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7. A Twisting Turn of Event
🕑 Added 2024-12-01 19:00:06 +0000 UTC"-and that's how you carve the rune Vark for justice. Any questions, young cub?" I nodded to the words of Shaman Urtaine, a young brown-furred male furbolg and my current teacher for runes and glyphs, in this case, the Ursine runes.
Oakpaw couldn't do all of my education despite being my principal tutor. He was very knowledgeable in many subjects but wasn't knowledgeable or proficient in everything, nor did he have infinite time to tend to me. So, I was passed along from one shaman to another like a hot potato. Not that I wasn't given appropriate lessons, but it was amusing to imagine them doing that.
It wasn't unusual per se. It was normal; even apprentices for shamans weren't exclusive to one individual. It was a communal effort. But usually, their apprentices weren't me.
They didn't have the less-than-intact human mind from another reality full of desperation to survive and thirsting for knowledge to do the previously mentioned and whose shamanic instruction had begun seven years ago, making it close to ninety percent of their lives.
It was a bit too much for some to handle, and it didn't matter that I wasn't a super genius. I was diligent and curious. Death had never felt this tangible, and I didn't want to drag every bad habit from before… Well, I tried, at least. The lack of brain rot divertissement helped on that front, and it was bonafide magic. Having concrete power wasn't exactly intoxicating, but it was close to that category.
"Yes, I have a few, teacher," I said pensively, my paws moving to a bear totem I had carved two days ago and the one I would use as a training dummy, my future canvas for my rune carving.
He motioned for me to go on, and I happily complied.
"Is that why Yor is commonly engraved with Vark on weapons?" I asked. The second represents an idea of justice, while the first did the same for tenacity. It wasn't hard to understand why they worked together.
"Yes, without them, even the most sturdy weapons of our warriors can shatter before our foe; a strong body and spirit, if betrayed by a trusted one, lead to a downfall." He nodded again, a pleased smile of sharp teeth on his muzzle, "But that's not their only use-"
And the lesson went on.
Runes were a fascinating subject in which I was deeply invested because they acted as the foundation of a lot of stuff. From enchantments, rituals, alchemy, and spells, they were pre-made magic given shape, meaning, and purpose.
To say they were important would be an understatement. We used runes from other alphabets like Kalimag, but Ursine dominated. However, both held a lot of similarities since the latter was an adaptation of the former to provide flexibility in exchange for potency. It was one of the greatest gifts of Ursol to us.
Shocking to no one, it was ancient, among the oldest of Azeroth, and the base of our spoken and written language.
So yes, it was a pillar for furbolgs. And being a full-fledged magic caster wasn't necessary to use them; we all had mana, no matter the quantity or the talent to wield it. A bit of training with an appropriate education lets you use most of them. It meant our craftsmen worked closely with us, closer than most, the beekeepers too, though they weren't the only ones.
A waterproof leather chest piece or rust-resilient ax head did plenty for the tribe. It was an investment, only for a little time and admittedly more or less expensive and rare resources.
It wasn't Frostmourne, but there was no need for that. A tool that could be used for a dozen generations if taken care of before only needing to be recycled at the end of its lifespan was well worth it.
Ultimately, the lesson ended after another hour, and I was left collecting mushrooms in temporary living branch pack baskets.
I was a bit far from the village, but there you got the kinds I wanted, both to eat and brew. Then I felt something, and my claws on their way to cut the stem of a puffy orange ball-shaped mushroom froze.
The ancestral spirits stirred suddenly, and my head snapped to the distance where their urgency pointed. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath while cycling my energy, and listened. A second later, I could hear and sense beyond my fleshy body.
~Go!~
~A cub of a wandering one is soon to die.~
~Fast, time is fleeting.~
~She had given birth and was captured with her daughter in her weakened moment by a traitorous satyr out of our sight!~
~A dark veil had kept the lost ones hidden.~
~The fiend murdered her mate.~
And I looped out the drowning chorus of voices, calming my breathing as best as possible. I hadn't expected things to escalate this quickly or to escalate at all. And the glimpse I got from their perception, as confusing as it might be, showed it was bad.
Hearing the ancestors' whispers and getting glimpses of visions wasn't out of the ordinary here, for me, at least. I was close to our burial ground. It lets us jump over usually obligatory steps, but to be this loud. It wasn't normal.
This was bad.
I grimaced, torn on what to do, but this lapse didn't last long. It was perilous. I would have to go alone, but on the other paw, it won't be the case for long since the spirits won't stay silent. They would warn my fellow shamans, and if it were something I couldn't do, they wouldn't act this way.
