside them. Laronar had enough of the Void's mind games by this point, and with Storm and his offspring, led a charge into the ranks of the Nightmare, slicing open the throat of a fake Alaria with little hesitation. Their charge was but one of many, with Varian Wrynn leading the main one, and together, the sleeping hordes of as yet uncorrupted dreamers took the fight to the Nightmare. As much as they could, at least.
Fighting them was like fighting smoke. From some perspectives, this was a boon to the Nightmare, as it made them seem elusive, and everywhere. Laronar wasn't buying it though. His eyes and his senses, replicated and heightened by Ashamane in his dreamform, told him the true numbers of their foe, and as usual, the Void God was overcompensating. Thus, as he always did in war, Laronar melded into the shadows, an easy thing to do with all the mist infecting the Dream, and tracked down the satyrs leading this attack.
He recognized a few of them as targets he'd missed during the War of the Satyr, when he was younger. A few of the demonic former elves even seemed to recognize his massive, saber-fanged black form, before he tore out their throat. Though he knew they would reincarnate in the Twisting Nether, he also knew that a being like Sargeras and his lieutenants would punish them harshly for lingering so long on Azeroth at the behest of a power that was not Sargeras. Desertion compounded by failure carried a high price among the Demons.
Somewhere during the desperate turmoil, Malfurion himself began a grand spell. For Laronar, he considered a grand spell something akin to what had broken Andrassil. Malfurion, as usual, upended his expectations. The storm the first Druid conjured was planet-wide. The wind dispersed the mists, bolts of lightning struck the almost zombie-like sleepers who were even then attacking their mortal counterparts, and stunned them, rather than burnt them to a crisp. Malfurion was holding off the Nightmare's entire assault on the physical realm single-handedly, and in that space between the blurring planes of Dream and reality, he recognized a truth: though the Green Dragonflight had and would always guard the Emerald Dream, his druids were of both the Dream, and Azeroth, and this dual nature was, in actuality, one of their greatest strengths. To Laronar, and the few others of their order who disliked the Dream, this revelation was obvious, but for Malfurion this was clearly a big moment, and it allowed him to draw deeper from both realms to empower his spell.
At that point, he called upon his druids, all of his druids, to also empower his global storm spell. Then, as Laronar made to do as his kin did, and found a secluded Dream tree withered only slightly by the Nightmare behind which to hide himself, he felt another mind touch his, one that Ashamane welcomed with a surge of emotions that redefined her relationship with the new contact, for Laronar. Xu'en, the White Tiger was all but a myth to the majority of the other druids, and only Laronar and two others of his calling had ever managed to travel far enough in the Dream, physically, to train with the White Tiger Ancient.
Now, his voice echoed in Laronar's skull. "Your Shan'do will need my aid for what comes. It must reach the entire planet, for even Pandaria has succumbed to this strange sleep sickness. Channel my power, scion of the Stormclaws. Your Malfurion will know what to do."
And so, Laronar did as he asked, guiding the raw fury of arguably the most powerful substance nature could naturally produce; superheated plasma, into the spell Malfurion wove. Like a Gnomish engineer finding the right component for his Magnum Opus, Malfurion harnessed the power, and directed it into the final, decisive strike against the Nightmare and its avatar. The resulting roar of thunder boomed loud enough to be heard on every corner of Azeroth, but to Laronar, the White Tiger's voice within it was clear. He thanked Xu'en, as he felt the Wild God withdrawing back to his place in Pandaria. It must've taken quite a bit of energy to reach that far and provide for such a spell, but Xu'en had simply borne the burden without complaint.
Unbeknownst to Laronar, who was now helping the global storm like the others, Malfurion managed to align several desperate fights into the same moment. Somewhere, a female Orc with a Legendary axe swung mightily into the dreamform of Xavius, the being responsible for this latest surge of Nightmare. At the same time, Malfurion and Tyrande battled in the real world, against Xavius' real body, now risen from the cold abyssal depths of the ocean bordering what was left of Eldarath in all his Nightmare tree glory. Malfurion made more use of the lightning, striking the foul tree until naught remained but a smoldering husk.
Then, almost as quickly as it had come, the Nightmare faded. The mists in the Dream receded, the dreamform army gained a measure of their remaining foes, Satyrs all of them, and Varian Wrynn himself led the charge, oddly enough, shrouded in a cloak of Goldrinn's power. Laronar had tried calling upon the Wolf Ancient, but it seemed he had been contributing as well, in his own way, for Varian Wrynn was in command of the army of Horde, Alliance, and beastial races. As the conflict ended, Malfurion used his dual draw on Azeroth and the Dream both to guide the dreamforms of those who'd answered the call back to their bodies. Quite a few lives were saved by his efforts, lowering the total losses the Nightmare War inflicted to a minimal, and yet still depressingly high number, with the druids of the Cenarion Circle having suffered the most casualties. Xavius had murdered entire barrow dens within the Moonglade after trapping them in the Dream, and all the Sisterhood of Elune had been able to do was keep the greatest of them alive through that.
Once Laronar returned to his body as well, Broll and Hamuul returned through Fandral's Dream portal, and upon seeing no need for it, Alexstrasza bathed it in gold and crimson flame, just incase it possessed an untraceable lingering Nightmare taint. Fandral Staghelm was imprisoned in the barrow deeps of Hyjal, and watched by the Druids of the Claw there. He was a mad, gibbering mess, and Laronar hoped they had all seen the last of his foul schemes and subpar leadership.
With Fandral gone and his sycophants largely shamed and called out by the other druids, Laronar now found himself welcome in Kaldorei society for the first time in millennia. And yet, despite his obvious seniority and status as either a very powerful druid or an Archdruid, one did not simply erase the quirks and awkwardness that came with socializing after thousands of years with minimal sentient contact.
Malfurion had, upon beating Xavius, fallen asleep once more, and both Tyrande and Shandris watched over him, keeping away all of his druids, until he awoke. Hamuul voiced concern that he might yet be trapped in sleep again, but eventually, Shandris let him and Broll in to speak with Malfurion. As they and the High Priestess talked, Shandris strode down the massive bridge leading into the center of Darnassus, and came upon a familiar Cat Form, snoozing among the roots of the bear/eagle tree the druids had shaped around Darnassus's bank.
"Now there's something I never expected to see. It looks like this crisis has endeared both Mal and you towards Teldrassil." She said, stopping before him. Laronar opened one intense amber eye as she spoke, and jolted him from his nap. There weren't many people he'd shift forms for, especially as drained as he was after the druid's efforts against the Nightmare, but Shandris was definitely an exception. He stretched as a cat, and then rose, into a standing position in his elven form. Shandris looked him over, and then seemed to frown. "And yet Elune's Light still avoids you…even here…even now."
Laronar glanced at his darkened purple skin, and then shrugged. "Elune made her position on me quite clear, and I made my position on Goldrinn clear to her. Nothing has changed, in that regard, for thousands of years now Shandris. Why should today be any different? Your Goddess has no more use for me, just my sister."
Shandris' brow furrowed. "But Alaria told me you'd successfully communed with her. Surely she would forgive you if you just-" Laronar held up a hand. He knew what came next. The same words every single Priestess of Elune he'd gone to had spouted to him, despite the clear lack of evidence in the reality of his situation. Elune forgives all her children, who willingly embrace her. A common, if somewhat ancient saying among the older Sisters of the order, and one that evidently did not extend to him. By this point, he'd lived longer without Elune than he had with her blessing, and whatever redemption awaited him was, apparently, yet to come.
"Elune has no forgiveness for me, Shandris. She's made that abundantly clear. I never stopped embracing her, and I never forsook her. Using the teachings her Sisterhood instilled in me as a child, I empathized with a being I saw as being wrongly maligned for embracing his nature. For that choice, your Goddess cast me out from her 'favored children', and I refuse to go crawling back to her, begging and scraping for forgiveness. She would not give it, and Goldrinn would lose all respect for me, when next I attempted to take his shape. Let the matter rest. Do you not have more important things to attend to? Like a certain ceremony, perhaps?"
The Sentinel General took in the words of her friend and former lover, and her heart broke a little, hearing the tone in his voice. The whole situation between all three of them, Elune, Goldrinn, and Laronar, irritated her to no end. It was a depressing and needless triangle of powerful egos vying for the rightness of their argument, and the only one who truly suffered because of it, was Laronar, who refused to do what was needed to absolve it. Mercifully, the Archdruid changed the subject, and for now, she let it rest. There would come a day to deal with this celestial drama, but evidently, it was not this day. "So you've heard, have you? I suppose that means everyone knows, already."
Laronar smirked. "In a city full of elves and sharp ears, you have to expect people to gossip when they learn the power couple of their race is finally, officially, getting married. I suppose ten millennia late is better than never. I did tell him to visit her more, you know. As you asked."
Shandris smiled, at that. "I had a feeling it was you! I remember that time he awoke, during the Long Vigil. I half expected them to marry then, but…the Dream and his craft consumed much of Mal's focus. But you are right, Archdruid Stormclaw. I have a ceremony to prepare for, as do you. I'll see you there."
With that, she strode away, and Laronar found himself watching the sway of her hips as she did, before he shook his head free of the draw of male instinct. He returned to the Cenarion Enclave then, and began aiding in the druid's efforts to prepare Darnassus for the flood of dignitaries and celebrants that would accompany such a stately event.
It was, in short, a wedding. Esteemed personages from around the world came to thank Malfurion for his efforts, and even Thrall and the Horde sent greetings by way of some random female Orc that Malfurion and Tyrande seemed to know. Rhonin Redhair of the Kirin Tor made a display with ten rainbows magically spreading across the sky. Then, the ceremony began. Sisters and Sentinels represented their High Priestess on one side of Darnassus, and the Druids of the Cenarion Circle made up the other side.
Even the two Dragon Aspects who'd participated actively in this conflict came by, with their consorts in tow. Laronar smirked, amused by the reactions of some of the younger Kaldorei, upon hearing what multiple Dragons in mid flight sounded like. It was an assault on the ears, and a powerful reminder that the massive magical lizards were beings on an entirely different level from the mortals they mingled with. But that didn't stop them from officiating the wedding in impressive unison. Ysera gave her blessing to Teldrassil as well, and with two of the three Aspect's blessings now restored to the Kaldorei, Laronar felt better than he had in a long time. Hopeful, even.
The Dream was safe, Malfurion Stormrage was among the waking world again, Fandral was in chains, and as he let his amber gaze scan the crowd opposite him, he noted a few Sisters and Sentinels eyeing his unapologetically shredded musculature, but one seemingly shy silver haired Moon Priestess in particular caught his gaze and turned several shades darker purple, and it was towards her that the druid prowled, once the ceremony concluded, and the time for feasting began. The Kaldorei partied hard that night, and many nights after, and for the first time since Nordrassil fell, Laronar felt a measure of hope for the future of his people, and their world.
Chapter 26: Shattered
Chapter Text
Deep Beneath Shaladrassil - Val'sharah, Broken Isles
In the wake of the global Nightmare attack, many things that had once been soundly sleeping for millennia, began to wake up. In Val'sharah, the Satyrs that Thaon Moonclaw had so passionately argued for killing, came to consciousness after millennia of being trapped in an endless dream. Archdruid Glaidalis, who was now essentially the keeper of the World Tree, did not notice the wakening Satyrs. Not because he was lax in his duty, but because the power of N'zoth, while weaker compared to the other now mostly fallen Old Gods, was very good at subtly dulling the senses of mortals, so that its dark plans could continue unnoticed in the shadows. With Malfurion awake in Teldrassil, it was more than free to set more of its foul plans into other Old Gods overwhelmed with numbers or corrupted beings of power to enhance their own, N'Zoth tended to throw multiple schemes into action, and further the one most likely to succeed in bringing about a return of the Black Empire.
Even now, the tentacled being was torturing Xavius, not unlike how Sargeras had tortured and re-made his very soul when he'd failed the Fel Titan, after the first time Stormrage blew him apart with lightning. N'zoth was remaking him anew as well, for he had been stuck as a tree thanks to Malfurion Stormrage for ten thousand years. Within the Dream, and beneath Shaladrassil's roots, N'zoth planted a part of its own self, a tumor that would grow to infest the Dream, the World Tree, and the druid's precious forest. As the tumor became protected by a massive, unsettling reddish-orange eye at the entrance to the hollow where the Old God had placed it, the Satyrs stirring to consciousness in the Dream began approaching it, pulling back, as the strange entity shifted its unnatural eye to look at each of them.
You...will Serve…
One of the Satyrs sneered at the eyeball. "We serve only the glory of Sargeras, and the Lord Xavius. Not some...eyeball."
Sargeras is Nothing...Xavius is Mine… Serrated crimson tentacles rose out of the ground then, and wrapped within the being's painful grip, was the as yet still incorporeal form of Azshara's longtime advisor, firmly entrapped. Though after getting blasted apart by Stormrage's lightning, again, the clenching grip was like a pillow by comparison.
The horde of tentacles surged then, snagging the group of Satyrs before they could so much as move. Now, you will learn the Truth… The tentacles sank into the physical and Dream forms of the ensnared Satyrs via their foreheads and their eyes went wide as the spawn of N'Zoth revealed the secret history of Azeroth, a history buried by the Titans. Eventually, the tentacles released the Satyrs, including Xavius. They gasped as they fell to the ground, and their wounds began not to heal, but to reverse, their blood flowed back into them, even more tainted, and the demonic aspect of the Satyrs gave in to their new patron's influence. The Hour approaches. Prepare.
And with that, N'Zoth shunted the glowing crimson furred Satyrs deep into the Dream, within the Rift of Aln, where they did as ordered.
Darnassus - Teldrassil
Once the Dragons departed, and the fruit from the typically non fruit-bearing World Tree was devoured by Stormrage's guests, Laronar made his way to Malfurion and Tyrande, just another face in a long line of well wishers, but one Malfurion seemed genuinely glad to see. The two shredded Archdruids clasped each other by the wrist, and a rare smile cracked the Feral Druid's typically stoic expression. "Shan'do. High Priestess. Congratulations." The amber eyes darted to their daughter, who was standing with her found family on the eve of a momentous victory, and a union long in coming. He noted a fresh Alor'el plant in front of her, but did not need her to divulge its meaning. He'd been the one to show it to her, after all. "I know I'm not the only one who has long awaited this most welcome union. I would say you have both more than earned this day."
Malfurion thanked him, as he'd done with all the druids, while Tyrande watched. Most druids she said a few words to, or simply smiled at. But for Laronar, her face was unreadable as she took in his shadowed form, from his peripheral vision, at least. Even after ten thousand years of being under her rule, the High Priestess still unnerved him. He felt her silver eyes upon him, silently judging his shredded, but darkened skin. He began to have a clearer idea of how Goldrinn had felt, and he felt the old wolf watching him, and smirking. Tyrande was no enemy to him though, no more than Elune was to Goldrinn, and he endeavored to prove that to the stubborn Ancient.
"You mentioned corruption at Stonetalon, before we entered the Dream. You and Old Ironbark saw it beaten, yes?" Malfurion asked, seeming genuinely concerned about corruption in a barrow as deep as Stonetalon.
Laronar nodded slowly, "We might have. Void taint is...like a persistent fungus. If we don't cut it out completely, it will regrow. I didn't stay long enough to properly search."
Tyrande finally spoke then. "This corruption you faced...what form did it take?"
Laronar frowned as he recalled the monstrosity. "It was... a vaguely humanoid shaped mass of writhing tentacles. Definitely a servant of whatever Void power is behind the Nightmare." He looked at Malfurion then. "It wasn't serving Xavius, or Fandral, and I'm sure there are more, appearing in other areas of the world."
Malfurion, who had recently been connected to the majority of the world, nodded. "Their reach extends far, beyond what I expected. I sensed it during our spell while I was one with Azeroth and Teldrassil. Dark forces have been at work while I have been asleep...you were right, Laronar. I should have paid more attention to the waking world."
"Malfuri-" Laronar started, but the married druid stopped him with a raised hand. "Naralex told me what happened in Nighthaven, with Fandral and the Tauren. For even you, who has learned to all but control Goldrinn's fury, to have lost control...Staghelm was out of line, crossing a line I myself drew, and you, along with many others, people I care for, have now suffered, because of my insistence on protecting the Dream."
Tyrande and Laronar shared a look, and Laronar spoke first. "Shan'do Stormrage, what you learned in the Dream may have quite literally just saved the entire world. I am not exaggerating when I say nobody, not even all the Archdruids together, could've replicated that spell on a global scale. Your decision to train was the right one, even if our enemy took advantage of it this time. Even if it had consequences, both foreseen and not." Laronar clapped a hand against the Archdruid's bare arm. "This is a good day, Malfurion. One we would not be having without you. Enjoy your reward, my friend." He congratulated the couple once more, and then padded off into the crowd.
Not long after that, the tone of the party changed, Malfurion and Tyrande retired to do newlywed things, and the crowd of gathered dignitaries became progressively more drunk. The druids, namely Broll Bearmantle, kept things from becoming too debaucherous, while others, like Laronar, celebrated their victory, and the restored blessings of their World Tree. Most of them, anyway.
After an indeterminate amount of time, and on the word of a dare, he was fairly sure, Laronar ended up climbing the bank tree building, with naught but his upper body strength and arms. As he reached the top, from the other side, closest to the Temple of the Moon, he saw Shandris ascend as well, using only her leg strength, and jumping power.
She smiled as she saw him, her face flushed with what he guessed was the same amount of alcoholic influence as him. Realization suddenly came over her face, as druid-spurred fireflies began appearing in the tree's flowering branches, adding a decidedly romantic atmosphere neither had been expecting. "It seems we've been set up, Archdruid Stormclaw…"
She walked towards him, and he found himself meeting her halfway on the relatively flat tree neither one of them feared falling out of, even inebriated as they were. "So it does, General Feathermoon." From his lofty height he peered down both sides of the tree and then turned back to her. "They seem quite proud of themselves. It would be a shame for their efforts to come to naught."
"What did you have in mind?" She asked him, staring up at him. He found himself smiling as he recalled the last time she'd looked so lovely, and had been so close to him.
"Do you remember Ordil'aran?" He asked, seemingly catching her off guard. His smile became a smirk, as her flushed cheeks answered for him. "Remember how we evaded Malfurion?"
Her eyes widened, and she chuckled. Her laugh sounded different, but that wasn't too surprising. Millennia had passed since he'd last heard it. She gave him a look he remembered well, and was glad that hadn't changed. It was her turn for a question though, "Do you remember what we did once we evaded him?"
That, drew an unbidden and unexpected purr from him, and he gestured at the tree's leaves. They shifted to whitish pink, and began 'falling' down both sides of the building. In reality it was little more than a pair of minor illusion spells, but it distracted the inebriated druids and priestesses who'd sent them up there, and when they faded, the two ancient elves had seemingly vanished.
Several Weeks Later, Gilneas - Eastern Kingdoms
The Satyrs beneath Shaladrassil were not the only ancient evils imprisoned within the Dream to stir in the wake of the globalized efforts of the Nightmare. Though the Archmage Arugal had slowly summoned the ancient druids and Sentinels lost to the Worgen's curse into Silverpine Forest at the desperate order of King Genn Greymane, it was their leader, the one the more intelligent beast men referred to as 'Alpha Prime', that the disgraced mage had been all but ordered to bring back to Azeroth. Doing so unintentionally woke the rest of the Worgen, a small number of which simply ran off into the Dream, while the rest followed their alpha back to Azeroth.
Ralaar Fangfire stepped back into the waking world after thousands of years trapped 'Dreaming the Dream of the Wilds', and after feigning obeisance to Arugal, disappeared with a large number of the Worgen beyond the Archmage's means of finding them. Those Ralaar summoned, were by majority his Druids of the Scythe. The Worgen which Silverpine had produced were weak, feral savages twisted from weak, nearly feral Humans. For the army he would need to assault the Night Elves, and more importantly, Malfurion Stormrage, they would need sterner stock.
Weeks passed into months, and Argual never heard from Alpha Prime again. Not long after summoning him, a band of Horde adventurers raided Shadowfang Keep, and killed the mage. Alpha Prime couldn't have cared less though. His sights were set on the isolated kingdom of Gilneas. From what his packmates said, it was isolated from the world, and boasted a significant population of hardy Humans. In short, it was the ideal incubator for the army of worgen he intended to create, and then lead.
Alpha Prime's return did not go unnoticed however, and for the events that were to come, the Kaldorei would need to be involved, for once, in the goings on of the Eastern Kingdoms. It was Alaria Stormclaw who brought the vision to Tyrande at the same time as Priestess Belysra, and Tyrande dispatched Alaria, Belysra, and several other druids, one of them Alaria's own offspring, to Gilneas, and the tree the few Kaldorei who'd scouted the region in ages past had named Tal'doren, the physical world's mirror of Daral'nir, the tree Malfurion imprisoned the worgen beneath in the Emerald Dream.
Laronar also caught word of these developments, though it was from one of the Worgen who had quite suddenly and unexpectedly leapt from the Dreamway portal, and into the Dreamgrove. Laronar had happened to be nearby at the time restocking his stash of herb, and followed one of the Worgen whose scent he recognized. Mathrin Wildclaw, another of the ancient Feral Druids who had been taken in by Ralaar's ideals. Laronar tracked his scent, and after binding the feral Worgen with vines, Laronar came before him, and blew some crushed up Peacebloom into his face. It was no cure, but it would calm him somewhat. In the wilds of Val'sharah, the Worgen wouldn't do too much damage, and they had seemed intelligent enough to hunt.
"Mathrin Wildclaw." He started. "Last we saw you, you were imprisoned with Ralaar. What happened?" In halting, growling speech, Mathrin relayed that someone had awoken Alpha Prime and the other remaining Worgen. He, and several others, had chosen to run off into the Dream instead of follow Ralaar to wherever the portal to Azeroth was bringing him. Laronar frowned at that, but let Mathrin resume his hunt, and while the Worgen looked ready to bite him, he eventually turned and ran off. Laronar's one time apprentice, friend, and fellow early practitioner of the Feral Arts had evidently returned to the waking world, somehow. He intended to find out how, when, and where, before he returned to Malfurion.
Thus, the few Kaldorei ships that dared the treacherous crossing to the Eastern Kingdoms had an owl tagalong, which found them as they passed the Broken Isles. After learning their mission and sailing with them for several long days, Laronar agreed to aid their mission before they finally reached the Eastern Kingdoms, and made landfall. After hiding their ships, they flew by way of hippogryph and Flight Form to the imposing tree situated in the middle of one of Gilneas' largest forests. They spent roughly a week there, preparing their concoctions to help the Worgen, when one day, a feral one approached them.
His fur was white, and his bearing was regal, if injured. What was more impressive, was that the Human within was still able to talk, and in the presence of Tal'doren, that ability improved. Priestess Belysra was able to turn the feral wolfman back to his former shape with her potions, and a request from Laronar to Goldrinn. Luckily the White Wolf acquiesced, and the Night Elves learned just who it was that had come wandering into their freshly made camp. King Genn Greymane himself, currently thought missing after going out on a hunt. Alaria and the few Sentinels with her had taken to dropping eaves on the local Human populace, and naturally, none of the Humans had so much as noticed.
Genn relayed what happened to him, both during his attack, and after, when a figure calling himself 'Alpha Prime' had strongly suggested he join the alpha's efforts in creating a wolfman army. Genn had escaped with no small amount of violence, and had then wandered into the Blackwald, half dead and expecting to be taken out. Before that could happen, he had found Tal'doren, a place that Ralaar and his ilk avoided for reasons the elves knew but did not mention.
Belysra became the king's unofficial confidant, and she began meeting with him regularly once he returned to Gilnean society, relaying to the Human the story of how the Worgen had come to be, and her own part within those events.
For Laronar's part, he eventually decided to track down this 'Alpha Prime' himself. It was a small thing to track Ralaar's scent, and Ashamane's form was more than enough to stay out of the sight of the oddly accented Humans who lived in this area they'd dubbed Gilneas. It had had an elven name once, but it seemed his people were ignoring it for the Human's moniker instead. Finding the Worgen was rather easy, and it hurt Laronar's heart when one of the guards he approached sniffed the air, and then spoke in a voice he recognized. That of a druid he'd long thought dead in the War of the Satyr, one of his first apprentices.
"I know that scent…show yourrrself, Laronarrrrr." The Worgen looked around, and his fellow guard unsheathed his claws, making them even longer by several inches.
Deciding talking was the best chance to reach Ralaar, since he couldn't hide his scent from noses as sharp as Goldrinn's, Laronar melted from the shadows, and returned to his elven shape, palms open, in a general gesture that said 'I have no weapons'. "I know that voice…is that you, Kaladius? We'd…thought you dead."
The Worgen's eyes seemed to soften, for a moment, before the unbound rage of the perverted Pack Form burned it away. "What do you want, Storrrrmclaw…you never apprrroved of us…of the purity we embrrraced…you'rrre just anotherrr of Malfurrrrion's blinded Cirrrrcle."
Laronar snorted. "I succeeded where every one of you, failed. I spoke with Goldrinn. I won the White Wolf's respect, the way a Druid of the Feral Arts is supposed to, rather than trying to force his form to submit. Your leader should've asked my council, I could've told him it would never work. Take me to Ralaar. I would have words with him."
Kaladius snarled, and his friend joined in. "There is no morrre Ralaarrrr…there is only Alpha Prrrime! Go…you know how to follow the scent…"
Laronar walked past the Worgen then, not so much as glancing back at them. They'd intended to slash him as he walked by, wanted to even, but some part of their form quailed when they made to move for him, as if on some level their inner wolf knew, messing with this druid would end in certain death. Laronar quietly murmured to Goldrinn in his head, as he walked deeper into the uncharted tunnels under Gilneas. "Are you with me, White Wolf?"
"For this, Stormclaw…I am. If Ralaar can be redeemed…"
"I will try, great Goldrinn…but he was stubborn even before he perverted your form."
"Then he dies." An image of Laronar's Pack Form, tearing Ralaar's esophagus from his perverted form's throat, filled the druid's mind.
Laronar nodded grimly, and felt the Wolf Ancient's aura fold over him like a primal orange cloak, not unlike how he'd empowered Varian in the Dream. He smelled the other Worgen in the tunnels before he saw them, but like the two guards, they didn't have the charisma to challenge him. He eventually caught Ralaar's scent and knew Ralaar could smell him in turn. He sensed the altered druid's pheromones shift to that of an animal ready to fight. His hackles were up. Another alpha had come to challenge him, or so he thought.
Laronar found Ralaar as a king amidst squalor, seeming quite satisfied after recent events involving his pack. A large, deep cavern that had once been a Human mine now only played host to spiders and mutated wolfmen living amongst the bones and carrion of their kills. There he sat, his signature white streaks in his dark furred mane, every bit as feral and disappointing as he'd been when Malfurion locked him away. "I wasn't sure, when I caught the scent…but it is You. Laronar Stormclaw. The Druid who showed us the Animal Totems of the Tauren, and lit the way to the purity of Essence that we have achieved." Howling echoed through the mine, in approval, and Laronar found he could understand their noises, cloaked as he was with Goldrinn's power.
"Ralaar Fangfire…It has been many ages, my old friend." Laronar said, looking him over. "You look underfed…feral. Like a mutt with mange."
A chorus of snarls filled the chamber, and burning amber eyes glared at him from the shadows, but Laronar didn't spare them a single fuck. If they wanted to attack, they would have already, and they would have regretted it. Ralaar simply smirked, in a manner that was downright unsettling with his too-long muzzle. He stood then, from his smashed minecart turned 'throne' and stalked towards Laronar. "I am Alpha Prime, now. You…look quite feral yourself, Storrrrrmclaw…the light of Elune has abandoned you, as it abandoned our Father! Surely you see! The Moon Goddess has made slaves of us! Turned us from the primal beauty of what we once were…into this…" He gestured at Laronar's form. "Forms that wither without her precious Mana to sustain them. Weak. Our power is the Wilds, Stormclaw. Join us…I am…fascinated to see what Purity manifests in you."
"You want to see purity, Ralaar? Take a good look at what a true Pack Form is!" Laronar snarled back, and then shifted before the worgen's eyes. The day Laronar had become a stag when all the others had become bears or cats, had impressed Ralaar. That instance of the druid's natural ability for shapeshifting had led Ralaar to apprentice himself to the chill natured male. Faint memories of smoking Tauren herb and sitting around a Moonwell passing the loaded, smoldering pipe filled his head, before they were again lost to the torrent of rage that was his default mental state. A cold calm filled him as he took in the massive black wolf before him, still as furious as he remembered, but different. Focused.
Peering closer, Alpha Prime finally saw it then. The manifested power of Goldrinn. Two burning amber eyes staring back at him, daring him to challenge. "Imprrrressive….most impressive…some of us can yet return to the Pack Form…but we prefer the Scythe Form instead! Our rage is unsurpassed in its purity!"
Laronar and Goldrinn snarled a single, choked word at Ralaar. "Aaabomination!"
Ralaar answered him with a snarl of his own, spreading his claws wide, and crouching low as he and Laronar began to circle each other. "Let us see who is the true master of their Feral nature! Come, Stormclaw!"
The black wolf snorted, and Laronar spoke to Goldrinn as the circling continued. "Perhaps if we show him what Xuen taught us…" The massive black wolf's lips pulled up into a grin, and with a thunderous snarl, its already impressive mane stood on end, as blue lightning sparked over the wolf's fur, fangs, and claws.
Ralaar paused as he sensed his opponent's rage shift and become more focused, and Laronar leapt, as the lightning shifted in intensity, becoming more black and red as the wolf tore into the Worgen. Ralaar's beefy, well-muscled arms took the hits, but after millennia of no use, they were far weaker than they looked. Eating well helped, but one did not recover from millennia of muscle decay in a few short weeks.
Awed at seeing someone finally mark Ralaar, and recognizing a controlled Pack Form, a few of the Worgen began to chant. "Nahlen'do. Nahlen'do. Nahlen'do." Others joined in, as they saw Ralaar as the true 'master of the fang'. Neither side could deny though, this, was a clash of two masters.
The Worgen's alpha was bleeding heavily when Laronar was seemingly done shredding his arms, and as Ralaar moved to counter bite, his enhanced eyes saw the much faster true wolf shift around his awkwardly long muzzle, right for his neck. Furious, Ralaar's eyes narrowed, and he sank his claws into the wolf's sides, too late did he realize the druid had hardened his spiked fur with silvery Ironbark. More blood fell from Ralaar's arms, but he had managed to shift the druid's fangs to his shoulder muscles, which were tough and gamey as a rule and therefore not the decisive killing blow Laronar had been aiming for.
With an enraged howl, Ralaar ripped Laronar from his shoulder, uncaring of the chunk of flesh the druid took with him, and hurled the wolf into the stone wall of the mine with the kind of pitching force only a form like his could match. Laronar took over then as he felt Goldrinn was stunned, and landing like a cat against the wall, he then explosively launched straight back at Ralaar, who'd expected that throw to earn him a victory. Instead, it earned him three claw marks down his left eye, though the heavy Worgen brow saved him from losing the sight organ.
Now half blinded by flowing blood and enraged, Ralaar dodged the druid's strikes, and then the bite that followed. That time Laronar left a long horizontal scar across his muzzle with one of his Pack Form's lengthy canine teeth.
Thoroughly bloodied, and done with this fight, Ralaar shouted at his minions. "He's using spells! Mob him!"
That, was more than enough for the feral crazed Worgen that had followed their Alpha Prime into the mine as they waited for the assault on Gilneas. Seeing two alpha wolves, two different but mastered manifestations of Goldrinn's form going head to head had the blood of every Worgen for a mile around boiling just from the scent alone. For the druids present, what few of them retained something resembling a mind, it was a showdown they'd pleasantly relive in their dreams, though they'd always blur out the ending, for at Alpha Prime's urging, they'd become a living mass of fangs, claws, and rage all intent on tearing the stooge of Malfurion apart.
For all their speed though, the White Wolf was with Laronar. Ralaar leapt away, paw over his eye as he went to tend his wounds, and left his rival to his pack. Goldrinn suggested a retreat, and Laronar agreed, leaping away from the worgpile of flailing claws and teeth that formed as multiple Worgen high on energy from watching the fight collided, and began fighting each other instead. To Laronar, it was what he expected. Ralaar's grip on most of these newly turned Worgen was not as absolute as he believed.
As he ran, the mine began to shake, and while the Worgen paused between fighting or fleeing, Laronar continued to run, gaining precious seconds in outpacing them as he ignored the quaking earth.
Dashing for the exit of the mine, and knowing the general location of it, Laronar swiftly bolted through, dodging falling rocks as the land shook again. His connection to Goldrinn was cut, but that did not stop him. Fast as the awkwardly proportioned Worgen moved, the perfected Pack Form was much quicker. Near the entrance, Laronar shifted to Ashamane's form, and while Kaladius and his friend were still there, and had apparently summoned reinforcement, by the time they caught his scent his equally swift Cat Form was already past them. They began to track his scent however, and at that point, he broke stealth, leapt into the air, and became the owl.
