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43. Wild Chase
🕑 Added 2025-03-25 15:25:23 +0000 UTCMy claws shifted, and Vandel's strike was reflected, his daggers making sparks on impact as his momentum was broken, and he jumped back.
It was barely enough to dodge my following slap, but two fine lines of blood still formed on his chest from the bladed ends of my middle and index fingers.
He was panting hard, and the scratches I had just made were but two out of a dozen injuries of varying types and depths. Yet Vandel kept fighting with a ferocity that contradicted what I had come to believe in everything I knew about him over the past decade.
But it was always like that with the once-merchant.
Oh, he remained pretty soft-spoken and calm overall outside of his episodes and nightmares–I understood it well–but when he was fighting?
He just didn't relent until exhaustion caught up or injuries stacked to the point his body punched him with a good dose of reality.
It was mighty impressive, and I didn't say that lightly. The kaldorei man truly was, if only it didn't happen this way—alas, against me, it brought little result.
He never won—well, except when the objective I set for him allowed it since it was training. But even then, I didn't play it nice. I did at first, but he didn't like it, so I stopped altogether.
Still, crushing him wouldn't prove anything he didn't already know. And it worked. He was a massively more skilled fighter than four months ago in everything.
He progressed strikingly fast and took pointers and lessons seriously, always correcting himself to improve and grow. It was a rare quality.
My elven friend was extremely dedicated, to say the least. Outside of helping to work out Hollowmaw's budding society… training was his focus, whether with me or anyone willing, such as my siblings.
That earned him more than surface-level cuts and scratches. Vandel lost limbs, got impaled, saw his viscera spill out, and more, be it against me or others.
Furbolgs didn't fight clean—specifically not with our healing capabilities further amplified by Undrassil and the Goldilocks. We could go wild, and regular weapons were often switched for more natural weaponry—claws and teeth.
Of course, he screamed in agony the first few dozen times, but he got desensitized fast, not that he could shrug them off.
You just don't do that without countermeasures similar to mine.
But by the spirits of the blessed ancestors, the madman of an elf got better at handling pain and avoiding it altogether quicker than I had ever seen.
That was why he managed to draw blood from me, and it increased with the two daggers I made him.
They were among the finest prototypes of my project regarding symbiotic armament.
He was all too eager to get them. Though it wasn't multiple, it was a thick collar that grew roots and became the handles for his blade, which was a treant bound to the plant.
A treant I developed with specific characteristics, just as I did with most things I created—so too was the plant it was merged with. It was a delicate process with the sapling.
And it was they who chose their wielder–nothing was forced–and Vandel was chosen by a particularly feisty one that thereafter became his 'partner.'
But it wasn't Groot, it wasn't a person. Most treants weren't like my buddy or the Ancients, and my first treant remained a child mentally with a simple mind. It may evolve, but that isn't the case now.
Personalities, volutions, and egos, to any degree you got full-on sapience equal to any race, were the exception, not the rule—even with contact with people to socialize.
They weren't mindless automatons but remained plants and acted accordingly, with rare cases going against the curve.
And so 'Elariel,' as my elven friend so eloquently named it never to forget, became equivalent to Groot, just far more inclined for agility than pure resilience.
Unlike me, a kaldorei couldn't carry a tree with one paw.
Even if my friend had me extensively fiddle with his biology to optimize his physical growth, we were at the ceiling of what it could be.
Well, it was a ceiling without deeper modification. I didn't have the time to focus on it, to his great disappointment, and mine too.
It was an exciting if dangerous and time-consuming venture. And with a high chance of unknown consequences down the line. But it was awesome—I loved that kind of stuff.
He was still taller by almost a head and toned as best as it could be with a top-of-the-line metabolism. It was for speed and stamina, not to have a roided bodybuilder, not that he wouldn't fold a regular night elf in half.
His canines grew, though, nothing remotely akin to tusk, but you saw the evolution from trolls.
Regardless, Vandel had a significant learning curve regarding Elariel, and the symbiotic treant was no different.
It was the biggest downside when those spirits of nature were used this way. And that was without mentioning the initial fighting skills necessary.
They weren't simple to wield and even less so to get used to at first. They were living weapons and armor; they didn't read minds or were perfectly coordinated or skilled.
All of this needed to be trained, and even with Groot and me in the back, it remained difficult. Working as two wasn't something everyone could do, even more so with barely sapient treants who needed to learn everything.
But the trade-off was sheer potential, which was immense, as was the versatility. Some crude forms of Nature magic could even be used by proxy like that, affinity or not.
Vandel made great use of my gift and was among the top of the testing group.
Alas… against me, valiant and resourceful he may be. He pushed his limit and was forced to be creative and have an iron will, but it was futile.
No matter how much he improved in such a short time between each spar. The result wouldn't differ.
The dagger he threw into my shoulder, its serrated curved blade digging a few centimeters into my hide, did no actual damage. The purpose wasn't to wound me, but it changed nothing.
