Ohto of the Greenweald.
He was a young furbolg with extraordinary capabilities and a distinctive demeanor, who had recently taken a substantial portion of Malfurion's mind.
It was no small feat, given the deplorable state of affairs after the Battle of Mount Hyjal and its devastating aftermath.
Using Nordrassil's blessed enchantments as fuel had immediate and grave repercussions for the kaldorei.
The first and greatest were diseases, and parasites showed restraint no more.
Wounds that would typically only need to be rinsed in clear water now could fester.
And as the night elves' bodies had forgotten the ailments of age past, they were vulnerable to old and new. The consequences were dire if an injury wasn't rapidly taken care of.
It was a habit to remake and learn, but it was hardly the only aspect lost. Facing the cruelest facet of life wasn't a fatality, damaging as it may be.
Second, their now-gone reinforced connection to Nature; they became whole with it and were no longer its stewards. This tied to the first but went beyond the impact of its disappearance.
Druids would remain, but they would no longer wield power beyond their own natural abilities, just as it had been before. It was up to them to prove themselves.
The less skilled and talented would find it harder and more taxing, and many would have to learn again. But druidism would outlast those minor hurdles and emerge greater.
Malfurion had not been spared either, but borrowed power had to be returned, as the natural cycle intended.
He wasn't dependent on it, and his strength was largely unchanged. It was the world's natural state.
The third was immortality. The kaldorei frozen ages would pass as they had in the distant past. They were mortals once again.
However, the past ten millennia did not suddenly overwhelm them like the wrath of Elune; otherwise, they would have turned to dust. Their agelessness and endless rejuvenation have ended.
The people born during the Great Vigil or young to middle-aged at its inception would have many millennia to go before aging began to afflict them to any concerning degree.
But the minority of the oldest among them were considered as such before the World Tree was blessed by three of the Dragon Aspects… time would take its course as it had stopped ten millennia ago.
They would grow weak, their bodies showing their age, and their minds withering. The product of eternal youth would shift to reflect who they were.
Ultimately, it wasn't a concern for the Archdruid. He wasn't an elder, as neither Tyrande nor most of his people were.
It was too recent to be, and there was a far more urgent matter than a hypothetical natural death, at minimum in centuries.
Though he wasn't unaware of the shock many had, and many would have the realization of their mortality. It was a matter of ego and pride, shameful as it was to admit.
However, for the past five nights, the present and near future have been the focus of most of his thoughts.
As short as it may have been, the war against the Burning Legion and Scourge resulted in the ravage of Ashenvale, Mount Hyjal, the demise of thousands upon thousands, and the scarring of even more.
It was the largest loss of life, even in the War of the Shifting Sand and Satyr combined, and it was for military loss alone.
Their society was on the edge of collapsing if they didn't change.
The Sentinel Army, the Cenarion Circle, and the Priesthood of Elune were greatly diminished and would take decades to regain even a fraction of their former strength. Still, as unsettling as it was to consider, the outcome could have been far worse.
Yet it could have been worse, as non-comforting as it was to ponder.
Ursol's prophecy should have been entirely heeded, and the lies of the bronze dragons who saw the kaldorei as throwaway tools were ignored.
A fact that was among the few things that made Malfurion feel true rage.
The betrayal hurt deeply; if one of the reptiles were to come, the forest would not be dejected to gain a tree. It had happened in the past, and he would do it again if necessary.
After this came the outlanders. It was far too early to draw any conclusion, but it didn't take a grand strategist to not see the danger they posed to the current kaldorei.
The Great Alliance had not nurtured friendship among them; the murderer of his Shan'do still roamed free and unpunished by execution, an unacceptable injustice.
But little could be done without catastrophic results. And the time wasn't to make rash demands of those ancient slaves of Mannoroth and their allies.
Wars could not yet be declared–preferably never–but Malfurion was not naïve. Conflicts would inevitably arise in the coming years.
And he was minutely less untrustworthy of the other outlanders so open in their uses of the Arcane, even with some of their membership's palpable animosity for the Horde.
A common enemy didn't make one eternal friend, and the Legion proved it better than any. And the Horde weren't all foes. It was a delicate situation.
Regardless, it matters little to the immediate need for healing from the war.
Ohto was key to that end. Malfurion learned a lot about that particular controversial tempestuous furbolg.
Many he had seen himself—all worthy of varying reactions from gratitude and respect to apprehension.
Among the most notable feats was his healing prowess.