Wary of arrows the wolfmen may or may not have been capable of using, he flew in a spiraling serpentine pattern that had saved his ass in past conflicts. A few pitiful excuses for bolts fired his way, but they didn't come close to the druid. He did, however, hear a long, furious howl that the rest of the pack picked up as he flew into the night, and headed for Tal'doren. With an aerial view of Gilneas, it wasn't that hard to make out, thanks to its size, and notable characteristics. While in the air though, he noted something he had not before; ships off of Gilneas's coast, Forsaken by their design and color, unsettlingly close to the manor in which the Greymane family resided. It seemed the Banshee Queen intended to circumvent the Greymane Wall, and invade Gilneas proper by land.
She likely would have succeeded too, were it not for, at that very moment, the former Aspect of the Black Dragonflight, Deathwing, returning to the world in a cataclysm of fire and death. Gilneas's shoreline shattered, an entire town essentially went underwater, and all Laronar could do was watch in horror and wince as he felt Azeroth's pain. As the rumbling finally faded, though he had no idea yet the true scope of the latest disaster afflicting his world, he winged towards Tal'doren, intent on reuniting with his kin.
As he landed, he found Alaria and her Sentinels readying Kali and the two other hippogryphs for flight, while she spoke with his niece, Vassandra. She was relatively young, as a female druid, which was a concept that Malfurion had embraced once Laronar, Naralex, Broll and others pushed for him to further unite their species once again and accept female students on the mainland. "Sister. Niece. I found the mine in which Ralaar is hiding…though it extends deeper into the land, and I'm sure he and his pack will move on after that…earthquake. Where are you going?"
"It seems the people of Gilneas have an Undead problem." She said, sounding both grim and bored. "We fly to aid them. Elune's Light is needed in Silverpine."
The priestess Belysra approached Laronar then, and offered him a scroll. "This is freshly arrived from Darnassus. Archdruid Stormrage has a request for you; bring this to the Dwarves of Ironforge. He and the High Priestess are forming a summit, to try to gain aid against Hellscream's Horde…and likely to deal with the repercussions of whatever caused the land itself to break."
None of them yet knew just how dire things would become in Kalimdor, but Laronar took the scroll regardless. "I will bring this to King Magni, and rejoin you and the survivors back in Darnassus."
With that, Laronar took flight again, as the Kaldorei readied what weapons of war they'd brought to aid the Humans of Gilneas in their darkest hour. Laronar had seen several of the turned Gilneans with the potential for Druidism, and intended to find them, if they survived. He had no doubt they'd pull through though. His time in Gilneas had been short, but he'd learned how hardy its people were early on when a farmer had, instead of running from his Cat Form, tried poking it with his pitchfork instead. He'd lost the pitchfork, but not his life, and Laronar had taken care to be even stealthier around the Gilneans.
The flight to Ironforge took several days, but was largely uneventful. He landed at the gates of the city, and the guards gave him a slow nod, as they took in the tall, shirtless Kaldorei. "I've a message for King Magni Bronzebeard, from the leaders of my people."
The Dwarves shared a look. It seemed in these trying times of tumult and chaos, the Night Elves were not as connected to the goings on of the Eastern Kingdoms. "Lad," One of the Bronzebeards said, "King Magni was turned tae crystal…in a ritual of communin' wit the earth gone wrong." The other guard spoke then. "Ironforge is now ruled by representatives o' each Clan."
Laronar blinked. "Even the Dark Irons?"
The guards shared a look again, and their expressions seemed grumpier. "Aye. Even the Dark Irons." One said. The other spat, and in Dwarvish, called them traitorous garbage.
Laronar just nodded. "Right…I guess I'll take this to your council, then. May your eyes stay sharp, guardsmen." The druid's words caused a pair of purple flashes over each of their heads, and they stood a little straighter, nodding their thanks for the boon to their stamina. As he wandered through the city, the air stank of smoke, not uncommon for a place called Ironforge, but Laronar could tell this smoke was not from forging of metal, but from the burning of hay, or wheat. Perhaps a stable had caught fire, recently.
As he wandered, he realized most of the citizens weren't in the usually crowded streets, and only the bank tellers seemed to be at their posts. Even they were preoccupied by something they were watching through a window in the back part of their station, though. Laronar took a small tunnel, and yet one still large enough to accommodate him, to the Great Forge, and found a large crowd of angry Dwarven citizens, of each clan no less, squabbling before the foot of what was once King Magni's seat of power.
He caught the tail end of what an oddly familiar looking Wildhammer Dwarf was shouting at the mob, his stormhammer raised high, as the royal guards tried to keep the crowd from slaughtering each other. "... the Wildhammers have chosen tae take a step forward, not back. Who among ye is wi' us?"
"The Bronzebeards are!" Came a shout from a Dwarf Laronar recognized as the late King's brother. That made the untrustworthy looking female with them Magni's daughter, the one who'd been stolen by a Dark Iron prince, and then fallen in love with him. The product of that disturbing union was laying in a crib, made of stone of course, always nearby his mother.
Muradin Bronzebeard borrowed the stormhammer, something Laronar knew was not lightly shared with others, especially non Wildhammers, and with the legendary weapon smashed something lying upon an anvil. All eyes fell on the female Dwarf then, and with obvious reluctance, she and the other two representatives smashed a third piece of…whatever it was they were destroying. For Laronar, this seemed pretty much in line with what he knew of Dwarves. Another day in Ironforge, smashing metal apart. This seemed to have some greater significance though, so he stayed in the shadows, at least, until he noticed the source of the smoke he'd scented earlier.
Across the Great Forge, was a series of charred gryphon nests, and he was already moving towards them, once he realized they had somehow all been lit on fire. He immediately suspected the Dark Irons had something to do with that, but approached anyway. "Hail, Wildhammers. I smelled the fire on my way in. Are any of your proud gryphons injured? I can heal them." He let his hands shine with green energy, and the Wildhammers, while usually the more suspicious of the Dwarf clans, could not so easily turn down an offer of powerful healing magic from a Night Elven Druid, especially if it meant their beloved companions could be healed all the quicker.
A Wildhammer holding a pitchfork with a grip that suggested he'd try to impale the elf as soon as let him near their gryphons spoke then. "An' who're you, stranger? Yer aid is appreciated, but we don't know ye' lad."
"I am friends with Bjaldi, a Shaman of your clan. He can vouch for me, if he is present." Laronar answered.
"I know'im." Came a younger voice, and a proud looking Dwarf with hair as red as the rest of his kin, burning with the flame of youth, came strolling up to the druid.
Laronar squinted at his features, and then his eyes widened. "Bjaldi? No…you couldn't be, he'd be ancient by now…you must be Hjaldi. The last time I saw you, you were just a babe."
The Dwarf seemed perpetually angry with the elf, but Laronar had learned over his time socializing with them among the Alliance that was simply how some Dwarves came off. If one actually angered a son of the mountains, it was rarely a subtle affair. "Aye, ye haven't been around, Archdruid. Me father an I 'ave had a lifetime in between the last time ye graced us wit yer presence, an' now. An' ye think tae call us friends?"
"Your father and I are friends." Laronar reaffirmed, knowing Bjaldi would care not the number of years he'd been away. "As for you, young Hjaldi, you have no obligation to like me, but at least let me heal your companions and share with you my pipe weed before you spurn me like some stranger."
Hjaldi looked at the Night Elf for a long time, and then finally sighed, heavily. "After the week we've 'ad…we could use some bloody pipe weed. Come then, Druid. The injured are this way."
While the priests of Ironforge had also tended the wounded gryphons, Laronar's spells did more than simply close the wounds within and without, he encouraged their limbs to heal quicker, their skin lightened, and feathers sprouted anew, and then grew into fine replacements for those lost or singed. That in particular made several of the grateful eagle lion hybrids quite happy, as they could fly again now, and their riders thanked him profusely.
Then, in a tavern and not surrounded by the flammable gryphon's roosts, Laronar shared with the Wildhammers his secret blend of hallucinogenic ground up plants, and good times were had. Hjaldi shared some of his legend with Laronar, and Laronar in turn shared with the Dwarves tales of the Earthen, the brave Dwarven ancestors who'd stood toe to toe with the Burning Legion the first time, and had proven their equal with their thunderous hammers. He abstained from the alcohol, and suggested a feast instead, offering to pay for a boar to share.
The Dwarves were amazed that he actually ate meat, which was when he explained that while most of his kin abstained, he was a hunter at heart, and his body needed something heartier than herbs and berries to sustain itself.
By the end of the merrymaking, Hjaldi had finally warmed to the druid. "Come by again after ye drop off yer message. My father isn't…isn't long fer this world. He'll join 'is gryphon in the sky soon tae fly with'em ferever. I know he'd like tae see ye again."
Laronar nodded. He had seen many a Kota before their mortality claimed them, and each one had made the ancient druid grieve for their loss, and yet rejoice in the next son of the ancient bloodline coming into their role as Windspeaker, and an adherent of Ohn'ara.
As he approached the High Seat of Ironforge, the Wildhammer representative was already gone, the Dark Iron's new queen seemed to be fuming quietly to herself, which left Muradin Bronzebeard as his go-to representative. "Can I help ye, Night Elf?" He asked, as Laronar approached, missive in hand.
"Aye." Laronar answered. His voice caused the Bronzebeard-turned-Dark Iron Queen to face him as well, the storm clouds now absent from her brow. It was a bit unsettling, how easily she hid her fury, but her eyes gave her frustration away. "The High Priestess and Archdruid Stormrage humbly request your presence at a summit in Darnassus. The details are inside."
Muradin, who unknown to the druid had just helped foil the latest Dark Iron plot to seize power in Ironforge, let out a poorly concealed sigh. Right then, Darnassus felt like it was on the other side of the planet. Which it was. "Och...we'll have tae discuss this, an' it sounds loik the Wildhammers'll 'ave a new representative soon. Ironforge wasn't exactly welcomin' tae Kurdran." He shot a glare at Moira, though it might have just been a knowing stare, it was clear the Bronzebeard elder was done with his niece's shenanigans.
Laronar simply nodded. "I'm sure the Archdruid and the High Priestess will understand. I will explain the delay of your answer upon my return. I'll take my leave now." Laronar bowed low, to both Muradin and Moira, and then swiftly turned and headed back to the Wildhammer's encampment.
He returned to find Hjaldi, helping an aged Bjaldi onto a gryphon who seemed less than enthused to have the old, incontinent Dwarf on his back again. An unflattering fart ripped from the aged ass of the Dwarf, and that, was the last straw for the gryphon. It raised its wings into the air and power flapped up into the heights of Ironforge as its handler shouted at it. It shrieked at him, and then began rubbing its fart-side against an old ash-covered support pillar in the mountain-city's ceiling.
Bjaldi just sighed, which was when Laronar spoke. "Yea, I'd run too. Age can't have improved that odor."
A few of the surrounding Wildhammers in the midst of packing stopped, shocked that anyone would address an elder shaman suffering the effects of age so callously, and as the old Dwarf shuffled around to look at the speaker of these words, his old face cracked with a grin, as Laronar stepped closer. The pain of seeing his friend, another friend, ravaged by mortality still hurt just as much as it ever had. "Laronar Sturmclaw. Wots it been? Three decades? Five?"
Laronar counted in his head, frowned, and then shrugged. "Probably closer to ten than I'd like…it's been a busy few centuries. Especially these last few years."
Bjaldi snorted. "Few years? Lad, have ye not seen the effects o' the Cataclysm wit yer lofty bird wings? Loch Modan was emptied, when that black bastard Deathwing came flyin' over. He did even more tae Stormwind. An' Northshire. The Park District is gone, tae hear the Humans describe et."
"Not the Park…" Laronar said, frowning. Losing a Moonwell was always unfortunate, to say nothing of those who guarded such places.
"Aye.' Bjaldi continued. "An' tha's just the past few hours. Word is, your people were hit too, lad. They say the black bastard shot up not far from Teldrassil, an' then shattered Auberdine. He appeared near the Wetlands, too. Broke the dam creating Loch Modan, an' wreaked all sorts o' havoc everywhere else on the continent. We're on our way back to the Aerie, b'fore we fly tae the Hinterlands tae aid our kin there."
Laronar eyed his old friend. "Surely not you, though…what do You intend to do, old friend?"
Bjaldi smirked. "I was goin' tae rest me arse an' enjoy me pipe while Hjaldi does the flyin' and the fightin'. It's a young Dwarf's game, that. I'm too old fer that shit." Around them, the other Wildhammers were taking off, leaving most if not all of the hay where it was, for the Bronzebeards to handle. Said handling, naturally, was most of the charred gryphon nests being pushed into the Great Forge, and the lava powering it. "Unfortunately, it seems me damn Gryphon left wit'out me."
Laronar frowned. "What happened to Stormwing?"
Bjaldi's face fell. "Age, lad. An' I'm too old fer another Gryphon chick."
Laronar sighed, but knew what his old friend needed. "I need to get back to Darnassus if what you say is true, but I can be your wings back to the Aerie. Just don't fart on me." In truth, he could tell the Dwarf maybe had days left to live, and he would be damned if he let a spirit as free as Bjaldi Galehammer die under a mountain, or ground bound on the road.
Bjaldi just smiled. "I make no promises. But how? Wot're ye gonna do, lad? Carry me wit yer wee owl talons?"
Laronar just winked and tapped his nose, before stretching his arms wide. They became wings, several times larger than any owl that lived in the Eastern Kingdoms, or even Kalimdor. The rest of the body shifted size as well, as he spent the magical power to enlarge his usual Flight Form to one that could accommodate riders. "Hoo." He said, crouching low for the Dwarf.
Hjaldi helped his father climb on, and once they were settled, Laronar felt a rumbling between his shoulder blades, and he heard a noise that was muffled by leather. His head turned all the way around to the Dwarf, and his great horned feathery brow furrowed as he narrowed his burning amber eyes. His old friend grinned, showing several missing teeth, and several in the process of rotting out of his skull. With the owl equivalent of a sigh, Laronar's giant Owl Form ascended swiftly through Ironforge, and Hjaldi balked as he realized he and his own mount would have to fly hard to keep pace.
It wasn't a long flight to Aerie Peak, for Laronar went in a straight line, despite his passenger's desire to take the scenic route. Laronar flew him once around the valley the Aerie overlooked, before finally ending what was likely his friend's final flight. He would've given Bjaldi an entire day, and night, if the world wasn't literally on fire.
He stayed with his friend that night, long after Hjaldi bid his farewells, knowing it was likely the last time he'd see his aged father still breathing. Laronar helped his friend roast a brace of rabbits for dinner, which was ultimately made into stew and potatoes cooked Dwarven style until they were brown, crunchy, and lightly salted. In terms of food, even the proud elven druid had to admit the Dwarves and Humans far outclassed his people. The best they had was cheese, wine, and assorted vegetables, and that did little against the culinary mastery of Human and Dwarven culture, especially now that they had been connected more than ever for several years now by the Deeprun Tram.
"There's somethin' I should tell ye of, lad." Bjaldi finally said, once they were high as the gryphons hunting in the night sky. "There's an old elven ruin in these lands. Around which stands a massive tree, with a portal. I went there once, when I was a bit more red than silver, an' the Dragon there informed me, after threatenin' tae eat me, of course, tha' the portal led tae the Emerald Dream."
Laronar stared at the Dwarf. "I could…get home much faster, if I can open it. Thank you for sharing this secret. I won't forget this, Bjaldi."
"Aye, lad I know. Just promise an old Dwarf one thing, eh?"
"Anything." The druid answered, as he stood and readied to leave.
"Don't spend so long between visitin' me son, an' his kin. He's not like me, he'll take et personally." Bjaldi laughed then, a hearty sound that, inevitably, gave way to a coughing fit.
Laronar affirmed his promise, and then shot into the night, leaving only a few black feathers to mark his passing. Bjaldi caught three of them, and began tying them into a charm. They'd only last as long as Laronar's form did, but by the time they disappeared, the old Wildhammer Shaman had begun to traverse the Shadowlands.
In the dark of the night, even with his vision, it took the druid longer than it should have for him to finally notice the massive outline of the tree that marked the portal's location. Upon landing, the owl noted nobody in the area. No Dragons. No critters. The woods seemed abandoned, and the trees seemed asleep, or in shock, after the planet-wide turmoil. He'd seen it in Gilneas, but it still hadn't fully registered.
He approached the portal, and as he'd done with the last one, he activated the runes, and entered the Dream. This time, the Dragon waiting for him was a drake, and it snarled at him, hastily closing the portal behind him. "You could let Deathwing's evil into the Dreamer's realm, Druid! Be more careful!" It hissed, before flying away.
Sparing no time, Laronar shifted forms and dashed for Hyjal's portal, one of the few besides the Moonglade that stayed open, at least in times of crisis. Flying up from the portal atop Hyjal's summit, Laronar surveyed the mountain, and found it pristine. All seemed well, in fact. Teldrassil still stood, in the distance, and the wilds of Darkshore and Ashenvale seemed intact.
Laronar made a note to return to visit a certain contemporary of his who'd been imprisoned here, but right now he worried for those in Auberdine. As he descended from the peace pervading the regrowing World Tree, the winds became more chaotic, but Laronar had long since learned how to fly in stormy weather. Or so he thought. The wind had no pattern to it, this time. It was senseless, unbridled chaos. Upon getting closer to the land below, he finally saw just how hard not Auberdine, but all of Darkshore had been hit. It was more chunks of land now, than a solid mass, and all across the area Laronar spied his people working to mitigate the disaster amidst the roaring winds.
It got worse around Auberdine, and the druid was forced to land. Auberdine itself was now a ruin. Bodies were everywhere, and lording over all of them, a stormy colored air elemental, no doubt the source of the winds likely keeping hippogryphs and druid scouts from reporting back to Teldrassil.
Furious more at Deathwing than the angered elemental, Laronar stalked towards it, and tore into its wispy form. One might think it hard to damage the wind, but the druid managed, and the elemental gave a furious shriek before it, and its spell, vanished. Snorting derisively as it fled, Laronar moved on, casting several potent Regrowths on bodies still warm in the ruins, before he hurried on to Darnassus.
The next few weeks, months, even years, would be spent recovering from this disaster, and once Laronar reported in, he lent his aid and wisdom where he could.
Chapter 27: Inferno
Chapter Text
Darnassus - Teldrassil, Kalimdor
Things had not improved in the days following the Cataclysm, as the return of Deathwing had come to be known. Every race felt the effects of the world shifting and breaking. The Warchief Thrall, an Orc many Kaldorei had equated to Broxigar of the Red Ax in terms of honor, had abdicated his position as Warchief, and handed the reins to Garrosh Hellscream, of all people. Laronar knew the full story though, for there was rumor that his initial choice had been Baine Bloodhoof, a sensible, powerful leader of the Tauren. The ideal choice, for this time of turmoil, and someone who might've tempered Garrosh's Orcish rage, had fate, or perhaps darker forces, not had other plans. Through trickery, deceit, and a bit of poison, the hotheaded Garrosh had been played like the fool that he was, to Magatha Grimtotem's tune, and the Grimtotem clan had made their play for Thunder Bluff. They failed, but at the cost of Cairne's life. Thus, the title of Warchief fell into the murderous hands of Grommash Hellscream's son, and Azeroth would forever pay the price for this series of stupid and unfortunate decisions made by the Horde.
One could argue that few paid as dearly for this as the Night Elves. Cut off from the Alliance races on their ancient home of Kalimdor, they had to contend with the brutally clever new Warchief, and his desire to tear down the sacred glades of the Ashenvale. With Felwood lost and Hyjal still recovering, not to mention Darkshore now shattered into several chunks, the elves desperately needed Ashenvale, to maintain their hold on the eastern parts of Kalimdor. Garrosh was having none of that, though, and had begun his own plans to take the ancient forest of the Kaldorei.
While Laronar wished to cut down the invaders to the sacred woods in which he'd trained once as a novice and frolicked with his first lover, Malfurion Stormrage had a different task for him, in the form of the displaced Gilneans, the vast majority of whom were now Worgen, as well as Human. His knowledge and ties to Goldrinn, something no other Kaldorei had, apparently, made him one of the ideal teachers for these Humans to learn to control their urges, and their rage as scions of the Wolf Ancient. In the end, it was Genn Greymane himself, kneeling to the shirtless Archdruid, that swayed him. Genn recognized his scent from his curing in the Blackwald, and begged his wisdom for his people. Laronar did not have the heart to refuse him, and so, he left worrying over the battle lines of Kalimdor to the Sentinels, as he focused on training the Worgen in the proper ways of honoring an Ancient as volatile as the White Wolf.
His niece Vassandra also helped with this, and while she was determined to find a permanent cure, Laronar had used other methods, already knowing what Goldrinn would expect of those who wished to control his form. Thus, he began educating every Gilnean that he could, about the ways of Druidism. Namely, their new role as predators and dealers of death, in the cycle of life. They were hunters, and thus he led them on hunts through Teldrassil's forests. Each kill, they offered to Goldrinn, each animal, they used every part of, returning what they did not need to the forest. Many claimed that hunting was a better way to clear their mind than any of the other druid's potions, and while the other druids lamented at the hit to the deer population of Teldrassil, Malfurion himself had decreed an area for the wolf men to hunt within, and that was the end of the argument. Laronar was not concerned, for the rituals he taught the mutated Humans honored the sons of Malorne as much as they did Goldrinn, and that was by design.
This process of teaching the remnant population of an entire nation took many weeks, and not all caught on to his ways. One student in particular kept him busy, as one night while he meditated with the pack, Goldrinn had singled one of the Worgen out to the Archdruid. Ragnar Whitemane was not the only wolf man to be unable to remember his past, but the more time Laronar spent training him, the more he was convinced that Ragnar was no Human. It did not matter what he was though, for neither spell nor potion would revert him to his base form, and even appealing to Goldrinn offered little. When asked, all Goldrinn said was that his current form was the one Ragnar apparently desired, and he refused to infringe on a being's choice of shape in that manner.
Thus, Laronar had taken Ragnar, and several other worgen, under his tutelage as proper druids. This was, again, not a popular idea among the rest of the Circle, but again, Malfurion saw the wisdom in teaching them their ways. Even among the other students though, Ragnar was different. Once he began communing with Goldrinn, his powers had changed, becoming unlike any Laronar had seen before. When he left combat, his wounds healed rapidly. Instead of fighting with a polearm, stave, hammer, or daggers, he preferred two Gilneas-made bastard swords, wielding each two handed weapon with a single claw. His ferocity unnerved many, something Ragnar did not intend, and so Laronar moved their training sessions further into Teldrassil's wilds.
Thus, secluded as he was, Laronar did not learn of the sudden murder of one of the newly accepted Highborne of Dire Maul immediately. Nor did he see the return of the presumed long-dead Commander Jarod Shadowsong. Upon hearing the man was alive, Laronar had returned to Darnassus to thank him for saving their species in person, but his thanks had died in his throat when he saw the man. Gaunt, thin, pale, and wracked with grief, Laronar heard the tale from the pair of Sentinels who guarded the causeway leading to the Temple of the Moon. Shadowsong had returned to his people, desperate, his dying wife in his arms, only to finally get her before Tyrande in time for her to be accepted by Elune.
That wasn't all though, for one of the Sentinels, evidently one who'd maneuvered himself and Shandris together on the eve of Malfurion and Tyrande's wedding, had let slip the General's reaction to seeing her old crush. Apparently, despite literally just losing his wife, Shandris had all but confessed her affection for him, something which Laronar found hard to believe. Then again, given what she'd gone through with the fall of her stronghold of Feathermoon, he supposed she was allowed to be eccentric and act outside of her usual character.
It was this that prompted him to speak with her. For the first time in many millennia he'd thought they were becoming close again, a thought that had appealed to him, though where Shandris Feathermoon was concerned, he'd always maintained a healthy skepticism. Fate had a habit of wedging them apart.
"Come in, Laronar." She said, once he'd found her, currently going over reports in the Darnassian Sentinel barracks, located atop the city's main gate. She gestured for the other Sentinels to leave, for all the good that would do. His mere shirtless presence here would spark rumors, and what he intended to say to her would likely leave her in a foul mood. Once they were alone, she said, "I take it word has reached you…about Commander Shadowsong."
He nodded, and then sighed, heavily. "Shandris, tell me you did not all but confess to him mere minutes after his beloved Wife died."
Her eyes narrowed. "You do not dictate to whom my heart belongs, Laronar Stormclaw."
He met her gaze evenly, and even made his eyes burn for effect. Her ears fell back, as she recognized the casual, almost perpetually chill Archdruid was genuinely irritated, and he let his tone show it. "I am not here for myself, General Feathermoon. I had hoped things might change for the better between us after your parent's marriage, but it seems all it took to kill that hope was an old flame. I admit, it hurt to hear, but I am not here for myself." He stopped slouching then, and towered over her where she sat. "Jarod Shadowsong has experienced a loss neither you nor I can properly fathom, and as I heard it, naught but a short time after his wife's death, you all but confessed your feelings for him. Do you deny it?"
Shandris glanced away, unable to meet his hurt, burning eyes. "No. I do not. I will not."
Laronar nodded, and his tone softened slightly. "Nor should you. If I am anything to you after these many years, Shandris, I hope I am a friend, at least. Take your friend's advice: it will be decades before Jarod Shadowsong is ready to hear your words, if he ever even manages to get over the loss of his Wife. By all accounts, he loved her truly, and given that they vanished into the wilderness together for the better part of ten millennia, I would say those accounts have truth to them. Right now, Ashenvale needs its General, Shandris. Now is not the time for childhood crushes to flourish."
Shandris seemed to go through several emotional states, namely fury, anger, bitter defeat at the truth that rang from them, and then finally, begrudging acceptance. He was right, after all. The Horde was on the warpath. Again. She looked at him, sighed, and said, "I must have missed when you became so wise…my friend."
Laronar exhaled softly, and the intensity of his aura seemed to relax a bit. He cracked a pained smirk for her. "I only hope my wisdom, such as it is, has helped you…I should return to training the Worgen. Stay alive, General."
"Don't get bitten, Stormclaw."
With that, Laronar left, exhaled heavily into a soft snarl, and for the first time in almost ten millennia, finally, properly, gave up on Shandris in his heart. He'd always hoped things would turn around, with time, but that was simply not the path they were going to walk, and it was long past time he admitted that they would never work. Not in this timeline, at least, as the Bronze Dragons would say. He wondered if there was one where things had gone better.
Laronar was about to return to his efforts in the woods with Ragnar and the others, when Malfurion Stormrage stopped him just outside the Cenarion Enclave. "Laronar Stormclaw…my friend, I believe I could use your advice. You have heard of the summit we're having with the other Alliance leaders, yes?"
Laronar blinked, astounded for a moment that evidently two of his people's three primary leaders needed his advice this day. If the High Priestess asked his council next, he'd start to suspect something foul was afoot. "Erm…no, Shan'do. I've been training several Worgen to be Sharpclaws out in the woods. They're coming along nicely." Laronar answered.
Malfurion nodded, taking his words in stride as he continued. "Well, between the murder of one of our Highborne guests, the Worgen stalking the woods outside the immediate city area where the murder occurred, and Varian Wrynn openly decrying his fellow King, I…I am at the end of my wit, old friend. I could use another's advice."
Laronar looked Malfurion over, and chuckled. "I know exactly what you need, Shan'do. Come. Take a moment to rest."
Five minutes later, the two shredded Kaldorei men were waist deep in one of the Moonwells situated in the treehouse that was central to the Cenarion Enclave, and which also acted as Malfurion's office, of sorts. He'd ordered it empty, so they could talk of big things in relative privacy. "So." Laronar said, as he exhaled and passed the cat-headed pipe full of crushed herb. "Which dilemma shall we examine first?"
"Varian Wrynn." Malfurion rumbled with a sigh, eyeing the pipe, before nodding, and accepting it. He took a truly impressive, and lengthy, hit and seemed much calmer after doing so. "I don't know how to reach the man. He's too brash…aggressive…volatile, and angry. After his aid during the Nightmare crisis I had hoped he would see reason, or at least counsel my words, but so far…his anger is pent up, and it is distracting his mind from seeing sense in allowing Gilneas to join the Alliance."
Laronar nodded, pondering as he toked, exhaled, and then passed back. Finally, he said, "How about a hunt?"
"A hunt?" Malfurion asked, pausing before his own hit.
Laronar nodded. "It worked for the Worgen. Many claim it helps them keep their inner wolf's restlessness in check. You saw him as I did during the Nightmare conflict. Goldrinn favors him, and that favor may be affecting him as it has affected the Worgen. Offer to hunt with him. At the very least, it will give you something else to talk about that won't further enrage him, and, he may just come across Genn out in the woods, where they can settle this bad blood with contest, instead of blood."
"That…is actually brilliant." Malfurion said, somewhat impressed. He stared at Laronar for a long time, then, like his daughter, he realized the Archdruid was surprisingly wise, for a quiet loner. Malfurion glanced at the herb in the pipe, and shook his head with a light smirk before he toked again. "You are a credit to Kota of the Skyhorn, Laronar. You were well trained before you ever came to us…to me. I will try your method. As for your Sharpclaws…I have heard of Ragnar. I think it would do him good to visit Goldrinn's shrine on Mount Hyjal. Several former Kaldorei who were bitten and since cured have already gone to pledge themselves to him…and you did mention to me you wished to visit there as well."
At that, Laronar's face darkened. "Aye…I would have words with Fandral."
Malfurion nodded his antlered head sagely. "Just…do not murder him, my friend. He must face justice."
Laronar glanced at Malfurion, tempted to argue that death was exactly what Fandral deserved, but he knew how that would go. As well as it had gone when Thaon had argued against putting Demons to sleep under Shaladrassil, instead of simply slitting their throats. "I may live to regret obeying you…but I will do as you ask, Shan'do Stormrage."
With his final hit done, Malfurion handed the ashed pipe back to Laronar, who did a double take as he realized that, between the two of them, it hadn't even lasted ten minutes. The Archdruid stood from the well of Nordrassil's water then as the magic water rolled down his kilt, drying relatively quickly as it did. He inhaled, taking in strength from the mana. His tattoos glowed with power, briefly, and then faded. "I have tasks to return to. My thanks for the herb, Thero'shan. Your insights remain invaluable to me."
Laronar bid him farewell in the typical elven manner, and Malfurion departed. Laronar looked at the ashed pipe then, tapped it, finding that it was well and truly ash, sighed, and then got out of the water as well. He also had things to do.
The Circle of Cinders - Summit of Mount Hyjal
Laronar and Ragnar came upon Hyjal to find it on fire. Mortals in dark robes of black and purple were setting fires across the summit, and they landed not far from the Barrow Dens, leaping into the fray without hesitation. While Ragnar did his thing, unleashing the fury of Goldrinn upon the flame elementals, Laronar ended up tearing into the cultists, and like his patron, inspired fear within them to send them fleeing. One by one, he leapt from the shadows, ripped out their throats, and sent the cultists scattering. The druids he passed labeled them Twilight Hammer cultists, though he had no idea then the scope or size of the cult, let alone their plans.
He injured one cultist, and pretended to let them get away. Weakened and bleeding they ran, all the way to their command post. Laronar followed, easily. "Overseer!" The injured coward cried as they arrived, "We are being hunted! We need more reinforcements!"
"More will be sent." The ogre growled confidently. He turned then, grinning up towards the ridge of the camp, the very presence of these cultists seemed to corrupt the ground of the sacred mountain around them. Scenting the air, curious as to what made him smirk, and begin monologuing about how 'doomed' Nordrassil and its defenders were to his minion, Laronar understood. He had a prisoner.
The injured cultist, perhaps from pain and blood loss, seemed euphoric, hanging on the ogre's every word, at least, until a massive black paw separated her head from her shoulders. The tearing sound made the ogre turn, which was when Laronar leapt, masterfully tearing out his throat. With a pitiful gurgle and a thunderous thud to the ground, he died, and Laronar resumed his elven shape as he retrieved the key, and wandered up towards the only cage with a prisoner inside of it.
The prisoner in question was a female Kaldorei, who looked up as he coughed to announce himself, and then held up the key to her freedom. "Archdruid! I am Larandia. I was scouting these cultists when they captured me. Please, you have to inform Malfurion, or someone, anyone in charge, this attack is a distraction! Yes they wish to burn Nordrassil, but the cultists are also trying to free Fandral Staghelm! Someone needs to stop them!"
Laronar snarled, mostly to himself, and then met the scout's gaze. "We should've ended him after the Nightmare incident…Fandral Staghelm will escape justice over my dead body. Return to the summit, Larandia. Well done. Leave this, to me."
With that, he shifted into his Owl Form, and began power flapping towards the Barrow Den. As he did, he spied a Green Dragon below, perched among some ruins, and though he'd intended to fly on, she stopped him, telepathically bidding him to land. He repeated what Larandia told him, and the Dragon, Alysra, seemed alarmed. "Staghelm must not be freed…it's risky, but we can move him to the Moonglade through the Emerald Dream. Bring him to me, Archdruid. Even now I sense cultists attempting to free him from the Wardens. Stop them. I will ensure his prison is moved."
