Tyrande Whisperwind, High Priestess of Elune, was no mere elven woman; she had seen much and experienced even more. Yet those ten long millennia–the Long Vigil as it came to be known–proved of little value when the time came.
The Burning Legion has returned with them, shambling corpses and undead abominations, corrupting and killing the flora, fauna, and every inhabitant of Ashenvale. She had known of it; she had known of their impending arrival for a few short years now.
A prophecy given by Ursol the Wise to Cenarius was the reason; word of it had spread, and she was the second to be made aware.
The full extent of it, from the night elves' great losses to their ultimate victory at immense cost. Information that was heavily restricted toward the general population.
The threat of the demonic invasion within this century was impactful enough. Additional unrest, panic, and terror would help no one.
Denial had been her initial reaction to the untold horrors and tragedies that had unfolded in the past–all still burning in her mind–enforcing themselves into the near future.
Tyrande didn't wish to experience them again, a shared sentiment with her people, many of whom were old enough to have lived through the War of the Ancients, whether they had been adults or children at the time.
However, she wouldn't let her emotions dictate her actions, and she would have brought her love from his chiliadic years of slumber to the waking world. But she hadn't.
The timely bronze dragons, wise and knowledgeable beyond any, advised her against it.
Malfurion Stormrage was not yet to wake.
She had time, and the last Bear Lord was grieving even after all these years.
The High Priestess, accepting the dragons' judgment, followed their warning as she did numerous times. Time was on the children of the stars' side; haste makes waste, and preparation for a mortal lifespan worth couldn't be rushed more so against such a despicable foe.
Still, she focused on the satyrs and ordered the awakening of hundreds of druids of every circle through the current leading Archdruid–a substitute head with lower authority than Malfurion–Fandral Staghelm.
This hadn't been the effort of the Cenarion Circle, Sisterhood of Elune, Sentinel Army, or the Watchers alone.
It wasn't a matter of military might but of information, of knowledge of where the fallen elves-turned-despoilers hid.
The wilds had mustered their force, and with their help, together, the kaldorei culled those demonic pests to virtual extinction, those ever-present thorns in their side that had cost them untold lives. It was a resounding success proclaimed by all, something that should have been done long ago.
But then the Lord of the Forest was brutally murdered by unruly outlanders of first sickly green skin turning a scarlet red as was predicted. It shouldn't have come to pass, yet it did.
The bronze-scaled dragon had lied and manipulated her trust; she didn't believe they would make such a mistake. She wasn't naïve. They had spoken in absolute certainty, something they were almost always vehement against.
It opened the gate to ever more aggravating questions, some of which Elune had answered, furthering the outrage. Ancient messages she didn't understand in the past now painted an unpleasant picture.
But Tyrande knew her anger would be put to better uses elsewhere, notably on more pertinent and direct problems… for now. Elune wrath would be known, that she swore.
The source of all her hurts had happened in a night's worth of time: the notification about invaders, the venturesome Grimtotem taurens willing to lay their lives to help, and Cenarius' death written hours apart and reached one after the others.
From then, it went from nightmarish to far worse. Villages were raided, and families were burned alive, either used in ritual or raised to fight in death through unnatural means that were most foul. And that was but a fraction of the monsters prowling freely in Ashenvale.
Civilian evacuations were ordained swiftly, and larger settlements, such as the island city Astranaar, were turned into impenetrable bastions. It was hardly comforting.
Countless had died, and more would do so. Maddening as the reality was, the night elves could do nothing more than hold on against such widespread, calculated, and relentless assault.
Yet they made each of their losses far more costly to their foes, brave women dying in the heat of battle for survival and typically peaceful men wielding nature's wrath for this same noble purpose.
But yet again, it was hardly a thing to be pleased about.
The prophecy was veritable, and it became evidence failure went to pass under her hands, draconic influence or not. Still, it was of little potency to shake her unbreakable faith. She hadn't been prepared.
It was even why Tyrande could ever conceive the mind-numbingly outlandish proposition of ever granting the chance of negotiating for an alliance of convenience with those outlanders.
Which the orcs were part of—the impish greenskins that refused the given hand of peace of Ton Windbow with Cenarius' grace before committing the greatest of sin. The 'Alliance' with their allegedly noted Arcane witchery and 'high elves' was, in her eyes, no better.
Suppose she hadn't long since heard of the peculiar furbolg who sent this request through an equally strange means of communication. The High Priestess would have mocked the simple idea of it and declared him insane.
