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

I braced my paws to protect my snout and absorbed the lightning bolts thrown my way by one of the cackling bird women in the sky. My metallic claws served as parabolic rods while my hide mitigated most of the damage, for it was magically resistant due to the mana suffusing it, even if it was pretty weak.

But considering the bark from my living backpack, the fur, thick skin with layers of fat and muscle below, along with my weight and the fact that I stood on the ground, the amps needed to be way higher if the desired result wasn't sporadic muscle twists and minor burns healed the next second.

If there ever were a definition of a tank, it would be me.

As to why I was being sieged… Simply put, I flew here to brutally murder harpies–the ones pointlessly attacking me–and raze their nest, along with everything they held dear, to the ground.

But might I say harpies were fucking annoying to fight? By the ancestors, the bird bitches stunk like an unholy mix of guano, rot, vomit–their nests were far worse–and other bodily fluids and their voices, oh their voices… they were akin to nails on a blackboard only somehow several notches worse. And their gazes... yuck, you could tell what was happening inside their minds.

It was painful to my senses, no matter how many times I did this since I arrived.

As for the fighting that wasn't about wanting me to rip my nose and ears off, I would call them annoying, too. They weren't unpredictably dangerous like satyrs, but they could fly faster than me. And one out of five was proficient in rudimentary shamanism, almost always focusing on air elementals.

I couldn't just turn into a bloodwing bat and tear them apart unless they felt stupidly brave or I caught one by surprise; evidently, the sky was their domain. But that didn't change the fact that the entire flock assaulting me did little to nothing beyond pissing me off.

To kill me, they needed more than that: either execute me swiftly or exhaust me slowly. There wasn't an in-between besides overwhelming power, but that was the same for everyone.

So, despite the onslaught, I strode on, my eyes and sensitive nose protected with my right paw while I grasped a bunch of pebble-sized seeds from one of my belt pouches—stormvine was the plant they would become.

They were dioecious–one plant could only have female flowers and the other only male–blue thorny vines with thorns full of paralytic toxins that, when stabbed, gave a sensation akin to getting electrocuted.

I glared at the harpies, the only pollution in this otherwise magnificent night gracing the world with its stars and twin moons.

I took my stance, paws holding the seeds low as mana was pushed into them, and then I threw. Many dodged and cackled, but not all of them managed to do so, and for those that didn't, among them, the oldest–most likely the leader–was pelted with burgeoning seeds.

The hits themselves didn't do much, but the sinewy, bluish-spiky vines ensnaring their bodies proved to be incapacitating and agonizing. Being distracted and hindered in self-powered flight had only one result: falling to the embrace of the ground or the Earthmother screaming in agony.

Chaos ensued, and I grinned almost maniacally.

The feathery hag squawked the loudest, flailing with her free wing and desperately trying to get away from the thorny vines and roots that were also highly paralyzing and irritating, thanks to yours truly.

With her and her kin that I tagged, they plummeted all at once, each slamming wetly against the jagged mountainside they had been taunting me from above. It was poetry in its bloodiest form.

They bounced many times, some stopping their screeching at the first impact, while others continued up to seven times until I couldn't hear them anymore or see their bodies as they vanished among the rocks and vegetation.

It was comical. I couldn't help but laugh. The kind that came from the heart and boomed like a firework went off.

My heartfelt laugh seemed to send them into a frenzy. One, followed by three more, dived down with unbridled fury in their eyes and talons wide open. I didn't attempt to dodge, not that I could, and the first one reached me; her aim was my nape.

It was a logical choice in principle. It's hard to reach quickly, and my cervicals were a pretty obvious weak spot. But that was if I were a male tauren.

A painfully high-pitched war cry escaped her lungs as her sharp talons pierced my loose neck skin. It was no different than needles for me–pinpricks of pain at best–but I doubted she realized and why I supposed the confused turn her strident voice took was from shock. Shock and confusion became panic as she couldn't immediately back off.

I traped one of her talons in a bone grown to that effect. Exterior manipulation was less workable in a quick-paced fight, but making minor outgrowths inside my body on an area void of organs to impede them was child's play at this point.