Laronar nodded, for he had no reason to question one of Ysera's flight, a being older than even he was. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, nothing seemed strange in the way Alysra acted. By all appearances, she was a loyal member of dragonkind, seeking to aid the mortals. With Ashamane's swiftness, Laronar dashed into the Barrow Dens, past the Wardens guarding the outside. He hurtled like a furry comet into a Twilight Assassin fighting in the tunnels against a Warden, and before she could even offer thanks as he dispatched the assassin, he was already moving deeper.
The feral Archdruid left a trail of corpses in his wake, and a small but growing crowd of Wardens followed after him, guessing rightly that he was here for Fandral Staghelm. The chamber in which the Wardens held him was inundated with assassins, and he took out several, as the mob of freed Wardens behind him then charged in to engage the rest. Their Captain was standing by Fandral, who seemed thoroughly bound. Laronar shifted back as he glared down Staghelm. "Ysera's Dragons want to move him through the Dream to the Moonglade."
The Captain's eyes seemed to narrow, but then she looked around, and sighed. "That…may be best. We cannot hold off all of these cultists forever. Just…be wary, Archdruid. Your kin say the Nightmare has resurged around here…"
Laronar snarled, one hand becoming claws as he moved it towards the obvious source of Nightmare corruption, the man who'd literally channeled it on a planetary scale not so long ago. He felt his arm stopped by the Captain as his claws grazed Fandral's neck. "Stormrage and Whisperwind ordered him alive to face Justice."
Laronar glared at the Captain. "It would be better to end him here. Now. While he's weak. Waiting is the height of idiocy. If he is corrupting the Dream again, he could overpower the Dragon, and break free. He's corrupted them before!"
The Warden stared at him. "You have your orders, Archdruid."
Laronar snarled, left Fandral's neck with three tiny, bleeding scratches, and instead grabbed his chains. "Come, Traitor." He growled. As he exited the room, the world shifted around him. Nightmare monstrosities began crawling towards him, but a simple barrage of Moonfire was enough to end them. "If this is all you can conjure…perhaps you are not a threat…"
"So close…and yet so far…Stormclaw…" Fandral croaked, as he grinned and giggled like a true madman. Irritated, Laronar dragged the man he'd hated for millennia now through the barrow den, purging any Nightmare offspring with extreme prejudice. In this shifted plane, he was alone with Fandral. He could take him out, and hide. The Wardens wouldn't even see him, and he could blame the assassins for the death. All he had to do was turn around, and end the obvious threat. Every instinct he had was telling him to dispatch Fandral, and then, suddenly, they were at the exit, where Alysra was waiting.
"I will take him from here, Archdruid." The Dragon rumbled. Once clear of the den, and the Nightmare festering there, he once more saw no reason to distrust the Green Dragon's words. She was an ally, and a powerful one at that. She would see Fandral to the Moonglade, where he would be held until the chaos of the Cataclysm abated long enough to deal with him properly. Yet, as he handed the chains to the Dragon, and she flapped into the air with Staghelm in her green claws, Laronar could've sworn the mad Archdruid was smirking down at him and looking far too confident.
Meanwhile… - Wolf's Run, Hyjal
Ragnar Whitemane had slaughtered his way through the majority of the Twilight Cultists near the Circle of Cinders, once the elemental calling itself a Baron had been slashed to nothing by his swords. Well made as they were, they'd begun to melt from the heat, but Ragnar didn't care, nor did their deteriorating state stop him from dispatching more cultists as his instinct pulled him towards a large cliff, leading down into a valley.
Looking down, he saw it, the massive white statue of Goldrinn, desecrated with markings by the Twilights Hammer. His furious howl echoed through the valley, and the pillagers of the shrine barely had time to look up, before Ragnar was leaping upon them, unbothered by the fact he'd just descended from a cliffside. His battered swords cut them down easily, and as he turned his rage on the last remaining Human scent in the area, he paused. This one, was in a cage. Moreover, he was Worgen.
"By the Ancients…" The man muttered, as he took Ragnar in. Standing at a height of at least nine feet tall, the white furred Worgen was covered in blood, so much so that he was more red now, than white, and the crimson was broken up by splotches of blackened, burnt, fur. He wore plate armor, of a kind. It was more akin to scrap metal than any gleaming paladin set, just enough to tank the heavier hits, but like his swords, it too was almost slag. His eyes, though. The Human, one Ian Duran, recognized those burning orange eyes.
"You there! Worgen!" The Human rasped, "Don't worry about freeing me, take that incense…take it to the cave opposite this shrine…burn it at the altar…these cultists, they're trying to replace and corrupt Goldrinn's spirit. You must stop them!"
Ragnar wasn't the smartest being, but he had enough mental capacity to accept, and complete a quest as easy as that one. He grabbed the incense, and then fell on all fours, leaping into the valley as he headed for the cave in question. He'd been taught enough by his Shan'do to understand that corrupting an Ancient like Goldrinn was an unforgivable offense.
Ragnar found the cave in question, slaughtered the cultists in and around it with ease that once might have unnerved him, and then set the incense alight, with a spark from striking the hilt of one of his increasingly battered greatswords.
A dark wolf form manifested in the cave then, and a foul mist surrounded him, one that was supposed to inspire terror and fear in mortals. All it did to Ragnar, was make him angrier. He started slashing into the ghostly usurper, certain that the White Wolf was with him. About halfway through the trading of slashing blows, one of Ragnar's blades got caught in Lycanthoth's fanged maw. His reaction was to rip it free, and in doing so, several of the dark wolf's teeth came out, but so did the blade, from where it had been inserted into the hilt during its forging.
Being down to one weapon did absolutely nothing to deter the white Worgen though, and if anything, his strikes using both hands were just as offensively powerful, if not as fast. Finally, after a solid thirty minutes of slashing, being slashed and bitten, and powering through the fear effects the dark wolf tried inflicting on him, Ragnar claimed victory by stabbing his remaining blade into the dark Ancient's heart with an execution strike. The wolf's foul body disintegrated then, and his dark blood rusted his sword upon touching it, making it useless and brittle. While he could fight with his claws, Ragnar preferred having weapons. It was at that point, that he heard Goldrinn speak to him, clearly, in his head, for the first time.
"Bring me the false wolf's broken fangs…"
And so, Ragnar did. When he returned to the shrine, there were more Worgen, but lording over all of them was the revived form of Goldrinn himself, manifested once more upon Azeroth and Hyjal for the first time in millennia. Ragnar knelt, as he approached the Wolf God. "The usurper's fangs…" He said, scattering them before Goldrinn. The Ancient growled to his left, and a Worgen in his Human form came forward, depositing a pair of swords beside the broken teeth.
The White Wolf eyed Ragnar. "You are one of my most ferocious scions. A true hunter, a master of your rage. You have been trained well." His large, wet, black nose poked the broken teeth then, and then glowed, as an intense orange aura reworked them and the Orcish-made swords into a pair of long, pulsing, greatswords vaguely shaped like fangs. They had various spikes by the hilts, but they were by every measure magnificent weapons perfect for cutting through one's foes. "The fangs of my dark incarnation. The shamanic blades of Orcs who worshiped me. These swords are yours now, Ragnar Whitemane. Listen well… I intend for you to use them…"
Goldrinn then explained his mission. He was to visit each shrine upon Hyjal and one by one, help their worshipers bring back their respective Ancients to Azeroth, to defend Hyjal in this time of peril. Goldrinn had his followers armor Ragnar as well, giving him whitish-gray plate armor, lined with his own fur in most cases. He left the valley of the Wolf God a plate armored and heavily armed juggernaut, and in short order, proved just how effective the sons of Goldrinn were in repelling the Twilight Cultist's invasion.
The Ashen Valley - Southern side of Mount Hyjal
Ragnar Whitemane was by no means the only hero that helped stop the Twilight's Hammer and their foul plans for Mount Hyjal, and while those heroes did their tasks, aided the Ancients, and brought back Aviana, Tortolla, and even Cenarius, Laronar Stormclaw had other plans. Ashamane, like many Ancients, also had a shrine upon Hyjal, for she loved the wilds on and around the sacred mountain. Like the other Ancients, she had been drawn to them long ago.
It was to this area that Laronar traveled, once he handed Fandral Staghelm off to Alysra, and though he did not know it then, it was this area that Majordomo Staghelm chose, for the manifestation of Ragnaros's burning keep on the prime material plane. This was, entirely, a purposeful choice, for the followers of Ashamane on Hyjal were quite powerful, and the last thing the Firelord's minions needed was an army of stealthy sabercats taking out their leaders.
Laronar arrived at the edge of the forested valley, a place he'd visited often over his long millennia, just in time to see none other than Deathwing himself live up to his name, as Destroyer. Massive black wings darkened the sky, and the entire mountain began to shake with his mad rage. He tried to move forward, to fly up and distract the mad Aspect, to stop the destruction he knew was coming, for he'd seen what the Dragon had done to the Park District in Stormwind as well, but Ashamane held him back, her form completely refusing to move. "You mustn't…you need to Live, Laronar…live…burn these tragedies into your mind…and let your emotions build until you need them."
He watched, helplessly, as Deathwing's power easily remade the Ashen's valley, and utterly wiped out almost every single druid still within it. Molten lava breath melted down her shrine on the first of the Dragon's passes, while Nightsabers roared in agony as the next pass landed among the trees, and blackened the land. Some of the druids below managed to flee, turning into birds as they flew away, but too many of those tried to do what Laronar had wanted, and only proceeded to burn up their feathers upon nearing the barely contained molten hate ball that Deathwing had become. When the Dragon was done, the Ashen valley was unrecognizable as it became a Throne of Flame. "There will be a time to strike, Laronar…" Ashamane counseled him, "But it is not now. Not here. Not yet. Gather other heroes, as they did in Ahn'Qiraj. Ready them to take the fight to the Firelord."
Laronar's brow furrowed in confusion. Ragnaros was defeated, long ago now it felt, but once more Ashamane's wisdom proved prophetic. A burning orange spire manifested in the lava pit that was once home to Ashamane's shrine, and from the lava below the still hovering Aspect of Death, came Ragnaros himself, roaring in renewed fury as he manifested once more upon Azeroth, seemingly under Deathwing's control.
The Black Dragon flew away then and Ragnaros entered his keep, from which came all kinds of fire elementals. Some looked like naga, some like the elementals the Twilight cultists had summoned up near the summit, and others, were massive, living giants of molten rock that manifested as Ragnaros had, by rising up through the newly situated lava pool that had claimed the shrine and lives of many of his yet living friends and allies. These were creatures that Laronar knew he could not contend with, not alone. Even the Ancients would have trouble beating such entities, and so, still hidden in shadow, the massive prowling Nightsaber did as his patron commanded, and began seeking out those he would need to personally take the fight to Ragnaros.
He'd never intended to lead a 'raid' as such groups had come to be commonly called. Many who joined such groups were, in his opinion, little better than loot-hungry murderers that were capable of, and willing, to kill as many minions of whatever foe they launched themselves at as possible. It was how quite a few adventurers had become absurdly wealthy in recent years, and the Cataclysm provided no shortage of large, dangerous enemies to band together against.
This was different though. For what Ragnaros had done, for what Deathwing had wrought on Hyjal's own slopes, things had become personal. Little did he yet know just how personal things would eventually become. In the days that followed, he gathered several Archdruids who favored the bear, and several who had mastered the healing arts to a degree he simply had not. Once he had them, it was only a matter of finding those with blades and arrows and magic to take with him into the depths of the Sulfuron Spire, and end the Firelord. Again.
Some Time Later…
Laronar had spread the tale of the tragedy of the Ashen Valley among his allies. Hjaldi had answered the call for damage dealers, and brought with him several powerful Dwarven fighters who were only too willing to help murder Ragnaros. Word had reached the world of a group of heroes who had slain the Windlord, Al'akir, and now Laronar intended to try the same thing with Ragnaros. In slaughtering and claiming Ashamane's shrine for his own, he and Deathwing had opened a portal into the Firelands. They would come to regret this.
"Stormclaw." Came a gruff voice, as Laronar looked over dossiers borrowed from Spymaster Shaw. The Humans had, upon hearing his tale, also pledged to help slay Ragnaros, permanently. These papers were their gathered records of worthy adventurers, of all races, who he might recruit. The voice in question belonged to Vanastaris, an adherent of Aviana who'd been one of his first 'recruits' to the forming raid. "Shan'do Stormrage summons the Cenarion Circle. The Earthen Ring and the Dragon Aspects are here as well. They intend to heal Nordrassil, as we build for a counter attack upon Ragnaros."
Only too eager to help, Laronar stood, hid the dossiers away with a wave of his hand, and joined his fellow druids. Several shamans, mostly from the Horde, flew in on wyverns whose barding he recognized as belonging to Orgrimmar. There was still bad blood between the Orcs and Kaldorei after what Garrosh Hellscream had done to Ashenvale, the Stonetalon Retreat, and any other zone of Kalimdor his presence befouled, but it seemed these shaman, at least, were not here to further the faction conflict. These were strange days indeed, as Trolls of the Darkspear had also come to join the Cenarion Circle, alongside the Worgen. Indeed, as Laronar realized most of his order was gathered now, he was startled to see that the racial makeup of it had radically shifted. He felt his chest twinge as he realized just how many of their druids the Kaldorei had lost to just the past few decades.
As Laronar had these dark musings, the former Warchief, Thrall, who was apparently going by Go'el now, was speaking with Malfurion and the other Dragon Aspects. Ysera had been at Hyjal for weeks, protecting its roots from the sinister flames of Ragnaros. Alexstrasza had arrived first, and aided her sister, until the others arrived. He'd heard the blues had replaced Malygos, and only hoped that this Kalecgos would not suffer the same tragic madness his predecessor had. Then there was Nozdormu. If the Aspect of Time had actually shown up, that suggested these efforts were important indeed. He'd never deigned to so much as fly near Teldrassil.
Laronar was close enough to their position to hear the Timeless One mention that they should hurry, and almost as if on cue, five fireballs rained from the sky, and fell near the gathering of important personas. Murmurs filled the banks of the second Well of Eternity as the Circle and the Earthen Ring watched this display, and before anyone could react, the casters around their leader figure cast a spell to hold the others in place, Laronar included. The magic was a potent mix of fire and void trickery, but Laronar began working at it immediately, staring at the fiery caster's leader as he did so. There was something far too familiar about him. His posture. His voice. It made his hackles rise, but he was too focused on breaking the spell to realize who exactly it was in that moment.
"Not so fast, Son of Durotan! You and your allies have certainly set us back. but the Hour of Twilight Cannot be averted!" The stranger crowed, as he started monologuing, "The Twilight Prophet knows that You - and you alone - are our final obstacle. He's sent me to remove you from the game."
"I do not fear death." The former Warchief answered.
The stranger laughed, a mad cackle that Laronar finally recognized. He grew furious, struggling to free himself of the spell holding him in place all the quicker. "Death? Who said anything about death? You may be this world's greatest Shaman, Thrall, but you are only Mortal. This is my master's curse upon you - turning your great bond with the elements... into your undoing!"
Thrall began to levitate in the air before the arrogant bastard monologuing to him. Thrall then began to split into the four essences of the elements, air, water, earth, and fire and when all four essences appeared, Thrall himself disappeared. The essences turned into spheres of elemental energy.
"Even now, the elements are tearing you apart, and they shall feed upon your doubts and fears 'till the last spark of life on this wretched world has been snuffed out."
The spheres flew away and disappeared. Malfurion finally ran towards the cultists. The cultists that were casting the spell were knocked down, their concentration broken. Laronar shifted into his Cat Form, and began sprinting at the fiery elven figures.
"You'll regret this, stranger!" Malfurion shouted, as he summoned entangling roots to snare each of them, holding them in place for the furious Nightsaber bounding towards them even then. He'd seen Laronar work enough times to know how to set up a killing blow for the Feral Druid.
"Will I?" The pompous ass answered his teacher. The cultists burst into flames, burning the roots and the Twilight's Hammer robes hiding their identities from Malfurion, and the others who had not recognized them. Fandral Staghelm, Leyara, Valstann Staghelm's widow, and three other Druids of the Flame were revealed as the smoke began to clear. "Come, Shan'do, certainly you recognize your former pupil?" Behind him, Leyara cackled.
Malfurion Stormrage stared in disbelief at his old friend and former student. "Fandral…what have they done to you?"
Fandral Staghelm sneered at Malfurion. "Naive as always, I see. Your pet Orc cannot save you now, Malfurion." At that point, the Archdruid of the Flame finally turned to regard the enraged Nightsaber mere feet from leaping for his neck. Fire erupted around him and his disciples. "I hope you enjoyed what we did to your precious panther's valley." With that, pillars of flame engulfed the fallen druids, and they vanished as Laronar leapt, and caught only ash in his mouth.
Malfurion rumbled something about other druids being corrupted, and informing the Moonglade, but Laronar barely heard him. Thrall's mate bemoaned his fate, but the Archdruid ignored her, and the adventurer standing near her. He shifted forms, and strode up to Ysera. He'd intended his words to be harsh, but seeing her visage evoked calm, and cleared his head in her presence. He felt the eyes of the Dragonqueen and the Timeless One upon him as well, as Kalecgos tried to comfort the female brown skinned Orc.
Laronar couldn't have cared less for Thrall, in that moment, as he was unaware of the shaman's importance, and still held him personally responsible for Baine Bloodhoof's death, and the rise, and following carnage, that Garrosh Hellscream had caused. "What madness is this, Dreamer?" He snarled. "I handed Staghelm personally to one of your Flight. How has he escaped the might of a Dragon!?"
Ysera lowered her head in sadness. "I fear Alysra may have been complicit in his escape…if you would, Archdruid Stormclaw, go to her. Find the truth of things."
"Oh, I intend to…" Laronar snarled again, and with that, he was off. Partly because he wanted, nay, demanded answers, and partly because there was a certain look in Nozdormu's eye, as if he had recognized a certain blessing upon the Kaldorei, and its source. The last thing Laronar needed was to become a curiosity of the Aspect of Time. Such creatures tended to vanish from the timeline, never to be seen again, unless one trekked down into the Caverns of Time.
It was a short flight to Alysra's perch, and as the Dragon sensed him coming, he noted her body language. Tense. Coiled. As if she was cornered, or rather, about to be. Laronar landed directly before her, shifting in the air, and meeting her closed eyes with his burning amber orbs. "Alysra. You've handed Fandral Staghelm over to the Twilight cult. Why have you betrayed the Dragonflights!?"
Alysra snarled at him. "No, NO! I didn't "betray" the Dragonflights. We were all betrayed! Ysera was lost in a Dream while this whole world came undone!" With that, the Dragon inhaled, and Laronar's eyes went wide as corrosive poison breath came his way. He dodge rolled to one side, landing on all fours and shifting forms as he did so. He'd never dared to so much as spar with a full grown Dragon, and after Onyxia, had no desire to face one again in combat. Let alone single combat.
He was still furious though, at being unable to tear out Fandral's throat during his monologue, at how the murderous traitor had escaped, again, at how he should simply have ripped his throat out by hand in the Barrow Dens, like he'd wanted to. Once again, Malfurion's reluctance to end a threat had set it loose upon the world, and innocents, both elf and animal, had suffered. The face of Hyjal would be marred for centuries, at least, before the Sulfuron Spire's damage was mitigated. All because he had not pushed a losing argument against his soft hearted Shan'do.
Lightning covered his claws as he ably dodged the slower, larger Dragon, and he strafed around her side, tearing into the softer skinned underbelly. His raking claws left her bleeding, and he caused the wound to fester for good measure. He slid under the Dragon then as she turned futilely to face him, and he shredded her two more times, before dragging both claws down her other side, and ripping apart the skin. Dragon blood poured from the torn wounds, and Alysra shrieked in rage.
Again came the poison breath, as she flapped slightly into the air, and again he dodged, running under her body and out of her area of effect. He leapt onto her mace-like tail, though that soon proved unwise as she flailed about, roaring about how doomed their world was, how it should end in fire. At that point, several spinning glaives came for the Dragon, four tearing into and through her wings, and another two curving down her neck and soft underbelly.
Roaring in pain, the Dragon landed, and six Wardens from the nearby Barrow Dens appeared, recalling their weapons with their magical ability. Laronar gave them a nod, as he was finally flung off of the Dragon. Seeing she was outnumbered, Alysra roared again, and this time, fiery balls of green flame began bombarding the area. Two of the Wardens were too slow to react to this, and fell, badly burned, as the area became awash in fire.
For his part, Laronar ducked behind a nearby pillar, and then dashed out once the spell was spent. Again he raked his claws into green dragonscale, shredding the Dragon until finally he leapt for her throat, and bit through it. By that point, the Wardens had further damaged her, and with a pitiful roar, Alysra fell to the ground, dead. Laronar returned to his elven form, panting hard, and covered slightly with acid. He casted a quick heal on himself, and then regrew the skin of the wounded Wardens, though one had already died to her wounds as the poison had corroded her throat.
Their Captain, the same one from before whose name he hadn't gotten, nodded at him. "We heard as you did, Archdruid. Alysra delivered Staghelm unto the Twilight's Hammer."
As if to confirm that, familiar pillars of flame appeared again, and enraged, Laronar began sprinting towards the closest once more as a Nightsaber. "We're too late!" One said. "They've already killed her, as Fandral knew they would!"
"Ragnaros has already claimed this one as his own." The furthest speaker, Leyara, by her tone, said. "Do you doubt his power?" The Druids of the Flame began casting a spell upon her corpse then, but Laronar didn't intend to let them finish. He tore out the throat of one of them, and started in on another, but by the time that druid fell as well, focused on their casting instead of blocking his shredding claws, their ritual was finished. Evidently they did not care if they lost some of their number.
As the spell finished, Alysra rose again, this time in the form of a burning firebird. She flapped once, and the resulting burning air pressure knocked an unsuspecting Laronar off his paws. He snarled as she flew away, and the other flame druids vanished with their pillar trick. He roared at them, knowing that as druids they understood his oath in the tongue of the wilds. He would see all of them dead, personally.
He invited the Wardens to join his raiding party then, but only two were allowed to, as the Barrow Dens still needed guards at that moment. Still, that was two more closer to the forty he needed. He was more motivated than ever after this hellish day to get their assault underway. Within a week, he'd acquired the rest of his damage dealers, quite a few frost mages among them, and sent out word for them to begin gathering beneath the World Tree.
It was not just his raiders that gathered that day, however. There were more. In the wake of the invasion of Hyjal, a new subsect of the Cenarion Circle had formed. The Guardians of Hyjal. Their members now gathered as well, druids from the Kaldorei, Worgen, Tauren, and Darkspear Trolls, as well as quite a few adventurers.
Malfurion approached Laronar as he stood in one of the wings of the inn, watching the gathered crowds. "I was intending to address them, my friend…but…I believe the adventurers are tired of hearing me speak. I need to head to the Spire anyway, and claim the portal to the Molten Front. I leave inspiring them, to you." The burly Archdruid patted Laronar's black paw covered shoulder armor then, and shifted into his Storm Crow Form, as he headed south down Hyjal's slopes. Many druids watched him depart, in confusion.
Suddenly learning he disliked crowds, and speaking to them, Laronar persisted anyway, flapping his way up to the top of Nordrassil's inn. From there, he cast a spell on his voice to help it reach those below. "When the Twilight cultists began this assault on Nordrassil and Hyjal…many of you rushed to defend the World Tree. Even though for many of your peoples, it has never been your charge to defend it. You understood as we, Nordrassil's oldest defenders, do: without the World Tree, Azeroth will never recover from the damage inflicted by the Cataclysm."
He paused for a moment, looking down, then clenched his fists, encased by Nordrassil's own bark, from an age when its blessings were still intact. "The time for defense has passed! We are no longer on the back foot. Through your tireless efforts, we have forged the tip of the spear that will end Ragnaros forever! From this point forward…we are the Avengers of Hyjal! For those who died in the Ashen Valley, for all those many others who fell in the following invasion, we will not let their sacrifices be in vain! Onwards! To the Firelands! For Nordrassil!"
The crowd roared, seemingly inspired, Laronar didn't bask in the roars of affirmation though, instead, he shifted to his Owl Form, making it larger this time. Once more he was in his armor, and once more, he had borrowed the Fangs of Ashamane, pledging to drive them into Ragnaros and Fandral Staghelm personally, before he was through wielding them, hopefully for the last time. They felt more powerful since the Shifting Sands, and he reckoned being wielded by Thaon had made them stronger. The other druids joined his metal-taloned Flight Form, circling under Nordrassil, as those who couldn't shift their shapes mounted up slower, and then joined them as well.
Then, he led them in Malfurion's wake, down the slopes of Hyjal, and straight for the Sulfuron Spire. It had taken weeks, but they finally had the momentum in this war, and he did not intend to let it fizzle out. As Malfurion met and led them into the portal at the spire, he and several others stayed behind at the breach to reinforce their foothold. Laronar, his raiders, and adventurers of both the Horde and Alliance had other plans, however.
Before them, was an entire field of burning enemies, all converging on their position, and with what Laronar swore was almost glee, the adventurers and his raiding party met the fiery hordes, and began tearing them down. Entities that had lived for countless millennia, trapped in this Titan-forged plane of fire, now cut down by 'mere mortals' with depressing ease. On the empty armor and smoldering carcasses of the more corporeal minions of Ragnaros, the mortals met to establish their plan.
Laronar spoke first, and many recognized him as the druid who'd given them a speech under Nordrassil. Though some had fallen to the fiery defenders of the Firelands, even now their healers were bringing those heroes back from the edges of death. "In the east is a creature called Rhyolith. It's an elemental that's been spawning elementals for thousands of years." He looked to the Horde's leader of their ragtag adventuring group of roughly twenty five adventurers. "I leave his end to the might of the Horde." The one eyed blademaster gave him a grin with his uneven, broken teeth. "Thrall-hall!"
Laronar pointed on the other side of their newly drawn map then. "In the east is a foul fire spider queen. We know little about it, but I leave it to the Alliance and their people to deal with it. The Druids of the Talon will aid you." The Draenei Paladin leading his own band of twenty five nodded stoically, first to Laronar, then to the Archdruid of the Talon with them. "Finally…Fandral Staghelm has been sighted there." He gestured with the Fangs of Ashamane towards the center area of the region. "Scouts say there's novice Druids around him, as well as three giant firebirds, and their eggs. The rest of us will take them out, and then strike at Fandral. Without his Majordomo, Ragnaros will be weakened. Everyone knows their part?" They nodded. "We reconvene at the gate to the keep, to deal with Baleroc, Ragnaros's strongest guard. Good luck, and stay alive."
"Archdruid!" Came a perpetually angry female Kaldorei voice. Laronar and the others paused, though he remained in his Cat Form, ready to sprint and head out. Out of the shadows came a group of Wardens, with their Captain at their head. "I am Saynna Stormrunner. If you recall…Fandral was our prisoner, before we were tricked by the Dragon Alysra. We will join you on this hunt." Laronar nodded slowly in approval, and then roared. Ashamane's power infused the feet of his group, the largest of the three, and they took off running, cutting easily through the remaining hordes of fiery naga-like beings, elementals, and stone giants until they reached their destination.
Like a well oiled Gnomish tank, Laronar and the other stealth fighters stunned the Druids of the Flame empowering the three fire hawks, while frost mages and hunters crippled the firebirds before they could so much as leave the ground. In short order, they'd ended them, and their hatchlings. In the distance, Laronar saw Fandral, and began sprinting for the kill. One of the raiders shouted for him to wait, but he was done waiting. He leapt, only for Fandral to turn, a smirk across his hated visage, as he sent Laronar flying backwards, rooting him and the rest of their forces in place as he, again, started monologuing.
"What have we here? A crusty old cat leading a pack of Mortals? How quaint. You remember Alysrazor, Stormclaw? The one who fooled you and those imbecilic Wardens into handing me over to my newfound freedom? Like me, she has been reborn! Reborn in flame! Much as I would enjoy watching her reduce you to ash…I am needed elsewhere."
With that, Fandral shifted into a fiery version of a Storm Crow, and flapped away, while Alysrazor popped up from a volcanic crater in the ground with a screech, and a wave of flame that burned away Fandral's roots. The firebird began dive bombing the raiders then, only for the mortals to dodge her fiery talons. More Druids of the Flame arrived to help her as the mortal's spells and attacks began to leave a mark, but Laronar and the other swiftly dispatched them.
After about ten minutes of dodging attacks and dispatching minions, Alysrazor took to the sky, out of most of their reach. Laronar flew up to match her, undeterred by the superheated air of the Fire Plane that threatened to burn his feathers. "THESE SKIES ARE MINE!" She shrieked, but the giant owl answered her with a shriek of his own, met her talon to talon, and through his simmering anger at Fandral escaping again, and some clever flying, tossed the newly formed firebird, still unused to her altered wings, back towards the ground.
The raiders fell upon her like ants on a corpse, and with a pitiful shriek, she died, leaving behind only traces of the armor that had adorned her new form. Laronar spat on it, and it sizzled from the ambient heat of their surroundings. "Good riddance…" He snarled, before shifting back to his Cat Form.
They arrived at Baleroc's post the same time as the other adventurers. A few of the raiders had perished against Alysrazor and her minions, and Laronar took from both Horde and Alliance to replenish their ranks. Ragnaros's guard dog didn't put up a fight worth mentioning, and his only words were focused on how the mortals were 'not allowed' into Ragnaros's sanctum, as if that would deter them. He repeated this upon his death, and immediately following his passing, Fandral's voice filled the area again.
"I admire your tenacity, Mortals! Baleroc stood guard over this citadel for thousands of your Mortal life-spans. But none may enter the Firelord's abode!" The image of himself he was projecting over them leered at the mortals below. "Beg for your lives, Mortals, and I may yet allow you to live! Well? What say you?"
Hjaldi and a few of the Dwarves chuckled. "Oi, Stormclaw, ye wanna take this one?"
"I have your answerrrr Staghelm!" Laronar snarled, striding to the front of the raid. Fandral's brows knitted, and a look of what might have been fear came over his haughty visage as he realized how close, and determined, his longtime enemy was. Laronar raised a fist, and then with his other hand, made a motion like one might do when turning a crank. With each rotation, his middle finger rose, until it was completely upright. The Dwarves broke into laughter, as the crank hand also formed a middle finger, and Laronar directed both of them at Fandral.
"You'rrrre going to Die, Fandrrrral Staghelm…and not even Malfurion can stop that, now."
Fandral's eyes widened. "Insolent-" But Laronar made a horizontal swiping motion, and his magical projection was cut off mid-speech.
He looked over at the mages then, who were fiddling with some sort of fiery orb. "Have you figured out how to progress yet?"
One of them, an older Human, turned to meet his gaze. "Ah, well, you see-" At that moment, behind him, a younger but skilled newly trained Kaldorei mage simply lifted the orb up, and shook it violently. The entire raid turned to look as a bridge appeared between them and Sulfuron Keep, and then they all looked back to the mage, who was patting the young Night Elf on the back. Feeling everyone's eyes, he turned and gestured. "The way is open, and Fandral seems to be blocking the other side of it."
"Finally…" Laronar said, drawing Ashamane's Fangs as he strode purposefully across the bridge. The others followed him, slowly accelerating to a run, as Laronar did. By this point, through rumor or question, most of the raiders knew of his history with the man, or at the very least, that Laronar very much wanted him dead, and intended to get the kill. "Get the acolytes…Fandral is Mine!" Laronar shouted, as he shifted forms.
Hearing his rival, Fandral shifted forms as well, as he shouted "Behold, the power of the Firelands!" He'd chosen a Cat Form as well for this, and unlike the burning orange Cat Forms his acolytes had taken, this one had armor on it, as Laronar's did. The power of Ashamane clashed with that of Ragnaros, as Laronar found his form becoming larger, to match the absurd size Ragnaros's Majordomo had taken.
The two massive felines began slashing and clawing at each other, though it was barely more than a minute before the rest of the raid focused on him, as the corpses of his Druids of the Flame lay scattered around the keep's courtyard. Fandral's Cat Form tried leaping at their ranged damage dealers and their healers, but Laronar leapt with him, blocking his strikes, much to the Majordomo's fury. Over and over this occurred, all while Laronar kept his molten blood flowing from numerous bleeding wounds, while the rest of the raid shot them full of arrows or magic, or made them wider with their own weapons.
After about five minutes, in an act of desperation, Fandral resumed his elven shape, and caught their healers within fiery tornadoes, while other spells fell upon the raiders. He opened his mouth to crow about his inevitable victory, only for Laronar to once again be there. Ashamane saw through the mirror images the fiery druid had scattered around the courtyard, and Laronar leapt with the power of his Cat Form, shifting to his own elven form, as he sailed towards the real Fandral, and knocked him flat on his back by sending his knees into the traitor's chest, and letting momentum and gravity do the rest. The resulting lack of air stifled whatever he'd been about to say.