However, she didn't.
Ohto of the Greenweald was an abrasive, arrogant, and disrespectful ursa totemic and shaman with abnormal views and unrivaled healing from unknown sources.
Fandral had spoken long and wide of him to her. It was somewhat of a personal vendetta for the second strongest druid who wished for the furbolg imprisonment and re-education to the correct path of Cenarius.
Be that as it may, Tyrande wasn't deaf to the incessant complaints' well-hidden undertone of truth.
His hypocritical outrage regarding the World Tree's recent root separation came to mind. The elven woman wasn't pleased with this development either, but she had been neutral; the Son of Elune had agreed, and so did she.
Not that her opinion was of significant importance in those male matters.
On the other hand, Staghelm's past reckless actions in his younger years showed that playing with Life and Nature wasn't without risk. What a price it was to pay for the Cenarion Circle and Green Dragonflight with the unforeseen rise of the Nightmare from well-meaning intentions.
In the end, the hypothetical danger he may possess, the student of Ursol's view on anything resembling a threat to his people, was as clear as the pale light of Elune.
Ohto shared the same objective as the kaldorei, the defeat of the Burning Legion.
Unless he had been mentally dominated–a dreadful variable she had accounted for–otherwise, there should be good reasons from the pragmatism and surprising intelligence for a furbolg she noted he had.
The fact that the kaldorei and the two foreign forces allied to destroy the Burning Legion in the prophecy was the last piece to thwart Tyrande's doubts and convince her to conceive the atypical idea.
And so she was here riding atop her loyal saber cat, Ash'alah, the female feline showing tenseness through her corded muscles as the High Priestess massaged the striped white fur.
Its pristine shine was long gone from the recent battles with demons and undead.
For good reason, her mount was acting this way. Her vision, through the borrowed eyes of Dori'thur—her owl, ageless like Ash'alah through Lady Elune's blessing binding them to her immortality–had given her the sight of a creature most impressive.
The sight was unnecessary, though. Tyrande's senses spoke enough to understand the power of this furbolg, even if he wasn't throwing it around.
It was akin to gazing at a fabled Ancient, far from the mightiest or even the weaker one, but the large bear-man was reminiscent of one regardless.
The defeat of Mannoroth by his claws wasn't an exaggeration from this alone. Though given furbolgs titled Ohto 'the Chosen of the Twins' and both allegedly blessed him, it shouldn't come as a surprise.
It eased her worries about potential mind control. It would require more than brutish Fel-possessed mortals and the scattered children of highborn to control such a mighty beast of the wild. The defeat of Mannoroth under his claws hammered that fact.
"Let's hear what this furbolg has to say…" Tyrande whispered to her mount as both appeared out of thin air, the magic cloaking them among the shadow of the dying vegetation vanishing.
Immediately, Ohto's head snapped toward her, his bright, golden eyes–a sign of greatness among kaldorei–locking onto her pale blue ones before relaxing, even if it was hard to see through his articulated armor of wood and bone.
'A most peculiar set of armors…' She thought with a soft frown of her long eyebrows. It would be highly impractical for anyone else by the sheer weight alone, but for the bear-man, it was perfect.
It was adaptability, resilience, and regeneration mixed into one. For that alone, the High Priestess was uncertain if a fight would break out and if she could ensure the killing strike added to everything else. Its presence wasn't insulting; it was a dangerous place where they chose to meet.
And she knew enough about the art of druidism to understand it was no small feat and must require extreme skill, training, and knowledge. It was made even more impressive by his staggeringly young age of barely fifteen—a toddler for an elf and even for his species barely of mature age.
It was a source of awe, fear, and worry; those bones were Ohto's, and it showed that he played on the edge of folly—a mad genius with virtually no restraint baring the demi-god overseeing him. And Ursol wasn't under the rules of the Cenarion Circle.
The tragic Worgen Curse was still anchored in her psyche. Shapeshifting wasn't to be trivialized, and its unorthodox usage was the perfect example of such trivialization. Fandral wasn't irrational on many points, but the final verdict would be up to her love.
Regardless of it all, Tyrande arrived in the view of the armored furbolg, and he was the first to speak. His accent through his rumbling voice was almost nonexistent, but the hints of huff and growl remained. A quirk of his morphology, she reckoned.
"May Ursol guide you and Ursoc give you strength, Tyrande Whisperwind. I would have preferred a better time for a first meeting."