It didn't take long and wasn't even painful. Well, it was a bit weird at first, but it wasn't akin to stabbing myself in reverse! The body was adaptable, and it wasn't like I was moving sharp or abrasive foreign objects below my skin, and I knew my body.

It wouldn't hold her for more than two seconds at best, but that was an eternity in a fight. It was an eternity I fully took advantage of by grabbing her legs, making sure to get both at once.

I noted the motion of yanking her from my back to smash two of her sisters as a makeshift baseball bat ripped off her talons, leaving it like a bee stinger. But that passing thought was swiftly put away as I slapped the third bird woman with my free paw, throwing her off a cliff with her viscera, witnessing the magnificent Azerothian sky for the first time.

What followed was a proper massacre. But alas, this wasn't a video game, and less than five minutes later, the highly diminished flock of harpies decided to flee into the sky, leaving me to paw the ground in frustration as my mana, like a well-oiled machine, shifted to heal my wounds. Or scratches, really.

"Cowards won't even lay their lives for their cubs." I spat, "Whatever, it's the expected outcome… And it's not a bad survival tactic."

Still, it was irritating, no matter how used to it I was.

I couldn't pursue them for the same reason I didn't fight them shapeshifted or destroy them from a distance. I just didn't have the capabilities to do so.

Anyway…

It was science time! Well, magic, but that was the same. For now, it was the preservation of the astonishingly succulent organ that was the brain after organ failure, destroyed internals, beheading, and the many flavors of it!

I could reconnect spinal cords; there were many connections, but ultimately, it was straightforward. However, the brain was an entirely different beast.

Healing wasn't the problem. Neurons could be regenerated–there wasn't an arbitrary limit–but rebuilding the complex neuronal pathway exactly how they had been before the damages… yeah, no. It was so ridiculously above my non-existent pay grade it wasn't even funny.

If I still went with it, I wouldn't end up with the same individual if the result wasn't a vegetable or an utterly broken mess of shattered memories and instincts depending on the thing to heal.

I knew it; I did tests, and they were unlucky prey when I was bored or, most recently, harpies. I suppose necromancy could help; liches were pretty eloquent for skeletons, but that was, like with my Fel plant idea, a nebulous possibility.

Simply put, I wasn't going to be able to surpass this hurdle any time soon, if ever. Regardless, the skills to keep a brain in relatively good condition for extended periods if the body could support it no more was life-saving for the ones I would work on and myself.

If humans on Earth could keep brains alive in vitro for up to days, so could I, and the result I got till then proved it wasn't a flimsy hypothesis.

Some time passed until I noticed it was time to do the second part. It was quick; I took care of the eggs, and there weren't any cubs to put to what amounted to dreamless sleep before painlessly shutting down the brains. It made it infinitely easier.

Not that doing the same to viable embryos in eggs was any better; killing was killing, hatched or not, didn't change that. The problem wasn't doing it but not acknowledging the act for what it was. I wasn't a fan of this part, but it was my responsibility. I could make valid excuses, not that they held any values.

Without their mothers, doom was a certainty. I cut short their sufferings, but the honest truth of the matter was that I was too lazy to find alternatives. It was convenient and shattered many problems before they became one.

It was me or them.

While I did this, I collected my loot.

'Hn. Plenty of gold and sparkly bits here, probably teamwork with kobolds or stolen a flock that did.' I guessed.

I found the underground rodent people interesting. A mutually beneficial relationship could be built with the proper colony, as many harpies did. They loved candles; we had beeswax. They had precious metals and gemstones we lacked. They were weak, we were strong, and we didn't step on the other toes.

It was as close to perfection as it could get.

My thought halted at the sight of a large pile of taurens skulls, almost exclusively composed of males from the horns. The kidnapped taurens' horrific fate was evident, but their remains were for their respective tribe shamans to focus on, not me.

I still put them away with their bones in a neat line to the sides for me to begin making this place harpy-free. It was a simple process: plant local seeds, mainly the toxic or thorny kinds, then grow them until I had the desired result.