The Fangs of Ashamane hovered at Fandral's throat, and Laronar gave him enough time to realize his situation, and open his mouth to beg or sneer or monologue. But before a single word escaped the traitor's throat, Laronar's arms moved, the blades cut through his windpipe and vocal cords, and as the traitor tried a final spell, infusing his body with heat in a trick Laronar recognized as part of their druidic arts, he plunged them into Fandral's skull, and twisted. His body jerked, went limp, and the heat building within Fandral Staghelm died out, as his soul was sent screaming to the Shadowlands.
Charred by the battle and covered in soot, Laronar stood, and raised the traitor's head for the raid to see. "The traitor is dead! Now, we take this fight to Ragnaros, and Avenge those who died in his surprise assault on Hyjal!" Laronar tossed his longtime hated rival's head aside, and shifted back to his Cat Form. For Ragnaros himself, the raiders had agreed to have the tankier members engage first, as they had with every other figure of importance, or 'boss'. Fandral had been a special case, and Laronar had possessed the size to match him.
His Cat Form was back to regular size now, though, and he silently thanked Ashamane for allowing him to counter Fandral's enhanced and perverted form. He knew it had cost quite a lot of energy.
There were three minor enemies before Ragnaros, barring the raid's way. They made short work of each of them, before gathering before the Firelord, who was ready for them, waiting, as he held Sulfuras high. A few of the raiders were veterans of the raid that had taken on Ragnaros in the Molten Core, and that was on purpose. Laronar had gotten as many of them as he could, though many had since died, gone missing, or simply refused, those who had shown up were all too eager to put a final end to what they'd started in Blackrock Mountain.
As their tanks engaged him, Ragnaros shouted, "The realm of Fire will consume you all! Die!" and the raid scattered as he brought the burning hammer down to hit them, only to miss. The tanks rotated the Firelord's attention among them after taking three dire burning wounds apiece, but thankfully their healers were more than capable of restoring them rather quickly, while keeping everyone else alive.
Laronar was with the other melee damage dealers to the back and side of Ragnaros, and while it was hard to make the Elemental Lord of Fire bleed, persay, his claws were doing damage, and it was clear Ragnaros was feeling the pressure of being assaulted from so many powerful attacks. Finally, evidently feeling cornered, Ragnaros smashed the ground, and spawned eight elementals. They began moving towards Sulfuras, presumably to empower it, but the raiders were ready for the Firelord's shenanigans, and in short order sent the fiery sons of Ragnaros back to nonexistence.
"You will be Crushed! Sulfuras shall be your end!" The Firelord shouted as he rose again from his magma pool, and once more began trying to smash the raiders. Each of them managed to dodge his blows, and when he set most of the area on fire, many of them were able to run free of it without succumbing, thanks to the top tier healing coming from their group of healers. Ragnaros continued trying to smash them and entrap them on burning parts of the platform, but the raiders dodged, ducked, dipped, and sometimes dove out of the way of his attacks with enough speed for their healers to bring them back to full health, or at least, away from the edge of unconsciousness and death.
Once more he tried empowering his hammer with fire elementals, and once more the raiders stopped him. Furious at his lack of progress, Ragnaros erupted from his lava pool one more time. "You have come too soon, Mortals! I cannot be stopped!" Eight giant flaming meteors began falling and homing in on the raiders who scurried, trying to avoid and deflect them.
At that moment, another voice cut in, an impressive baritone that everyone there, druid or otherwise, had grown used to hearing over the course of defending Hyjal. The deep, inspiring baritone of the newly revived Forest Lord, Cenarius. "No, fiend! Your time is NOW!" Raising a minty green glowing claw hand, a wave of frost froze and then broke the meteors, and the panicked mortals cheered, as two more figures arrived beside Cenarius.
Malfurion Stormrage and Hamuul Runetotem drew the air from Ragnaros's lava pit, rapidly cooling it, and the Firelord roared in fury. "Heroes! He is bound. Finish him!" Malfurion called, and Laronar roared, spurring the raider's feet towards the Firelord as he began forcefully stepping out of the cooled magma.
"This is not…your realm…outsiders!" Ragnaros roared, as he stepped free of the trap. "When I am finished here…your pathetic world…will BURN!"
As the tanks and melee fighters began beating down what little remained of Ragnaros's stamina, Hjaldi called out to the raiders, "Anyone who can summon the rain an' ice, git yerself over 'ere!" The shamans in the group, along with the druids, Cenarius, Malfurion, and several of the frost mages collectively pooled their powers then, calling down a magical storm of snow and rain over Ragnaros, as his fiery form dwindled under the simultaneous beating, and magic. Laronar helped as well with the spell, once his bleeds were applied.
"No! Nooooo! This…was to be…my hour of…triumph…" And with a last pitiful gasp, the final ember of Ragnaros the Firelord went out, Sulfuras fell to the ground, all but extinguished, and the mortals cheered.
"It is finished, then! Hyjal is Avenged!" Malfurion said, cheering with the others, and igniting another cheer from the burned, battered, and smoldering raiders.
"Ragnaros may be vanquished…" Cenarius said, his tone sobering their cheers, "but the primal powers he represents will never truly fade. A new Firelord will rise, some day."
"Yes, Cenarius." Hamuul answered. "We must maintain a constant vigil over this realm. For now, let us celebrate this day, and the great victory we have earned here."
Cenarius nodded sagely, allowing himself a smile for the first time since reincarnating. "Indeed."
As Malfurion and the raiders departed, the Archdruid and Cenarius waited by the exit of Sulfuron Keep, and Fandral's headless corpse. "A moment, Archdruid Stormclaw." Cenarius said, as the equally tired Feral Druid exited the domain of the deceased Ragnaros.
"What you have done here is no small thing, Laronar." Cenarius said with a nod of his antlered head. "Gathering and leading a group of heroes against an Elemental Lord…such a tale will be a fine addition to the legend of Ashamane's Fangs. I would have you continue to wield them, in the face of the Cataclysm."
Laronar's eyes widened, and he looked at the fangs of his patron. "I am honored to be considered as their permanent wielder Forest Lord, but…as I did during the Shifting Sands, I will return them to Ashamane's Fall. She spent too much power today…and it will take time to recoup it."
Malfurion nodded then. "Indeed. Tales of your feline duel with Fandral are already spreading. I am sorry we were not there to see it."
Laronar sighed, heavily. "It may be best, Shan'do…you would not have liked to witness such a thing, two of your students struggling to kill the other. Such things are only heroic in song…the deed itself…felt far less noble."
"I am glad you understand that killing one's enemy is not always the answer, Laronar. Mayhap you can pass that lesson on to Thaon." Malfurion said.
Laronar had begun walking down the steps, when Malfurion's words, and tone, made him pause. "Let me be clear, Malfurion Stormrage." He said, turning and meeting his gaze as evenly as he had Shandris's when she'd needed a reality check as well. "Had we simply killed Fandral in the wake of his tenure as Nightmare Lord, and put his madness out of its misery, many of Nordrassil's defenders would yet be alive. My patron's shrine might yet be intact, and not sitting in a lava lake. I am in agreement with Thaon, and this disaster has only cemented that view: threats to the world should be ended, before they are allowed to grow and run rampant, and undo centuries of hard work."
Malfurion frowned, but Laronar was already walking away, tired, exhausted, but ultimately satisfied. He hadn't enjoyed killing Fandral, as he thought he would. In those final moments, he'd seen his fellow druid novice, in the moonlight of Ashenvale, sharing Moonberry juice as the other novices caroused and relaxed after a long day of Dream walking. Such memories did not blind him, however, as unlike Malfurion, he remained grounded in the reality of the choices Fandral had made since then. He ended a threat to the world, and a traitor to his order. That was all there was to it.
Cenarius put a hand on Malfurion's shoulder, as Laronar walked away. "It is not always easy, to see our students grow…but you should take his words to heart, Malfurion. Sometimes, it is better to end the threat, before it begins."
Malfurion looked up at Cenarius. "Had you ended Krasus and Rhonin when they came into your glade, the Legion might well have burned the entire world."
"Indeed." Cenarius said, nodding sagely. "I chose to wait, to see the extent of their character, and the consequences of their meddling, and my choice worked out." He gestured to Fandral's corpse. "This one, did not. Learn from this lesson and grow, Thero'shan."
With that, Cenarius became a cloud of dust, coals, and wind, and headed for the portal to Azeroth. "Yes, Shan'do." Malfurion said quietly, brows furrowing as he looked one last time on Fandral's corpse, and then began putting his and his acolytes bodies to rest with beams of Moonfire.
Chapter 28: Rising Storms
Chapter Text
SI:7 Training yard - Stormwind City
Mathias Shaw may have been limited by his humanity but he was keeping up with the ancient elf who, over drinks celebrating Deathwing's demise, had mentioned he had learned an ancient martial art from a thunder tiger god in a distant land who had a whole temple devoted to teaching the 'Pandaren' who inhabited said land those same martial arts. Naturally, Shaw had laughed, as had several other members of the more stealthily inclined Alliance forces, several of whom were his own Stormclaws. Laronar had then asked if Shaw wanted a demonstration.
The Human had his own style of brutal, honorless melee combat that exploited every mistake Laronar made, and the Kaldorei found himself irritated with how sloppy his elven instincts had become. As fast as Xuen's style was, its powerful strikes left one's limbs open to manipulation by wiry bastards like Shaw. Despite the Spymaster's dexterity, the Human took damage from Laronar's long, well muscled limbs when they hit. They struck with the force of a charging Tauren, and their explosive speed made dodging them hard, but Shaw made the elf pay for those hits with repeated kidney shots. Hitting the absurdly well defined musculature of the druid also took a toll on Shaw's fists.
The Human had also gone shirtless, and neither of them was using weapons or magic, as they dueled in the training ground of SI:7's HQ. Shaw noticed his bleeding knuckles, and chuckled, bantering as his feet kept moving. "It's like punching a brick wall."
"You're as sturdy as a Dwarf." Laronar replied, recalling how Hjaldi had once also made him brawl fist to fist, also in a similar state of undress. Shaw claimed that every city on Azeroth had groups of mostly males who went out in the cover of night to punch each other senseless for fun. Some of the more adventurous members of these 'fighting circles' had started roaming, city to city, eager to punch someone in the face, and prove they were the strongest. The Spymaster had apparently become second only to Varian Wrynn, who had little time for brawling these days, but was still the undisputed King of the Fighting Circle in the capital.
Shaw came in close again and once more Laronar let him wear himself out on his flexed core muscles. In the moment Shaw realized what he was doing and pulled back, the elf tripped him with a quick shift of his foot, striking at just the right moment into his heel to slam him to the ground, and knock the wind from his lungs. Hitting their lungs hard enough to knock the air from them was a known weakness of Humankind, and Laronar had accumulated many different tricks for manipulating the weaknesses of Azeroth's mortal denizens over the course of this latest war. Tauren were easily distracted by bright red or other similarly loud colors. Trolls became much more malleable if one could get a solid grip on their tusks. After personally taking out Fandral, Shandris had asked for him, and anyone else he could bring, to help Ashenvale against Garrosh Hellscream's unhinged brilliance for war. He'd started studying and learning such exploitable weak points in an effort to remove the Horde from Ashenvale, and his Stormclaws had been eager to answer his call to the ancient forests. He liked to think their efforts had helped finally shift the tide of Hellscream's new war to the usual state of indefinite conflict the Warsong Gulch found itself in.
Shaw groaned, as the air came back to him and Laronar hit him with a Rejuvenation, as he pulled the drunken Spymaster to his feet. The Human's smile slowly shifted to a frown, as his eyes became more focused and his body became sober. "Your magic killed my buzz."
Laronar smirked. "Then let us find more alcohol. Unless you'd prefer some…herbs, instead?"
Shaw held up a hand. "No. Nono. No. No more magic Druid leaves." He strode quickly in the direction of the nearest tavern, shaking his head as the druid chuckled and in a matter of seconds, had his pipe lit.
Some Time Later - Stormclaw Retreat, Stonetalon Mountains
The Stormclaw Retreat had offered an alternative to the students of Thal'darah's Grove, a sect of novices of both elven and Tauren Druids. Then, Garrosh Hellscream's Horde had bombed the retreat, leaving nothing but a crater full of acolyte body parts, both elven and Tauren, behind. In response, Laronar had turned his lesser known retreat into an alternative safe haven, but currently he refused to teach Tauren anything beyond healing techniques. While some of their druids had objected, eventually they understood why Stormclaw made the decision. Though he considered them Stormclaws, many were also sworn members of the Horde. Laronar refused to sharpen knives that would be used against his own people or their allies, but he had no objections about enhancing their healing training. The Stormclaws in question accepted their teacher's edict, understanding, eventually, why it had to be this way. For now. Hellscream had driven his point home when he had gone on to destroy Theramore too, and the hero Archmage Rhonin along with it.
It made zero difference to Laronar that Hellscream had apparently killed the Orc who'd bombed the retreat, or waited for Alliance civilians to escape by ship before detonating Theramore. He'd seen what Garrosh was, in Ashenvale. These sad attempts by the Orc to stay 'honorable' would fail, and Garrosh would inevitably become like every other dictator Azeroth had seen. An over-hyped corpse.
Shaw had ordered him specifically to not attempt killing Garrosh, and Laronar had been made to swear he wouldn't try it. He mentioned nothing about his students making the attempt though. All they needed was the right moment.
Down in the retreat's inn, one of the newer female students approached the innkeeper. "Eltharius. I was wondering who that muscular male with the smoking pipe is."
Eltharius smirked. "You're going to have to narrow it down, sister."
The woman sighed. "Green hair. Bearded. Currently floating in the air somehow and smoking a pipe. Never wears a shirt, never seems to descend from his perch."
"Ahh." Eltharius said, nodding. "That would be Shan'do Stormclaw."
Her silver eyes widened. "Stormclaw? As in the Archdruid who landed the killing blow upon Fandral Staghelm? That Stormclaw?"
Eltharius sighed and nodded. "The very same."
The woman finished her Moonberry juice, and smiled at the innkeeper. "Thank you."
"Of course." He answered, watching as she walked out of the inn and made the climb through the treehouse to Laronar's lofty perch. Eltharius just shook his head. Females who arrived at the retreat for training sometimes did as this latest had. One way or another, they took note of Stormclaw, and came to him to ask about the druid, before going to meet him themselves. To call the Archdruid a recluse was generous. He appeared to train his most promising Stormclaws, and then typically vanished from the retreat for days at a time. If one wandered the woods long enough though, they'd eventually see him hunting or napping in his massive Cat Form. This was his version of meditation, as he always encouraged the forest to grow further with his own energy stores, whenever he napped in it.
In the months since ending Fandral, this occurred often enough for the innkeeper to grow sick of it. He joked to himself that the woman who ignored Laronar for him, would be his mate, and that was how he'd know he'd found the right one.
Before the woman even made it up to Laronar, an owl floated down in front of him, with a message attached to its leg. By the time the woman had climbed the stairs, Laronar had also become an owl and taken off, leaving his unnoticed guest frowning in disappointment.
It was a short flight to the rendezvous for Laronar and Thal'darah, as well as the leader of the newly established Alliance settlement near the border with Desolace, Malyk. Chieftain Cliffwalker was the one responsible for calling them here. When Laronar had first returned to Stonetalon, it was to the news that the majority of the Cliffwalker Tauren had been wiped out, by the Horde's own Kor'kron forces. The unarmed, peaceful druid acolytes under Thal'darah's tutelage had been deemed a threat by the orcs, and Hellscream's war machine could not simply ignore them, if Stonetalon was to be claimed for the Horde.
The unarmed trainees who had spent most of their time meditating before being blown to pieces were not the only ones the mighty Orcs had been afraid of, though. The Cliffwalker Tauren, rightly outraged by the slaughter, were also deemed a threat around the same time. Before they could so much as summon their hunters together in a force that could match the Kor'kron, the Horde burned their village to the ground, nearly completing their slaughter of the Cliffwalker Tribe.
"Earthmother's blessings, Archdruids…" The Chief rumbled. It was obvious the grief of his tragedy still weighed on him. Laronar resisted frowning, but he knew, in their culture, assuming it hadn't changed much in thousands of years, an event like this could be taken as a personal failure on the part of the Chief. In reality, his tribe had simply been in the Horde's way. Just like the Night Elves were. It was one of the many reasons Laronar was sympathetic to the Chieftain's plight.
The druids returned the greeting, and the Chief rumbled again in his sad baritone, "We found more of my people these past days. Mostly hunters, and what remains of their families." The Tauren stood straight, at his full height, and Laronar leaned back, as the sharp horns and feathered headdress came down suddenly with the massive bull man's bow. "Cliffwalker Post cannot sustain them all. I beg the aid of you, who also have suffered the Horde's brutality. Please take them in."
Thal'darah and Malyk shared a look and winced as they knew how their Alliance friendly settlements would welcome Tauren, but Laronar spoke first. "They can stay at my Retreat. We're technically with the Circle, so the Horde can't just attack us, and I'm fairly certain they don't even know it exists. I've seen their maps, it's not marked, or anything. I will give them a place to call home. At least until the tribe gets back on its hooves, eh?"
Again, the Chieftain bowed, and again, Laronar narrowly dodged his horn situation. "We are forever in your debt, Archdruid Stormclaw. They will arrive in the sacred grove during the night."
Laronar closed his eyes for a moment, and when they opened again said, "They will be met by a Son of Cenarius. Tell them not to fear, or attack. He will show them a safe path through the grove, to the Retreat. The innkeeper will give them a roof to sleep under until you can construct your own."
The Tauren looked relieved. "We will not forget your kindness, Archdruid. If there are any problems just send me a message."
Laronar waved a hand. "I don't foresee any issues arising. Your people know how not to offend the spirits of Nature."
Just then, a raven landed on Laronar's pauldron, nestling in the black fur atop it. "Storm!" It crowed, before offering a leg with a message tied to it.
Laronar chuckled. "Seems the Spymaster has need of me. Excuse me." He said to the others, as they continued conversing with the Chief. He heard them offering to send supplies to the Retreat, to support the larger population. The Alliance was always happy to aid a Cenarion outpost.
Shaw's message was, as usual, short and in code. It read: The Barbs have discovered a new piece of the pie in the southern mists. The White Pawn has disappeared into the mists as well. Head south, rendezvous with our mechabird. Find the Pawn.
Knowing the code as he did, he deciphered that the Horde had somehow found a new continent in the south, likely the physical realm that Xuen and his colleagues ruled over. The most important bit though, and the part that spurred Laronar to urgency, was the mention of the White Pawn. Anduin Wrynn was still young, but apparently mobile enough to both have his own ship, and get lost with it. The 'mechabird' he assumed was one of the Alliance's airships.
He bid the others farewell, and was soon flapping on his own power through the skies of Kalimdor, with roughly twenty of his best Stormclaws flying in formation behind him. Many had been skeptical when he'd told them of their destination, but one did not simply pass up a chance to train under Xuen, and Laronar knew the White Tiger would do for his students what he had done for Laronar. Most denizens of Azeroth had never been far to the south before, thanks to the all-encompassing mist that surrounded the southern remnant of the supercontinent. They either disappeared, or washed up weeks later near Booty Bay, long after their return date, delirious, half starved, and ripe for the pirates who camped on those shores after large storms.
Laronar headed over Feralas, close to the new Sentinel stronghold, when he sensed something from below. A signal only a druid, and only an elven or worgen druid at that, would recognize. He banked downward to investigate as the others continued on, and came upon the sight of a gore-drenched Ragnar, conversing with a Sentinel dressed as a Captain, though Laronar didn't recognize her.
Once she and her retinue departed for the main building that had been crafted from a tree, Laronar flapped down from his perch, and clasped the worgen's arm in a firm shake. "Ragnar. I'm glad you're still alive. And keeping busy. Was there something you needed?"
The wolf man rumbled his response, still not super great at talking in general. "Trrraining. I feel like…I'm not getting…stronger. Anymore."
Laronar stroked his beard, and pondered. He too had reached a plateau of strength before, but he always ended up finding there was always a way to grow and improve. "I'm heading south with a few of the other Stormclaws, for a mission, and to see an old friend. Come with me. The word is, there's plenty of Horde there."
At the mention of the Horde, the worgen's amber eyes started burning with rage manifesting as streams of energy. Laronar nodded. Xuen's teachings would help Ragnar, and potentially even unblock whatever was keeping him from becoming his former self. "I will go…lead on, Shan'do."
And so, he did. Storm Crows were more suited to sea flying, as Laronar had learned the hard way after trying to skirt a hurricane as an owl. Despite his surname and his mastery of the silent hunter's form, the chaotic but beautiful patterns an owl might otherwise find and ride on in intense hurricane winds were beyond him, as he had no grizzled owl teacher to show him how they flowed together. Ragnar's form was more ragged looking than Laronar's, but they both had the iconic black feathers, and wide wingspans.
Eventually they went further south than Laronar was familiar with, the last land mark being Zandalar. None of their party had wanted to chance landing on that island of ancient Loa and savage Trolls.
The next 'land' they found was a large island covered in some parts with buildings, and though Ragnar and the others were very ready to land and rest, Laronar squawked, and had them hold off. The island was moving, something that islands did not typically do, even in Laronar's experience.
The architecture he recognized as Pandarian in essence, though the buildings were much more colorful than Xuen's temple. Then, the sharp-eyed druids saw a giant fin rise and fall in the ocean, and Laronar guessed this must be a specimen of turtle spoken of in the history of Azshara's time. While they had been recorded as massive, this one seemed excessively large.
As they flew to where Laronar guessed the head was, it rose from the water to meet them, and upon reaching out to the turtle and meeting his gaze, Laronar knew immediately who this was, and guessed rightly at how he'd grown so massive despite not living for tens of thousands of years like others of his species. Apparently, the growth ritual Laronar had performed had been quite successful. It should have stopped eventually though. Shen-zin Su was definitely special, and likely to become an Ancient, given enough time.
Laronar landed on his peninsula-sized schnozz, and shifted forms. He felt the ancient turtle's eyes on him and the others, who were still flapping, not landing. Laronar put a hand against his nose as he communed. "Is that you, Shen-zin Su? Do you remember me?"
To his surprise, he felt the turtle answer with physical speech. "Laaaronaaar. Stoooormclaaaw!" He rumbled, his large lips pulled up into a smile.
"Is Liu here?" Laronar asked, before thinking. At that moment, he was hoping to see two old friends again.
Shen-zin Su nodded, which took a full minute, and was actually quite a bit of a thrill ride for anyone standing on his head. Mentally, Laronar felt the turtle guide his gaze towards a part of his back covered in noticeably unique trees.
"It was good to see you, Shen-zin Su!" Laronar said, before quickly shifting into an owl, and heading towards the area the massive turtle had guided him towards. Ragnar and the others followed after him, still confused as to what exactly was going on, and why their teacher seemed to know this giant turtle.
As Laronar landed in the Wood of Staves, he transformed again, and the other druids did the same, as they landed beside him. Laronar's face fell. The calm air and ethereal creepiness of the area informed him it was a graveyard. Then, he remembered just how long ago he'd seen his Pandaren friend. Shen-zin Su's head in the distance was turned towards him, and as their eyes met, the ancient turtle gave a slow, knowing nod, and then returned beneath the sea as he continued on his journey.
Ragnar sniffed the air, and then snorted, finding the incense at some of the graves overpowering. "What is this place…" He growled.
"A graveyard." Laronar answered, gesturing to the staves marking the graves. He headed for the oldest, guessing rightly that it would be his friend's.
Laronar typically avoided visiting the graves of his friends, but he'd come this far, and it would be disrespectful to simply leave. He bowed his head, and read the Pandaren's last words to his gigantic friend. After several minutes of silence, one of the other Kaldorei Stormclaws finally spoke. "Shan'do, whose grave is this? How do you know this turtle?"
Laronar recounted then, the tale of his meeting Liu Lang, teaching him elven and Taur-ahe through an old spell he'd learned in Eldarath. "He was a brilliant individual, and a genuinely good person." Laronar finished, turning back to the grave.
He blinked then, as something within the grave moved. Liu Lang himself appeared from the tree as he manifested his spirit on the mortal plane, and smiled at his old friend. "Laronar. It is good you are here. I can now repay my debt to your Patron. There is an ancient relic of your family, in Pandaria. The Storm Claw. It is a weapon of great power. When Azeroth's need is dire, you must find this weapon, and wield it against your foe."
Laronar, while initially surprised, now narrowed his eyes. "Which foe, Liu?"
Liu just smirked at him. "You must decide that for yourself. But understand…bad luck will follow you if you decide to wield its power for personal or selfish reasons against mere mortals. This is all I have been allowed to tell you."
Laronar was quiet for a moment, then said, "Which Patron?"
Liu chuckled again. "She who gives you life."
With that, his spirit faded back to wherever it currently adventured, and Laronar was left wondering who Liu had meant. Elune? Ashamane? Aessina? He did not know, and no answer seemed right, to him. Yet at that moment, in his grief he could not recall any other female Patrons of his. He looked back at the grave, and sighed. He'd come to hate graves, as they were a poor representation of those whose bodies they marked. Though, admittedly, Liu's was better than most others Laronar had visited. Certainly more interesting.
He guided his party towards a stand of trees adjacent to Shen-zin Su's neck, at which point they guided several branches together and formed a circle to nest in, before they departed further south. Laronar communed with the massive turtle, and found his own grief was still quite potent, when he thought or spoke of Liu. They were also bonded in spirit though, and Shen-zin Su was certain he would, someday, join his friend in traversing whatever realms awaited beyond the threshold of death.
Their departure was delayed, as the druids had discovered, eventually, that the great turtle had been recently injured in a rather effective attack. Being what they were, and who they were led by, Laronar had no intention of leaving his old friend to suffer a slow recovery. Powerful druids in their own right, all but Ragnar were able to help soothe the giant turtle's pain, and after recovering from that effort, they flew into the night, on the heading the great turtle had given them, if they wanted to reach Xuen's temple.
With no mist to obscure their way, the flock of druids soon found themselves flying over a landmass that hadn't been seen since their empire collapsed into the Well of Eternity. They also saw that the Horde and Alliance had also made landfall. From their perspective, the Alliance seemed to have incorporated their forces into a local village, and were engaged with the Horde. They also spied the airship Shaw had mentioned, but at that moment, Laronar ignored their allies, and flew onwards.
They soon found the Horde's landing area, and as usual, the barbarians had left only blood and death in their wake. Laronar couldn't tell who they were fighting, but they flapped onward. By the time the sun had begun to rise, they had all but reached the Temple of the White Tiger. As they approached for a landing, a horde of arrows came towards them, and the druids scattered. Laronar squawked a simple order to them: dodge, and stay alive.
For his part, Laronar expertly swooped in above the archers, as the speed gained from folding his wings and diving straight at their arrows helped him stay ahead of their aim. He landed behind them, behind some cover in the form of currently unused barricades, and then transformed, stepping out with his hands raised, and palms empty.
Another arrow came at him, either fired in eagerness or by accident, which was when Ragnar came down suddenly in front of him, snatching the shaft aimed at his mentor's unprotected chest, specifically his heart. Ragnar transformed back as well, and his low snarl echoed across the area. The building the Pandaren archers were in heard every growl, and Ragnar's ears twitched as he heard one of the natives speak, and then step out. "Om! Om nom."
The worgen snapped the arrow in his claw, letting it fall, and then Laronar, having cast a quick spell, moved past him, arms still raised. He also started speaking. "Om nom! Om nomnomnom. Om nom. Nom nom, om."
Ragnar just stared, looking somewhere between confused and amused, as the ancient and respected Night Elf Archdruid conversed in a language with seemingly only two words. Once they were done omnomming, Laronar turned towards Ragnar. "They're assuming all outlanders are enemies at the moment. I've convinced them I trained under the White Tiger, but their leader wants proof. Gather the others to watch and uhh…don't make any sudden moves."
Ragnar grunted an affirmation, and then moved towards the other druids through the pagoda full of Pandaren. He glanced at them as he passed through, and though their bows were out, they were no longer knocked. Ragnar reached the others unmolested, and explained the situation. The Pandaren who'd wanted proof of Laronar's training faced him in the octagon, and dropped into his stance.
Laronar took his own stance, and had a feeling he was about to be shown just how out of practice he was. The Pandaren across from him was garbed in the white and black colors of Xuen's temple. There was a symbol on most of his armor, each of the limbs, and later, he would learn, largely displayed on the back of the master Monk's clothing. A pattern with two swirls within a circle, dividing said circle with an S shape. One black, one white. He'd seen it when he'd last visited, but no one had offered its meaning. His right shoulder bore a carved stone depiction of the White Tiger, and Laronar sensed it was akin to his own armor, a direct link to a Wild God that bore their blessing. Around his neck, similarly swirling large circular black and white beads hung around it, another sign of the esteem his fellow Pandaren held him in.
The master martial artist wasted no time as a gong signaled the start of the match, and he leapt forward, striking hard all in the same explosive motion. Laronar spun and kicked, surprising the veteran as his ridiculously muscular leg blocked his strike. His limb was left open like that, but Laronar pulled it out of manipulation range before his opponent could make use of it.
The Pandaren's eyes narrowed into a mix of irritation and disappointment. Laronar blinked, as his face, in that configuration, looked exactly like one of the Pandaren he'd trained with back in the day.
They exchanged a flurry of fists too fast for most watching to follow, and just from that, the Pandaren knew the foreigner wasn't lying about knowing their techniques. "You wouldn't happen to be related to Shin-Zu Thunderfist, would you?" Laronar asked, realizing he didn't actually know exactly how long Pandaren lifespans were.
The Pandaren facing him lost some rigidity. "I am Thunderfist." He answered. "The only one…at this temple."
Laronar nodded. "I believe I sparred with an ancestor of yours. You look very similar."
The Pandaren snorted, unleashing a brutal flurry on muscled elven forearms before he answered. "If one of my ancestors trained you…you would be better than this."
Laronar could seemingly barely block the onslaught, and Thunderfist sent him sliding backwards across the octagon with a finishing open palmed strike to his ridiculously muscular forearms. "I haven't practiced as often as I should have…" Laronar admitted, "but we did spar together."
Once more, the Pandaren snorted. "You foreigners. Liars and honorless warmongers, all of you. I will remove you, and then your friends, with Xuen's power!" He narrowed his eyes, and the skies above them rumbled with a low rumble of thunder.
Laronar simply nodded, falling into his stance again. He knew what came next. White lightning flashed behind Thunderfist, and then he struck forward in a seemingly unblockable, but obvious strike.
Laronar knew this move's weakness already, though. The lightning and wind struck him somewhat harmlessly as he asked the wind to dissipate. His ancestor had shown the Kaldorei that all the actual force was focused in the fist. Thus, in the seconds before the strike, Thunderfist's eyes were wide, as Laronar smoothly sidestepped his strike, and locked his wrist in a firm grip. With a flash of movement, the Pandaren was on the ground, locked in a hold that made full use of the burly captured arm, a move that Stormwind's Spymaster had taught Laronar firsthand.
"I am many things, Thunderfist. A liar is not one of them. Yield."
The Pandaren struggled, almost managing to stand, but Laronar held him firm, and one of his longer legs kicked out the Pandaren's shorter ones, again bringing him to the ground. "You're not going anywhere. Yield. The match is mine."
The Pandaren snarled. "I would rather embrace death than lose to the likes of you!"
Laronar just sighed. Large roots rose up from the ground, and wrapped around the prone panda's other limbs. Then the one Laronar had trapped. "When you have regained control of your rage, I will release you." He said calmly.
Just then, the sound of bows being drawn filled the space around them. "You will release him now, outlander! Or we fill your friends with arrows!" Those words, despite being more omnom, spurred the assembled Stormclaws into taking their own preparations to attack, and another fight seemed inevitable. Once again lightning rippled through the clouds around the temple's peaks, followed by thunder that almost sounded like an irritated growl.
Laronar opened his mouth again to try to instill reason in the gathered sentients, but he was cut off, as a massive bolt of white and blue lightning struck the center of the octagon. The Pandaren all bowed their heads, while the elves and Ragnar simply watched, as the White Tiger made himself known. Upon sensing what he was, the elves bowed their heads too.
Only Laronar met his intense gaze equally, walking up before him, and bowing low, as he did before Malfurion, and other Wild Gods. "Master Xuen. It has been an age. Far too long."
The White Tiger's gaze was sparking with lightning, unflinching. "Laronar Stormclaw. Is there a reason you and your friends are attacking my temple?"
Laronar chuckled. "A simple misunderstanding between the latest Thunderfist, and I. It has been settled." Guessing Thunderfist wouldn't try killing him in front of Xuen, Laronar recalled his vines, and willed the stones to reform to their previous state. The Pandaren was on his feet in under a second, glaring at the kaldorei, but not attacking.
"What brings you back to my temple, Claw of Ashamane?"
