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25. Licking Wounds
🕑 Added 2025-01-21 20:00:04 +0000 UTCPain.
Everything in my body was made of pain as I stood upon the root of my armor, which had dug into the ground. I was facing the blackened skeletal remains of Mannoroth, half of his weapon impaled in me while the remaining part was flung elsewhere.
The paw I used to stab him was dangling limply with multiple fractures and deep burns, the metallic claws snapped or bent the wrong way, and my armor of bark and bone was scorched and cracked but otherwise relatively intact on the deeper layer. It was painfully hot all the same, though.
Because of that, most of my fur and skin weren't burned too badly, a fate–thank the Twin Bears–my eyes, ears, and nose shared even if right now I was half blind, seeing bright spots flashing, my ears were painfully ringing, and my nose and throat burned at each breath as if acid was going through them.
But I was there, conscious, breathing–if only by half–and with a beating heart; it wasn't a pain that dying would bring. I won. I was very much alive, immensely pissed at what happened, and equally relieved and pleased at the piece of demon shit departure.
Yet I was elated first and foremost. I thought I was going to die. I had been going to die... I should have met my end here under all metrics. I got too close and didn't react well.
But I didn't. It took me a few seconds to fully process. I nearly died. It was... strange.
My first attack almost ended with that result; it had been suboptimal and emotion-fueled, but it didn't. I was lucky and survived. And that brought excitement all on its own with fear—a thirst for more.
Still, if only torturing him had been a possibility.
I glared at the destruction wrought on the land, and then my glare deepened into a frown and snarl at the blade embedded in my chest. It brought the memories of when my frail human ribcage was crushed.
The pain was no different, but I could soldier on in this life.
'By Ursol and Ursoc, he had to fucking be explosive… Fuc-' I thought with a low growl escaping my blood-coated throat, and my mind flashed white in agony for half a second as I suddenly yanked the jagged weapon before lazily throwing it away like the piece of broken trash it was.
Fur, flesh, and bone fragments poured out from the now gaping open wound on both front and back. The thought I was a donut passed briefly in my mind, and if I didn't hurt that fucking much, I would have chuckled.
Though the pit lord detonation was more of a discharge of violent Fel than a proper explosion, it was more or less a violent leakage like a nuclear plant failure to a nuclear warhead. Extremely dangerous all the same, just of a different nature, and that was why I wasn't into bloody bits. Or so I reckoned.
Most of the pain wasn't from it anyway; it was rubbing salt in the wound at worst. This abomination lobbed one of my legs and half a paw, first breaking my flight. Then he stabbed me in the gut, boiling a third of my intestine, and did it a second time through my chest. There was no flame there, but in the process, he shredded a lung and messed up my spine.
The pest didn't get my heart. The demon lord didn't miss; his aim had been perfect. I made him miss by changing the place of his target. Getting stabbed there wouldn't have instantly killed me, but it was a crippling blow in the long run for the fight.
After all, I could stay up for a few minutes without a perfectly functional heart. Or a heart at all if I pushed and ignored potential consequences by pushing Life in my brain and muscles. Well, in theory, when it came to myself, I didn't test as extensively as I should have, but I wasn't insane.
There had been more than a few spars with fellow ursa totemics that went quite far as I could heal a lot, but still. A grazed artery wasn't comparable to what could have happened.
It would have been put to practice if the pit lord decided to do his flame trick there, too. But between certain death and potential death, the choice was evident.
Regardless, I could regenerate the organ no matter its destruction, but it wasn't quick and took a lot of focus—something you don't have in the middle of a battle to the death.
Moving the organic pump to the side and making a shell of bone, fat, and other connective tissues around its area was far more straightforward, if deeply unpleasant. But it had worked; Mannoroth had been arrogant, and millennia of experience are useless if you underestimate your foe.
The pit lord could have won and should have. He was stronger than me in magic, body, and skill, but he acted like a dimwitted brute and paid the price in an impromptu lobotomy.
It was a gamble I took, and I hit the jackpot. Again, I was lucky. However, I didn't do it alone.
"Thank you, oh mighty and wise ancestors of old…" I whispered before coughing blood–literally–as I felt the ancient furbolg spirits leave my presence, pride, and praise in their echoing voice.
~...Farewell, brave one.~
~A feat worthy of the Twin Bear's Chosen…~
~Well fought!~
~Victory has been claimed.~
Immediately, the spiritual manifestation of a leg and half a paw vanished into motes of light, leaving the areas with a sense of nothingness beyond the paralysis of my amputated foot. This sensation spread through my body as well, amplifying the pain into bonafide agony.