I was putting a lot of trust in them. My ancestors, they may be; this was an immense leap of faith.
Reaching my conclusion, I was already sprinting on all four. The newborn cub and her mother weren't of the tribe but were furbolgs. Their potential death wasn't so much the cause of my choice. I won't cry over every tragedy.
No, it was the circumstances, and letting them suffer and die without even trying to save them was beyond unsavory on my tongue. Letting one of those degenerate freaks harm a defenseless cub and her postpartum mother in our territory was unacceptable on every level.
Luckily and worryingly, where the ancestors pointed me wasn't that far. The satyr was right in the middle of our territory. It was in the direction of an area where the patrols of the two ursa totemics managing this territory were less frequent due to the terrain.
It was a wetland thanks to the rivers, a place the two huge furbolg managing it hated to be deep within due to their weight and bulk. It's a clever place to hide if you know what to do.
Minutes passed, and running felt like an eternity—an agonizing eternity that finally ended as I neared the wetland. The humidity from it made the nearby area perfect for many fungi. Taking a short breather to cool down, I began to study my environment.
My senses of smell failed to detect anything. Still, it was expected here from the overpowering odor of flowers and mud and actual magical solutions against it, making it obvious something was out of place. But if there was one thing that wasn't perfectly hidden, it was three distinct life forces, yet I couldn't tell much.
They were muted, and it wasn't exclusively because they were underground; I reckoned it was something else… a ward and the dark veil mentioned. It was poorly done or had been damaged if the ancestors sensed it from this far.
Placing a paw on the ground, I focused, expanding my sense in the soil through the thousands of roots to better understand what I was working with. I needed to be quick, but blindly rushing in was a no.
'One satyr and the mother and daughter duo…' I frowned but was pleased with there only being one of those despoilers, though the mother felt wrong and the newborn was extremely weak and a bit off. It greatly displeased me, however, but at least the two were alive.
Rapidly advancing to the entrance–learned from the vegetation and the smell–it was a small hole in the roots of a rotting tree, a burrow. It was a dangerous place to hide with high chances of collapsing and flooding, paradoxically making it good as ursa totemics couldn't go in.
Placing my mushroom basket with half was now to be composted. I rapidly devised a basic plan of action as my eyes landed on one particular mushroom. It had a beige, fat, stubby base and a flat crown of pale purple flesh adorned with bright yellow dots. If one were to look closely, one would notice hundreds of pores.
I smirked—a devious idea had flashed in my mind.
"Hehehe… And the air should be too humid for any conflagration…" I noted that after taking four of such mushrooms, my mana from when I plucked them to avoid any explosive accident was recharged by me with bonuses for what was to come. Their abilities to self-fertilize were utilized in full force here.
I stepped in. It was a short walk, and I was found immediately, a furiously hissing masculine voice in a heavily accented Darnasian accompanied by the clip-clop of hooves. The smell of blood hit me, but it wasn't just furbolg blood.
"First, the dumb mut woke up, went on a rampage, vitiated my precious seals, nearly ripped off my arm, almost killed the primary sacrifice, and now you unintelligent beast dare come into the domain of Lord Delmax?" The male satyr, 'Lord' Delmax, came into view and openly ranted, a pathetic sight and display if I ever saw one.
His body was on the thinner side and unwashed; mud and blood caked his fur while his left shoulder was badly mangled, hastily put bloody bandages hiding the ugly, deep bite wound.
And he was marginally taller than me–not bigger, big difference–not the biggest satyr, but I didn't let my guard down due to this. Size for magic casters was secondary.
We stared at each other for a terse second, and a pleased smile grew on his face, fangs showing as he seemingly concluded I was prey material—a wrong conclusion. A horrifically wrong one I was going to fix immediately.
"Truly, I'm thankful, my furry little pest, you alleviate a great burd-" And I threw the mushrooms in his general direction–puffshrooms was their name–and harmlessly bounced off the walls, ceiling, ground, and his body each exploding into a dense cloud of beige spores.
He coughed and cursed, rage all over his face, his clawed hand glowing with ghoulish green energy for a spell I recognized and knew they were in love with drain life. But it was useless and too late.
I rushed to him as his cough grew in intensity and force, yet ever quieting, barring the wet noise from the blood that was added to the mix.