Vandel used the vine attached to it to yank himself like a grappling hook, and I was a mountain to climb. His leap and speed were great, but it was painfully telegraphed.
Even then, if the second dagger went through my throat, there was fur, skin, fat, and muscles before reaching anything. And that anything would be healed right away.
I caught him in my paw before that; there were no freebies or participation trophies. He was dwarfed and could be popped like a berry, but he didn't give up.
He recalled the dagger from my shoulder and stabbed, bit like an animal, and thrashed around, doing his best to be a nuisance.
It was wild, manic, and not aimless, though I had enough.
"I think that our battle has reached its conclusion." I let out, but the look in his eyes made me sigh. I wasn't going to put him to sleep, and that left one option.
I threw him on the ground, and he bounced three times before coming to a stop, groaning.
His limbs were tangled, and he breathed weakly, but his gaze held a liveliness I never saw outside of that or when I took him out.
It was a flame I was keeping alight this way. I didn't know what else to do, so I asked around. It was up to Vandel and time; there was no perfect cure.
After healing him and pointing out where he went wrong so he could learn, I began to walk away. My eyes passed over a group of kobolds who were training like many around here, but it was different.
'The Light of the priests and paladins did have some impacts.' I internally snorted. They became obsessed with it for any present at the surface during the last battle.
They compared it to the sun, the 'Wickless Candle,' miniature versions of it that could be wielded against the 'Devouring Darkness.'
The rat men were trying to call to that force, and while they were amusing, given their exaggerated expressions and gestures… they weren't comically failing.
I sensed its distinct presence, and there was the rare sparkling. Honestly, I couldn't help them, but I wouldn't stop what they were doing for it.
If they succeeded, it would be all for the better, and I was certain they would, even if my hopes were grounded. Their faith in candles was greater than any and not any worse than any Holy Light practitioners.
My musing ended with the distinct wingbeat of a bat as a shaman around my age landed right in front of me. The shaman was working under Liande.
"Honored Shaman, there is important news from the kaldorei directly from the General of the Sentinel Army!" Vol said professionally.
Or as much as he could, given his excitement at my presence even if I regularly saw him. I gently took the folded papyrus from his paw and began reading it.
My expression fell, my rounded ears flattening, and my fangs beyond my first upper and, as of recently, lower canines were bared. A rumbling growl left my throat, and my pulse quickened as my fur stood on end.
I ignored the confused glance and panicked questioning.
I didn't like what I was reading. It reminded me of a little piece about what would happen after the Third War.
To say I had little clues would be both the truth and its opposite.
My knowledge outside some of the general stuff and big events was limited to some trivia and interesting facts that stuck in my mind.
But everything was a jumbled mess distorted by fifteen years of a new life. It only worsened with time as my extremely shaky foreknowledge went deeper into the gutter from the butterfly effect of my actions.
However, at times, stuff randomly came back, no matter how insignificant. But if those memories were accurate or not, I couldn't tell; only if they unfolded would I know.
That was why I wrote them down; my journal was a horrific mess. I can't even fully understand it myself.
It wasn't exactly one of those moments, but it was close. I remembered the vague possibility of Malfurion and Tyrande in the Eastern Kingdoms at some point after the Battle of Mount Hyjal.
Now I know why, and I strongly disapprove of it for many reasons. In retrospect, it should have been obvious, but my mind couldn't focus on everything.
I needed to focus on the trivial and existential simultaneously, and furbolgs came first.
They're searching for Illidan… they're leaving for a wild goose chase… Ursoc gives me strength, and Ursol calm…" I growled loudly, my toes claws longer than they had been three weeks ago digging in the roots.
I had evidently never met Illidan Stormrage, and I was deeply uncertain about him, given the conflicting and contradictory information I had about him.
A misunderstood hero? A power-hungry maniac? Bit of both? Or something else? I didn't know.
What I was certain of was his general goal—the end of the Burning Legion and Azeroth's continual existence.
Others didn't understand that, and seeing him as a danger was logical. I wasn't a fan of him even when I saw where he was going if I squinted.
To have the head of the Watchers go after him to capture his demonic ass was obvious. And I wouldn't care; she would fail.
But for the High Priestess to follow suit–who, by the way, freed Illidan of her own will–just because Maiev struggled or failed on her self-imposed task?
And that, by extension, the author of the letter itself, her mate, chose to do the same fucking thing in the same heartbeat?
It was said more eloquently with an apologetic tone, but the result was the same. He didn't even deign to inform me. It was both upsetting and, to a point, demeaning beyond the reckless vacancy of it all.
And they certainly wouldn't go alone—small armies would be taken, armies that were needed in Kalimdor.
At the best estimate, they would be gone for weeks to months.
I trusted Shandris to take care of the Sentinel Army as its General, and with who her adopted mother was, it was the same for the Sisterhood of Elune.
It was the Cenarion Circle that worried me. There was non-insignificant pushback, even with the progress I made with Malfurion and a number of druids to make it less rigid.
Fandral was categorically against many of them, furbolgs officially having places among them, even if not druids. He was the most prominent naysayer.