Several hundreds of elves were brought from early graves, and untold more were saved, be it from death or crippled lives.
It had been known before, but the past weeks showed how much it had been underestimated.
With proficiency in restoration, reestablishing the limit to what was known and what was believed possible, the strongest druid acknowledged his complete inferiority.
It was the Chosen of the Twins' gift. One he perfected at every moment, far exceeding what his age suggested, even with his unusual magic.
This made Ohto the greatest mortal healer Malfurion ever saw, and even among immortals, the only competition was counted on the finger of a hand.
And his abilities extended beyond solely healing, as boldness was not something the young furbolg lacked.
As was resilience from being what he was and his equally peculiar treant help as strange symbiotic armor.
He was the only one to not only draw blood but wound Archimonde.
He risked it all, taking the demon lord's right eye, earning the precious last seconds to set the World Tree trap.
The furbolg lost his limbs and abdomen and suffered horrific burns followed by a fall so high even the best huntress would deem it dangerous. Yet he lived.
The spells used and inverted the target's innards were repeatedly inflicted on the furbolg with little result and weren't forgotten.
It was the greatest but not the first of those actions.
Mannoroth had been slain by him, too, and he survived the daunting injuries without losing himself.
He took a demonic blade to his heart, severing his spine, followed by a Fel conflagration. Yet he lived.
The two demon lords' arrogance had no impact on the sheer impossibility of what was survived by the warrior shaman.
If Ursol was the Wise and Ursoc the Mighty, Ohto was the Resilient.
The Archdruid did not misplace the furbolg position to the Bear Lords—he had spoken to the Wise Bear and knew enough to reflect on that consideration.
Seeing Ohto of the Greenweald walk in Moonglade without any sign of the slightest scars or after-effects on him shouldn't surprise him.
A bear spirit carrying a message in its jaw in the Emerald Dream had made him aware.
The Greenweald furbolg asked him for an audience there through it. It was quite a clever process that had grown popular among the druids since its introduction by the furbolgs and taurens.
And he accepted. It would be uncouth to refuse and shameful the presence of such an exceptional beast.
But personal power didn't matter the most, even if it wasn't ignored. Considering it alone was foolish, it was a part of a whole.
What the furbolgs called him 'Chosen of the Twins' didn't leave much to the imagination about his political sway if Ursol's brotherly care wasn't enough.
Furbolgs had been prepared for what came. They were the foremost mortal allies of the kaldorei.
Even among dryads, Keepers of the Groves, and spirits of nature like the Ancients, they were at the top—the most numerous and proactive.
Few were fighting deep inside corrupted territories–the part of Ashenvale renamed Felwood–but that was for the best, given their sensitivities. But it wasn't their focus.
While their dens were closed to all, none of them or kobolds–as was their right even if the rat people's presence was new–brought aid in food, healing, workforces, and defense.
They were primordial in the progress of the respective cleansing and purging of the land and demons, even if only five days had gone since the pyrrhic victory against the Burning Legion.
They had also played a pivotal role in the past weeks. It couldn't be understated.
Be that as it may, it didn't change the words that inadvertently left the ancient druid's lips at the sight of the large ursa totemic arriving.
It was a whisper, but to the target audience whose ears were no worse than elven, it might have been spoken out loud.
"How are you…?"
"My health? Hah, a complete explanation would take the day, Malfurion. It wasn't easy. I can if you want later. The hard part had been dragging my carcass to Hollowmaw with working vitals." Ohto rattled.
His nonchalant tone was very much in line with what was expected.
However, it made the discussion less formal and more relaxed, if a little.
The tiny round hat between his ears was also a strange contrast to the furbolg's massive size and weapon of a body rippling with muscles.
"Ishnu-alah, Ohto, I'm pleased with your swift recovery then. Your deeds against the foul demon Archimonde, as well as all the souls you have saved, for that I'm eternally grateful." Malfurion said genuinely.
Then he waved a feathered armband for the younger male to follow, and he paid little attention to the lingering gaze of the latter.
"I share my greetings. And the same goes for you; everyone would have died otherwise. But I don't need praise, and I doubt you do either." The furbolg snorted.
Night elves and dryads observed the two with wide, questioning eyes and silent whispers, but that was all they did. Soon after, they went back to work on their tasks.
"Ahh, that is quite true indeed. We have more important concerns to focus on: you and me, young one." The Archdruid nodded as they arrived at an elven ruin conquered by nature, "Speak first if you please. I have questions, but they can wait."
