A Savage Nature (Warcraft)

They’re making decent enough time, all things considered. It’s been a few days since they left the encampment, and while Tyrande knows that she could have moved far more swiftly if she were by herself or traveling only with her most elite Sentinels, there was something undeniable about the old adage ‘safety in numbers’.
 
The trek North to Moonglade where her mate currently lay asleep in his barrow had proven incredibly treacherous so far. The forests were no longer safe. They’d always had a wild, untamed quality to them… but long had her people roamed across these woods without any true worry. Now though? Now there were demons and undead around every corner, the Legion and this… Scourge of theirs infesting her people’s forests with their corruptive presence.
 
Yes, Tyrande and her Sentinels could have made it to Moonglade by now if they had gone alone, but only if they managed to survive the trip. As things stood, that was a big ‘if’. Instead, traveling alongside these orcs and their tauren, human, and troll allies, Tyrande had to admit… they made for formidable warriors if nothing else. Though their unity left something to be desired. There were fractures in their ranks, that much was obvious to her. Mortals squabbling over petty grievances, she suspected.
 
Still, perhaps that was not fair to them. They were willing to take up arms against the Legion. And for that, they had Tyrande’s respect.
 
The one called Rognak, however, had more than her respect. He had her attention. And so she found herself finally approaching him a few days in, coming up alongside him as they continued their slow but steady progress North.
 
“Rognak, yes?”
 
He’s not surprised by her presence, but he does look a little startled that she’s directly addressing him. If Tyrande didn’t know any better, she would say he’s experiencing a mild case of hero worship. But she doubts he knows enough about her to feel such a thing. And she definitely doubts that Shandris spends cuddle time professing Tyrande’s virtues.
 
“Ah, High Priestess. Well met.”
 
Tyrande smiles softly, hoping to put him at ease.
 
“I have heard much of you, both from Sentinel Feathermoon and Lord Cenarius. I am told that you are responsible for keeping your people from harming our forests. And that more than that, you led your clan against the greater demon Mannoroth, facing down death with honor and courage to end the threat he posed to these lands.”
 
His reaction is an interesting one. His chest swells with pride, and yet he ducks his head almost as though her words have turned him bashful. Amusing to say the least, and Tyrande cannot help but grin as he looks off to the side.
 
“Well… as cliché as it might sound, I really only did what anyone would have done in my position. I have long been my people’s only druid. I suppose I could have tried to enact change sooner, back in Lordaeron… but my connection to Nature wasn’t nearly as strong there. And the forests of Lordaeron are not quite so protected as your forests, Lady Tyrande.”
 
Tyrande lifts an eyebrow as he suddenly looks contemplative.
 
“Technically I could have journeyed south to Gilneas. Their witches might have even been willing to teach me, once they saw what I could do. But I doubt it… could you imagine a creature like me, trying to pass myself off among humans?”
 
She can tell it’s an attempt at being self-deprecating, so she lets out a small laugh in response. Indeed, from what she’s seen of these humans so far… they do not look at all like orcs, nor do they look like Night Elves. They are smaller and pinker than any creature she has ever seen on Kalimdor before. Hearing that they are… or were the dominant force in this Lordaeron they left behind… it’s shocking to her.
 
Almost as shocking as hearing about the history of Broxigar’s people. To think that his background was so fraught with corruption and darkness… Tyrande would never have guessed. Broxigar had fought hard against the Legion… harder than any other. Finally, after ten thousand years, she knew why he fought so hard. The demons had taken everything from his people, turning them into monsters that had ultimately destroyed their own world and come to this one to do the same.
 
But they had a chance at redemption now. And it started with this young orc beside her.
 
“No, in the end… I kept to myself. I maintained a certain level of secrecy, even among my own people. But coming across the sea, to these lands… the moment I saw your forest, I knew I had to act. I knew it deep in my very bones.”
 
His voice is filled with emotion and Tyrande’s smile grows a little as she reaches out and puts a hand on his arm, startling him from his internal musings.
 
“I can see why Shandris likes you, Rognak. You are a credit to your people.”
 