And it was draining, sending waves of fatigue, but also it was its opposite since my mana pool didn't feel like it was getting sucked dry anymore.
When used, it was the primary effect of the Spirit Whistle to instantly summon and materialize the ancestors at the cost of a lot of energy and even more to power them if they used spells.
I didn't use it here to make a small elite squad, though—Ursol's initial intent if I was in extreme danger. It's not that it wouldn't have helped against Mannoroth, but the risk that he would have used more than half a brain cell in the fight if I had was too high.
The better option was temporary prostheses–literal phantom limbs–allowing the spirits to share their might and wisdom through my flesh and armor. Those limbs were just a byproduct of a call to the ancestors, leading to a potent, short-lived boost in instincts, perception, and resilience, magical and physical.
As such, these prostheses were notably inferior in all points to my true limbs, but they were acceptable with bone and bark reinforcement. Losing body parts was something I had foreseen.
But it was a happy coincidence that the ancestors could help in that department.
And this was an unorthodox application of one of the Wise Bear's skills grafted on his gift, but it paled to the real deal. If Cenarius could create a treant army, then the Bear of Wisdom did the same for the spirit of furbolgs, be they shamans, ursa totemics, or any others—all able to use their skills.
It was temporary and more mana-intensive in comparison but far more versatile.
I felt a slight poke on my fur, and a massage to alleviate the pain followed. I rumbled in contentment.
"Ah ya, good Groot? I'm, mostly. And good job, buddy." I cooed, and in response, the armor shaped itself back in its ideal defensive form–an image of myself but wooden–while repairing itself.
My small leafy familiar wasn't unscathed by what happened. He was part of the armor, and he served me as an assistant. A second brain obeyed my command and adapted to the environment while focusing on stuff I couldn't.
It was he who grew the roots to keep me from falling earlier. But overall, he got out fine.
Treants were extremely resilient anyway. At worst, I can regrow Groot later through one of his branches using the Emerald Dream. Death wasn't the end; it was part of the cycle. They don't die when they are killed. And Groot was far from weak for a young sapling.
He was already healing from the Life and Nature mana residue from my ongoing healing—a rapid and almost automatic process. Any undesired extra holes were closed first while the little Fel that got in was being purged away.
It was even why I didn't bleed out–Fel didn't cauterize my lobbed limbs–arteries, and veins were the first things I sealed, if not straight-up heal. Tiny lesions that could be fatal and weren't anymore just like that.
My spine came after, and getting the sensation back in my remaining foot felt great; less so was the lack of the other, but my lung came first. Breathing with half of the pair and having blood that was yours in your throat was unpleasant, to say the least.
The entire process of healing everything, barring my missing extremities, took long minutes of bones shifting inside and flesh regrowing. I could go faster, but I was thorough, and the burning agony vanishing was euphoric.
I remained aware of my environment, ready to set off another handful of lunar fungus spores alight as I searched for any would-be orcs or demons that had the brilliant ideas to finish me off. I wasn't particularly low on mana, and while flight was impossible, I wasn't out of tricks.
And many of my self-created flora weren't to be used willy-nilly for the strongest one. A single spore flashbang took a week for enough natural moonlight and starlight to accumulate and be used.
I didn't have complete control of biology. At best, I was a forceful guide, even with direct manipulations of traits. I couldn't snap my finger, and poof, a flower under my will became a deadly turret shooting explosive seeds. No, it was a delicate process.
Luckily for once, in this fucking day where everything seemed to go wrong in the worst possible way, there wasn't anyone, not even any animals.
Well, besides an oversized 'crow' that did not correspond to any local species, it had been perched somewhere high in the trees. But spirits decidedly weren't animals in the strictest sense of the word, and this wasn't even a kindred of the wild. Or a regular spirit, for that matter; it only vaguely felt like one.
It felt like a void of nothing with hints of Arcane–exceptionally controlled at that–only made obvious because of the oppressive amount of chaotic demonic energy polluting the air.
It was a beacon of order. Not that I could study the 'raven' well. It had flown away the instant we made eye contact–I glared promise of murder at it–though I had a clear picture of who that might be—the reason for my glare, in fact.
A few owls and night elves too–the word animals worked there, evolutionary-wise–but they were recent. The wind had shifted, and I knew they were there, no matter how hidden they may have been. Scents were difficult to eliminate, or more precisely, that there was something, and these women stunk of orc blood.
Turning around with a wooden foot around my stump of a leg–it was to be regrown when, in a less dangerous area, I couldn't reach the bits that fell since Fel ate them–I faced them and walked toward them with a slight limp—their glowing standing out in the dying forest like bluish fireflies.