I bet it was likely from the mycelium growing in his throat, nose cavity, and lungs, tearing away his delicate alveoli for the last by their sheer bulk. He wasn't poisoned or envenomed. Puffshrooms aren't toxic and require precise conditions to develop, but magic helped smooth out the latter.
The spores thrived in the environment with my mana, blocking and pushing away everything in their path. In anything with lungs, it was devastating despite it only being seemingly harmless fragile mycelium that wouldn't survive for long.
But it wouldn't kill fast enough. The surprise factor won't stay for eternity either, and as much as I loved the sight of a filthy satyr clutching his throat with wide eyes filled with utter terror, incomprehension, and confusion… You don't play around with them.
Kill first and question never.
'Hmm. It's going to be my first kill of something sapient.' I briefly realized as I swiftly put a foot on his sternum, causing him to stop rolling as I put two-thirds of my weight on that single point, the bones under straining.
I grabbed under his chin with my left paw, perforating the skin with the claws as I got a hold of where jaw bones, tendons, and surrounding muscles held it to the skull. My right paw at the same time went behind, claws scraping the skin and skull, the goat horns only solidifying my grip, my death bear hug.
The supposed 'Lord' squirmed with all his
might; screaming wasn't possible, but I knew he was trying just as he tried to claw at me with little success with his cute, sharp nails he called claw.
He was asphyxiating, too. I grinned at his state. At best, he was making scratches. It was as if he forgot he could do magic, the wonder of panic and why Miel hammered it in me.
Good, I wasn't going to let him remember.
I don't want to know what an ageless warlock can pull out of his ass in a pinch. I didn't need to experience it to know that.
Then, I wordlessly began to twist his neck at an upward angle, all the while hauling the head. Both actions were done in parallel as I used weight, strength, and techniques for maximal efficiency. Ursa totemics were not mindless beasts, brawlers using claws and fang they may be; they knew how to fight. By being tutored under one, I wasn't only taught to bite well.
In a short moment, my effort bore fruit with a satisfying sound. It was a mix of wet flesh twisting, skin extending before tearing, and snaps from breaking the cervicals and ribs echoed in the tunnel as the body below me went limp.
The Fel mana that had gathered in the satyr's hands vanished as I let go of the barely attached head by fleshy ribbons and filamentous mycelium, and thanks to those clogging everything, there was barely any blood.
I couldn't ponder how I felt after my first kill or how little I did that a loud bestial below reverberated in the air. I might have broken whatever he did to keep the mother down as the near-headless satyr words flashed in my head.
It was why she felt wrong, one of my greatest fears as a furbolg, corruption.
"Fuck!" I jumped off the corpse and hastened myself to the end of the tunnel.
The end wasn't far, and as I reached, I saw the glow of Fel energy painting the large room in baleful green light from their source mana crystal and glyphs. Knives, tools, and flasks of reagents were strewn around, as was a makeshift bed. Claw marks were present, too, messing up some of the stuff.
Whatever this ritual went over my head as my eyes locked onto the female, her naked body covered in burns and lacerations. Yet this was nothing compared to her eyes betraying any ideas of higher thoughts and her wide open frothing maw of fangs above a cub almost rivaling her in injury in a no way better state.
Toothless and clawless, weakened newborn on death door wailing and flailing meekly at mother on her way to devour her cub. I profoundly hated this sight and regretted not having tortured the satyr, but this was a useless thought.
"Hey!" I yelled, attracting the two's attention and the mother's aggression as she rushed at me on all fours. A root pushed from the ground under her feet, and she stumbled, rolling in a heap of uncoordinated limbs until the wall stopped her. After that, I willed hundreds of smaller roots around her neck, muzzle, arms, and legs.
'It should be enough.' I thought running to the newborn cub, the roots were the metaphorical pillar of this house that was the burrow, and why I didn't directly strangle the satyr aside from the fat chance it wouldn't work. He could suck the life out of them and had demonic flames.
Crouching down, I frowned. Suppose there was a silver lining: the lack of mutation in her and her mother, who were remarkably intact. Though that was the physical part, her mana was impure, but with my current skill, I can't execute the first step to purify her without risking damaging her mind or, worse, her soul. Less can be said of the latter beyond the lack of resources.
Furbolgs knew of their weakness, after all. But that was of no impact when taken alone and helpless. And by a certain point, it becomes nigh impossible.
So, I went in with what I knew best: restoration. Gently cradling her, I noticed how incredibly light, fragile, cold she was, trembling too. She was sick, starving and dehydrated. It was exceptional she wasn't a corpse yet, but she was on her way if I didn't intervene.