Bodies, trash around, and a bit of magic to start it, and I had a sizable little corner of life that should have been here without the feathery bitches reckless actions.

But there was more.

"You shall do…" I placed a paw on an old and tall pine tree and pushed Life and Nature themselves into it, changing it into a new existence. It trembled as a mouth formed, followed by eyes as a face took shape, and the moment after, thick stubby legs with big log-like arms.

In under five minutes, I had a treant, bigger and stronger than Groot but less intelligent and not loyal to me. It was a spirit of nature bound to defend this place to the death. There were no words exchanged as I did the same process to two other trees, the current limits of this nascent ecosystem.

After a dirt bath and a bit of grooming to take off most of the dried blood from my fur, it was finally time to go. My mana reserve was the opposite of full; the moons were low in the sky, and I was hungry. My destination was the camp where the Grimtotem caravan settled, and soon I saw my destination.

I accepted the invitation to follow after the ceremony and was welcomed. Well, mostly. It wasn't the smoothest ride.

It didn't mean I didn't nearly set out the alarm by flying above two guards who metaphorically shat themselves, to my amusement. I might love that too much, but I wouldn't hurt them if they didn't try first.

"Nests North clear." Transforming back, I gruffly informed them. My grasp of their tongue was poor, but broken speech was enough. Using the ancestors as translators was a slog for minor interaction.

Immediately, I went to the food reserve, freely taking what I wanted to prepare my big salad of roasted grains, fruits, and the like with the bit of honey I brought remaining as a compliment. The clay pot was nearly empty. It was a horrible reality, but blinking didn't fill it back up.

It was a great tragedy, but I could endure lacking the bear necessities for some time.

Halfway through my meal, my ear swiveled to the shuffling of tiny hooves and panicked infantile yelps–not that I overlooked my little stalkers far before then–and from the flap of the tippy fell three calves, one female of grey fur falling first, followed by two males of black fur speckled with brown on their muzzles and ears.

I snorted, barely containing a snicker at the three sprawled in a pile of limbs. As our eyes met and they froze, big, wide eyes locked on me as I tilted my head with a grin on my snout.

"If you want to see me or steal food, I don't know nor care, but take this," I whispered as best as my size let me and infused the seeds of edible berry bushes before throwing them at their hooves. Gazes shifted to the seeds, and the bountiful plants ripe with juicy fruits they became in seconds.

Their sparkling eyes told a lot until they threw themselves at the berries as if they had never eaten while fighting to get the most. It was cute, but it was more than playing around. It was what separated the Grimtotem from other taurens.

They weren't peaceful in the least, and it showed here that they knew how to fight. And it was key to why they were so successful. They were proactive. They attacked, anticipated, and destroyed with extreme prejudice, violence, and viciousness their enemies. They had drive, ambition for a better future, and the will to make it true or die trying.

They weren't lamenting and grieving, not that there was anything wrong with that, but whereas an average tauren would fight to the death as a last resort, a Grimtotem would engage with that. Generally, with the understanding that winning was possible, Helka was just a suicidal nutjob.

I wanted that for my tribe and, by extension, furbolgs. Oh, not the savage part; it was unneeded. We weren't pacifists. Superficially, yes, with the kaldorei, but they were one of the exceptions. Our claws were easily raised otherwise, and ursa totemics existed to rip and tear shits. We remained territorial bears at the end of the day.

We needed that spark.

Besides the extreme arrogance and sense of superiority, that is. And that was nearly enough to make me fuck right off to greener pasture, but these taurens weren't elves, and their rules gave an alternative. And those were delightfully destressing alternatives.

Violence was acceptable, even encouraged. If someone pissed me off by provoking me–even as a guest–I could demand a duel of many flavors, and refusing was seen as a show of weakness. It was only amplified as I was an outsider and, to top it off, not even a tauren. So they obliged, putting their view of themselves under my tender claws and beyond.

Of course, I didn't murder anyone, but for me, what death meant didn't exactly correspond to the ideas most had. Not that fighting was all I did. I wasn't a mindless brute.