Laronar bowed, again. "My students require more training, and now that Pandaria is no longer in the mists, I would humbly request that you teach us your ways."
Xuen's eyes moved over his students, and settled on Ragnar, as he was one of the only worgen. "You have passed on what you have learned. This is good. The world will need all of you, before we enter another era of peace." The Ancient focused on Laronar's students, then. "Tell me, Stormclaws. Why do you fight?"
To Laronar, Xuen spoke simultaneously, in his head. "You may wish to enter the temple. There are visitors of some renown here, from your Alliance and the Horde."
Eyes narrowing at that information, Laronar left his students in the capable claws of Xuen, or a part of him at least, and made his way to the temple. Inside, he found none other than Prince Anduin Wrynn, accompanied by a Pandaren in golden robes, and a Tauren that Laronar recognized as a Sunwalker. Lately, these warriors of An'she had begun shifting from defending Mulgore to offering their power to the Horde and its war efforts.
The Tauren and Anduin, much like his own trial in this temple, were facing down a Sha of their own making, while a split avatar of Xuen watched on, flanked by a Pandaren that Laronar had thought were a myth. From Liu's description, he recognized a warrior of the Shado Pan, and said warrior seemed immensely irritated that the foreigners were succeeding in the trial. Laronar stayed in the shadows as he listened to the group following their successful battle against the Sha. Both Anduin and the Sunwalker proved their worth with and impressive showing of the Light, and in doing so, earned passage to their desired destination: The Vale of Eternal Blossoms.
Quiet as ever, he searched out, summoned, and sent a raven, likely belonging to the SI:7 agents nearby, to whoever was leading the mission to retrieve the White Pawn, and where Anduin had intended to go. The Vale of Eternal Blossoms was yet another Pandaren legend that Laronar had thought was mostly myth. The young prince seemed to think it was quite real, though.
As Xuen split himself yet again to allow the young prince into the apparently closed off Vale, a fragment of him remained behind, to speak with Laronar. What was left was about the same size as the form he'd used to teach him and Naria how to make the most of their bites.
"Scion of the Stormclaw line. You have seen your Prince, yet you linger. What is on your mind?"
Laronar smirked at the Ancient. "Anduin Wrynn is well protected. I wish to know more about the line of my family that you had contact with, in ages past. An…old friend of mine said that there is a weapon of great power, probably hidden in some ruin, that will aid me when the Legion inevitably returns."
"Ahhh." Xuen said, nodding his head. "You speak of the Storm Claw. The very artifact from which your family took its name. I think you will find you will have some trouble wielding it. It was made for…those who were more akin to Shaman, than Druids."
Laronar furrowed his brows. "But those callings are so similar. What do I need to effectively wield this weapon?"
Xuen's answer was simple. "Mastery over your Chi. You must be able to call upon it as easily as you do the forces of Nature."
Laronar scratched his head awkwardly. "To be completely honest, White Tiger, I still don't really understand what Chi is. Your disciples tried to explain when last I came here, but I still don't quite understand what they're talking about…they said I would grasp it with time, but wielding it yet eludes me."
Xuen chuffed out a chuckle. "For one so old, it seems you are blind to some simple truths. Chi is the Element of Life. What Shaman refer to as Spirit. It resides in all living things, and in you, I sense a great amount of it. The Spirit of the Wilds is with you, Stormclaw."
As soon as Xuen called it the same as Spirit, it all clicked together, in his head. "Oh, I'm very acquainted with that particular Spirit..." Laronar said softly. "So…your Monks are…controlling their inner Spirit's energy? And it manifests as attacks like Thunderfist's?"
The White Tiger nodded, and then suddenly raised his head. "The Vale is threatened…I must gather myself, Stormclaw. I look forward to seeing what you do once you master your Chi." With that, Xuen vanished in a flash of lightning, presumably to rejoin himself, or rally his forces to defend the Vale.
Laronar exited the main temple and reconvened with his druids. He explained that they were to stay and learn, while he went off to find the weapon Liu had told him of. Ragnar, for his part, claimed he would be of more use in the Vale, as soon as he learned what a Mogu was. Laronar also taught them the rather simple, but insanely useful spell that was Comprehend Languages. Being modern druids, they had just enough practice with Balance magic to grasp the basic arcane energy needed to use it.
As he was about to shift forms and depart, a voice called out to him, in Pandaren. "Wait, Druid! A moment, please."
He turned, and beheld Thunderfist, and then bowed to him, as he respected the level the martial artist had earned among his peers. The sign of this station, being his armor. "Sifu Thunderfist. What can I do for you?"
The Pandaren had a strange look on his face, a cross between constipation, and determination. "I was…impolite before, when we first met. I would know your name and title, if you would honor me with them."
Laronar made his own face twist slightly from the usual passive expression he wore. "I do not put stock in such things, and neither does Nature…but I will honor your request. I am Laronar Stormclaw, Archdruid of the Ashen. One of Ashamane's claws, and a teacher to many Druids."
Thunderfist blinked, and inclined his head. "Truly, we are not so different. The Shado Pan you likely saw in the temple, Lord Taran Zhu, has charged me with journeying with you across Pandaria."
Laronar chuckled. "I appreciate the offer, but I will be fine. I need to find this Storm Claw with speed, and return to my Druids."
"Do you know where it is?" Thunderfist asked, "Do you know what dangers lie in such ruins? Or the dangers of flying blindly through Pandaria's skies? Do you even have a map?"
Laronar frowned. "Admittedly…no."
The Kung Fu master nodded, mostly to himself. "I will be your guide, and ensure no more foreigners cause damage to our sacred places. Either on purpose, or accidentally."
Laronar sighed. "I intend to fly. How will you keep up with me?"
The monk simply smirked at him, and then faced the cliff-like edge they were standing on as he shouted, "Niiimbuuuuus!" A piece of seemingly random cloud detached from a larger one encircling the temple, and floated to a stop before the monk. Defying physics, the heavy Pandaren then stepped onto it, as if that was a normal thing one could do with something composed of air and water. "Follow with your wings. I will take you to what few remnants of your people linger in our land."
With no further preamble or explanation, Thunderfist began moving in a particular direction, as his seemingly somewhat sentient cloud shot across the sky. In moments, Laronar's Owl Form was behind him.
In terms of speed they were fairly evenly matched, and as they soared down to Pandaria proper, Laronar quickly lost his sense of direction. He was glad though, as he hadn't been properly lost in unfamiliar lands for quite a few millennia. His form gave him many sounds to absorb with its superior hearing, and while he did catch the barbaric Orcish din of what could only be the Horde on the march, his guide wasn't going to wait while he went on a scouting mission.
Laronar had no Azerothly idea where exactly they were by the time they landed. They were in a forest of some description, with flora Laronar had either never seen, or only read about in very old books within the Dream. Thunderfist led him to an overgrown and sealed stone entrance carved from the white stone the kaldorei had once made their buildings from. Carved into the face of the ancient stone was a warning. But it was in elven runes so old, even Laronar couldn't read most of them. The erosion didn't help either.
What was intact was not using a runic system he understood, or had been taught back in the day. Finally, after about two straight minutes of silence as Laronar examined the sealed doorway, Thunderfist spoke.
"I will be nearby. If this is not the right place, stir the skies. I will return." Laronar nodded, and the Pandaren was off in a flash. Finally alone, Laronar posted up against the stone door, and with impressive speed, had his pipe lit, as he started toking.
He reached out to the area's flora then, as was his wont, and found the wildlife reminded him greatly of what lived in the Dream. The woods were teeming with creatures strong of Spirit. He spoke with the flora and fauna, finding both creatures similar to those on the mainland, and other species that were completely different. Eventually, he steered his conversations towards the structure, and while nothing around had a lifespan near over ten millennia, they did direct him to a deeply buried system of tunnels beneath the surface that many of them made homes in.
Apparently, the wildlife avoided the lower levels of the tunnels though, since they were dangerous. With his information gathering done, Laronar packed his pipe away and stood, facing the door as he mentally consulted which spells in his repertoire could deal with it. Eventually, he settled on simply shaping the stone into a usable tunnel, which worked rather well, even as it drained him of quite a lot of mana. Whatever wisdom was carved into the door was lost, but the druid now had his entrance.
The tunnels leading down reminded him, at least in layout, of the tunnels his people used in their barrow dens in the present. There was nothing to suggest what the builders of this place had been like, though. No pottery, no signs, not even ancient undisturbed footprints. The air grew colder the further he descended, and the path he was walking split into multiple areas, again, much like modern barrows. The spaces they led to were also similarly empty, their purpose long buried and forgotten.
He continued heading downward, eventually finding a singular path again. Finally, the air changed, and he felt an electric charge through it that made his neck hair stand on end. He followed it to its source, and sure enough eventually beheld an object upon a pedestal, behind ancient steel bars that were so corroded by time, they simply crumbled when he touched them.
He stepped into the room and looked around, sensing no magic but that of the object on the pedestal. He approached it carefully, but saw no traps. Sure enough though, as he stepped before the pedestal, runes in the floor began glowing blue. He was ready to jump back from them, but as their light surged over him, nothing happened. Eventually, they faded. Laronar cautiously poked the object on the pedestal, but again, nothing happened.
He picked it up then, and stepped back, but once more, all was silent. He examined his prize then, properly. It was a weapon to be held by an enclosed fist. Almost like a glove, with a handle on the underside for gripping. On its top side were, most notably, two long claws humming with dull white energy. Near the wearer's wrist was a circular opening that, at the moment, was empty. Ancient runes were carved around its base, and most of the top side was covered in fur as black as his Cat Form's. The metal that was a part of the edges and filigree of the weapon was gold.
As he tried on the Storm Claw, a few white sparks of lightning jumped between the tips of the two claws, but it was still seemingly dormant. From behind the pedestal, from Laronar's perspective, a hole opened in the floor, slowly raising a platform up through the circular opening. What was standing on said platform occupied his attention, however.
Its skin was made of jade, and its construction reminded Laronar of the Titan Forged, in Northrend. He had not personally seen those creatures, but he had gone over the Kirin Tor's reports, and captured images. The jade-stone creature came to life slowly, re-powering itself to activation limb by limb.
Once it was 'awake', its eyes scanned Laronar. "Impossible…and yet my magic does not lie." The creature said in ancient elven. It dropped to one knee, then. "Scion of the Stormclaws. I am Zhenwei of the Rajani. I served your family in the…distant past, and now, I serve you, the wielder of the Storm Claw."
Laronar glanced at the claw, and then smirked. He put the hand bearing the Storm Claw on Zhenwei's shoulder. The Mogu looked up at him, meeting the druid's amber gaze as he said, "Hello there."
Chapter 29: The Storm Claw
Chapter Text
Author's Note: Hello there. Sorry for the wait, I've been on a Pokéroll for quite some time now, but nothing gets creative juice flowing like a new expansion. It also helps that Dragonflight/War Within have done a lot for the state of the lore. I'll try to get these done in a more timely manner, at the very least not a damn year per chapter. I just want to note that the appearance of the Stormclaw has been slightly changed, mostly so I can make an image of it that doubles as the cover for this story, as this artifact is kind of what spurred me to even start writing this in the first place. It's important, but thanks to technology I can now share (except on FFN) what stuff looks like.
Enjoy.
The jade Mogu, Zhenwei, turned out to be exactly as chill as Laronar had hoped. Despite being made of jade-green stone, Laronar's herbs did affect his mind with their potency, and that made their conversation all the more interesting, as the casual nature of the druid caused the construct's information to flow more freely from his ancient Mogu mouth. The only issue was that his memories were not crystal clear recollections, but rather educated guesses based on what images he had left in his damaged memory. Whatever magic powered his thoughts, such as they were, had clearly degraded with time.
Skilled a magic wielder as he was, Laronar had no Azerothly idea of how to fix the creature. He sat down with a huff of effort as he finished peaking at the runes that seemed to work as his brain and consciousness. Some of the lines had degraded, but he was able to fix those, it was the spellwork that had eroded to time that he simply did not understand how to fix. Pandaria's magic runes might as well have been another language.
"I am sorry, my new friend." He rumbled, joining the creature in the dirt as he sat comfortably in it. "Whatever made you knows magic beyond my skill."
Zhenwei chuckled, a grating noise that shook his ancient body. "I am Rajani…or, I was. In my time, those Mogu who served the Highkeeper took that clan name, and this appearance. Do you know of the Titans, scion of the Stormclaws? Do you know of thy Makers? If you did, you would not attempt to match their mastery of the Arcane."
Laronar's brow furrowed. "I…know a bit about them…" He said carefully, suddenly more wary of the Mogu. He'd had a few conversations with the magi of Dalaran about them, back in Northrend when Ulduar had been explored. The genocidal Titan-appointed caretaker who had apparently been planning to 're-originate' all of Azeroth had been stopped, but there were far worse evils waiting to be found and killed in that Titan complex. Evidently there had been a being akin to that which had slept under Ahn'Qiraj in the bowels of Ulduar, but Laronar had arrived too late to join the raid to end it. Apparently, the battle had not gone nearly as smoothly as his own, and its foul influence had not been contained like C'thun. It was that very influence that had, according to the magi, likely corrupted Andrassil back before the Circle had been forced to break it, creating Vordrassil.
Despite Zhenwei's friendliness, he knew some Titan constructs had a tendency to attack those who denied that the Titans were their makers, but Laronar knew who had, supposedly, made him, and his kin, and even this far under the ground he knew the Moon Goddess was watching.
"I believe my kin were forged by a different power…" He said, choosing his words carefully, as he packed another bowl of herb for them to toke on, "But as I understand it, the Titans and their…Pantheon, are long gone from this world."
Again, Zhenwei laughed again. "The powers that forged you, are not so different from those which forged me, Night Elf…but you are correct. Your Goddess heavily warped and changed that which was brought forth by the Ordering of Azeroth. Though the Titans may have physically departed, I do not doubt that they still watch this world…in some capacity. It is more important than you know. I would know of your days upon this world, and the eons I have missed since last I was functioning."
What followed next was a companionable conversation that mostly had Laronar describing the exploits of his long life. The reason for his now slightly fading immortality, how he'd acquired his natural powers, and the state of the Kaldorei as a people. He even told Zhenwei of the Dream, and the powerful consciousness he had felt and communed with the deeper he'd delved into that realm. That, had the Rajani quite interested.
"The World's very Soul…" He rumbled in awe. "To think you and your…Shan'do have contacted it in such a manner…she must find your calling a worthy one…the Stormclaw could not be in finer hands." With a grunt of effort, the jade being rose to his leonine feet. A smile cracked his odd but not entirely unappealing features. "I believe it is time you learned to wield it. With such a connection to Nature and its power as you have…you will likely have a much easier time of it than your ancestors. It will need some work, however…tell me, do you know of the current status of the Mogu? Of Lei Shen, the Thunder Thief?"
"I do not…" Laronar answered, tossing the ash in his pipe away, and packing it up. "But I believe I know someone who does. He uhh…may be a bit hostile towards you at first. Let me head up before you…I will explain that you are not like the other Mogu." Zhenwei acquiesced, and they ascended from the ancient barrow back to the surface of the world.
One cloud message later, and Master Thunderfist had arrived. After greeting him, and being asked what he'd discovered, Laronar said, "An ancient Mogu." Understandably, Thunderfist tensed at his words, but the druid quickly continued, "They're not like those you know, though. Zhenwei is its name. He is made of jade, and claims to be…erm...Rajani. A servant of the Titan Highkeeper assigned to this part of the world, and he's assured me he is not an enemy of the Pandaren. Indeed, when he fell into stasis, your kind were quite young as a race still, apparently. He hasn't formed an opinion on you, yet."
Thunderfist's expression was unreadable, and might as well have been a cliff face for all the expression it showed. "Summon the…Rajani, then. We will see if this Mogu is truly as you say…you do not know them, Stormclaw. They are deceivers and liars, thieves and oppressors. Everything they had, they took from others. I expect yours will be no different."
Laronar frowned at the monk. "I would expect better than prejudice from someone of your line and status. I may not be familiar with the Mogu you know, but I believe this one is genuinely old enough to be…built different."
Thunderfist once more had a look on his Pandaren face somewhere between constipation and consternation. "Fine. I will…reserve judgment. For now. No more, no less."
With a sigh, Laronar descended into the barrow, and then moments later, returned with Zhenwei. He was tall, green as jade, and had what he was hoping was a friendly smile on his carved leonine features. Thunderfist was not amused. He crossed his burly arms, weapons in their own right capable of reducing the jade Mogu to dust. "Aside from its coloration, I see no difference from any other Mogu I've faced and destroyed."
Before Laronar could respond, Zhenwei spoke with his deep rumbling baritone. "Greetings to you, Master Thunderfist. I know a student of the White Tiger when I see one. Your teacher and my Highkeeper were once allies, if not friends. Many times did the heavens of Azeroth thunder with the clash of their sparring blows. It was truly a sight to behold. I understand your hesitance to accept one of my kind, but know this: I am not sworn to the thief, Lei Shen."
Thunderfist's brows crashed together, his eyes still full of mistrust. "Our records of that age are…suspect. I wish to hear what happened from you, Rajani. Our histories claim your clan answered directly to Ra-den. The Highkeeper. How did a being as low and base as Lei Shen steal a Keeper's power?"
Zhenwei frowned, then. "I…have forgotten much, but not even time could remove that knowledge from my memory…many ages ago, as the servants of the departed Titans continued to Order the world…we felt a pulse of great magic and power. It was suffused with memory fragments belonging to the Pantheon itself. Over time…Ra realized that the Titans had somehow perished."
Laronar chimed in, then. "Sargeras…the Burning Legion. They must have defeated them…" The druid quietly wondered what that meant for Azeroth, and if the Legion's next invasion might not be their final one.
Zhenwei nodded sorrowfully, and even Thunderfist stayed quiet, as though they'd been sequestered, the Pandaren did know of the Legion's first invasion, though not in great detail. The Zandalari Empire had thankfully been a buffer between the Well of Eternity and Pandaria, and had drawn much of the demon's focus in that darkened age.
With a heavy sigh, Zhenwei continued. "The Highkeeper…fell into a deep depression. Yet the Mogu continued our assigned tasks. For ages we toiled…until the clans began…changing. Many of the Mogu were turning into beings of flesh instead of stone, and the infighting among my kind had grown out of control. Yet Ra did nothing. This occurred…if my chronometer is correct, fifteen thousand years in the past." Both the elf and Pandaren's eyes widened, as Zhenwei continued, as if that span was entirely normal and not nigh incomprehensible to a mortal being. "Much happened in this era…the Pandaren, Jinyu, and Hozen appeared, and settled in the Vale of Eternal Blossoms. A group of Dark Trolls settled along the shores of the massive Arcane font in the world's center, and began wielding its great power, and…Lei Shen confronted the Highkeeper, beneathing the Thundering Mountain. For weeks, he tried to ascertain why Ra had fallen silent, and eventually, realized it was not apathy that afflicted him, but despair. My kin and I watched as the warmonger's words finally stirred Ra into action, and he showed us, all of us who were present, the remnants of the Highfather of the Titan Pantheon…Aman'thul himself."
Laronar and Thunderfist were spellbound by this point, utterly enraptured by the Mogu's words. "Lei Shen decided that if Highkeeper Ra would remain depressed and inactive, he would take the Titan's mission upon himself, along with his power. He incapacitated Ra with a cowardly strike, and stole his power for himself, dubbing himself the 'Thunder King'. He used the Highkeeper's power to forcibly unite the Mogu clans, and their Necromancer rulers under his fist, and it was at that point, that I left. The Rajani decided to hide, and seal themselves away like Ra-den. I chose differently. I was concerned about Trolls being anywhere near the Well of Eternity, but I found the newly raised Kaldorei in service to the Moon Goddess to be strong of character, and spirit. At least in the beginning. For over two thousand years I worked with the Highborne of the Kaldorei to help them wield the Arcane to a degree rarely seen in Mortal races. The desire to understand the Arcane, and expand their minds to their fullest potential, saw them rise in terms of power. And your Goddess' Night Warriors saw them secure the majority of Azeroth under her unrelenting light."
Zhenwei sighed, heavily. "It was doomed to fall apart, as Empires always are. Those with power elevated themselves above those who had none, and the arrival of Azshara changed your people's focus from bettering themselves, to bettering Her. All you did, was now done in Azshara's name, and all that most Highborne cared about was how important they were to your beloved Queen. And yet her allure did not appeal to all of you. Some few centuries before you told me you were born, Laronar, your ancestors sequestered the Storm Claw away, as artifacts with natural, primal power became nothing more than tools for study, that eventually ended up as piles of semi-useless dust at the feet of your Enchanters. I vowed to protect it, should someone manage to find where it was hidden. None ever did. Until you, that is. A direct heir to those who once wielded it. This is no coincidence, you finding me, Laronar Stormclaw. I hope you appreciate that."
Laronar eyed the weapon again. It fit perfectly around his muscular arm and fist, though the materials it was made of were old. He examined each of the five long black metal claws that went over one's fingers, effectively turning a hand into a claw. On the knuckles and near the wearer's wrist were circular openings that were still empty. The ancient elven runes he couldn't decipher were carved around the base of the larger circle, and most of the top side of the weapon was covered in fur as black as his Cat Form's. The whole thing was bound together by ancient and remarkably durable black leather, likely from a mighty beast. After fishing around in his bags, Laronar did find some socketable gems for the weapon, but they didn't seem to fit. Finally, he spoke.
"A weapon like this will need maintenance, after thousands of years of disuse, and I can think of only one Blacksmith who would be eager enough to work on something this ancient for…a reasonable price. Zhenwei and I will journey to Ironforge."
Thunderfist nodded at that statement, as the druid leaving freed him up to do whatever it was master monks of Xuen did in their free time. "And the others? Your Druids?"
Laronar held up a tiny piece of arcane paper, Dalaran's solution to making the Message spell long range and more than a scant twenty or so words. "They will be staying to train with Xuen, once whatever is going on in that…Vale place…is sorted out."
Zhenwei's eyes glowed brighter upon hearing of the Vale, and after Laronar explained what he knew of the situation there, the Rajani seemed eager to at least look. Thunderfist, obviously, would accompany them to his people's most sacred space because they were 'just letting all the Outsiders in now, apparently' and indeed, they were. Two large clans of Mogu had seemingly circumvented the Vale's formerly impregnable defenses, and now the Shado-Pan, who were stretched thin even during peaceful eras, were slowly falling to the fierce warriors and their numbers. In their desperate hour, the Golden Lotus, revered keepers of the Vale of Eternal Blossoms, had turned to the Shado-Pan, the Horde, the Alliance, and even random adventurers to help them drive back the Mogu's assault.
Laronar and Zhenwei wanted to join in to defend this holy example of nature, but Master Thunderfist stopped them. "You two must see to restoring this weapon." He had said, "It is the duty of my kind, to protect the Vale." And with that, the Pandaren Monk had proceeded to literally fly into the battle below the Golden Lotus's terrace, completely ignoring the large height from their base of operations to the ground. With a boom of thunder, the Pandaren Monk began leaving a trail of Mogu corpses in his sparking wake.
Deciding to leave then, an avatar of Xuen himself stopped them. "I am glad you have found your family's weapon, Laronarrr." He rumbled, both present and distracted by whatever else he was doing. Laronar had to imagine that splitting oneself into multiple places and processing all of them at once would tax any being, even a Wild God as ancient as the White Tiger. "Before you go…I will once again empower your family line with my blessing. Wield it well, in defense of our World, as you have done for over ten thousand years."
Laronar held up the weapon then, and with a thundering roar that drew the attention of the Pandaren and adventurers near them, all eyes went to Laronar's raised fist, as blue-white lightning surrounded, and coalesced upon the ancient weapon. The central circular socket, surrounded by elven runes, became filled with either a gem encasing lightning, or a magical, sturdy covering that was keeping Xuen's power contained within the weapon. He tapped the completely transparent shield and found it sturdy, and unlikely to break.
"Our enemies shall learn to fear your lightning, White Tiger." Laronar promised. "For the defense of Azeroth."
Xuen nodded, seemingly satisfied. "Go, then. Repair the Storm Claw. Learn to wield it, both in your Elven shape and your feline one. Pandaria will endure these trials with, or without your aid." The sparking eyes fell on the Rajani, then. "Take Zhenwei with you…his knowledge will prove useful, in the wars to come."
Laronar and Zhenwei shared a look, and then gave the Ancient a deep bow. "Fight well, until we meet again, Xuen." Laronar finished, and then in a spark of electricity, the shard of the White Tiger returned to his central form. Laronar had noticed the blessing had shrunken the avatar slightly, but he also had a feeling that Xuen, and only Xuen, could awaken the power of his family's heirloom after being dormant for so very long. Sharing another look, Laronar nodded at Zhenwei. "Come, my friend. To Ironforge."
Several Weeks Later…
Much had changed, in the Dwarven capital. Where once the Bronzebeard Clan had undisputedly ruled with an iron encased fist brought upon any Dwarf that dared to oppose their line's King, in the wake of King Magni's ill-timed communion with the earth, and subsequently turning to diamond, Queen Moira had come to power. Or attempted to. He had, actually, seen the final cementing of this process the last time he'd been here, inviting the Dwarves to participate in the summit in Darnassus.
Now, the union of the three clans was much more obvious, and slightly less tense. There was no shortage of enemies to fight after all, and the Dark Irons were now officially members of the Alliance, too. As was the Wildhammer Clan. The most obvious example of this change, was at the gates. Normally, Laronar would've just flown in through the gryphon entryway, but Zhenwei's surprisingly heavy form had greatly slowed their journey. Now, an obstinate pair of Dark Iron Dwarves was barring them, for no other reason than they could. They had the barest sliver of authority, and seemed perversely amused that their antics were stalling and irritating a 'knife eared tree hugger' like Laronar.
The ancient druid was more than done with their antics, and had even considered bringing his new weapon out, but he did not yet know how to hold back with it, and murder was probably not the first act Xuen had intended his blessing to be used for. No matter how satisfying ripping out the throats of these flame worshiping imbeciles would be. Many of the Dark Iron still openly paid homage to Ragnaros, despite his assault on Hyjal, and his 'gift' to them was evident in the tips of their smoldering beards and glowing crimson eyes. They burned with the same fire Fandral's had, and that, atop the jeers, insults, and general obstinate attitude was grinding Laronar's last nerve. To his eyes, they looked very much like his enemies, but he kept his cool and remembered where he was.
"Oi, mate! Can ye hurry et op!? Ets been twenty farking minutes!" A Bronzebeard guiding an ale cart behind Laronar and Zhenwei's tall forms called out. Laronar let the trader go ahead of them as he let the cold air of Khaz Modan cool his rage, off to the side of the line. Only to have it flare to life again, as he saw the guards let the dwarf through without so much as glancing at his fully loaded cart. They'd gone through his own entire set of bags, twice, emptying their contents as they'd done so, twice, and that had taken most of the last twenty minutes.
The snow crunched loudly, as Laronar's large feet forewent silent padding for once, and simply smashed through whatever was under his clawed boots. "Seriously!?" He shouted at them, barely suppressing the snarl in his voice. "You didn't even question him! What happened to that 'heightened state of security'?"
The fatter and more obnoxious Dark Iron went back to leaning on his admittedly finely forged greataxe. "Och, well, y'knoo, we let'im through on account uv 'im not being a feckin' fruit munchin' tree hugger!" The pair of Dwarves burst into laughter again, and the rest of those waiting behind Laronar and his silently watching Mogu ally groaned. Zhenwei had once held a high opinion of the Earthen, being that they were fellow Titanforged. Now, on the slopes of their flesh-cursed kin's greatest city, he had a glimpse of just how far they had fallen. In this part of the world.
Finally, Laronar pulled rank. "I have had Enough of this farrrrrrce…" He snarled dangerously. His right arm, the one with the Storm Claw, moved imperceptibly fast, across both dwarve's necks, and for a moment, the onlookers thought he'd finally just cut their throats, but as they reacted laughably slow and drew their weapons, Laronar smirked down at them, their guard tags, names and all, dangling from his beclawed hand. "Dagrud and Donnovan. And of course you're related. Very well. We shall see what Agent Graddock thinks of the sheer incompetence and Racism his main gate guards have displayed."
"Yoo jus' attacked Guards o' Ironforge ya knife-eared bastard! Yer not goin' anywhere!" The fat one, Dagrud, probably, shouted at him.
Donnovan, to his credit, at least knew who Laronar was talking about, as he said, "Ahhm, Dag, we shou- we should prolly get back to et…"
"Raise yer weapon ye coward! He's-" Laronar didn't hear the rest of the dwarf's spew, as he signaled for Zhenwei to await him and the hooded Mogu answered him with a nod. Laronar then transformed into an irate looking owl. His feathers were puffed out in response to the anger the Ragnaros tainted spawn of the earth had incited within him, making him seem larger than he was, and with an ear piercing shriek that echoed his rage through the mountain chain, he further cursed the Dark Iron's lineage, power-flapped upwards, and through the gryphon port with frightening speed.
His first stop, was SI:7 Agent Graddock. A dwarf handpicked by Shaw himself to assassinate Moira when she had tried taking over Ironforge, he now served as a Rogue trainer for Ironforge, and a co-captain for the guards, namely to add intelligence and scouting efforts to their heavy armored firepower. Naturally, Laronar had a feeling his closeness to SI:7 had been kept obscured, as much as it could be, and he was likely using his position to keep Shaw and Stormwind apprised of any more inter-clan chaos from the Dwarves. Laronar apprised him of the situation at the gate, which made the stoic Dwarf's countenance darken.
Not one to miss a chance to verbally slaughter a pair of feckless Dark Irons, his arrival at the gates was met with the Captain of their shift, and an alerted company of armored Dwarven warriors. It wasn't exactly hard to find a Night Elf in Ironforge, and in the end they didn't need to. Once Laronar elaborated on their antics to all present, he did take more pleasure than he should have when the pair of guards were informed of his many titles, their ashen skin paling with each one. Sometimes, clout was useful.
The pair ended up going to speak to Moira for their insults to a vaunted ally of the Alliance, as Graddock had called him. It amused Laronar, as to his wizened perspective, he'd barely helped SI:7 at all, but his service had been ongoing for almost half a decade, which was longer than many agents apparently lasted, in a spy organization. Thanking Graddock again, Laronar retrieved Zhenwei, whose stone composition fascinated the Dwarves, and made their way to Hjaldi of the Wildhammers.
Upon greeting Laronar, Hjaldi immediately took note of the Storm Claw on his hand. "Ahh, now I see why ye've come tae me, Laronar. This weapon…has great power, an' I 'aint talkin' about tha' Blessin' from Xuen, though that is addin' to its potency. Nae, this relic is…deeply tied to the Primal powers of our world. Somethin' you Druids don't much dabble in."
Laronar bowed his head to the Wildhammer Shaman's wisdom. "We dabble in more than enough, I think. We have to leave some mysteries for our Shaman friends to uncover. What exactly can it do, Hjaldi?"
"May I?" He asked, and Laronar nodded, taking the familial relic off of his hand, and passing it to the meaty grip of the dwarf. He nodded, murmuring what Laronar knew to be a basic Identify spell under his breath, but alas, that one was not in Laronar's repertoire. He made a note to try to find a scroll for it when he next visited Dalaran. His last purchase had greatly filled his memory gaps with regard to his Mage Hand, and Identify would be quite useful.
"This is…ancient…"Hjaldi helpfully said, "Older even than you, an' yer a livin' relic!" Finally, he answered Laronar's question. "This relic is mightily tied tae the element of Air. Et'll make et's wielder faster than yer average lad. Stronger, too. Et seems tae…well, at full power, et'll infuse yer muscles with the power o' the Storm." One of the Dwarf's bright, almost beady eyes glinted from behind his massive nose. "Wit this on yer paw, I reckon ye'll be livin' up tae yer name, Stormclaw."
Laronar nodded patiently. "I see. I figured I would, given its monicker, and ties to my ancient family members. Can you repair it? Make it…compatible with modern weapons? Usable, again?"
Hjaldi gave the Night Elf a look he knew only too well. "Oh, aye can do tha', but oi'll need some…materials. An' it won't be a short list, either. Ye'll have tae gather them wit'out question, in the exact quantity I tell ye. Think yer up fer tha'?"
Laronar's face was a monolith. "Just give me the list, Hjaldi."
Almost immediately, the Wildhammer shaman started gleefully writing, scribbling rapidly on what was evidently a magical piece of paper that just kept expanding to meet his needs. Laronar's eye only twitched once, but by the end of the list it was reaching the floor. "Some o' these ye'll have tae get from smiths an' crafters. Others…will be harder tae find, an' loikely guarded by some nasty beastie."