"Do you need my help? Are you from the group that was massacred by the demons? I offer healing, purification, and sustenance to any survivors." I asked loudly, and the dozen elves tensed up.
Getting closer, I got a better look at them, and they were almost all staring dumbly at me and the skeleton behind. Still, they were ready to attack, and I can't say I wouldn't let loose if they did. All these Fel in Ashenvale weren't without effect, and I never was the person with the most self-control.
"By Elune, I can't believe my eyes. Did it kill this…? And that strange armor, it talks too… is it that the furbolg in reports?" One of the thinner sentinels whispered to a bulkier companion to her right, completely ignoring me, and the other nodded.
In her case, she was ready to flee. It was a futile endeavor if I wanted her dead that spoke a thousand words, even if that wasn't irrational on her part.
I didn't exactly look the friendliest right now, too, but I wasn't going to lower my defense. Still, I waited a bit, but after ten seconds of them babbling and the others' terse silence, I snapped.
"I'm not in the mood for patience. Answer now. Do you need help, or do you want to waste my time and the ones in need? Oh, and I'm Ohto, so yes. I'm that furbolg and not an 'it.'" I spoke more aggressively and bluntly than I hoped–not that I cared much–but that got the message across.
The reaction was, as expected, outrage and shock. It was an amusing sight, but it could go wayward easily.
"How dare you-" A huntress atop her cute little nightsaber screamed and seemed about to attack by how tight she held her moon glaive.
It was a heterogeneous consensus; some were shocked, and others were ready to mettle with my claws. Be a little rude mortal, an 'ungrateful pet you take care' at that, and most of them lose their shit.
"Aeldris, calm yourself down! My sisters, frustration and anger are high, I know, but let it be used on the demonic fiends to avenge Lord Cenarius and not on a weary friend of the wild." The source of the authoritative voice came into view, and I snorted. At least their leader was reasonable. Well, I did tickle their sensibilities, but eh… I did more than all of them combined.
"Thank you…" I drawled, flicking my round ears toward her, "Shandris Feathermoon, Head of the Shadowleaves or what remains of us… Ohto of the Greenweald." She answered rigidly, if helpfully, with something akin to relief.
'Isn't she like the adopted daughter of Tyrande and Malfurion?' I thought while the self-named Shandris went on.
"We are under duress, and a healer of your skills would be appreciated. The outlanders and their demonic masters have proven far greater foes than foreseen." She finished.
"Where's the camp then? Also, where is the Grimtotem force?" I asked, tapping a tree. And my bag slung above to safety was lower second later through the vine, and I fused it back to my armor. I almost forgot it.
"Taurens… Those mortals… they are helping at the camp further North where the taint hasn't spread and proved strong in battle…" The elven woman explained, and by her tone, she wasn't the most pleased. At least she was honest, even if ashamed.
"Let's go then."
And that's what we did. Honestly, it wasn't that far, and even if I had some difficulty keeping up with the kaldorei and their mounts' rapid pace, we arrived in less than thirty minutes.
Miserable fitted what I was seeing. It wasn't so much the number of taurens and night elves on death doors. I mean, it was like one out of twenty, but the atmosphere was heavy and tense.
The kaldorei, in particular, females and the minority of males, looked downright on the precipice of breaking down either of sorrow or fury, or both and some more. It was eye-opening. The sentinels that escorted would pass for euphorics in comparison.
'Quite the wake-up call, it seems.' I thought critically. Cruel as it may sound, it should help bring them down to earth, and everyone would be better off that way.
The Grimtotem taurens were just angry more than anything and, actually, the ones doing shit around with the few functional elves. The leading figure of them all stomped quickly toward us, and I instantly recognized those blue fur markings and shaved-off horns, though a long, thin scar ran from his right eye to his nose now—a fresh one.
'An ugly yet effective heal. There's much to improve, but he learns well.' I internally evaluated.
"Ah, Captain Feathermoon, any good news… oh." Ton Windbow trailed off as his singular eye locked onto me. He immediately bowed, earning an amused snort from me. "Teacher?"
"Ton-" I said, then tilted my head down to the comparatively tiny elf captain, "-and Shandris, can you round up the freshly deceased elves and taurens alike? Oh, and by the way. Favoritism will not be tolerated."
Discontentment, anger, and incomprehension from my words were for my eyes and ears to perceive in large amounts, but fuck them. I'm the healer here. Hypocritical as it may be, too. If there were any furbolg, they would pass first.
"My sisters, do as the furbolg demands! I trust his judgment as a healer." The alleged adopted daughter of the High Priestesses of Elune hollered, forgetting the few druids present, but they helped regardless.