I got a reputation from that. Adding my actions and respect in general, and with Magatha pulling the strings in the shadow, only the dumbest dared openly show animosity toward me.

And speaking of the Devil, she arrived, her voice causing the three tauren cubs to scamper away, abandoning the berries and broken bushes in their haste. Heh, I don't think they even understood who they ran from.

"Was your hunt successful, Ohto?" The Elder Crone asked, frowning softly at the mess left on the ground while I continued swallowing my food, barely stopping while I spoke.

"Yes, very, Magatha. The areas you pointed to were rich in prey." I grinned toothily, and she remained steady at that, something not many could, "Three nests destroyed, and I had a fruitful time."

"Indeed, excellent work. My hospitality is rightfully earned, and my trust well placed." The old female nodded with a content smile, and then what she did made me raise an eyebrow.

Her staff glowed a dull brown, and she manipulated the earth to make pots. Then she put the battered plants in them not before picking one.

The tip of my index claw glowed green with specks of red, and so did the plants as I fixed them. I studied Magatha's face as she did the same for my magic; it was one of the closest times she got to seeing it, and she wanted it. Not personally, per se… she saw a powerful tool for her tribe.

"What a magnificent gift, to wield the Earthmother's emerald children and breathe life where her body was desecrated." She let out before sharpening into negativity, "A gift we have lost the memories of long ago."

"I have noticed. You don't have any druids like I believed you would. It's odd." I said honestly, and the reactions to my abilities proved this much. They never met druids, not even night elves, which wasn't surprising since they slept for centuries.

"Quite, no tauren were born with the talents since our sacred homeland had been defiled twenty generations ago, and so druidism whittled down to ash like our ancient land. One of too many aspects of our life the centaurs have robbed us from." There was a pause, and I took advantage of it.

'I don't think that's the centaurs' fault for once… if you don't naturally have the affinity and somehow angered the one who gave you his blessing, probably Cenarius. Then, no plant magic for you. But at that point, the blame is pointless.' I mused in silence. It was an essential nugget of information.

As creatures of the wild, furbolgs needn't take this step to be druid, just like wildkins. A teacher to guide you and enough talent was required, but the mana and connection were inborn. It was why we were so sensible to the shifts in our environment. Or at least that's what I theorized.

But taurens did need a connection to be built, a blessing to be given, a mark to be placed–they still had an inkling of something, but it was far from anywhere close to being a druid–it was funny to think night elves were no different in that regard.

"I think I get what you want. But I need to know what you want. I can't read minds, and presumptions are dangerous." I intoned matter of factly, noticing her minute shift, ears flicking, and eyes widening—frustration and irritation under a veneer of control.

The thick herbal smell around her and my unfamiliarity with tauren facial expressions didn't impede me from grasping that. Her range of emotions was small from what I have seen; it was either anger or satisfaction.

The elder tauren wanted to control me; I was a literal golden goose, but she couldn't in any way. I knew that, and she knew I knew that. It was the big reason we were so 'casual' and open in our interactions, which she seemed to approve and disapprove of.

She wasn't used to that, but she would need to if any friendly future between us were to happen.

The one who needed the other most certainly wasn't me.

"You are far too clever for a furbolg and one your age, Ohto of the Greenweald." Magatha said with a measured glare before calming down, "I wish for the taurens to march proudly once more under An'she as druids, and I see you as the way toward this noble destiny."

"I see…" I drawled. It was as expected, I guess. But that wasn't a thing to choose lightly, and I currently lacked the know-how to do as asked, and it went deeper than that, "I'm inclined to agree if you prove yourself worthy and trustworthy, but my will is not that of the tribe. I will speak of your wish to my fellow shamans, Magatha, and a decision will be made under Ursol's wisdom and the ancestors' guidance. Don't make me realize that was a mistake."

"Naturally." She nodded with a pleased smile, but her fur bristled at my warning then a few seconds later, she said walking out, "This had been a short but productive discussion. May we have many more of such."

And I was left to ponder alone with my food, my mind rapidly moving to something else.

*

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