"I have various propositions and ideas for our shared survival and future. Like the alliance between us." The furbolg explained his rumbling voice, taking an edge of seriousness.
"As you have written in your letter, then. But why?" Malfurion let out, massaging his verdant beard with an inflection of curiosity in his eyes.
It deepened into confusion as Ohto took from his backpack a 'small' barrel and two bone cups, one sized for furbolg and one for elf.
The barrel was popped open, and an exquisite floral smell of a brew wafted in the air.
It was sweet yet harmonic with the fruity aroma of sun-warmed berries and honey.
'Amity wine…' He recognized, widening his eyes, as the liquid of color and shine no different than an autumn sunset was poured into his cup.
It wasn't any alcohol.
In the past, it was highly sought after by kaldorei poachers for its unique, delicate, bubbling sweet taste as the furbolgs were unwanted to sell to the highborns.
But its cultural significance was where its importance lay.
It was for diplomacy with allies and enemies alike.
"Here," Ohto grunted, taking a sip and humming in contentment. Malfurion did much the same, savoring the ambrosia; it was even better than he remembered.
It would be even better in his bear form.
"As to your question. I want something like the Horde and Alliance, but for us, it is the creatures of nature. My people would always stand by the kaldorei, but as is?"
"We're a poor alliance outside of willingness, and I can dare say the same for others like dryads. We have no chain of command, no consensus, just a basic understanding, instincts, and savagery against common threats. It's great and works, don't make mistakes, but compared to the outlanders?"
"We're wild as nature demands, but we need a modicum of order, of cohesion. And if we don't have that. How are we going to adapt to this new world? It would devour us. Archimonde will seek retribution, and he isn't the only fanged maw at our throats." He finished with expectations in his eyes.
"I…" Malfurion began, his words coming slowly after what the furbolg just said.
He wasn't ready for that level of analysis and preparation, even if, in retrospect, he should have been.
"You speak true, Ohto. But such a decision, even if I'm inclined to agree, isn't for me alone to decide, and it would be far from simple to put into practice. It's ambitious and novel. I found it hard to believe without force."
The furbolg's round ears flattened briefly.
"By Ursol, I know I didn't come for immediate gratification, and my proposal is… in infancy. You don't even operate that way either, and that's also a problem, just as the nonsensical separation of sex you have," The Chosen of the Twins sighed heavily.
His words that would ruffle the feathers of countless–the Archdruid not excluded even if his heart didn't wholly disagree–flowed freely.
It had been a decision to avoid a scenario similar to what unfolded with Queen Azshara and her highbornes. It was by design and a defect, and they paid the price in the present.
"But if we don't do anything, we won't have the privilege of suffering with a beating heart. We need to act fast and decisively. I don't have centuries, and neither do you." He finished taking a swing of his wine and huffing.
The Archdruid did the same, and the wine was even more delicious at each sip. "I share your judgment and will oversee change to that path, but my voice isn't absolute. I would have to consult my love first, and I foresee some needed convincing and arrangement."
There was a muttered curse in Ursine of frustrated resignation, but Malfurion didn't comment. But he decided it was up to him to lead the conversion.
"I don't dare come to lecture you on the correct technique, lest order you to change your method, but I have heard and seen many things, Ohto." The furbolg ears shifted to the elf, and the gaze of burning golden sharpened dangerously.
"I hope so. Fandral didn't let it appear that way. You need to put him in his place, or I will." He said sharply.
And that was an unfortunate truth, though not entirely unfounded or one-sided. Malfurion was all too aware his student was… very stubborn when set on his way.
It was the greatest strength and flaw of his character aside from an arrogance toward non-kaldorei, which was far too common. His, however, was stronger than most.
Ohto vexing Staghelm was inevitable, but it wasn't the end and be all.
And the furbolg was infamous for his thorny personality—rightfully so.
Bluntness, pridefulness, irritability, and irreverence were most unpopular together—more so when they flared at any perceived disrespect, justified or not.
"I understand and will, but my student's reasoning isn't founded in irrationality. You thread a fine line, and many do not appreciate it. I cannot have you repeat my mistake. Have you heard of the Pack Form?" There was a nod as if it was a question everyone should ask.
"Yes, and it isn't on what I base this or shifting organ like my heart. Take my paw and see," Ohto said, and Malfurion did as asked, his hand that of an infant by comparison.
He was utterly dwarfed but scared he wasn't.