As the High Priestess foresaw, his attitude mirrored what was directed to him. The absence of her title was noteworthy but unimportant. Tyrande was no superior of his. For now, he wasn't as impolite as many of her sisters had said.
"Elune-Adore to you." She responded in kind, the tension in the air reducing by the second, "Indeed, this is an unfavorable time, and let's not waste it on pleasantries. Your request for my people to ally with those outlanders is very... daring, Ohto. Their rampant presence through our borders isn't grave enough for you to want more of them?"
He nonchalantly shrugged, bone-plated ears flicking on about, "I'm not happy with that either. I prefer they were never here, just as I want no demons and undead in our sacred forest. But between the two, it's evident who the lesser evil is. Frankly, it's up to you as the High Priestess and General to choose, but if you want their death, let it be against the Legion. I'm here to open diplomacy without bloodshed from any side."
It was an almost uncomfortably cold and detached answer yet pragmatic and nearly reasonable. But it didn't sound like a proposition, as evident in the bear-man's unhidden frustration and fatigue.
It was almost a plea.
Still...
"Do you hear yourself? Lesser evil… they have slayed Cenarius! Butchered my sisters and brothers. They squandered diplomacy! They deserve the wrath of Elune!" Tyrande bit back with a barely constrained fury.
For her reaction, she got a raised eyebrow and quiet, annoyed, and frustrated huff from the ursa totemic.
She could see why he was disliked by many, but she reined in her emotions immediately. It was shameful enough to react so strongly.
However, in her heart, she knew it wasn't an erroneous statement despite how callous it sounded. He didn't wish for harm or was attacking her; he was too blunt.
And the logic was irrefutable. But an evil nature remained unchangeable, and its inferiority impacted nothing of that immutable rule.
"I'm not defending them. The Horde is at fault with that crow oracle. After we rid our world of the demonic plague, you have the freedom to engage in rightful retribution. But right now? By the ancestors, forgive my language, but we have far bigger salmon to smoke. See the bigger picture!" Ohto said, pawing at the ground and staring straight down at her from his natural, much larger bulk.
The ancient elven priestess was nonplussed even if the purpose wasn't intimidation and a simple boot of anger a child would have. Though the spite he spoke of that 'crow oracle' was interesting, she recalled a personage like that mentioned in the prophecy.
It was understandable, given the information, and probably was from a meeting between them, but the present was on more direct concerns. Ohto's other words held rationality, and Tyrande found herself agreeing to most of them, however…
"It's not for me alone to decide, young one." Calming down, Tyrande stated with finality, but before the warrior shaman exploded in anger as she knew he would, she added, "However, you have convinced me, as much as it greatly pains and angers me, entrance will be accorded to those outlanders under two conditions. Shandris shall lead them and see to their proverbial worthiness. If they fail, they should all die."
"That's… borderline but acceptable. They won't like it, but it shouldn't be too hard to word it correctly for them to agree..." Ohto nodded and mumbled the last part, seemingly pleased with what he had come up with.
It would be cute if one was oblivious to everything else. His fur patterns, from little observable, were very distinct.
'Not a regular furbolg indeed.' The High Priestess thought before calling her owl. He was rapidly becoming an ally of great worth.
But he was also a potential danger. The poor animal didn't know what he was doing, as clever as he may have believed himself to be. Tyrande hoped it never came to that.
It was always unpleasant to euthanize broken furbolg.
"Ande'thoras-ethil, Ohto. May we meet again." With those words echoing in the wind, she heard his farewell as she melded with the world. And the only way to detect her was through touch.
The day had only begun, and she had much to do. The first task was to awaken Malfurion, and it required her to reach Moonglade, for only she and Fandral had the authority to do so.
Yet she didn't trust him enough for that task, and he was far too occupied managing the evacuation of their people to be distracted. Her personal dislike of him didn't affect her; she heavily appreciated his skills, power, and loyalty to their people.
But he didn't fully obey.
As such, this most vital task fell upon her shoulders; it wasn't close, but long distances were seldom problematic for the favored of Elune, Chosen of the Moon.
After her love walked into the waking world once more, she explained the situation at hand… she would have to follow the prophecy and see Illidan be freed. Unpleasant as it might be, she was seeing the necessity of such a reckless action. Then, she would ponder on these outlanders' fate with Malfurion.
For now, it was time to act.
*
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