It had taken me only five days to get back to full health—a record of slowness for me.
The first two days were spent traveling down to Hollowmaw, making the actual recovery even shorter. It was still significantly longer than I got used to, but I also rarely treated bodily damage of that scale, less on myself.
I had been straining my metabolism to keep it going until I arrived.
By the end, I was barely coherent; agony, fatigue, thirst, and hunger created the symphony of all my hurts and were to blame.
When I arrived at the bunker den city, everything changed. Aside from a commotion over my deplorable half-living condition, things proceeded smoothly, and there was no reason for them to have gone a different route.
Shamans trained by me in my brand of healing came in droves, and I was placed at the heart of Hollowmaw, the World Tree. Its dense energies breathed in my half-burnt remainder of a body, which was laid on a bed of fur, flowers, and moss.
I was protected and tended to. Bathed, groomed, cleansed of that profane Fel at every level by Ursol, who went down specifically for that before he went back up cleaning the surface.
I was given food and beverages fit for Ursoc, supplemented with elixirs, potions, and the golden-coated seeds of Undrassil in reserve.
I lacked nothing; anything I asked arrived without fault and in short order.
I wasn't passive in all of this; my single-minded focus on regrowing my limbs and genitals worked wonders. Having a gaping void of sensation was very unsettling and distressing, even though less was said about the phantom sensation.
Be that as it may, I hadn't been wholly crippled, despite being just a partly furless torso with a head and growing nubs for limbs. Roots and Groot had helped immensely for both mobility and replacing my paws.
And despite the heartwarming worry of my kin, I healed the most severely wounded from that useless war who survived the travel down—furbolgs and kobolds alike.
It annoyed me that I couldn't have saved them all, but reality was disappointing.
Given how extensive the damages were, my body reconstruction couldn't be done in one go. But as long as I had a functioning brain, I would work.
I wasn't going to do fucking nothing, convalescence or not when I could do otherwise.
My time wasn't wasted, but healing wasn't the only thing I did.
As the 'head' of the furbolgs, I oversaw decisions concerning everyone, including continuing the training in all forms of magic and battle I had started earlier in preparation for that war.
And there was even more motivation and eagerness. It was beyond great, but it was a lot, and not everyone could fight.
But a farmer wasn't inferior to an ursa totemic; a hearth worth defending wouldn't exist without the former, and combat would be impossible without supply.
The Wise Bear didn't. Worshiped and immaculately respected, he may be, all would follow whatever he said, but he wasn't our king. Or any sort of synonym for that. We weren't trolls.
To be frank, I wasn't either–we didn't operate like that–but like my teacher, I knew I held immense sway over every tribe.
But I wasn't a Wild God changing the relationship from distant to direct. I was the liaison, the mortal link, and that hardly was all I was.
And because Ursol didn't lead, it fell on my shoulders even with some of his help and the counsel of the chieftains and elder shamans of every tribe in Hollowmaw.
I had the final say in most things.
It was a truth that was still hard to swallow, but it remained unflinching in the face of my disgruntlement.
I was only fifteen, going to be sixteen, barely an adult, past life or not. Age didn't add up linearly, and I had that on my shoulders.
It was the will of Ursol and Ursoc, as well as that of the ancestral spirits.
It was everything I represented, even if I knew it was a lot of idealization placed on me—I was viewed as THE paragon. I was what a shaman and warrior must strive to be, false as it may be.
I didn't have a choice, well I did, but death or running away were unacceptable. It was as terrifying as the last battle to have all that.
As such, I was aware–and made sure I kept being that–of what happened above after my retreat by the remaining Grimtotem and furbolgs.
My departure had been unceremonious. I warned no one, and Grommash was the last 'important' person to have seen me in the flesh, skittering away like a rotting carcass.
And by the Bear Lords, I couldn't give less of a fuck. I did my part, I was the only one to wound that demonic piece of shit, and it nearly cost me my life.
It didn't matter if it was actually helpful in gaining time. I hurt Archimonde, and it went beyond physically. I wounded his overinflated ego. Otherwise, he would have killed me.
It felt beyond great. Still, I knew how it went after the demon lord's royal incineration.
The Horde and Alliance were quickly evicted and, to put it gently, were 'forcefully guided out.' My student did not mince his words, and another war almost broke out instantly. But it didn't.