Laronar sighed heavily as he looked through it. "Some of these ingredients don't even appear until almost next year…"
Hjaldi nodded. "Aye, should take us 'bout a year an' a half, by my reckonin'." He tore off the ore section of the list then. "Oi'll handle the minin' on Stormwing. You can get everythin' else." Hjaldi gave him a classic shit-eating Dwarven grin, winked at the internally grumbling druid, and then waved as he turned into a fierce black owl and power-flapped away. Normally, such a list would make him procrastinate, like Hjaldi no doubt expected him to. But this was a unique circumstance, and Laronar was feeling motivated. Zhenwei had expressed an interest in connecting with the Dwarves, so he had agreed to stay as a kind of honored guest and advisor to the Wildhammers, while Laronar went off solo questing.
Despite his list of absurd reagents, Laronar had gotten the Wildhammer smith to make the Storm Claw combat ready, more or less. It lacked the power it once held, but being ten thousand years old meant Laronar knew well what was required to empower his relic. The power of other relics. Khaz Modan had no shortage of such things, though they would not give as much as what he would no doubt find on the Broken Isles. They were, quite literally, drowning in ancient magical relics whose power was just going to waste, polluting the sea. Thus, Laronar made his way through the Dwarven kingdom, occasionally stopping when his sharp owl eyes noticed something below, that usually led to a cache of stuff.
Calling it treasure, would've been too generous. Most of it was trash, though trash Laronar expected would get him some much needed gold, if sold to the right vendors. Faced with a relatively calm sea, the Archdruid had a swift flight to the Isles. As he entered their airspace, the ever present arcane tomb of what was once a large portion of Suramar still glowed in the distance, but something was definitely new, and off. Some one, or some thing, had raised the ancient Temple of Elune, and he used his superior owl senses to investigate the new mostly shattered shore below him, perching in the same statue-bowl he'd once chilled in, before meeting Liu Lang.
Aside from a few sea creatures, he didn't spot anything of note, and while he was tempted to enter the Temple, pillaging the artifacts of the Sisterhood would probably not do him any favors with the Goddess. Thus, he resisted poking that particular bee hive, and moved on across the shore.
His finds were immediate, and bountiful. Mostly, he found glittering coins, age old treasures, and mementos of an era long past that still glittered with traces of power. All of these, went to empowering the Storm Claw. Naturally, some of these ancient chests were guarded by beasts, monstrous or otherwise. The most notable of which, was a dragon-like being that seemed to glow with the very power of storms, and was not a standard color of the Dragonflights loyal to Alexstrasza, being somewhere between blue and purple. It didn't speak, either, despite his attempts to communicate, the dragon shot lightning from its maw first, and took no questions.
Laronar didn't hesitate, as he found the drake was rather young, at least compared to the span of years of the dragons he was more familiar with, and the two had an epic duel atop the peak of a mountain, as thunder boomed and lightning surged with each of their attacks. After gaining some of its former power back, the Storm Claw had manifested on his Cat Form by granting a pair of sharp metallic claws on his fore paws that were not at all dissimilar to what the Fangs of Ashamane had granted him. They felt different, of course. Lighter, mostly, but with time and gathered power, he had a feeling his family's heirloom would prove their equal. He also fully intended to get his patron to bless the weapon as well.
Nothing granted power like slaying a beast though, and as he finished the fight by tearing out the storm drake's neck, he plunged his right paw, the limb in his elven form that was sporting the Storm Claw, into the beast's heart. His fur stood on end, likely looking quite comical as he had the weapon absorb the dragon's power, and he stared in disbelief as he shifted to his elven form, and took a measure of its potency. The dragon, along with the sizable horde of empowered loot it had been guarding, significantly raised the 'level' of his artifact, to the point that he deemed it worth bringing to Ashamane.
Upon taking his Flight Form again, Laronar noted his owl talons were once more encased in razor sharp metal that occasionally sparked with the white blue lightning of Xuen. Something strange also occurred, as he flapped into the air. He felt much, much faster, and found that with minor effort, he could control the winds and storms that almost perpetually surrounded the Broken Isles to radically increase his flight speed. This, garnered the attention of the Mistress of Flight herself, though her manner of speech was radically different than the last time he'd heard Aviana. After the assault on Hyjal, she had lost much of her joyful nature.
"You have awakened a new power, Stormclaw..." She said with a hint of amusement and obvious intrigue. "I would see how fast your new abilities can take my gift to you."
Unwilling to disappoint she who had given him wings, he surged forward, and his form's inner eyelids slid shut by reflex with the sudden jump in speed. With a shriek of pure joy, Laronar rocketed through the Vrykul-filled areas of the Broken Isles, soaring down and then up the cliffs around him as he got a feel for flight at this kind of speed. All the while, lightning surged around him, and as he felt it peak, he surged forward in a spinning spiral once again, aimed up the side of a rather large mountain in this case, before he opened his wings as his momentum started to fade. It was hard to see things, even with his ridiculously superior owl sight, flying at these speeds, but he did hear a roar that sounded all too familiar. Rotating his head as he descended the other side of the mountain towards the Unending Ocean, Laronar spied a much larger storm dragon, this one likely female, whose hide was scarred with the proof of a long life. He heard Aviana giggle in the back of his head, and then knew he'd been set up. Flying that fast, with power like this, had been all but a guarantee to draw the matriarch's ire.
She outsized him by several orders, and yet flew as fast as he did, when such a thing should have been physically impossible. As her large sparking face pulled up beside him, Laronar had to keep the owl's fear in check. Yet, instead of snapping him up, she flashed him a grin with her toothy maw, and roared. Realizing they were already at the ocean's surface, Laronar's dark owl eyes widened, as he felt her, somehow, using the power of their flight, the storm, and their closeness to the 'ground' such as it was, to propel them further, without losing height or momentum. She rumbled, and nodded at him, and then Laronar used his own power, namely that of the Storm Claw, to do as she had.
The massive storm dragon arced their path back towards the Broken Isles as fatigue threatened to set in, her wings pumping easily, steadily, and repeatedly as she ascended as many times as she pleased. For his part, Laronar found that the most difficult to do, and maintain his speed. Yet, though it cost him speed, he did eventually just shift back to a normal flight style, gain an absurd amount of altitude, and then shoot after the storm dragon. She seemed amused by his struggle, and as she landed on a rather high peak bordering Stormheim, Laronar felt himself being summoned.
As he landed, he walked, somewhat awkwardly as an owl, towards the dragon, shifting shapes as he did so. Her sparking eyes narrowed, yet Laronar did not responding to the growl that accompanied her next words. "Kaldorrrrrrei...a Druid, then. Your kind...should not know of Stormriding."
He raised up the Storm Claw, before she decided to just atomize him with plasma and be done with it. "I acquired this skill recently, thanks to this. An ancient family heirloom, tied to the power of the storm."
Leaning in, the massive matriarch sniffed the claw, and glared at him. "You have run afoul of one of my sons...and recently."
"I have." Laronar said, knowing there was no point in lying, as he had experienced having a superior nose, and knew she would trust her senses over his word. His 'fellow' mortals had a tendency to lie. "He fought bravely, but in the end, I was stronger."
Air, foul and hot and charged with static washed over him, coalescing around the Storm Claw. "You are not of these peaks...and yet you understand our ways. Because of this...I will grant you a boon. I will empower your weapon...with true blessings..." Laronar heard a distant, distracted snarl in his head, but the smirking dragon opened her sparking maw anyway, washing the ancient weapon in the breath of the Thorignir.
Frowning slightly, Laronar glanced at the weapon, as the energies of the dragon and the tiger, despite being similar, were very much at odds. "Thank you...Matriarch." Laronar said, guessing at how her kin viewed her. Slowly, they had poked their curious heads from the various caves around them, yet not moved to strike the strange storm-favored mortal. Looking towards Val'sharah, Laronar felt another being of power calling to him. "I will not forget this kindness." Laronar said to her. "Know that you have any ally in Archdruid Laronar Stormclaw...for whatever that is worth. If ever you desire my aid...just head for Val'sharah and...cordially ask for me. Now if you'll pardon me, great and wise drakes of the storm, I must depart."
He bowed low, and then met the matriarch's gaze. Even then, he got the impression she wanted to simply snap him up, and keep his toy. Thankfully, the other various blessings from powerful entities gave her pause. Swallowing the kilt he wore, would undoubtedly mess with her stomach. With a nod, she let him go, and with a single powerflap, Laronar was off again, rocketing through the skies.
As he left Stormheim, it became slightly harder to maintain a consistent speed, but he was going so ridiculously fast that it simply didn't matter. As he dove towards Ashamane's Fall, he realized the next challenge with this method of ridiculously fast flight: branches. He was skilled enough, this time, to not surge into one, narrowly barrel rolling past them, but he knew it was a matter of time, and that he would need to practice. As he had that thought, he landed at Ashamane's altar, winged flared to kill his momentum, claws sliding across the soft ground as he came to a stop, he heard Aviana once more, in his skull. "Find me later, Laronar Stormclaw. I will teach you to properly wield these new gifts...and all it will take is a few Glyphs!"
Glad the Mistress of Flight was seemingly rhyming again, or in a good enough mood to do so, he promised he would, eventually, come and find her at her shrine in nearby Highmountain. He also knew the latest incarnation of Kota would want to learn this method of flight as well.
As he returned to his elven shape, Laronar frowned again, as he sensed the continued turmoil within his artifact. The arrogance of the dragon and the pride of the tiger would not settle, and he could feel the weapon thrumming on his hand.
"You have gathered too much power too quickly, my Stormclaw." Ashamane purred, as she manifested before her alter, lying down comfortably on the grass, the picture of casualness. "Place your weapon upon my Altar. I will...tame the storm...and make it serve it's newest master. You."
From behind them, Laronar heard the voice of an old friend. "I would think you would want such a powerful weapon for yourself, Ashamane." Thaon Moonclaw said, in his charismatic baritone.
Ashamane let out a huffing sound. "These blessings shall serve Laronar, and Laronar serves Me, Thaon. Besides, I do not require trinkets to use such power...but you Mortals are so very limited, and thus must resort to these kinds of items." Her tone might have had slight mockery in it, but Ashamane knew very well how powerful the mortal races were becoming, now that the best of them had started just layering on trinket after trinket, magic ring after magic ring, and acquiring more and more armor from each foe they defeated. Some of the Ancients were wary of letting them have so much power. Others, Cenarius and Ashamane among them, chose to trust in the mortals who helped defend their world, many of whom had done so for as long as Laronar, if not longer.
Orange energy surrounded the Storm Claw, and a pair of lightning bolts surged around the weapon, seeking dominance. Where they sparked, druidic runes appeared on the blades, containing the volatile power, and focusing it. Eventually, she managed to get the pair of opposing forces contained and circling each other in a balanced spin that greatly enhanced the weapon. Donning it again with a nod from Ashamane, Laronar's eyes widened. The sheer amount of power was now much more noticeable, and significant, but he knew it would need more, in addition to Hjaldi's materials, if it was going to be a Legion-killing weapon.
"What will you do now, my Druid?" The panther asked, and Laronar smirked at her.
"I have some...gathering...to do. And then, I need to find Storm. It's long past time I got him back in shape." Ashamane chuffed again, and cryptically wished him luck, before vanishing into the aether again to 'take a much needed nap'. Thaon, and the other Moonclaw Druids swarmed him then, eager to see his family heirloom, and before long, he was demonstrating its lightning based power on target dummies set up within Ashamane's Fall.
While shooting lightning bolts was fun, Laronar eventually tried something different. Taking his Cat Form, the other druids marveled at his claws, and their similarity to Ashamane's Fangs. He showed the Moonclaws then, what the Stormclaws had long since mastered, and as he applied his bleeding, rending slashes and followed them with a vicious wound-widening bite, he found it was enhanced by his weapon. Filled with a ridiculous amount of energy, Laronar went into what could only be called a Frenzy, ripping the dummy to shreds as he slashed at it six consecutive times in the same attack, the final blow of which removed its straw head with a flash of claws and lightning.
Impressed at his power, Laronar eyed his handiwork, and quietly wondered just how much further he could push it.
Chapter 30: The Tomb of Light and Shadow
Chapter Text
While Laronar Stormclaw began his epic quest to empower his relic of the same name, the world of Azeroth properly fell into war. Garrosh’s War, as it would come to be known by those who suffered from it. Pandaria became a battlefield. Their reintroduction to Azeroth was marked by both the hope of new beginnings, and the fracturing of the Pandaren as a people, as their young adventuring generation who’d grown up on stories of Liu Lang and the Wandering Isle stepped into a world of death and warcraft they simply weren’t ready for.
Since Laronar needed materials, that meant it was a matter of time, and a number of refusals on the Archdruid’s part, before Mathias Shaw tempted him with something that he couldn’t easily find as a wandering adventurer, but the Kingdom of Stormwind had the connections to acquire. Indeed, Shaw had enticed Laronar so effectively, and his aid with finding Anduin Wrynn had been so appreciated, his deeds had even reached the ear of the High King of the Alliance. The Spymaster was able to solidly guarantee the powerful druid’s help for a number of decades, barring any unforeseen racial disasters that he, as a Kaldorei Archdruid, would have to attend to if and when they occurred. After losing Hyjal and having Darkshore shattered and Ashenvale invaded, he had demanded room for exceptions, which Shaw had eventually agreed to.
But, for the immediate future, he was a proper SI:7 agent, and now found himself grouped with a band of powerful adventurers, heroes in their own right, really, to form a squad. Their squad, he’d been told, was being briefed by the High King Varian Wrynn himself. Having only been in the same room or space as the favorite of Goldrinn a few times, Laronar was curious to meet him properly, face to face. He was far too much of a wallflower to have approached him previously.
Making up the rest of this squad was a Vindicator of the Draenei, that for some reason, other Draenei did not seem to know. He went by the name Zaldrathos, and all Shaw would tell him about the strange, heavily accented golden eyed Draenei with pale golden skin is that he was an ally of the Bronze Dragons, and he was here to be their tank. He didn’t need to know more than that. Laronar fully intended to investigate on his own, as he knew Bronze Dragons who could give him such details. He was taller than any Draenei Laronar knew of, and his power with the Light surpassed any paladin Laronar tried to remember fighting alongside. He would’ve noticed if such a being had been in Northrend, as they would’ve been a great and obvious boon, so his service to the Alliance had to be relatively new.
Their healer was a monk who followed the Jade Serpent. Her ears marked her as a Night Elf, but her face was covered by an admittedly epic round hat that, until he’d seen her outfit, Laronar was convinced only a Pandaren could really pull off properly. The rest of her armor was jade colored, but leather, and adorned with effigies of the Celestial she followed. She’d greeted him as a favored of Xuen, but had said little else.
Joining him as a damage dealer was a hunter called Alaron, and judging by his armor, a rather highly ranked Sentinel, who were apparently accepting males now, given how badly Garrosh had decimated their forces. The timing had aligned with various other cultural shifts in the Kaldorei, as survival took precedence over ancient custom. Laronar was a bit salty the Sisterhood of Elune was now just the ‘Priesthood’, as he had also wanted to be one, once upon a time, but that time had now passed, and his skin remained darkened and lacking her blessing. The hunter’s pets, Shalash and Ashmane for he had two, were a pair of Nightsabers, a Frostsaber and a Moonsaber respectively. Laronar liked him, even though he was so young, it made Laronar’s ten millennia old posterior cringe, when he heard he’d only lived a mere twenty five years. He was at least old enough to have fought in defense of Nordrassil, and had apparently, like many of his generation, become rather fierce, deadly fighters. When he’d asked what Laronar had been up to at his age, he’d had to pause for a solid two minutes before he recalled it was around that time he had trained with Malfurion and the first druids, to learn from him. That had made the young Night Elf spit out his Moonberry juice, to great amusement from the rest of the party.
Rounding out their trio of damage dealers was a Human paladin, who specialized in dealing retribution. Alaric, the only name the Seventh Legion soldier had given them, was sporting a tabard of the Sons of Lothar, a group of Humans even Laronar had learned to respect. One did not survive twenty years in Outland by being as stupid as the rest of their race seemed to be. He was apparently just starting to focus on using his holy abilities instead of rage-based ones, and aside from a flash of healing Light, he hadn’t used his tie to the Light much while in Outland. This had puzzled their Draenei, but it made Laronar respect him more. Too many modern Human paladins seemed…unworthy of the shoes they had to fill. He might have simply expected too much of them, after seeing Tirion in Northrend, but the younger ones still seemed to lack something. Of all their party though, he was least worried about Alaric.
The five of them stood straighter, as the intimidating clomp of Varian Wrynn’s plate boots filled their ears. He looked them over, greeting them brusquely with a simple nod per person as he did so. “Vindicator. Mistweaver. Archdruid. Sentinel. Knight-Captain. Your mission…is going to be complicated, even for a group as seasoned as all of you. I assume most of you have heard of our war with the Iron Horde?”
Everyone but Laronar, who had paid zero attention to current events while gathering material for the past several months, maybe a year, nodded. Varian’s intense eyes noted the Archdruid’s lack of response, but he said nothing, rightly assuming Shaw would fill in the gaps. “Your mission is to enter the alternate Draenor timeline, and make your way to the Draenei burial grounds of Auchindoun.” Alaric, Laronar, and Alaron all twitched at the name, as they had each either been in or heard the stories of what had happened there in the realm they knew as Outland. The Draenei, oddly, had no reaction beyond a narrowing of his golden eyes, and the monk was perfectly still, like a statue. “The Shadow Council Warlock, Teron’gor, has infiltrated its defenses. Your group is to stop him at all costs, and keep him from abusing the souls of the Draenei there.”
A hooded male Human mage in blue and white robes with gold trim entered the room, then. Varian continued, as he opened a portal between timelines, and worlds, seemingly with little effort. “Alaric knows the terrain’s layout, and should be able to guide you to Auchindoun from our base in Shadowmoon Valley. Once you step through the portal, you will be on your own. You each know what your rewards for completing this assault will be. Any questions?”
Laronar almost raised his hand, but held off. As far as he knew, the Alliance base in Shadowmoon Valley had belonged to a rather ballsy group of Wildhammer Dwarves, and was long abandoned. Hjaldi had actually served with them, briefly, when Illidan still ruled the Black Temple. With no questions asked, Varian Wrynn dismissed them, and exited the chamber, and then one by one, the party stepped into the portal.
Emerging on the other side, Laronar had a bit of a shock, as this Shadowmoon Valley was nothing like the one he knew. Instead of a Fel green hellscape riddled with demons, falling Infernals, and massive leftover threats from the various factions that had fought in that hellish place, this one actually had vegetation. And a sky. And a moon. It was night as they appeared, and Laronar stared in disbelief. “How…in the fuck is this Shadowmoon Valley?”
Alaron and Alaric chuckled, the Draenei Vindicator smirked, and the monk simply sighed. A voice answered him then. “Bronze Dragon timeline fuckery.” Said Mathias Shaw, frothing mug in hand, and in his casual outfit, a simple black shirt and pants. He seemed far too casual, for the words that next came from his mouth. “Garrosh Hellscream escaped his capture in Pandaria after losing the Siege of Orgrimmar. With the help of a Bronze Dragon, and a powerful artifact, they managed to link the Dark Portal in our Azeroth to a Draenor that hadn’t yet been ripped apart by multiple Nether Portals. Or defiled by Demons. Garrosh changed this Draenor’s history, and while Thrall ended him personally, the Iron Horde born from his interference persists. All the Orcish Warlords of the past are now once more a threat, in the form of what they call the Iron Horde. Our Horde, and the Legions of the Alliance, are here to stop them from invading our Azeroth.”
Laronar took a long moment to process. He had no clue Orgrimmar had been besieged, but he supposed that meant the Alliance had won Garrosh’s war in the end, despite the rough start they’d had. He’d been material gathering in Northrend at the time, and nobody in his network had bothered to keep him informed. He grasped the concept easily enough, as he had visited the Bronze Dragons a few times since their second victory in Silithus. One question bothered him, though. “What Bronze would ever dare to so radically alter the timelines? And where is Nozdormu?”
Shaw chuckled humorlessly. “Nozdormu is where he always is. Wherever the fuck he pleases. Or perhaps, whenever he pleases. Either way, he wasn’t here to stop any of this, and damage is already done. With how many connections we have to this Draenor now, the timelines are inexorably linked. At least for the present. Our Bronze Dragonflight contacts have advised us to not let them enter our Azeroth, so that is what we’ve been focused on. As for which Bronze Dragon caused this…” Shaw paused to think, then nodded. “Kairozdormu, I believe was his name.”
Laronar knew Shaw was watching him for a reaction, but the druid hid his inner sadness. Upon his last visit to the Caverns of Time, he’d known the young dragon was discontent with his station, but to so radically screw with the timeline… “What…became of Kairozdormu?” He finally asked.
Shaw’s tone was deadpan as he said, “Khadgar and Chromie found him dead in Nagrand. Stabbed in the back…presumably by Garrosh Hellscream. The Bronzes claim he was acting alone, but my sources tell me there may be other Bronze Dragons with ideas on meddling with the past to protect the future. Now that they’ve lost their powers, many are losing hope. We’re all hoping this isn’t the birth of the Infinite Dragonflight in our timeline, but we can’t be too careful.”
Laronar nodded along, absently. Kairoz had been a bit of a jerk, sometimes, but he didn’t deserve to be quite literally stabbed in the back. Laronar knew his motives had to have been pure, he’d been obsessed with worrying over the next Legion invasion, and had told everyone who would listen, himself included, that the next time they came could well be the last. The Bronze Flight’s powers were lessened, but not completely gone, apparently, and they still knew that much, even if predicting the Legion would return to Azeroth again wasn’t much of a prediction. From what Vehlar claimed, no world had ever rebuffed them twice, and demons were not creatures to give up a grudge.
The party set out immediately, and since each of them could fly, they made great time to Auchindoun itself. As they approached, the grand necropolis of the Draenei loomed before them, a breathtaking fusion of sanctity and arcane might. Towering crystalline spires jutted into the night sky, pulsing faintly with the radiant energy of the Draenei's holiest crystals, their intricate inscriptions glowing with ancient protective runes.
From the air, Auchindoun was a spectacle of Draenic architecture at its most sacred and awe-inspiring. Its vast, fortress-like structure was unique to the Draenei, and suitable as both a grave and a bastion against attacks. Towering spires reached skyward, each crowned with radiant crystalline foci that shimmered in hues of deep violet and cerulean. Below, a seamless blend of carefully cultivated gardens and geometric pathways framed the sacred burial site. Hovering platforms and bridges of solidified light connected the temple’s various terraces, a testament to the Draenei’s mastery over magic and their unwavering devotion to their fallen kin. To those who had only known the shattered husk of Auchindoun in Outland, this sight was nothing short of breathtaking.
Oddly, Zaldrathos did not comment on it, despite this being an apparently important temple for the souls of his people, his expression, that Laronar caught with his sharp owl eyes and his form's ability to rotate its head, was one of sadness, as if gazing upon the Draenei temple was bringing up long-forgotten memories, of an age long passed. His method of flight was also strange, as with a prayer to the Light, he'd manifested a pair of golden wings that looked suspiciously like a Naaru's body parts. Their monk had simply launched into the air, a faint green aura of her focused Ki propelling her through it with ease. Laronar, naturally, had his Flight Form, and both Alaric and Alaron were the most normal of the party, riding on a war-gryphon and Cenarion Hippogryph, respectively. Both hybrid creatures were armored for battle, and a battle was exactly what they found.
Below, was a sight every single one of them was familiar with: an active invasion by the Burning Legion. “Stay focused!” Zaldrathos shouted the order, “We are here to cleanse Auchindoun!” His Light wings flared then, and he shot forward, with the rest of the party doing the same, as they picked up their pace. Despite not getting involved, the Draenei Paladin shot through several Infernals on the ground, in front of Auchindoun’s southern entrance, his Holy wings burning them, as they fell to pieces, sliced in half, and the Draenei came sliding to a stop along the ancint cobbles, his heavy plated hooves steady, and more liekly to break the ground before they ever gave.
Taking his cue, Laronar shifted into his Cat Form, and landed on a Doomguard, tearing out its throat, and bringing it down, to the surprise of the Draenei Vindicators who’d been fighting it. Laronar and the Light wielders shared a nod, before he padded along to join the others. Alaric had used his burgeoning abilities to throw a Light hammer at several Imps, where it then split into three, and pulped all of their skulls with the power of the Light. Zaldrathos did the same, moving at frankly ridiculous speeds for someone in full plate armor, his golden hammers moved around him constantly, smashing down anything that his own two handed Draenic warhammer didn’t already end. Alaron had his mount circle their landing zone, and his arrows struck true, while his pets manifested from the shadows, and took down whatever he targeted.
In short order, the party had made their presence known, and approached the entrance of Auchindoun. One of the Soulbinders greeted them, as they converged on the entrance. “I am Soulbinder Tuulani.” She said, bowing. The others each greeted her, giving their first names, at which point she said, “We should proceed inside. Teron’gor and Gul’dan are coming soon, and we must be ready for them.”
The interior of the fabled Draenei temple was nothing short of awe-inspiring, a grand sanctum of Light-infused reverence and arcane mastery. Towering pillars of polished crystalline stone lined the vast halls, each inscribed with ancient sigils, radiating a soft, ever-present glow that filled the chamber with an ethereal brilliance. Arcane crystals hovered effortlessly, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow across the gleaming mosaic floor.
The air was thick with the scent of sacred incense, a heady mixture of rare Draenic herbs and purified oils, meant to sanctify the space and fortify the spirits of its defenders. Laronar’s sensitive nose, however, found it overwhelming, a smothering haze that masked more subtle scents. He exchanged a glance with Shalash and Ashmane, confirming that they too found their senses dulled by the potent aroma. Beyond the incense, there were other scents, some of the Draenic defenders exuded an aura unlike the others, a presence that lingered just beyond recognition, muddled and distorted by the thick, perfumed air.
Carved alcoves along the walls housed the radiant spirit stones of fallen champions, their translucent surfaces pulsing gently with the echoes of those who had come before. The names inscribed beneath them spoke of Draenei heroes whose deeds had shaped history, figures whose sacrifices were now immortalized in the sanctified halls of Auchindoun. Here rested the spirits of Velen’s most trusted warriors, those who had fallen in the long ages the Draenei had hidden from the Legion, their wisdom and power now bound eternally to the heart of this sacred place. Among the honored were defenders who had been renowned for their hatred of demons, their devotion to the Naaru, and the contributions to keeping the Draenei people alive all these long millennia.
Tuulani chattered on, as they walked through the temple. “Soulbinder Nyami is working to bolster our defenses as we speak. Just think, you’re some of the only Outsiders to ever see the interior of Auchindoun.” They stopped before a large barrier of Light, and Tuulani’s chattering paused. “Strange…so many of the doors are sealed? No matter.” She said, apparently not bothering to think on what that could mean, or who sealed them. She opened the shield before them in a display of Light magic. “Let us proceed, Champions.” She gestured at ornate Draenic shrines as they passed by them. “Our greatest heroes are honored here, their spirits remain with us to this day.”
As they came upon Nyami, Tuulani announced their presence, despite the obvious Shadow magic that Nyami and her minions were pumping into the defense crystal right in front of them. “Nyami! The Champions are here… Oh…what is this!? Oh no…no!”
The other Souldbinder, Nyami evidently, turned and grinned at her contemporary. “Yes, Tuulani. Now, you see…your efforts were valiant…if irritating. I did not think only one of the crystals would power the defenses…but nothing will stand in the way of my Master’s plans…” Behind her, the defense crystal cracked, and fell to the ground, shattered. The corrupted, red skinned Eredar, now revealed to be loyal Legion saboteurs, dispensed with their disguises, and advanced on the party.
Tuulani turned to them, saying, “Quickly! You must stop them!”
Nyami wasn’t done monologuing though. A choking barrier of Shadow magic formed a shield around Tuulani, as Nyami crowed triumphantly. “Now, the only thing standing in our way…is this sad little group of Mortals…”
Zaldrathos struck first, once again moving faster than anything that large and covered in plate should have been able to. He leapt, and swung his warhammer into Nyami, as the rotating Light hammers from earlier appeared again, spinning as they dealt damage and drew aggro. The party didn’t need an order to spring into action, and Zaldrathos did not give one. Alaric and his greatsword waded into the Eredar, cleaving them in half as he dealt his Holy retribution.
Alaron riddled the warlocks who’d corrupted the crystal with arrows, and his loyal Sabercats finished them off once they stumbled. Their monk was focused on keeping Zaldrathos alive and undamaged from Nyami’s dark spells. Laronar, as usual, went for the biggest target, and he noted that the Draenei Paladin leading them was able to see him as he Prowled. This worked out well, as he brought down a stunning hammer on Nyami, and hammered her with brutal, Holy strikes. As the stun ran its course however, Laronar leapt from the shadows, raking his claws down her back, and the pair of them brought her down quicker than she’d expected.
A dark energy shield of nope surrounded the Eredar, as she shouted triumphantly despite having her entire cadre wiped out, “Auchindoun’s defenses are down, and now, my final tool will dispatch you Alliance fools!” She ran away in a burst of dark energy, and before Laronar and Zaldrathos could give chase, a Draenei Protector robot slammed into the fallen crystal, shattering it further. Its glowing ocular sensors were an ominous shadowy purple tinged with a Fel green as it shouted at them, “None live who assault the holy Auchenai! I will strike you down!”
Tuulani shouted for them to defeat the Protector, like they had any other choice, and after far too long, they managed to do just that. Its metal chassis had provided a suitable distraction to the champions, while the Legion was given time to complete their dark plans. They went to help Tuulani, as the Protector finally fell apart.
“She had help…so many of our order were corrupt…I’ll gather any who remain loyal here, and protect them. Please, Champions, go and put an end to this madness!”
Not wasting time on words, the strike team did so, absolutely tearing through the Legion’s spies, as easily as they had torn through Auchindoun’s defenders. They arrived in the Nave of Eternal Rest, where they’d first entered, and once more, engaged the wounded Nyami in battle. It was short lived. Zaldrathos kept her focus, while Alaron and their monk handled the minions. Laronar tore out her throat, leaving Nyami collapsed on the ground in a puddle of her own foul blood as she wheezed, “Too late…my Master…comes…”
The Auchenai Wardens advanced on the chamber, seeing it was clear now, and sent a scout ahead of them to pursue Nyami’s agents. Unfortunately for the scout, an Infernal landed on him, but even a battering ram of the Legion lasted only seconds before two paladins, and Laronar’s sparking claws.
Once more, they turned the holy corridors of Auchindoun into a slaughterhouse, and came upon a foul Legion machine summoning more of their forces into the Draenei’s holiest place. What Laronar could only describe as a Fel Doomguard appeared, giving them the usual ‘who dares to interfere with our plans? Your world, all worlds, will burn’ line, but again, the Light, and the fangs of three Nightsabers aided by some timely arrows, brought the creature to its end on the mortal plane, sending it straight back to the Nether.
The next part of their efforts led them to a Soul Teleporter, which activated once the Legion presence was removed from their area. Turning them into four swirling blue lights, they ended up behind their target: Teron’gor. He was shouting something they couldn’t quite hear, but then he unleashed a Rain of Fire on the defenders by the entrance to the temple, reducing them to piles of ash. “Such decadence!” Teron’gor shouted, louder this time, as his murder spree evidently spurred him to raise his voice. “It will all burn!”
The strike team made short work of his minions, and three more times, swirled across the main chamber of Auchindoun, until finally, they reached Teron’gor himself. Soul by Draenic soul, the Fel corrupted Orc sporting a massive pair of demonic horns was consuming their power for himself, and growing more grotesque in the process as the heroic and now deceased Draenei vanished in noiseless screams within the growing body of Teron'gor. Each one he consumed fueled his transformation from an Orc of Draenor, into something far more foul. “Foolish Gul’dan…” He monologued to no one in particular, “this gift…is more than you could ever know!” The strike team wasted no time.
Leaping forward and further propelled by his wings, Zaldrathos brought his hammer down on Teron’gor, only for the empowered warlock, fresh from feasting on three renowned Draenei souls at once, to spin just as quickly, and catch the paladin’s hammer. They struggled, and Teron’gor eventually pushed Zaldrathos back, forcing the paladin to land, and narrow his golden eyes. “Eet is about time…one you Felspawn actually posed a challenge…” A dark grin appeared on Zaldrathos’ features, contrary to the Light radiating off of him, as he upped his game.
Teron’gor did the same, as the rest of the party caught up to their tank. “I become…something Greater!” Teron’gor shouted, as black purple fire surrounded and obscured his form in shadow. Demonic wings sprouted from his back, and recognizing what he was doing, the party scattered. Their monk propelled herself away with her Chi, while Alaron and Laronar dodged away from the warlock’s fiery landing, before tearing into him with claws and arrows. Alaric, for his part, simply raised a protective and invulnerable barrier of Light, like Zaldrathos had, and fearlessly, both paladins began tearing into the empowered Orc.
Zaldrathos kept his focus, his radiant form a contrast to Teron’gor’s Fel darkness. They traded heavy blows, one after another, the force of them rolling through the entire temple. Curses, Shadowbolts, Incinerates, even another Rain of Fire, it all fell uselessly on the strike team as they either dodged, or healed through the damage. Alaric and Laronar had Flash of Light and Regrowth respectively, so their monk stayed focused on healing Zaldrathos, and the two Nightsabers, while Alaron stayed irritatingly far out of the warlock’s range.