He even noted the distinction between what he recalled ursa totemic life force felt and Ohto's. There was something, something other, that couldn't be explained by the blessings of the Bear Lords. It was fleeting, but it was there almost imperceptible, like a dream.
But the Archdruid's focus was elsewhere as the magic happened. And what he noticed went to the back of his mind.
Malfurion saw and felt it, the skin, muscles, and blood vessels shifting into others as the bones grew and exited the middle paw pad to form a rose.
"Fascinating, " the strongest druid said. It was as relieving and concerning as eye-opening. It was shapeshifting on a smaller scale, healing and controlling living matter like roots.
It was incredible. It wasn't perfect, but it was novel and innovative in a way he didn't know was ever possible, and it wasn't from Life magic alone.
It homogenized multiple schools of druidism–of the furbolg, even if they weren't wholly unlike Cenarius' teachings–and birthed a new one with Life as the core component of the life energy usually taken from the world.
It was a work of genius, a daring, if inexperienced one.
Though it opened the possibility of unrestrained control of Life and Nature, that path was deeply unfavorable, to say the least.
However, the honesty, trust, and openness with which it was presented pointed to something far less worthy of a dramatic response.
And that no matter if it was from a certain naïvety.
"I call it biomancy. It's how I heal. And I know it's dangerous if unrestrained... I have personal rules for that reason." Ohto declared with clear pride, showing how incredibly young he was in actuality.
And the rules were explained thereafter. They numbered to three and targeted most fear of Malfurion—no permanent alteration, no destruction of balance, and no modification of the brain.
The danger remained a concern. Personal rules were frail, as headstrong as the Chosen of the Twins may be. It was for the best to be watchful and mindful.
The second question was quick to follow, and as the ancient druid learned, it was tied to the first.
It was about selective breeding, and the result was roughly the same. Ohto knew what he was doing and the risk involved, yet he continued.
The Archdruid was hard-pressed to find logical counterarguments, generating mild annoyance and growing investment in him. It had been far too long since anyone spoke to him like that without hostilities.
It wasn't that they didn't exist, but they held no ground to the furbolg leader.
It was impossible to convince someone like Ohto this way; it wasn't willing ignorance or an inability to see reason or listen that he had.
The uncaring pointing on hypocrisy was also impossible to counter, given what the kaldorei lived in and the bountiful result of the ursa totemic creations.
Artificial flora and a manipulated environment were a cornerstone of the night elves' society, and they had no right to force the furbolgs to stop—not as they were.
It was pure desire to continue, curiosity, and a concise grasp of what he was doing. However, it didn't change the potential fallout if control was lost.
But there was something more. Despair was well hidden, but Malfurion was experienced and easily recognized the signs.
There was a terrified, fearful cub for his life, his world, and what he held dear behind the predatory gaze and body capable of swatting the largest night elf like a fly.
It was eye-opening and explained much, yet it created more questions and worries, but it wasn't for Malfurion to invade those matters.
The last large one was the Grimtotem tribe and their proto-druids, who Ohto blessed.
To say the taurens weren't of great help would be lying.
They were savage, barbaric warriors and shamans fighting with all they had, bridging the gap between furbolgs and night elves, complementing both.
They were neither as strong or resistant as furbolgs nor agile and skilled as night elves, but they were not inferior to either, and they compensated for this in sheer fearlessness.
But they were in for themselves above all else, as best as they tried not to show it, even with the friendships that were born. They were on a mission, and the young biomancer admitted it.
"Yes, Magatha is a ruthless, cunning and manipulative old bitch. But her allegiance is worthwhile." It was as direct and frank as it could be and caught Malfurion off guard, nearly making him spit the Amity wine.
"But the only thing I trust is her rationality and wish to prove her tribe's superiority. For that, she needs us to back her. And I can sever their future cubs' connection to the Dreaming if she tries anything." He explained, Groot on his shoulder miming a snipping motion with his stubby finger.
"I see. I believe you taught them well. But what do those Grimtotem do when you do not watch with your gift?"
And so the discussion between two of the greatest mortal wielders of Life and Nature to ever walk Azeroth soil continued for another half hour until both parted.
The Amity wine and a few strange seeds were left behind for the strongest druid to study.
The night was young, and much was to be done, and their exchange's conclusions were mixed.
But one thing was sure: hardships were coming, and the present ones were but the beginning.
*
Chapters in advance there: patreon.com/thebipboop2003