After that… It was many things for the night elves and the wild and nature as a whole.
It was far too early to be summed up effectively beyond search and hunting parties, who were sent to kill the remainder of the invasion and look for survivors while saving the wounded lands, which was done in parallel.
It was the cleanup, and I won't be finished by the next day.
Now that I had my two pairs of limbs back, I was ready to participate in that endeavor.
Most furbolgs would help or continue to dig the tunnels with the kobolds while in the safety of Undrassil's sky-less starry roof until we get what he had forsaken for our survival back.
That was why there wasn't a celebration. It was a time of joy and relief but not celebration; beyond the fact that the battle was won, the war wasn't over.
More would follow, not all from the Burning Legion, and I couldn't let myself rest—Old Gods, the Lich King, and several world-ending threats were on the horizon—even just regular wars.
I was uncertain how the threats would unfold, and I needed to move—the last few weeks had been an alarmingly unpleasant wake-up call.
"No rest for the wicked, huh?" I sighed tiredly, my eyes glowing an ever-brighter pale gold trailing to the elven mirror of my room as I was preparing my equipment.
I studied the changes on and in my body. They were small, and I had some inkling about the reasons behind their existence and slow expansion.
My tattoos were brighter. My ears weren't quite in the right place.
My shoulders were slightly wider, among other minor details like a minute outgrowth of my coccyx and an almost unnoticeable inclination of my feet toward my toes.
It wasn't of my making. Aesthetic modifications outside of reconstruction weren't something I did. The same was true for permanent body modification. It was a dangerous rabbit hole outside of the ephemeral.
I wasn't shocked, however.
Ursa's totemic grew through conflict. Each wound healed and made us stronger and tougher. We also responded to intense emotions and stress. I got the former in quantities very few to none ever had, and I hadn't been calm and collected.
It was like a muscle. Oh, it was quite limited and could fundamentally be concluded to make us have a thicker hide, more tempered bone, and bigger biceps—nothing mind-boggling.
Experience and skill remained the strongest points, but that wasn't the case or truly the above.
Those things were details appearance-wise–for now, what was happening reminded me of puberty–but I felt the shift that the sheer destruction my body had gone through started.
And it was far… not more or better, but more profound, more primal than after the Totemic Ritual.
There had never been so much Life and Nature mana in my flesh as then was that horrific spell repeatedly hammered on me. It broke the balance; I pushed far, almost too far, far beyond what I ever did.
I would have to speak about that to Ursol and see if I should do anything about this. Until then, it was of lesser concern.
Fiddling with the fragments of Gorehowl's handle, I took a bolt hidden beneath them. My round ears twirled back at the sound of a familiar set of footsteps, and a smile came on my muzzle.
My movement stopped for a second.
"Big brother?" I shifted my head to my little brother at the entrance, though he wasn't the only one. Hukar shadowed him like a bodyguard, and she spoke right after her brother.
"Are you going to rip the demons and undead apart?" It was colder, with an edge of fury strikingly opposite to her usual cheerfulness. The fierceness and innocence remained, though.
Good. I wouldn't have it any other way.
"If any cross my path, but that's not why you two little fluff balls are here? What do you want? Want to go with me to the surface?" I asked as Groot appeared on my shoulder and made a tiny cowboy hat between my ears before playing with them.
"We want to, but no… I really, really want to, though! And we will prove we can!" My sister began with a fanged snarl at the end, and Karhu followed more pragmatically: "We're helping Ma and Pa with Softjaw and training harder. It's not for us… It's Vandel. I think he needs your help. He is unwell, mentally wise."
I frowned. I hadn't gone to him, and neither did he. I knew what had happened to the elf man. And it pissed me off, but the blame wasn't entirely on the demons; it was lazy and dishonest to put it like this.
It was on him, too, but that was only a part of the truth.
It was on me. I should have forced my choice on Khariel even if it cost our friendship. It would have saved his cub… the little one that I had midwifed and was elected as his godfather.
And now Khariel would never come back. The little gremlin's cheeky grin as he devoured the candies I gave was gone.
"I will see, but I have asked to speak with Malfurion in person. I don't have the time." I rattled, but the disappointed look that I earned made my frown deepen.
Ultimately, after thirty seconds, I couldn't resist those eyes and relented with a heaviness in my chest.