Powerful as Teron’gor was, he was fighting alone, and being outnumbered by five worthy foes was enough to push him over the edge. Literally.
“More…I need…MORE!” He shouted, struggling now, under all the damage, bleeds, and arrows, to hold off Zaldrathos’s furious warhammer. With a final spin into an upwards arc of an attack, a loud crack filled Auchindoun, as Teron’gor fell from the platform they were fighting on, circular, as always, into the depths of the temple below.
“You…you did it!” Came the voice of Tuulani, who joined them with a genuine, and tired smile. She placed a large chest from her pack on the floor before the heroes. “I know it is not much…but it is what we have. Please, take this reward, and thank your King Varian for his timely assistance!”
Zaldrathos nodded, picked up a trinket from the pile, shrugged, shoved it in his bag, and then shoulder over his large pauldron, stomped towards the exit. The others did the same, and Laronar found that the Draenic crystals he acquired actually fit rather well in the Stormclaw’s minor slot for them.
By the time they left, Blood Knight Liadrin of Silvermoon and a Draenei Laronar didn’t recognize were standing victorious over a Pit Lord just outside. The Draenei forces, it seemed, had repelled the Legion’s attack successfully, and with their job seemingly done, the party took flight to head back to Shadowmoon Valley.
Little did they know, down in the depths of Auchindoun, a fallen Vindicator straight from the alternate timeline itself, came upon the broken and battered body of Teron’gor. Surrounded by her Sargeri, she tutted. “Now now, Teron…it’s not time for you to die just yet…” Her corrupted power of the Light now turned to Fel, surged into the broken Orc, bringing him back to some kind of form of life. With a loud roar, the abomination began drawing in Draenic souls at an alarming rate, and the fallen Vindicator grinned. “Good…good boy. Feast well…the Master has plans for you.”
Back at the Alliance Garrison, Laronar and the others enjoyed a pint with Shaw and the rest of the tavern, as they recounted their victory over one of the Iron Horde’s leaders. That, did wonders for morale. After about an hour of partying, Shaw pulled Laronar aside, and handed him a brown bag. “Here, Laronar. The materials you were seeking. I can get more on your list, if you’ll agree to stay, and help us.”
Laronar shook his head. “Tempting though it is to slaughter more Orcs…I have the materials I need already. This was one of the last, and I just got mail confirming that my Dwarven friend has the rest. It’s time to revive and properly empower the Storm Claw.”
Shaw sighed, but nodded. “I understand. With how present the Legion is here…it’s a matter of time before their foul eyes turn to Azeroth again. Train well, Archdruid. You can bet that SI:7 will have assassination contracts for the Demon’s leaders, when their next assault comes.”
Laronar clasped arms with Shaw in the manliest of goodbyes, and turned to leave, only to find his path blocked by their monk. Except, for the first time all mission, her admittedly cool hat was gone, revealing a rather attractive set of features that he recognized with widened eyes. “Saria! I thought you smelled familiar…but I couldn’t place the scent. Its been some time. I see the training with Yulon has gone well.”
The monk nodded calmly. “Very well. She is now to me, what Ashamane is to you. Before you depart, Laronar Stormclaw, I have a request of you.” Laronar gulped. It was never a good sign when females from his past used both of his name. Never. “My beloved sister is…going through some hardship, in Val’sharah. I am worried for her…but nothing I say or do gets through to her. She always listened to you, though…and I know she still pines for you, even if your differences in what to train the Sharpclaws in drove you apart. She’s over it…and she could use your help. Something foul festers in Val’sharah…I ask that you go there, when you can.”
Laronar nodded, as he too remembered Naria. Quite fondly. Laronar didn’t tend to have many regrets, but giving up on what they’d had so easily had definitely been one of them. “For her, there’s not much I would not do. I’ll head there as soon as I can, Saria. You have my word.” She thanked him, and though it was weird, seeing the formerly brash druid turned into an almost eerily calm monk, he was glad she’d found her path.
With his path set before him, Laronar caught a portal back to a timeline where things made sense, and then began flying to Ironforge, forgoing the foul smelling Deeprun Tram. He’d actually tested his storm-enhanced flight, and had found it was a bit faster than taking the tram, though that was mostly due to not having to wait for it to arrive, embarking, and disembarking. Excitement filled him, as he felt the power of his family artifact boost his speed, and his Flight Form let out a piercing shriek as he sped over Khaz Modan, straight towards its capital, and his old Wildhammer friend.
Chapter 31: The Price of Pacifism
Chapter Text
The Great Forge, Ironforge - Khaz Modan
The pit of roiling lava that surrounded Ironforge’s largest anvil roared with molten heat, its eternal flames casting deep shadows across the towering stone walls and intricate;y carved Dwarven homes that encircled the Great Forge. Laronar stood beside his friend Hjaldi, a seasoned blacksmith, though never before had he undertaken a task of such magnitude. The Storm Claw lay upon the Great Forge’s central anvil, sparking with the power of Xuen and a Storm Dragon Matriarch, kept in check by Ashamane’s gift.
Hjaldi ran a rough hand along the weapon, his brow furrowed with a mix of determination and doubt. "This be unlike anythin’ I’ve worked on before, Laronar. Ancient magic loike this...ets older than you , ets temperamental. Unforgiving." He glanced at Laronar. "If ye’ be certain this ritual of yers will work, then we best be gettin’ started."
Laronar nodded in agreement. "This weapon was forged with techniques that have been lost since before I was even born, Hjaldi. It will take both our crafts, and all of our knowledge, to empower it. Thankfully, we have enough absurdly rare and powerful materials to do the job."
Hjaldi let out a deep sigh before setting to work. He brought forth ingots of Elementium, harvested from the darkest veins where the Black Dragonflight once hoarded their cursed treasures. He laid out bars of Khaz’gorite, their bluish gold surface gleaming with the power contained within. In a carefully warded case, a chunk of Eternium pulsed with dormant power, harvested from the far reaches of Outland, imbued with that doomed world’s powerful, chaotic energies. "These’re rare. Damn near impossible tae get. Ye have the rest?"
Laronar stepped forward and emptied a satchel full of Truesilver and Thorium onto their work space as well. The rare ores were as potent as the other materials they’d gathered, including carefully stacked and divinely blessed Mooncloth from Darnassus and the Temple of the Moon, an Eternium Rod, and several Greater Eternal Essences. "This should be enough. The ritual will draw the innate power from these materials, while you combine the modern metals with what my ancestors used."
Hjaldi nodded. “Aye…this will take some time. Let’s begin.”
As the ritual commenced, the Great Forge flared, responding to the infusion of raw elements. Hjaldi’s hammer rose and fell in precise, ringing blows, folding layer upon layer of infused metal carefully into the already existing claws, lengthening and enhancing them, while Laronar opened the ancient spellbook he’d pulled from a half-sunken library in Azsuna, with the help of a rather friendly disembodied Kaldorei spirit librarian who had yet lingered in their world. He began chanting in the tongue that had predated Darnassian and Thalassian both, a tongue few still remembered, but he at least knew how to read and speak. Sparks erupted, the fusion of heat and magic being drawn from their materials, forging something stronger than either could create alone. The Storm Claw trembled upon the anvil, drinking in the power hungrily, the once-dormant runes around its gem settings now flickering with renewed life.
Time passed, and both Hjaldi and Laronar were sweating as the fires of the Great Forge intensified with their efforts. The teamwork of Dwarf and Night Elf, as well as the materials and energies they were wielding had drawn a crowd of smithing enthusiasts, and while there were guards too, so long as things didn’t get dangerous, they would not interfere with such an obviously skilled blacksmith. To do so would practically be sacrilege to the Dwarves. The tension was palpable as the final strike echoed through the chamber, and the Thorium and Khaz’gorite fused to the metal already present in the weapon. The Storm Claw pulsed violently before stabilizing, arcs of intense blue-white lightning crackling along its surface. The very air around it hummed with power. Hjaldi took a step back, his chest heaving, sweat dripping from his brow as he beheld their work. "By the ancestors... we did et, Laronar. Et’s aloive again."
Laronar exhaled, running his fingers over the awakened artifact. "Now...it’s time to infuse it with power. Power enough to bring down the Burning Legion."
Hjaldi set about the preparations as they took a brief break, carefully arranging a collection of powerful artifacts and weapons that neither could use, but that they required the inner magical essence of, on the stone table beside the Storm Claw. The Storm Claw trembled as they began, and Laronar used the Eternium Rod in conjunction with his ancient ritual to guide the energies drawn from the powerful materials coiling around them like living strands of power. Sparks of natural and arcane energy wove together, as the raw magical power was pulled from the materials they’d arduously gathered, into the waiting Storm Claw. The runes etched into the weapon glowed brighter with each passing moment, drinking in the boundless magical energy until, finally, the infusion was complete. The very air around the weapon pulsed with renewed energy, and for the first time in ages, the Storm Claw was again awakened, and empowered.
Hjaldi roared as he brought his top tier smithing hammer down one final time, his entire body straining with the effort. The sound rang through the chamber, deeper and more resonant than any before it. The Storm Claw absorbed the impact with a hungry surge of power, its ancient elvish runes igniting like stars bursting to life. Lightning arced across its surface and flared into the air, before Laronar’s will guided the flaring plasma around and back into the weapon, illuminating the chamber in bursts of pale blue and silver. The Storm Claw trembled, then let out a deep, reverberating hum, as if singing its return to the world.
Laronar staggered back, as the ritual concluded, and found he was rather tired. No small amount of his own mana had been needed to awaken and bind these powerful, and now largely inert materials together. He could feel the weapon’s energy coursing through the air, crackling and alive. The bond was reforged, its essence restored. The Storm Claw was not only repaired, it had ascended to a level of power either equivalent or beyond what it had once possessed. The ancient relic pulsed with renewed vigor, radiating power unlike anything he had wielded before.
Hjaldi stepped back, falling on his hands and knees, sucking in deep breaths as the final strike had drained his mana as well. He gasped, his voice thick with awe. "That be no mere weapon now…ets a force o’ Nature, reborn. Try et on, Mate."
Laronar reached forward, sliding his hand into the gauntlet-like artifact. The moment his skin touched the metal and wrapped around the handle, a surge of power raced through him, an almost electric presence that sent shivers down his spine, and made his long hair flare with static and his amber eyes burn with flaring waves of power. He had wielded this weapon before, but never like this. Never had it sung to him, never had it pulsed in time with his own heartbeat. Not even Ashamane’s Fangs had been so thoroughly tied to his essence. A faint ringing filled his ears, and he could’ve sworn, in the corners of his vision, he saw the flicker of ancient Kaldorei Wisps. If they had wisdom to impart however, they kept it to themselves in that moment.
He turned to Hjaldi, his expression grim yet resolute. "Now," He said, his voice steady. "It’s time to put it to use." Hjaldi nodded, in agreement. Some weeks had passed since Laronar’s strike mission on Draenor, and with the conclusion of that war in another timeline, Archmage Khadgar himself had warned of the Burning Legion’s impending return to Azeroth.
Glancing over at the murmuring crowd as their noise rose and filled the air, Laronar and Hjaldi shared a look. They had been watching the pair, but now, some new fuckery was drawing their attention. Laronar’s ears twitched, and his mouth hung open as he heard the heavily accented Common of the excited Dwarves. “Can ye believe et!? King Magni! ‘Es back! An’ made o’ bloody Diamonds!”
Sure enough, the gleaming figure of former King Magni Bronzebeard strode out from the depths of what was known as Old Ironforge, his daughter Moira and young grandson Dagran in tow. The gleaming Dwarf raised his hands for calm, as he addressed the crowd. “My people! I return now tae ye not as yer King, but as Azeroth’s Speaker! Just now…the Burning Legion opened another Portal to our world!” Despite being made of diamond, the former King’s face was expressive, stern and concerned. “The Burnin’ Legion ‘as returned. The Fourth Invasion o’ Azeroth has begun. Prepare yerselves…we’ll need everyone.”
Laronar shuddered, with what he recognized as fear. The last time the Legion had come, his people had sacrificed everything to destroy them, or more accurately, their leader. Archimonde had apparently returned at the climax of the conflict on Draenor, and was yet again defeated, this time, of course, by a band of war-hardened adventurers, clad in the finest armor the world of Draenor could produce, with weapons to match.
“I…I need to go, Hjaldi. Thank you, truly, but…they will need me.” Laronar said hurriedly.
The tired Dwarf nodded. “Aye lad, I understan’. Go, go! The Dwarves o’ Ironforge will soon join the fight! Stay alive, Archdruid.”
Without delay, Laronar shifted into his flight form, the storm-infused energies surging through his owl feathers, propelling him forward at speeds beyond mortal limits as he screeched and spun into the air out of Ironforge. He headed back to Stormwind, his large wingspan eating up the miles in mere seconds. He let out a loud, piercing shriek as he arced over the city, and then headed for Duskwood. Those who could understand the call, knew what it meant, and had long feared hearing it. The Legion had returned, and the World needed her defenders.
Other Flight Forms filled the air behind him, and as Laronar passed over Goldshire, he briefly considered summoning the druids lurking there as well. Then, he shook his head, mostly in disgust. No, not even the Legion warranted calling on the darkness in the Lion’s Pride Inn.
Some evils were best left undisturbed.
He arced up over the once-corrupted World Tree that, despite its size, remained an apparent mystery to the inhabitants of the corrupted forest below. He saw maybe twenty other druids winging their way through his turbulent, sparking wake, and then dove down, masterfully dodging through the branches, and landing before the Dreamway portal.
Had he waited before entering, he might have noticed the ominous red tinge around the portal, but the Archdruid was in a hurry, and the last thing on his mind was the state of Nightmare corruption in the Dream. As he entered the Dreamway though, he soon realized, with horror, that the Nightmare had indeed returned. An ever-present blanketing mist surged through the Dream’s vital webway, and without hesitation, he took his patron’s form, and began cutting into the corrupted flora and Nightmare spawn.
It was a sign of how unnerved he was, that he didn’t bother with his usual stealth tactics, and with the Nightmare very obviously preying upon his fraying nerves, it deafened him to the baritones of a welcome ally. Finally, his voice cut through the fog on Laronar’s mind. “LARONAR STORMCLAW!” Blinking, the druid stopped charging at what he thought was a blighted monstrosity of Nightmare, its form coalescing as Keeper Remulos. Returning to his elven shape, Laronar shook his head.
“My apologies, Keeper…the Nightmare is…clouding my mind. A moment. I’ve prepared for this, but was not expecting it now of all fucking times.” He muttered the words for an ancient spell brought forward in time and altered to cleanse Void taint by his efforts, and the efforts of his friend Isoraen Nighstar, a spell designed specifically to Remove Corruption. The cleansing arcane light swirled around his heavily muscled frame, and his thoughts became focused and calmer again. “There…my senses are cleared. I am glad this works.”
Remulos nodded sagely. “The efforts of yourself and Archdruid Nightstar are a welcome boon against this resurgent corruption. It is no coincidence that the Legion’s return is marked by this unholy taint upon the Dream…Archdruid Naria was also here, though I seem to have…misplaced her. Find her, end the source of the corruption, and I will endeavor to reopen the Dreamway’s portals, and clear a path to the Dreamgrove.”
Eyes widening at the Keeper’s words, Laronar wasted no more time, and dashed back into the fog once more as a Nightsaber. The Dream was his ally, and this corruption was fresh. Each manifestation of Void taint he ripped apart made it easier to follow the scent of his former lover, and eventually, he closed in on her location. He wasn’t surprised she was here either, the Sharpclaws were long tasked with maintaining the Dreamway, and upon sensing this foul taint, she would have leapt in without hesitation.
Laronar knew her scent well, and in short order found her convulsing on the ground beneath the gnarled roots of an ancient, corrupted, red-limned oak, her body convulsing as glowing red tendrils wrapped around her arms and legs, burrowing into her skin as they siphoned her very essence. Her eyes flickered between clarity and madness, her connection to the Emerald Dream fraying at the edges, barely holding on. A cold fury surged through the druid as he saw the state she was in. He would not allow the Nightmare to claim her.
He raised his hands, calling upon the energies of nature, channeling a perfected Remove Corruption spell. Arcane and Nature magics intertwined, forming a blinding spiral of blue-white magic that burned the corruption away from her limbs. The air vibrated with power as the Nightmare recoiled, some foul entity within the mist screeching as its grasp on Naria was forcibly removed. Her body went limp, and then stirred, her eyes opening and a small smile appearing on her lips as clarity returned to her gaze. She looked up at him, her amber eyes shimmering with gratitude, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, she seemed glad to see him. “L-Laronar…? Is this…another false vision?”
He helped her up to a sitting position, and pressed his forehead to hers. “It’s really me. I’m here. Remulos sent me to find you. The Nightmare almost claimed you.”
She gave him a small smirk that he found he’d genuinely missed seeing. “And you and Isoraen’s silly little Cantrip freed me…” She sighed, and leaned into him, taking in a familiar and welcome scent. “My apologies for ever mocking it. You were both right to study it so hard…even if it distracted you for so long.”
Laronar returned her smirk, and brushed her sweaty green locks from her face. “The only thing that could have pulled me away from you, was fighting the eternal Void taint in the Emerald Dream.” He pulled her to her feet then, and suppressed a chuckle as he felt her eyes on his muscles again.
“Did…did you…somehow get even stronger?” She asked, incredulously, as her cheeks turned a shade darker.
Laronar winked at Naria, and gently squeezed her shoulder. "You can see for yourself laterrr. We must go. The Dreamway needs to be cleansed. Remulos is waiting."
Naria, still regaining her strength, steadied herself, nodding. "Then let us not waste any more time."
They moved on the source of corruption within the Dreamway then, a massive cyclopean abomination, which they dispatched rather easily, between their bleeds and their bites. Laronar could tell Naria was eyeing his new lightning, and how familiar it looked, but they didn’t have time to get into why he was sparking like a certain August Celestial. Once they arrived in the Dreamgrove, Keeper Remulos galloped straight to Archdruid Greathoof, who remained the leader of those who dwelt there.
“I felt the Legion’s return, Keeper. These are dark days, but it lightens my heart to see you again.” Resnar started.
Remulos nodded his head urgently. “Always a pleasure, Archdruid Greathoof. But we’ve no time for pleasantries. The weapons of old must be retrieved, and reawakened. And there is more…when Malfurion comes through, warn him that a new Nightmare taint has befallen the Dream. Archdruid Naria was nearly consumed by it, and would have been, if not for Archdruid Stormclaw.”
Rensar Greathoof nodded sagely. “Your skills in dealing death are as potent as ever I see, Laronar. Very well. I have some students who may prove capable of wielding such artifacts…I would have suggested Stormclaw take up his patron’s Fangs again, but…it seems you already wield an artifact of great power, Archdruid.”
Laronar smirked, and nodded. “An old family relic I found in Pandaria. A tale for another time, Rensar. Do we know from whence this new corruption spreads? We must stop it. Quickly. If it has already reached the Dreamway, it must have taken root in Val’sharah.”
The aged Druid of the Antler pondered for a moment, then said, “I will dispatch the Druids I have in mind to retrieve the weapons of old. You and Naria should venture into the depths of Val’sharah, and find this corruption’s source. And tread lightly, Stormclaw. The Nightmare appearing now, of all times, is no coincidence. Watch yourselves. The Legion’s return will have brought Satyrs with them.”
It was strange to think, but said Satyrs had probably been preparing for this fight almost as long as Azeroth’s mortal races had. Now, both sides would see which methods yielded stronger results. The Legion had numbers, but their quality was, typically, quite bad.
Together, Laronar and Naria took off, sprinting through the ancient forests, towards Ashamane’s Shrine, first. Before all else, they had both quietly agreed that making sure she was safe was a priority. All around them the signs of the Legion’s return were painfully clear. The ground beneath them trembled violently with each thunderous impact of Infernals plummeting from the skies. The land itself cried out in the wake of the Legion’s relentless invasion, great fissures cracking open as Fel fire consumed everything in its path. Towering columns of emerald flame erupted in the distance, a clue to just how bad things were going in Azsuna. But they could only deal with one crisis at a time.
The sky, once filled by the gentle glow of Elune’s light, was now clouded with a maelstrom of darkness and destruction. Massive black Legion warships loomed above, their jagged hulls bristling with infernal artillery, their cannons hissing as they rained devastation upon the land. The air reeked of sulfur and burning flesh, a cacophony of screams and battle cries mixing with the guttural roars of monstrous demons pouring forth from the portals that had been ripped open across the Broken Isles. Even the Temple of the Moon was under assault, but the druids focused. Getting distracted in a conflict this large was a good way to end up dead.
The quiet tranquility of Val’sharah was now very much gone, and Laronar wondered if it would ever truly return. Darkshore, Ashenvale, Felwood, everywhere the Legion touched, they left taint and ruin. Then, he remembered, it had taken quite a long time for Kalimdor to recover from their first invasion, if one could call being sundered apart into countless pieces recovering. Each year saw the shores erode further, and such things were only increased by the Goblins of the Horde blowing everything up every other week.
Ashamane’s Grove fared little better as they arrived, and it pulsed with ancient power, its protective wards struggling against the tide of Fel energy pressing in on all sides. Ethereal green barriers flickered erratically, their strength waning rapidly under the overwhelming corruption. With a growl, Laronar went right, while Naria took the left, and the two powerful Feral Druids tore their way through the embattled Ashen defenders, taking down infernals, doomguard, and several swarms of imps. Each defender they freed increased the speed at which they took down the next demon, and soon, the grove was clear of attackers, but this wasn’t a true invading force. Laronar recognized Legion cannon fodder when he saw it.
Laronar met Delandros Shimmermoon, and warned him that one of Greathoof’s students would be by to wield the Fangs, apparently. Laronar and several of the Ashen had mixed feelings about that, but he knew very well that the Circle had far more naturally gifted druids than himself. What he had achieved over ten millennia, they could gain just by taking up a portion of Ashamane’s power, and in a war like this, they needed as many powerhouses as possible.
With Ashamane safe, they took to the skies, daring the demons in flight to test them, and test them they did, but Laronar’s sparking talons tore through all of them, while Naria’s owl eyes just watched, impressed. As they flew towards Shaladrassil though, the awful truth was revealed. The source of the Nightmare’s corruption…was the World Tree itself. Unnatural abominations of demon and Nightmare swarmed them in the air, and the two druids struggled back towards the Dreamgrove, not daring to land within the heaving crimson hellhole that northern Val’sharah had become. Laronar understood immediately though. He’d known as soon as he saw the World Tree, what had caused this latest shit storm atop a Legion Invasion. The timing reeked of Satyric planning.
And he had words for Malfurion.
They arrived on the outskirts of the Dreamgrove, and saw Malfurion Stormrage himself, with most of the assembled Cenarion Circle, inducting new Archdruids into their midst. Naria moved to join them, but Laronar held out a wing, eyes narrowing, as the legendary druid, first of his kind, among Kaldorei anyway, came running down the path towards them. Laronar’s sharp ears caught mention of him heading to Cenarius, so now was as good a time as any.
Falling back from his perch on a branch over the pathway, Laronar masterfully backflipped, and landed as an elf before Malfurion. “Ahh, Laronar Stormclaw. It is good you have returned to the Isles. I was just on my way to Cenarius-”
“Have you seen Shaladrassil?” Laronar cut in, eyes practically burning with rage. “Do you have any idea what they’ve done to the World Tree!?”
Malfurion bumbled over his words. “Wha- Laronar, I don’t understand what-” Once more, Laronar cut him off. Normally, for ages now, he had considered Malfurion wise, but this latest fuckup, the latest in a long line of fuckups, was the breaking point for his respectful demeanor.
“The Nightmare, Malfurion. The Nightmare rules all of northern Val’sharah…and it spreads further as we speak…it's probably reached the Temple of the Moon by now…” Laronar snarled, “And do you have any idea why? How did such foul powers slip past every single ward, defense, and Protector we set upon this sacred vale? What force let them pass T housands of Years of defensive protections in a fucking Day!?”
Malfurion's eyes widened, as he understood why Laronar was so enraged. “Oh no…the Satyrs…they’ve woken up…”
“OF COURSE THEY FUCKING WOKE UP!” Laronar roared, shattering the tranquility of the Dreamgrove and drawing curious stares of nearby Dryads and Treants. “WE WARNED YOU THAT THEY WOULD! HUNDREDS OF TIMES!” His voice quieted then, as he realized Naria was holding his shoulder. He hadn’t moved to attack Malfurion, but he did have a history of losing his shit. A history they both knew well. But his rage, while potent, was focused, honed by Xuen’s teachings. He saved it for the Legion, but sparks still began rolling along the Storm Claw’s surface. His voice was low and furious then, as he practically whispered to the Archdruid. “Every Keeper…every Druid…every sacred shrine to an Ancient, every powerful artifact, every murdered resident of Shal’anir who now lies twisted and broken before the Satyrs you refused to kill when you had the chance…is on your head, Malfurion Stormrage. Go. Run to Cenarius…while I clean up your fucking mess… Again.” Guilt came over the antlered Archdruid’s features, as he very vividly still remembered Fandral, and all he had inflicted upon Hyjal. And who had ultimately slit his throat after, in a quite similar situation, Malfurion insisted that he be kept alive and imprisoned, instead of simply ended.
With a genuinely irritated snarl, Laronar was once more in his Cat Form, dashing through the foothills around the Dreamgrove, as getting to the heart of this spreading corruption by flying simply wasn’t possible with the demons so active over their portion of the Isles. Naria was left standing awkwardly with Malfurion. She shrugged, as Laronar and Thaon had told him, for eons at this point, that keeping a cache of Satyrs sleeping beneath Shaladrassil was a genuinely bad idea. They’d both last brought up the notion of slitting their throats after the Nightmare War, and once again, Malfurion had denied Thaon his vengeance. Now that denial had cost them almost half of their oldest, most sacred grove, and likely its defenders.
Laronar was an enraged blur as they reached the crimson, blighted lands of north eastern Val’sharah. The bodies of slain Kaldorei were everywhere, if one knew where to look, stabbed repeatedly by gleeful Grell infused with the crimson void taint. Laronar understood by this point, how the Nightmare worked, and if he wanted to draw out the goat-like cowards behind this latest infection, he knew his anger towards Malfurion would draw them like moths to a flame. It was justified, righteous anger, the kind they loved to twist, and that urge would spell their doom.
He tore through anything that possessed the Nightmare’s taint, flora, fauna, and no small amount of demons, of course. He didn’t know how long it took them, but he did wait for Naria as he proceeded. Strong as his mind was, it could be manipulated subtly, but the visions it caused were Always unique to the mind processing them, and it was that flaw that would keep them sane.
The Nightmare was aware of this flaw, and its minions spent great effort to drive them apart, to no avail. Everything that came for them was mercilessly ripped to shreds by the feral Archdruid. He relied on his claws for this, as he had in Northrend, as ingesting any of this taint, even accidentally, was probably a bad idea. They eventually made it to Shala’nir, where it was clear that the town had been the epicenter of the darkness that surged into Val’sharah.
As they reached the center of the ruined town, prowling in the shadows, their surroundings were quiet. Too quiet. Laronar had no doubt the Nightmare understood there were yet uncorrupted defenders of Nature in its midst, yet its minions stayed hidden from them. All but one, meant to draw them out. Ironbranch was as close to a son of the Ancient known as Oakheart as such beings could have. Ironbranch was to Oakheart what Oakheart was to Shaladrassil, an offshoot of the older flora, which had grown into a valiant defender…before paying the price of Malfurion’s passivity. Tired of the Nightmare’s games, and unwilling to watch a once vaunted defender of his home’s most sacred grove paraded before them, Laronar signaled to Naria, and the stealth sabercats moved to pounce upon the corrupted Ancient.
The fight was quick, brutal, and inherently depressing. Ironbranch roared as they ripped and tore into him, promising to stomp them into the ground, and yet like every other scion of this new, but noticeably weaker incarnation of the Nightmare, Ironbranch fell before their bleeds and well-paired tactics. “My leaves…have fallen…” The Ancient groaned, before collapsing in a heap of dead wood and red particles. Laronar’s eyes narrowed. It was always hard to tell with Shadow entities, as they loved to overplay their own power, but the facts were undeniable at this point: this version of the Nightmare was simply not as strong as that which had overcome the majority of the planet. Xavius had spent ten thousand years planning that war, but this…this was an infestation born of opportunistically placed Satyrs, and convenient demonic timing. The result, was a fast-spreading but ultimately weaker strain of corruption. It would not stay weak though, that much, he was sure of.
What had damned Shaladrassil’s defenders, was their deep ties to the World Tree, not the Nightmare’s power. Whatever greater entity was corrupting the World Tree had taken over so many of its defenders through surprise and the sudden onset of the corruption, but Laronar had no doubt, it was seeking to grow more potent with each passing minute.
As Laronar and Naria honored Ironbranch with a brief prayer from their Kaldorei forms, and then prepared to move back into the shadows as Nightsabers, the ground below them betrayed them before they could shift, bending to the will of the Nightmare’s scions. Strong, curled grasping roots dragged them through the earth, and they emerged…in the Sanctum of G’Hanir, which to their surprise, was still uncorrupted, somehow. Aviana’s statue still stood, but then, the druids saw what, or rather who, awaited them, and things became clearer: this patch of ‘untouched’ nature, was a mockery. A taunt to any defender of Life.
Archdruid Glaidalis, one of Laronar’s own most naturally talented students once, now stood as a paragon of Nightmare corruption. His once masterfully enchanted bark armor made from Shaladrassil itself now irreversibly twisted, blackened, and glowing with that same red tinge. He was flanked by a Green Dragon, twisted and crimson, and Oakheart himself, the one no doubt responsible for dragging them here, who was as corrupted, if not more so, as his fellow fallen defenders.
“Oh…Shan’do Stormclaw…” Glaidalis began. “I always feared your…Feral nature would bring you to corruption…and now it has brought Archdruid Naria as well…this…genuinely saddens my heart to see. I will do what I can to cleanse you but…the Nightmare’s taint already runs deep.”
Laronar blinked in confusion, and then, spied the Satyr behind him, smirking with undisguised glee, and the pieces fit together. Glaidalis was naturally powerful, trained to purge Nightmare corruption…and he had been deluded, to the amusement of the Satyrs. “Glaidalis…you are the one who has fallen…look at yourself, Thero’shan. Your armor is tainted and twisted, your grove lies within the center of the Nightmare’s taint.”
Glaidalis’s armored head tilted, and then looked at his armor. “Me? I…am not…wha- my armor!? I…” With an irritated sneer, the Satyr raised a hand to the twisted Archdruid behind his head, and Glaidalis looked back at Laronar. “Oh…Shan’do Stormclaw…it seems you have fallen to Nightmare as well…” Crimson eyes burned from within the wooden helm. “I’m afraid the only cure for you now…is Death.” The corrupted Archdruid raised a hand, and Laronar grabbed Naria’s arm as his corrupted student sent them tumbling into a deep tunnel, covered with serrated vines.
Laronar wrapped Naria up and used Barkskin as they fell, taking the entirety of the damage for her. Unfortunately, this just helped the Nightmare finally taint his body more easily, as it corrupted the Nature magic. He decided to let it corrupt as much bark as it wanted, making his second skin grow larger, but appear to be corrupting him. The wounds were shallow, but potent, as the corruption stretched through the layer of conjured Ironwood. They were dragged by Oakheart to another thorn encased thicket, though this one appeared to be outside of Shaladrassil.
Sure enough, the gloating Satyr leapt down after them, and chuckled darkly as he saw Laronar on his side, covered with bark and crimson rot, and Naria kneeling beside him, tear stains on her cheeks. Yet he did not move.
Perched above them, the confident Satyr sneered, and Naria snarled at him, taking her Cat Form. It didn’t differ much in appearance from others, save that it was heavily armored with hardened bark, and occasionally sparked with a familiar blue-white lightning. “He doesn’t look so good, Archdruid of the Sharpclawsss…” The Demon hissed. “Not long now…before he ssservesss Xaviusss…”
Naria’s heavy feline eyebrows rose in surprise, and the Satyr chuckled, as he continued monologuing. Naria flicked her tail towards Laronar, raising a barrier of thick green vines in a wall to defend him, as she left him and stalked towards the Satyr.
“Oh? Didn’t know who was behind all of thisss?” The Satyr gestured to the crimson corruption around them. “The ssstrongest elven ssssorceror to ever live…that’s right, little cat…Xavius hasss returned!” He’d slowly matched the distance with the feline predator as she stalked towards him. Something about that vine wall looked off, and sure enough, as he came to the other side of it, the male Archdruid was gone, all that remained in his place, was a bunch of rotting Ironbark that had been made thicker.
As the Satyr realized this with a hiss, he looked back at Naria, who was smirking. Then, the druid seemed to roll, along with the entirety of his view, at which point, the Satyr realized his head had been torn from his neck in a single blow. Laronar Stormclaw picked it up, and snarled at the demon as he shifted from Nightsaber to Night Elf.