I placed a finger pad on her forehead, her wide eyes staring at me in fear, but as I forced her into slumber, they went unfocused and disappeared under her eyelids. I immediately went on to quickly and proficiently heal her wounds.
Then, as I was stabilizing her, my ears swiveled at the sound of roots tearing apart. It all happened so fast. My focus was almost entirely on the cub, yet it remained steady as I nearly knocked off my feet. The following burning pains on my back of claws and teeth in origin neither did change that fact.
I reacted purely out of instinct. Roots far sturdier and larger than the one I used before surged from the ceiling and latched on the mother, killing her instantly by brusquely tugging upward as her momentum and the strength of the plants did the rest.
"Fuckfuckfuck…" I muttered, turning around–the sharp pain on my back was merely an afterthought–I stared at the body. A few moments passed, and an idea struck me.
Then I looked at the ceiling, where water began trickling down. It was stable enough, but it won't be for long. This was why I didn't use bigger roots to tie her up! I hate this type of bullshit situation. Whatever your choice, it's the wrong one.
"I hope this works…" I securely held the sleeping newborn close to my chest as I willed the roots to let go and placed a paw on her mother's wrongly angled neck.
However, first, I channeled a purifying spell, my mana coursing through the warm corpse, overpowering the flecks of Fel in its wake. It was a bit like matter on antimatter, and small lesions and scar tissues formed in the process.
All of these mostly went away for the former in creating the latter due to Nature and Life mana and my lack of care from my rushed technique—a problem for me to fix later.
This emergency cleansing process took a minute and a half. I wasn't done, but it should suffice. If it didn't, then that would be a problem for later. Water was already at my knees. Her head would be under the muddy water if her body hadn't been elevated.
Onto my idea…
If clinical death was reversible back on Earth in many cases, it should also be here with magic. It was more than a theory. I tested with success on varying occasions on prey, but I never did so on furbolg and even less under pressure.
With that in mind, I went to work. I wasn't unfamiliar with spine reconstruction for the same reason. However, a bad fall of my little sister was all it took, among other cases close to that, to familiarize myself with them regarding furbolgs.
Here, it was only a matter of reorienting the neck. After, it was far more straightforward: muscle tears were fixed, nerves reconnected, and veins and arteries tied back. As for the little bone splinters, blood, and such tissues, I guided and accelerated their resorption process. It's a neat trick for injuries that leave tissues where they don't belong.
"Now, to restart your heart," I said, loincloth wet and fur drenched from the rising mud. My free paw, glowing a vibrant green with glimmers of red, palmed her upper back, and I flushed my mana through her skin straight into her heart and diaphragm in quick bursts; the entire thing from the beginning seriously started to burn my mana reserve down.
The results were greater than I expected, and she took a big breath, coughing all the while weakly standing up, allowing me to step away in case she was still feral. At least it meant I healed her well.
"Wh-what…?" She whizzed weakly, and relief flooded my system, but I didn't dare go closer.
"Come, we must go out!" I loudly called, attracting her attention. Her eyes locked on me, my back then at her cub, and extreme guilt and horror flashed across her face and impregnated her smell to the point even in our situation, I could smell.
Oh, by the Bear Lords, she remembers it, poor her. Well, it's not my problem, and I wasn't a therapist, but I don't foresee good mental health without serious support. Still, the sigh of it all, I hated it. Fucking satyr… I had been far too kind.
"I'm fine, and so is your daughter! Unless you want to waste my effort reviving you by being buried and drowned back into a corpse, follow me!" I called out with more force, luckily snapping her to reality.
She took a step and nearly fell. Tired of waiting, I grabbed her larger paw and guided her as she followed. She nearly fell multiple times, either from exhaustion, emotions, injuries, or altogether, but with my support, she soldiered on. It wasn't very gentlemanly, but this silly concept didn't exist for furbolg—too complex and useless.
And with effort, we managed to get out to be met on the outside with an ursa totemic, a shaman with a few warriors, and around a dozen visible armed kaldorei women on sabertooth panthers.
There was a moment of heavy silence as they all stared at us. I avoided the nervous awkwardness of direct confrontation by sitting on a nearby log, voicelessly tending to my wounds, the sleeping cub still in my grasp. The mother was to the side and frozen in place, unsure of what to do and terrified, most likely.
"They need help." I broke the silence in Ursine; some night elves translated what I said to their fellows, and then I clarified, pointing at the two I saved, "Light case of Fel touch, and below, there's a failed demonic ritual or something of that nature.”