Not that he didn't disagree with everything I said, but it was rare, and his vocality in his disagreement was the norm.
But it was the only way I was giving access to our World Tree to any degree. One condition of dozens was the same for the Cenarion Circle, such as monitoring and vetoing my crafts.
And by the ancestors, that lesser Archdruid could throw it all in the trash with his political power now able to be used liberally.
Nordrassil and its blessings exploding pissed off more than one kaldorei. The druids, above all else, had it the worst.
All of them were prissy about it–well, not all, but exceptions don't make the rules–Staghelm above all else. And his voice wasn't without echoes of fervent agreement.
I couldn't have him unsupervised.
"Honored Shaman?!" I blinked at the distressed call and shook my head, the intense emotions remaining, but I was out of my bubble
"Have Liande sent a copy of this letter to Magatha, would you? Be on alert and wary of any demand of Fandral Staghelm and the Cenarion Circle. I'm heading out to intercept them." I calmly stated, and the tremor in my voice wasn't as hidden as I would like it to be.
I took my bloodwing bat form the next moment and flew into a cavern up to my right. I knew there was a high chance this was a futile effort, but not trying wasn't an option.
I didn't even know what port city would be used; I could only ascertain it should be in Azshara. Why would it be even from Darkshore? It would cause a large detour.
Ultimately, I chose between the two on the flip of a coin, and it landed toward the closest of the two.
There were three major port towns in Azshara, the first up North, the second around the Ruin of Eldarath, and the last South bordering the Barren.
Well, they were closer to small villages in population, but boats were there aplenty.
Kaldorei weren't seafaring people, as none would be shocked to discover, but they weren't ignorant of it or unskilled in those crafts.
So I traveled for hours without stopping through the tunnel, which led to a predetermined path that directly led to Blackmaw Hold of the Blackmaw tribe.
My moment there was short, barely a greeting, and I quickly drank and ate until I was gone. My mind was never on the magnificent sight of eternal autumn Azshara possessed.
There were three destinations, but that would have been the case two months ago since Nendis was in ruin after a catastrophe tied to satyrs and naga.
Not unlike many smaller settlements. It was far closer to Blackmaw Hold, but there was no point in going there because it was being rebuilt.
The second destination was my first then. I reached it as the night began to settle over the creek, never once stopping my flight. Magic solved that pesky problem, and I wasn't out of juice from the beginning.
I only took a breather when in the town built among the ancient ruins of the name of the said ruins.
I was rapidly disappointed, finding nothing, but I expected this much. There was a real chance Malfurion was gone hours before I ever received his half-assed excuse.
Still with a flicker of hope, I went down, cutting through the forest and hills.
My heart sank as I reached Ravencrest Gulch and didn't see any fleets or anything close to my targets that indicated they had ever been here.
I asked around regardless, as I did in the last town, but all answers for anyone daring enough to face me were of confusion and negativity.
Nendis was spoken about, but it gave me a detail I had missed. It hadn't been any demon who destroyed it—Illidan Stormrage was the culprit.
No Tyrande or the other Stormrage twin were mentioned, however.
As I left, the urgency turned to burning-hot rage. I missed them—I had never had any chance of ever reaching them from the beginning.
It had been all fucking useless, a waste of time and effort. I felt incredibly stupid. I acted like a rabid beast roaring at the wind and fighting its shadow.
But self-deprecation did little to help. The thought that I might have gone to Darkshore and potentially succeeded wasn't forgotten, though pondering on it was pointless.
I could have waited for an answer from Feathermoon, too, but I didn't. I couldn't have; all the choices were wrong and flawed. I never had any chance to catch that game, and it infuriated me like it never did before.
And maybe it was exhaustion, frustration, or simply instinct, but I let them loose. And it felt great.
"Fuck!" I roared, the words garbled in growls and huffs as the boulder far larger than me, impeded between two massive tree trunks, began to crumble to my assault.
It was the third, but something changed.
The distinct smell of alcohol tickled my nose, almost overpowering the oddness in it, and my ears twitched at the sound of nearly silent footsteps.
My head snapped back, locking on a furbolg…? No, that wasn't right… white and black fur with spots of both and with a flattened hat.
He was pretty cute, far from ugly, even if distinct from furbolg by the shortness of his snoot. It was jarring, but not in a bad way.
"My extra-large ursine friend, what is the spring of all your ire that I may quench it in ale?" He merely tutted in an accented Darnassian as I continued to stare.
And it went on as he sat cross-legged a few meters away in front of me with an amused smirk that showed a tiny fang.
"Now, now, I know how handsome I'm, but please do not devour me. I'm Chen Stormstout, wandering brewmaster, and you, stranger?”
Comments
Noknok
Him learning from a pandaren monk would be op
Asura
Thanks for the chapter 👋🔥
Mika Willems
Reminds me of this
Mika Willems
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TlLFrfM7n-c
Asura
Thanks for the chapter 👋🔥
Bat
Yes! Chen help the MC find internal peace.