“Thanks for the intel, morrron.” He sank the Stormclaw into his face for good measure, filling his last moments of this incarnation on Azeroth with searing pain. “Let’s get out of here Naria…” Laronar muttered, not wishing to test their luck further. Sure enough, a moment later, the area erupted in rage and thrashing vines, but the stealthed panthers were already long gone.
As the two Archdruids headed back to report the total loss of Shaladrassil and Glaidalis to the Circle, something else called to them, a pull of dread that neither could ignore. The scent of corruption was thick in the air, and they followed a large root of Shaladrassil heading southward, eventually leading them to Moonclaw Vale. The two druids shifted into their elven forms mostly out of shock, and disbelief. The remnants of battle were everywhere, along with corpses. Circles of demonkin surrounded fallen still-shifted Feral Druids, Moonclaw Druids, and Laronar began looking frantically through the carnage for the form of his friend.
Naria wept quietly, having trained many of these young druids herself at one time or another. Unlike Laronar, she had chosen to emulate the ‘arcane claw’ of Ashamane, rather than the ‘nature claw’ that was Laronar, and his 'heal through damage and keep applying bleeds' tactics. The vale was silent, though in the distance the sound of the Legion’s ongoing and worsening invasion could be made out. “Naria…” Laronar finally spoke, following a trail of blood and claw marks that rivaled his own in size and ferocity. The body of a dead Night Elf adventurer lay beside a beheaded Satyr, one that Laronar recognized. “This is…Xandris. Xandris the Dishonored. It seems Thaon has finally taken his justice…” Looking up, he noticed a cage, within which was a weeping Kaldorei woman.
In short order, he’d slashed through the chains holding her. “Please! Archdruid!” She said, looking at him and recognizing his battered, dirty form for what he was. “Xavius! Xavius is here! Archdruid Moonclaw went to stop him! Please, hurry!”
Laronar’s eyes widened. Thaon was brave, but surely not stupid enough to challenge a being on Malfurion’s level, alone, with his power clearly on the rise. Although…the Nightmare had clouded his own vision, and Thaon had not learned to Remove Corruption. “See to her!” Laronar snarled, leaping into his Cat Form, and sprinting for the Archdruid’s Den. How many times had he and his oldest friend smoked in this very den? How many tales and memories had they shared? Laronar barely had time to take in the utterly trashed den, as he sprinted towards Thaon’s scent.
He came upon a scene that made his heart sink. The admittedly terrifying false onyx eyes of Azshara’s Lord Advisor, now burning crimson with whatever higher power had dragged his soul back from death, again, and empowered him, again. “Ahhh…” Xavius crowed confidently. “The Storm Claw of Ashamane…lovely…I did want the set…” He raised a clawed hand towards Laronar, but the druid had already cast Remove Corruption, and leapt, biting through the arcane image with a single, thunderous chomp from his toothy maw. Xavius seemed properly pissed as Laronar’s power eradicated his spell, but his dark work had already taken over Thaon.
“Laronarrrrr…” His friend snarled, feline lips pulled back into a smirk. “This powerrr…it is greaterrrr than Herrrsssss…” He hissed, as the two massive sabercats began to circle each other. Laronar knew what had to be done, and his eyes sparkled with light tears as he saw his oldest friend reduced to a slavering fool, a mere pawn of garbage like Xavius.
“Imbecile…” Laronar hissed back. “Togetherrrr…we could have resisssted him!”
“Why continue to rrrresist the inevitable, my frrriend? This powerrr! I have become stronger even than the Ancientsssss! Come…I will show you…” The crimson furred, corrupted form of Thaon Moonclaw lowered, ready to pounce on him.
Laronar closed his eyes, squeezing away the tears, and when he opened him, they burned with the anger of a Wild Goddess spurned by her champion. She understood, of course, what had befallen Thaon…but it still hurt to see one she had favored and elevated for so long so easily turn away from her power, his duty, and embrace something as fleeting as the Nightmare. Both she and Laronar had thought better of Thaon…and yet Xavius had corrupted him anyway.
“No, my friend…” Laronar spoke clearly, brimming with natural power. “It is I who will show You…and maybe one day…Ashamane will be able to forgive you for this…atrrrrocity.”
With that, the two massive Nightsabers leapt, devolving into a flurry of claws and fangs. Laronar could barely bother defending himself. He was distraught, and Thaon…Thaon was as good as berserk. He did not require tactics to defeat, this was not how the Moonclaw Archdruid of the Ashen fought. This was how a mindless beast battled. Every swipe he made on Laronar, he countered with his own, and then used his Regrowth for good measure.
Thaon Raked his claws along Laronar’s dark hide, but the Stormclaw Archdruid did the same, with the difference being that his wounds were healing, and his damage was increased by the power of the Storm Claw. Its first true, proper test against an opponent that could match his strength…and he had to sully it with the lifeblood of his oldest friend. Blood poured from Thaon’s wounds, driving him even further into a frenzy, and though lightning sparked around Laronar he, for the first time in his long life as a hunter, hesitated. All the memories were clouding his vision. Racing through Val’sharah, dueling before Ashamane’s own statue, smoking some dank herbage along with Isoraen as the three shirtless males shared a Moonwell, and good vibes. Laronar retreated in that moment, leaving the Cat Form side of his shifted mind to take over, and do what he simply couldn’t.
With a single, perfect, thunderous bite, it was over, and as quickly as Laronar had given up control, he had it back. He felt Thaon’s throat in his jaws, tasted his corrupted blood, and spat, then vomited, still shifted, gagging, and crying silently as he tried to process what had just occurred. He returned to his elven shape, and knelt/crawled towards his dead friend. He wiped his eyes on the freshly bloodied Storm Claw, and then cast Remove Corruption on his friend’s corpse, with as much mana as he could. He had no fucks to give about limits, he willingly burned all of it, just for the chance that it would save his friend’s spirit from corruption as well.
Thankfully, as the ghost of Thaon Moonclaw rose, entering the Emerald Dream, as powerful Archdruids often did upon dying, his body was once more free of corruption. “Thank you, brother…” He said softly, his voice echoing.
“I’m…sorry I wasn’t here sooner…I should’ve come sooner…”
“Then you would have fallen as well, Laronar…stay strong. The Ashen will need you, now. You can no longer linger in the background, getting high and shirking your duties. They will need a leader against the Legion…and not all of my Moonclaw Druids fell. Train them well, old friend…”
With his energy spent on his final words, Archdruid Thaon Moonclaw vanished into the Emerald Dream and the realms beyond life, leaving Laronar alone in his defiled home, with his corrupted body. For a long time, the Archdruid sat and quietly wept, but eventually, he had to move. Even down here, the sounds of the Legion’s invasion could be heard, their Fel taint omnipresent since their arrival, and growing worse with each passing hour. He raised a hand, and let the Archdruid’s home claim his body, buried deep in the soil, where the corruption would naturally be cleansed, with time. The ladies had apparently checked on him at some point, and were waiting when he finally ascended. The demonkin had been purged with Moonfire, while the Moonclaw Acolytes had been buried in a rather tasteful graveyard. Still, the lingering crimson thorned roots of Shaladrassil and the omnipresent Fel clouds did little to improve the scene.
Naria guided the woman, Evelle, back to the Dreamgrove, while Laronar reported to the Grove of Cenarius, where apparently, Malfurion was waiting for Thaon to join him. Instead of the Moonclaw Archdruid, he got the Stormclaw, and upon seeing Laronar’s haggard form, stained with tears, dirt, and no small amount of blood, he assumed the worst.
Laronar looked around as he arrived. Cenarius was unconscious, because of course he was already out of action, yet another tragedy heaped on to the fucking pile. Archdruids Elothir and Koda Steelclaw nodded to him as he arrived, but Laronar could only glare quietly at Malfurion.
“Thaon Moonclaw is dead.” He said simply, unable to add anything else, and the silent weight of his words made their faces fall.
Finally, Malfurion at least tried to say something positive, leader that he was. “I…I’m sorry to hear that, Laronar. He…was a powerful Archdruid, and a good friend to you, I know.”
Laronar took a long, calming breath, his amber eyes burning with intensity. “Spare me your sorrows, Malfurion, and just…give me a task, or something. After this… after what has befallen Shaladrassil, I just need…a task. Or something. Anything that gets me away from you, honestly.”
Elothir’s eyes widened, and Koda stared, shocked at the venom in Laronar’s tone. His ‘chill vibe’ was practically legendary, but then the Archdruid’s faces sombered as they put two and two together. They knew who had warned Malfurion, countless times, about the danger of letting Demons just sleep forever under a World Tree. It hadn’t stopped Saronite, just advanced Fandral’s plans, and now, once again, the Void made use of their assumption that planting World Trees on fonts of evil Shadow taint was a good idea.
“I…I understand, Laronar. My brother’s Demon Hunters have joined our fight, and the Alliance and Horde both…your brother among them. They fight even now, in Azsuna, and could use our aid.”
“Then I leave for Azsuna.” Laronar said, deadpan, turning and just leaving.
“Laronar!” Malfurion called out, and the ancient druid’s ears wilted as he saw the fresh sparkle of tears in his contemporary’s eyes as he slowly turned his head back towards them. “I am truly sorry…your words earlier…you were right. You and Thaon both. You were right. I hope…some day…that you can forgive me for…yet another failure as a leader.”
Laronar let out another shaky sigh, and steeled himself for the battle to come. Distraction led to death. Thaon had taught him that. “Some day, Malfurion Stormrage, I might forrrgive you…”
He looked away again with a snarl, and continued walking, muttering, “But not today…”
Chapter 32: By the Light of the Moon
Chapter Text
Naria tried to name the emotion she was feeling, as she gazed at the handsome, sleeping Highborne Druid that was Laronar Stormclaw. Their latest mating had been as passionate as all the others, but it had also been quite different. The unbridled desire for each other was still there, but given the Legion invasion and the grief Laronar was clearly still dealing with after losing his best friend, things had turned from lustful to emotional, especially after he’d admitted that he’d missed her. She hadn’t had enough breath to reciprocate the words, but she felt confident he understood that she’d missed him as well.
Now, here she was again, passionately entangled in the potent, explosive aftermath of their sexcapades. She’d taken other lovers since their last time, of course, even a few from other species, but none had been as…generous as Laronar, and she found she rather liked how…devoted he was to making sure she peaked so many times she lost count. Her body still felt comfortably numb.
His only real downside was his smoking habit, in her opinion, and that had been what broke them apart last time. Naria had taken the initiative and tried tossing out an entire jar of his crushed herbs, but Laronar hadn’t reacted with anger. He’d simply gone to the trash receptacle she’d tossed it into, dumped it out, and then sat there, realizing that his herb was too full of glass shards to use, or smoke. It had been ‘utterly irretrievable’ in his words, and after that, he’d refused to even look at her, let alone touch her. He’d eventually told her that he needed time to forgive her for what she’d done, and Naria had then left, as she’d still felt right about her actions, and if he was going to value psychedelic plants over her, she would find someone else. Laronar had just given her a sad smile, when she’d announced she was leaving, and then returned to all but ignoring her.
The whole situation still irritated her, but since then, in the intervening years, she had learned about and started to understand just how sacred herbheads held their precious stashes. In retrospect, had she given him more than three days to cope, he probably would’ve come around. It wasn’t like he didn’t have even more jars of the stuff in caches around Kalimdor.
With a sigh, Naria extricated herself from Laronar’s grip, but the druid was properly asleep, and from the look of it, deep within the Dream, likely doing what he could to help cleanse it. She stepped outside and into the hidden grove within Val’sharah, near where the edge of the forest met the shattered shores of Azsuna. The camp was a usual mix of druid and Sentinel dwellings, hidden cleverly by the druids, and complete with a Moonwell.
Naria stepped into the well absentmindedly, and began washing herself. It was a full minute before she noticed someone else in the holy waters with her. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
The woman smiled like a Nightsaber, her silver eyes unabashedly rolling over Naria. “It’s no intrusion. I can see why my brother likes you. Naria, right? I’m Alaria.” A slight frown crossed her face as Alaria realized what was, even now, probably polluting the well waters, and with a soft prayer to the Goddess, holy Light cleansed the well of all contaminants.
Naria smiled and thanked her. “I hadn’t realized Laronar had a sister…in fact…I was told his siblings had perished.”
Alaria nodded. “We each thought the other dead for quite some time. But we reunited recently. He never mentioned having a woman though.”
It was Naria’s turn to nod. “We reunited…a few…days? Ago. He saved me from the Nightmare within the Dream, and we’ve been together since.”
Alaria smirked at her. “That certainly didn’t sound like your first time together last night.”
Naria turned a dark shade of purple. She hadn’t even considered the others around them, and their exceptional hearing. “Ah. Yes. That. Well. Um. It’s uhh, it’s been a while since we…yea.” Her cheeks went even darker, and she sank into the waters.
Alaria was unfazed, but her smirk had widened considerably. “Oho! An old flame relit…right in time to face the Legion again.” A slight, indeterminable expression crossed her face. “I…should go prepare. It was nice to meet you, Naria. It smells like my brother is awake anyway. Stay alive, hmm? He needs a good woman in his life.”
Alaria hit her with a Blessing of the Moon then, and sauntered away, completely nude and not seeming to care about the subtle looks she drew from male and female alike as she went to her tent. Naria sank even deeper into the cleansed well, hiding below the rising arcane vapors as she shuddered from the awkward encounter and murmured, “Fffuck…” She let Laronar be for now, not desiring to smell like his herbs, or bring up old unpleasant memories.
About fifty yards away, Laronar Stormclaw was managing his bedhead and enjoying an early evening toke, as he looked out over the Broken Isles. Green flame burned across Azsuna. He swore quietly as he exhaled, and murmured softly, “Elune, Mother Moon…if ever there was a time to end this pointless feud…it’s now.” His ancient amber eyes shifted to the largest source of green on the horizon: Thal’dranath, better known as the Broken Shore, upon which sat an ancient Temple of Elune. Apparently, some powerful human mage had turned it into a tomb for an Avatar of Sargeras at some point, utterly defiling the space and making it the ideal point for a new portal to the Twisting Nether. It was the source of the Legion’s latest portal, through which the endless ranks of the Legion marched, flew, or otherwise ambulated.
Laronar’s amber eyes suddenly widened as, for the first time in millennia, he finally got an answer from the Ancient power his people had prayed to for longer than even his considerable span of years.
It came in the form of a vision. Laronar saw the Temple of the Moon, embattled both with fighting off demons in the sky and Nightmare abominations on the ground. Another vision showed him Sentinel Priestesses all across the Broken Isles, as they attacked each of the races that called them home. The message was clear, to Laronar. The Goddess was stretched thin, and whatever aid she intended to offer would not amount to much. Laronar expected this, as most major powers had limits, though they didn’t like admitting that, and it was rude to bring up. All he needed, was something simple, but powerful, that would work with the Stormclaw.
His perception warped, as he found himself within what appeared to be an isolated mindspace. It was small, simple, but likely the best Elune could do, given who he was, and what their bond was like. It was a simple, nondescript glade that mirrored, judging by the flora, the forests of the Ashenvale. A shining Moonwell sat before him, and above, burning impossibly white amidst a ring of parted dark clouds, was the Moon herself.
Laronar was simply…in awe, as he realized that he could feel it. All he’d lost. All that had been taken. Just for quoting the White Wolf. It didn’t matter that, at the time, he’d agreed with Goldrinn, that he was a child of the Wilds, not the Moon. This level of punishment was…excessive, and though he tried not to think about it, it was impossible.
“You know…in an age long past…I wanted to be the first male Kaldorei Priest. I know you remember that. But you remained silent to me. And I came to prefer running shirtless through the woods to kneeling uselessly at the steps of a Temple that rejected me.”
Elune was eerily quiet, but Laronar knew, in his soul, that they needed to resolve this issue between them if he was to ever wield her power. “When I returned to my people, after training as a Druid, I still prayed. Most every night, with Shandris. Yet still…whatever warmth and insight she and the others felt…I did not. I felt nothing, heard nothing.” He directed his eyes upward then. “I was foolish to quote Goldrinn. I was too young to understand that my people are and have always been, a balance of what is natural, and what You have given us.”
Finally, Elune spoke, the words reverberating through his essence, The White Tiger has taught you well…and in turn, Goldrinn and those who follow him have learned to harness their savagery properly…you have done well. My child. Laronar.
He blinked, and realized a tear was running down his cheek. How long had he waited, prayed, dreamed of hearing Her speak his name. Or just speak at all, really. “Will…you make me whole again?” He asked quietly.
That time is not yet here, scion of the Stormclaws. In my children’s darkest hour…you must shine bright enough to remind them of the Light. But this is not yet that time. The Demons must be stopped. The Fel Titan must not claim Azeroth…you have reached out to me, genuinely, in this desperate time…what do you require?
Laronar thought only for a moment, before he responded with a mental image of a wise and ancient spirit he had long desired to master the form of. With a slight hint of what seemed like amusement at Laronar being Laronar, the druid felt his form begin to change. Antlers sprouted from his skull, spreading width wise, like a Tauren, his torso went from absurdly chiseled and muscular, to rotund, flabby, and covered in feathers. Glowing primal runestones humming with orange energy hung from his neck.
His arms were similarly flabby now as well, no less muscled, in fact, he likened the muscles within them to a bear’s, but they were also covered in long, glossy black feathers that, in the light of Elune, had a slight forest green tint to them. As he became one of the Moonkin for the first time in literal ages, his still amber eyes widened, as between the curl of his antlers, he felt an orb of power appear, a gift from Elune herself, albeit a small one. Laronar bowed his head in respect and thanks, as Elune’s light gently pierced the sparking Fel-green tinged clouds that were now seemingly ever-present around the Broken Isles.
Finally, after thousands of years, he’d made actual progress with the most important ‘spirit’ to his people. With some shifting, he found he still had his bags, and from within the one that held his artifact weapon, he drew the Stormclaw. Magically, it resized itself to fit around his feathery bear paw, and his Moonkin body shuddered as the electric power of the artifact merged with his essence. Around him, he sensed his people rousing themselves. The night was young, and those already fighting likely needed a reprieve. Isoraen Nightstar stepped up beside his old friend, eyes wide, and with a nod shared between the two Moonkin shifted druids, Laronar hooted, “Let’s gooooo!”
Thal’dranath - The Broken Isles
Vehlar Stormclaw wiped his soul-filled katana free of ichor, as he dispatched another Felguard. All around him, his fellow recently freed Demon Hunters were doing the same, alongside, of all forces, the very elves who had imprisoned most of them for millennia. Vehlar had never been caught by them, a fact he often reminded them of, but in the face of the Legion’s latest invasion, one they were woefully unprepared for, they could not justify locking him away again. Compared to the other Demon Hunters, he was sharper, faster, and had literal eons of experience with his craft. The few bodies of their forces that littered the ground were of newer hunters Vehlar did not recognize, though as the fighting ended, Priests of Elune, still a weird concept for him, revived them from the edges of death, to rejoin the fight. The male priests were every bit as useful as their female counterparts, and so long as they and the Wardens remembered the need for the Demon Hunters once this war ended, Vehlar had no objections to fighting alongside his people’s Goddess.
Vehlar’s grimace deepened, then. The end of the war was a long way off, however. Every few hours, a new titanic sized threat stomped through the portal bearing the promise of death and loot. In the catastrophically failed invasion of what the mortals called the Broken Shore, they had lost their Warchief, their High King, and no small number of their aircraft and fleets. Apparently, some Deathlord had managed to pose as the Alliance’s Spymaster, leading their forces to think they had a chance. The brief cooperation between world superpowers ended in tragedy and furious distrust, so much so that the King of Gilneas was apparently now actively hunting the acting Warchief, Sylvanus Windrunner, in retaliation for her cowardly retreat from the shore, that had left the surviving Alliance forces on the brink of death, and had forced Varian Wrynn to sacrifice himself. Every Demon Hunter had felt the explosion of his soul, and understood what Gul’dan had done to him. There would be no rest within the Shadowlands for Varian Wrynn. Almost all that he was and had ever been, had been detonated by the foul orc warlock from another timeline.
Despite their losses, there were victories as well, mostly from the Demon Hunters. The newly appointed Illidari Slayer had managed to commandeer an Inquisitor class dreadnought, upon which the Illidari were keeping their best chance against the Legion safe. Their main, and subtle, focus now was to reacquire Illidan Stormrage’s body, call his soul back from the Twisting Nether, and then finally finish this fight. This was, in the opinion of Vehlar and his contemporaries, their best chance to save Azeroth.
A murmur went through the company of mostly elves, as they finally reached their target. The ‘Black City’ as it was being called, was a newly raised encampment of the Legion, deployed by one of the thousands of massive flying spaceships that the Legion traveled the void with. In the center of this new outpost was their target, a Nathrezim known as Malificus.
A veritable army of stumbling and clearly controlled Argent Crusade Paladins were marching to the Dreadlord’s command, for no other apparent reason than it deeply amused him. Some columns were walking like geese, others were dancing awkwardly, in the Human style, whilst marching, and some were just marching backwards. Vehlar thought it bold of them, to be goofing off in an area still contested by the denizens of Azeroth.
One of the Wardens who was ‘co-leading’ the group with Vehlar, by pretending she alone was in command, turned away from the sight and addressed them. “The situation has changed. There are valuable captives, in addition to the forces we expected. We’ll need reinforcements to wipe out the Demons and save our people.”
Vehlar shook his head, and double checked their noise muffling spell. Still intact, still undetected. “There’s no need.” He rasped in his unused baritone. “We can free the prisoners, and they will be our reinforcements. They are Paladins. They’ll be quite useful against the Demons.”
The Warden tilted her head, and refreshingly, to her credit, she didn’t dismiss him outright. “They will be tired from their enslavement, Slayer. You’re sure of this?”
He nodded his hooded head. “Our Priests are strong. With the Mother Moon’s Light, the Paladins will find their strength…and their Retribution.”
The Wardens shared a glance, and then nodded. “Very well. We will break their Mind Control, the Priests will empower and heal the Crusaders, and the Sentinels will work with you to hold off their remaining forces until the Paladins are ready.”
A smile broke Vehlar’s usually stoic visage. “We are in agreement. Let us purge this ‘city’ from our lands.”
The group moved swiftly, passing without a trace as they took positions around the ‘city’. Then, suddenly, commotion erupted as the Argent Crusaders found themselves free. Most, before a single blessing imbued them, leaped for the nearest Legion spawn with a weapon, and killed its wielder. In a flash, Vehlar’s hunters and the Sentinels were riding into those around them. Light suffused the paladins, who cheered with their rescuers, and joined their efforts.
But, no plan survives contact with the enemy. As strong as their start was, the Legion had reserves that stretched to infinity. And their portal to this world was not far away. Multiple powerful Fel Lords appeared from within caves and buildings, charging easily through the crusaders. Legion Inquisitors floated behind them, creating spectral chains around the fallen crusaders, ending their short-lived freedom.
The Dreadlord himself was particularly active. Wherever he aimed his corrosive spells, Sentinels burned, while the few Demon Hunters who dodged did their best to flap away on borrowed demonic wings. For his part, Vehlar slid right past them, and carved through a mob of imps tearing into a downed Argent Paladin like a deadly dancer. Wherever he struck, dead demons and puddles of bubbling Fel blood were left behind, and his target was clear. The Dreadlord smirked, letting him come, though as he got closer, Malificus’ eyes widened.
There were whispers among his people, of a certain kind of Illidari, veterans of their abominable raid on Nathreza who apparently had stolen quite a few of the Nathrezim’s tricks. But…there was one they feared. In their tongue, he was Kil’rak. The Devourer.
Malificus pointed at Vehlar murmuring “Panic…” In his ancient tongue. The Night Elf smirked, and behind him, a pair of Fel Guard dropped their weapons, and hugged each other tightly, before letting out a high pitched and distinctly feminine shriek. Vehlar dashed forward, burying his soul-eating katanas into two Inquisitors, once more freeing their prisoners. Malificus snarled, and made the ground beneath the crusaders and the irritating Demon Hunter bubble with death and disease, but Vehlar roared at them to jump, and the stunned paladins did so, even as he dashed forward.
His form became a blob of shadow that rapidly rose above Malificus’ perch, where, in the air, a pair of very familiar shadowy wings expanded, as the shadows coalesced into a fully demonic figure. His grin was like a Satyr’s, as was most of his transfigured form, but there were elements of Nathrezim as well. Malificus sensed demonic souls within his blades, but instead of fighting their wielder, somehow, they were helping him. It seemed the Hunter had fed them often enough that, despite their imprisonment, the Satyrs within were now allies of his, after so many centuries. They probably couldn’t even remember their own bodies, after being swords for so long.
The blades ate into him as he caught them on his claws, and the Demon Hunter sneered at him. “Too arrogant for a weapon…too easy to kill…” The elf spun into a blade dance then, a showy but common technique that many Demon Hunters used to disorient their prey. Malificus was not so easily fooled though, and he caught each sweeping strike on his claws.
As Vehlar slid out of his attack, Malificus laughed triumphantly. “Weak. No amount of souls shoved into a weak blade can harm me!”
Vehlar smirked under his hood again. “Your nails would disagree.” The Dreadlord looked down at his unholy pedicure, to find it ruined. Shadow was eating away at his remaining nail, and he panicked, counterspelling the darkness. When he looked up again, Vehlar was gone. He let out a shout as bolts of shadow and flame hammered into his body. He responded with a barrage of shadow bolts in return, but Vehlar was already gone.
Malificus snorted flame, and roared. A hand composed of shadow magic automagically shot towards the Shadowmelded form of Vehlar, whose transformation had now run out of power. Malificus threw him full force into his allies below, floating into the air as they scattered from the force of the impact. “FOOLISH MORTALS! You cannot rival a true Demon!” He raised his ruined fingers to the sky, as dark Fel infused clouds gathered with surprising quickness. “PERISH!”
Malificus brought his hands down angrily, and though the thunder rumbled, no lightning came. Bolts of white blue plasma were burning through the Fel green, and a deep chuckle came from the pile of slowly recovering elves and paladins below. It was Vehlar, naturally, but the Dreadlord could tell he wasn’t nullifying this attack.
Sounding not at all unlike a horn from Warsong Gulch, a call echoed out from the edges of the city. “HOO HOO HOOOO!” A swarm of Night Elves crawled over the ridges around the city, and from its recesses, melting out of the shadows. Malificus decided it was time to retreat. As he had that thought, a bolt of lightning struck him with what sounded like the booming roar of a large feline, and as Malificus saw the source of the strike, he burned the image into his mind. Demons were nothing if not vengeful, none moreso than Dreadlords. He would exact his vengeance on the antlered chicken and the Demon Hunter, but for now, he disappeared in a swirl of shadow, leaving the demons to their temporary deaths. Any victory these mortals won here was meaningless. The demons would reform in a matter of hours, and retake their city.
With the fleeing of their leader, and the slaying of the Fel Lords, the rest of the demons fell quickly to the elven ambush. Vehlar stared at the massive Moonkin striding towards him, unbothered by the few remaining demons trying to attack him. Magical starbolts pierced their skulls before they got close. The druid transformed as he walked, and Vehlar shook his head in disbelief. “I’ve not seen that one before…brother.” He inclined his head, as the two clasped arms.
Laronar smirked, “I managed to draw upon it, in this time of terror.” He chuckled, as his brothers ‘gaze’ was all but locked on the slightly retracted Storm Claw covering his right hand.
“That relic…bears familiar magic…” Vehlar murmured, as his ‘eyes’ stared at it hungrily. “It feels like…our parent’s magic…or something close to it.”
Laronar nodded. “It’s actually a family relic I managed to find in Pandaria. Since then, I’ve spent quite a while repairing it. And no, it won’t work with your Arcane and Fel nonsense.”
Vehlar gave him a grim smirk. “Magic is not so immutable as you assume. I’ll outlive you. And when I do…it will become mine. But I can wait.”
Laronar ignored his truthful jab, as their forces began retreating from the Black City, towards Dalaran. Already, fresh demons were glowing on the horizon, swarming their position with numbers that they could not handle indefinitely.
The magi of Dalaran had informed each of the ‘Order Halls’ that had sprung up in the disastrous wake of Azeroth’s fourth conflict with demonkind. Thanks to Gul’dan, somehow, the demons were pulling in literally infinite reinforcements, some from other timelines. The goal, therefore, was not to fight them in a line like the War of the Ancients, the main focus would be collapsing the demon’s portal, and severing the connection completely.
Most of the orders agreed to this plan. The Illidari Slayer did not. Their goal was solely Illidan Stormrage’s body, and finding out where Gul’dan was keeping it currently.
The Nighthold - Suramar City
“The Nightwell…for your lives.”
The rasping voice of the Legion’s herald, a deformed monstrosity that vaguely reminded Grand Magistrix Elisande of a similar creature she and her Highborne had once examined in ages past. Before the shield rose. Before their beloved Queen doomed everyone not in her immediate circle to fiery death.
“I…will need time to…speak to my people. The Nightwell is…everything to us.”
The tusked monstrosity pulled its fat lips up into a passable smirk under his hood, his beady demonic crimson eyes burning with anticipation. “Three days…and then the Legion will annihilate this last pathetic shard of your shattered city.”
The apparition went silent, and after a beat, her Arcanists and Magisters started arguing.
“We can’t capitulate so easily to the Legion! They’re Demons! We know what they do! They will poison the Nightwell, and our people with it! Just like they’ve done to the Temple of Elune. The Legion doesn’t make allies…they make servants!” Thalysra’s impassioned words broke the silence first, but Elisande knew that her ideals were unrealistic at best.
“What would you have us do!? Fight them? We know how that went last time. We don’t have the numbers, we don’t even have the Pillars any longer! If we fight, we will die immediately. If we bend the knee…our people will endure.” Advisor Vandros countered, with sobering but sound logic. Elisande agreed, a fight with the Legion would only end one way.
Thalysra wasn’t done though. “What of the rest of Azeroth? Someone repelled the Legion before. We know there are other inhabitants of Azeroth who yet live in this era! We should reach beyond our shield to what remains of our kin! We need allies.”
Advisor Melandrus, usually Thalysra’s ally in her positions, spoke then. “In just three days? For all we know, the remnants of our people despise us for hiding here all this time, in luxury and safety. What little we know of them suggests they’ve turned to nature without the Well of Eternity. They likely abhor our magical prowess, at best, and at worst, will covet the Nightwell for themselves. Allying with them, or the lesser races, will go as well for us as it did for that…strange old mage who appeared during the Old War…what did he call himself…Krasus! That was it. He insisted on involving savages to fight alongside our noble host, and chaos ensued. The world broke. No, Thalysra, the only choice here is to endure…to treat with the Legion and hopefully retain as much of our autonomy as we can.”
Thalysra countered, as Elisande knew she would, and she barely paid attention to the First Arcanist’s words as she began casting a spell of future scrying.
“I am surprised at you, Melandrus. Giving up without so much as a Message sent? We could appeal to the Moon Guard, at least. Surely they have others they can contact.”
As Elisande finished her spell, and Melandrus agreed to at least contact the Moon Guard in their nearby stronghold, her voice cut through the chatter with authority. “It will not matter. In every future…if we fight the Legion, we will die. Suramar will burn…and the Legion will take the Nightwell anyway.” She turned to her advisors. “The only path here…is submission. Prepare the city. I don’t want this agreement being ruined by some overeager upstart who doesn’t understand what we face. Everyone in this room, does. We all lived through the Old War. We know what the Demons are capable of…but we never got the chance to parlay last time. We will give them access to the Nightwell…and bide our time for the right opportunity.”
And as she ordered, so it was. The shield that had stood for ten thousand years around Suramar suddenly fell with little fanfare or fighting, but immediately, the forces of the Legion began entering the city. To those watching in Dalaran and elsewhere…it was unnerving to see no signs of conflict, or fighting. The demons were seemingly being welcomed, and within hours of the shield falling, the Council of Dalaran declared Suramar to be an area of immense danger.
Gul’dan easily bent the Nightborne to his will. They were so eager to survive, that many eagerly gave up everything for the power the Legion promised, as so many had before them. Thus, the elite magically powerful citizens rose, while those without power were crushed under the burning Fel boots of the Legion, and their own Duskwatch officers. Rebellion fomented immediately amongst the lower classes, but it was too little too late.
The Fel Orc gazed upon his prize, Illidan Stormrage’s body, suffused in the magics of the Nightwell, as he became the ideal Avatar for the Fel Titan, his lord, Sargeras. This was the Legion’s ultimate plan, and Kil'jaeden's own command. Azeroth would not fall to their numbers, so, it would be burned, personally, by Sargeras himself, to ensure that the planet never fell to the powers of the Void.
Around (Guest) on Chapter 22 Fri 06 Nov 2020 09:30PM UTC
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Sahqoreyth on Chapter 22 Mon 09 Nov 2020 03:46PM UTC
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