After a bear hug and nuzzling session and finalizing my preparation, I was on the lookout for the kaldorei in question.
Unsurprisingly, it had been easy to find Vandel. The only night elf in Hollowmaw stood out like a sore thumb among the thousands of bear people.
He was the subject of much discussion,
Additionally, he was not hiding. He was in one of the training grounds with whatever equipment I remembered that wasn't already in use, like weights.
The biggest thing remained fighting.
And the gentle elven merchant I befriended showed none of that gentleness in his spar with a middle-aged female furbolg warrior in front of him.
He was bare-chested–he wore only a loincloth–covered in sweat, dirt, scraps, cuts, and hematomas everywhere. He wielded twin wooden daggers with wild yet rather skilled abandon.
He dodged and made faints, taking immense risks with each strike, putting his all into each attack like it was the last.
He was unhinged. Making something average and clumsy for any trained warrior into a real threat.
And that was bearing fruit. His much larger and stronger opponent was rapidly losing ground. Unsure how to react to her opponent's erratic impetuous assault.
If it were a real battle, things would differ for both sides, for the better or worse. Recklessness without a plan generally ends early.
There was something… his eyes. They were different. It was hard to describe. It was comparable to the void and despair I saw after I announced the loss of a cub to a mother and father.
I hated seeing him like that. I could only heal the body, and this was something of that nature.
And he was one of the worst examples of such I ever saw. It was constant.
'He is broken,' I realized, and dread and aching regret made me want to by the ancestors fucking flee like a coward to avoid being here, but it was too late. I wasn't good with that.
I was flying above, earning everyone's attention, so I swallowed the rising bile and landed.
My mere existence made everyone stop what they were doing and focus on me, Vandel, and who he was fighting as well.
He stared at me, his weapons held tightly to the point his already bleeding knuckles whitened. Chest heaving up and down, he was first to break the tense, awkward silence.
"Have you decided to lecture me, Ohto?" Vandel said in Darnassian with a wavering determination as I approached. I was taken aback even if I didn't show it.
It wasn't antagonistic… It was a failed attempt that carried no heat.
"That… that won't bring back what you lost. It would be vindictive and hypocritical. There is no point in punishing you. Why should I even?" I answered honestly and openly as I waved for the crowd to return with mediocre results.
I was peeved enough to act like that if I wasn't calmer. And I would be correct. But Vandel knew what I might say already. It was pointless beyond making him suffer.
That probably was what he wanted.
A hollow chuckle hitching sharply at the end escaped his lips, "Hypocritical… no, it was my ineptitude and the Legion. I'm not a child to be coddled, my friend. Say it! I can tell! I failed as a father! A friend! I should have listened… I had the open gate…"
And he began to ramble like the grieving and shocked man he was. He spoke of vengeance, a vendetta, and those were no conviction-less words.
It was better than purely suicide, I supposed. Yet it was nothing of the Vandel I knew; the smell, the voice, and the body language were the same, but the eyes and the demeanor… it was as if I was seeing someone that wasn't Vandel yet was.
It wasn't the same. He wasn't the same. But he wasn't a listless puppet; he was alive, changed, and almost unrecognizable, he may be.
"Go to the surface, then. Every able-bodied elf can help." I proposed automatically. It was the stupid but evident solution I was sure he would likely reject
But I had to say it.
And he reacted as predicted.
"As if… They won't let me fight… I'm too unstable, they said. I tried before! They refused! I would only be held down!" Vandel bemoaned, and my ears twitched in mild annoyance and sadness.
Indeed, his countrymen would put him in a locked room for his safety if he was so adamant. But I wasn't them.
Ah, I got an idea, and since I didn't know what else to say, with a tilt of my head, I gave it, "I can have you with furbolgs there then. I don't promise your people won't want you back… But I'm willing to help with equipment and training. Frankly, it's up to you. Know that I won't have you dead on my watch."
"I don't intend to die, Ohto. But I trust your words. Vengeance will be mine." He intoned with the hint of a cold smile I couldn't help but mirror to a lesser degree.
"I have the bastard's left eye to blind, too." I let out mirthlessly, and Vandel's expression shifted to absolute resolution. "Think about my proposal. You can always ask a shaman to contact me. Until then, I have an Archdruid to speak to."
There was no time to waste; what happened mustn't come to pass ever again.
*
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