At that, she has the fortune of seeing an orc blush for the first time. Certainly, Broxigar had never done so in her presence. But Rognak… Rognak flushes at the mention of her adoptive daughter and Tyrande can’t help but tease him.
 
“Of course, I’m not sure if she’s told you… but I am not merely a Priestess of Elune. I am also Shandris’ mother. Perhaps not by blood, but I’ve raised her as my own for over ten thousand years. As such, I should tell you now… if you hurt her, there will be consequences.”
 
Her dire threat hangs in the air for a moment between them, before Tyrande softens it with a sweet smile. Rognak just blinks at her stupidly for a moment, before barking out a laugh. Huh, was she losing her touch? He definitely should have been quaking in his boots!
 
“I can’t believe you of all people are giving me the shovel talk, Priestess.”
 
Tyrande’s nose wrinkles in confusion at that. Both at the strange phrase, and at his surprise. It doesn’t seem like he’s shocked to learn that she’s Shandris’ adoptive mother, which means he already knew. But then, why couldn’t he believe she was telling him this? And what did it have to do with shovels?
 
Before Tyrande can ask any of those questions, however, Rognak gives her a big smile.
 
“You don’t have to worry, High Priestess. Shandris and I are just friends. She’s already told me that she doesn’t see me in a romantic light. We’ve had encounters, sure… but it’s entirely physical.”
 
For a long moment, Tyrande peers at him, assessing his honesty. In the end, she’s forced to acknowledge that he actually believes it. Amusing, to say the least. She almost tells him then and there what she’s been able to glean from Shandris so far… but why betray her daughter like that? Let them both fumble their way around in the dark as she once had to.
 
Though, that does make her think of her own mate, and their courtship of ten thousand years ago. In a lot of ways, Rognak reminds her of Broxigar Reborn. From the savagery she’s heard tale of and seen him exhibit in battle these past few days, to the Blessed Axe he sheathes on his back. Wolfsong, she’s heard it called. A powerful and strong name, to say the least.
 
However, in other ways, he reminds her much of her beloved, Malfurion Stormrage, the very druid that they journey north even now to awaken.
 
It’s been a long time since Tyrande saw Malfurion last. Centuries, in fact. And even then, it had only been for a few weeks before he returned to the Dream. That was how things had been for the past ten thousand years. Most of the time, Malfurion was slumbering in this world and tending to the Emerald Dream along with the other druids.
 
They weren’t always asleep, of course. If every single Night Elf Druid had slept for ten thousand years straight, Tyrande couldn’t imagine what the state of their society would be by this point. While there were some Night Elf women who had taken to druidism, most of their druids were men in the same way that all Sentinels were female. Ten thousand years without her mate would have made any self-respecting Sentinel questions her bonds.
 
And that was without even considering the ways their druids helped them tend to their forests in the waking world, keeping their lands in balance just as much as they kept the Emerald Dream in balance.
 
No, they had not slept for ten thousand years. There was… a cycle. Druids had slumbered and then awoken, sometimes in batches, sometimes in singles. There were always a handful of druids awake at all times, so that the forests were tended to, and their people were not neglected. However… the ratio was incredibly skewed in the Emerald Dream’s favor. Some druids might spend as long as centuries in the Dream, and only weeks in the waking world before diving back in again.
 
As powerful as her mate was, it was a given that Malfurion would spend the vast majority of his time in the Dream. In turn, Cenarius tended to handle things in the waking world, more often than not.

That did not mean that Tyrande regretted the choice she’d made ten thousand years ago, mind you. No, she loved Malfurion Stormrage with all her heart. In fact, it was because of her love that his absence was all the more keenly felt, as it felt as though she had to steal moments in time with her mate, before he would leave her once again and return to the Dream.
 
Ah, but look at her. She’d gone and made herself all morose and fallen into complete silence at Rognak’s side. Chuckling softly, Tyrande glances over to see that the orc druid has fallen deep into thought himself. While she still sees some of Malfurion in him, there’s on way in which she can’t deny that the differ greatly. Somehow… she just can’t imagine him spending much time in the Emerald Dream. He’s too active. She can see that he lives in the moment, and unlike her people’s druids, he is not immortal.
 