While they did so, I sat down on the grass, popped a golden acorn in my maw, and used the life force in it to fix my paw and leg. It wasn't needed, but helping and healing everyone to a point they weren't deadweight would take a toll on my already less-than-full reserve.
Regrowing lost biomass was particularly pricey, too, so it helped on that front. Well, if I didn't cannibalize my own tissues, that was for extreme cases.
Soon enough, I had a small line of bodies. From the look of it, death was almost exclusively from hemorrhage. Unsurprising, really, they retreated in haste after the Lord of the Forest's execution, and Shandris confirmed this much; just like she had informed me, she immediately sent a messenger to her mother informing her of what had happened.
The Fel orcs ripped apart anyone, and this was the result: only people without having been beheaded, gutted, or the like managed to flee. That greatly limited the number of grievously wounded, for they were left to die on the battlefield.
"Ohto, can you truly bring them from death's grasp?" Shandris tentatively asked with a frown and pursed lips, but I wasn't going to bring her hope too high.
"Depends! The cells of your brain begin to degrade shortly after the cessation of vital functions, but the extent of the damage varies too much for me to give you an answer. I can't revive cells, so I'm limited since neurons are all about structure and connection, which I can't replicate—regrowing them without perfect replication results in an alteration of the ego, mind, and personality, leading to insanity, brain death, or a vegetative state. A revival isn't even certain in those cases. Worse, it can lead to desynchronization with the soul. So, assume the potential need for re-education, memory loss, and the like with what I'm doing in case of success regardless." I babbled to the stunned elven woman as I went to work.
Then the sentinel I had my paw over–encompassing her entire torso and some more–suddenly took a deep, sharp breath while looking around with bleary eyes.
My action garnered hundreds of varying reactions, mostly disbelief, elation, hope, and the like, but probing the next kaldorei corpse, I shook my head. The reality of things was often disappointing, and this didn't disappoint this expectation.
"No."
There was a pleading cry, but I mostly ignored it and went to the corpse after–a female Grimtotem–and soon enough, the tauren stumbled forward with glassed-over eyes. It wasn't a free process for my patient, but the brain will adapt, plasticity for the win. However, that meant they would be of little immediate use for the most part. At least they could move once more.
This process was repeated several dozens of times, with success and failure skewering the statistics of the latter. I expected as much, to be honest. Following this was more mundane healing, which amounted to regenerating the eye of my bovine student, among other things.
Every corpse had been buried deep under roots and sparkled with the spore of necrophagic mycelium, of course. It was normally used for making fertilizer, but it worked just as well here.
Undeads weren't yet sighted, but everyone now understood it was a matter of days, at the utmost, before they showed themselves.
After that, I flew away, no matter the disagreement of some. I wasn't their personal nurse.
Anyway, we parted away.
The Shadowleaves and druids were to journey to Tyrande. The Grimtotem planned to do the same, which the elves authorized–to my pleasant surprise–with almost unanimous agreement.
As for me? It was the Horde and Alliance. It would be a pain in the ass, but I was curious, also vital since I didn't trust the night elves to handle the first contact with politeness.
On my way, I sprinkled the spore of the same composting mushroom over the battlefield.
It won't get rid of corpses thrown like this, only a portion of the fleshes–if there weren't a too high dose of demonic energies, then the mycelium just died–victories counted.
Also, I scoured for Cenarius' corpse, it was gone, however, and that pissed me off. I wasn't surprised, though, but it wasn't all the end. I gathered the bloodied dirt around where he died.
Some of it with the cells–his–inside still alive, if struggling—the God part of Wild God might be a bit of an exaggeration, but they were beyond the norms.
'Ursoc first, though...' I noted, and that was a plan of mine with my teacher we had been working on, even if not focused due to the impending doom.
But that was for after the war.
Comments
Asura
Thanks for the chapter 👋
TITOO
I mean, anyone knowledgeable enough can see it's not quite the case like Ursol. But Ohto being able to use Life magic raises questions. It's no harmless magic, and there are reasons why it's not widespread.
Mika Willems
Not gonna help with the red dragonflight theory some will no doubt hold.
TITOO
Even if what Ohto does is just extremely advanced healing on clinically dead people, it's extremely rare. Well, if the resurrection doesn't turn you into something else, like an undead, that is. But is that truly resurrection? Anyway, it's rare, and the number of people able to do it consistently can be counted on one hand.
Mika Willems
How rare is someone being able to resurrect in the story anyway?
Bat
I like your version of “resurrecting” .