That’s honestly a good thing, because if he were to spend a hundred years in the Emerald Dream, he would never wake up. He would die of old age. Instead, she suspects his short mortal lifespan will be spent doing his best to help his people better themselves, be it through druidism or other methods. Tyrande won’t deny that she’s excited to see what form this Horde of theirs ends up taking. Both from what she’s seen so far of them, and the memory of Broxigar that she’s held close to her heart even after ten thousand years.
 
“… Well met, Rognak. I appreciate you letting me steal a moment of your time. I shall leave you with this: I look forward to fighting alongside you moving forward. The Legion will feel the wrath of Azeroth’s defenders. Of this I have no doubt.”
 
He looks a little surprised, which is fair given his last words to her. But Tyrande feels no need to explain herself as she moves off from him, quite pleased with how the conversation had gone.
 
-x-X-x-
 
“… No.”
 
They’d made good time. They’d even managed to reach Moonglade with minimal losses among their combined forces. And yet… Tyrande feels a sinking sensation in her gut as she stares at the sight in front of her.
 
The demons and undead had stood between them and their ultimate goal the whole way here, so when they first arrived at Moonglade to find it swarming with the Scourge as well, Tyrande hadn’t thought anything of it… at first. Together, they’d fought through the reanimated corpses. Orcs and humans had cut them down while Tyrande and her Sentinels provided blistering cover fire with their bows. Tyrande in particular had planted radiant arrows in as many as fifty undead alone.
 
Eventually, they’d managed to clear the Scourge out, culling the damned from the Moonglade inch by inch until they could finally reach the Horn of Cenarius… and the barrow located nearby. As the Lord of the Forest retrieved his horn, Tyrande found herself standing in front of Malfurion’s barrow.
 
The doors sealing her mate’s sleeping chamber shut have been broken open. All that’s left is a yawning pit of darkness that descends down into the earth. Tyrande cannot see into its depths, but then, she doesn’t really need to. The doors should never have been broken open. They should have stayed shut; they should have been impenetrable.
 
Lord Cenarius comes to stand beside her as Tyrande stares into the dark opening of the barrow, her heart pounding in her chest. One hand comes to rest on her shoulder, as the other brings the Horn to his lips.
 
BAROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!
 
The Horn of Cenarius sounds all across the Moonglade, waking the druids of fang and claw from their slumber. This is not the only place that her people’s druids have come to rest, but it is their primary location. It is the safest and most secure place they know… or at least, it was.
 
Something shifts within the barrow den and Tyrande watches with wide eyes and an increasingly yawning hole in the pit of her stomach as the Horn calls forth whatever lies in Malfurion’s Barrow Den. Slowly, creeping up from the depths, crawling out into the open ground… her beloved rises to his feet. Malfurion Stormrage stands before them… but it is not Malfurion Stormrage, not truly.
 
The Archdruid has been savaged while he slumbered. One of his antlers is torn away. One of his eyes as well. He is missing half a shoulder, that arm barely hanging on by the bone. His broad torso has been torn to shreds, showing off ribs and rotting flesh, and his legs have not been spared either. He should not even be capable of walking.
 
But then, if he were still alive, he wouldn’t be. This Malfurion… is not still alive. Standing before them is not her mate… not her beloved. Standing before them, his one remaining eyes glassed over and lifeless, is an undead abomination.
 
She was too late. She’d spent too long dallying. Perhaps even going to Cenarius first was the mistake that had cost her beloved his life. In the end, it didn’t really matter. What mattered was Tyrande’s failure. She had taken her time and Malfurion had paid the price. In her absence, the Scourge had broken down the doors to her beloved mate’s barrow den… and turned the Moonglade’s Archdruid into a corpse, only to reanimate him for their purposes.
 
In the face of this atrocity, in the face of this horror… Tyrande screams.

-x-X-x-

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