Within the cool confines of a large tent of high-quality leather, wood, and metal, Magatha scrutinized the male tauren with a broken left horn opposite him.
He was not of the Grimtotem tribe.
He was not a chieftain of any tribe and was a mediocre shaman, given his advanced age, even if he was a proficient warrior.
Yet he was a respected elder of his tribe and to tauren as a whole.
None of these qualities interested the Elder Crone aside from the last. He was influential and of the same generation as her.
"You wish to rekindle with druidism, Hamuul, as my people have done." She calmly stated, her aged eyes full of vibrancy, studying his reaction as if he were a lost calf.
And at present, he might as well be.
"Indeed, I do, Elder Crone." Hamuul answered, cracks forming at the reverence he needed to show, "You have achieved what none did in twenty generations, and I seek to spread this long-lost gift with your help to our people."
Then, Magatha smiled; it was mirthless, cold, yet satisfied. She was pleased by the potential before her, awaiting her verdict.
He was among the first of few–and many to come–to have curbed his pride and seen reason. It had only been a matter of time, and patience was a virtue Magatha had mastered long ago.
The centaurs remained of great concern for any deeper plan, however.
More so, given the high chance they would unite from the pressures pushed onto them.
They were progressively chased away beyond what she had done in her tribe territories already, and it didn't take much to expect they would react that way.
Magatha was confident about this eventuality despite the centaurs' almost pitifulness, showing in their chaos and ineptitude to react to what amounted to meager forces.
And she was rarely wrong, for she didn't let chance choose her fate. Her distant eyes and ears from there told tales indicating that turn of events.
But worrying of a far distant threat, important as it may be, was for a later date.
Suppose she didn't decide to destroy their flimsy alliance using her druids' wings and abilities to blend with the wild. It was a temporary solution to the inbred locusts, but it would work.
Though the slow recuperation of the lost territories forced tie to the Horde with the taurens, the Elder Crone preferred inexistent, if not severely limited.
Gratitude was one thing, even if she felt none toward those outlanders—they weren't helping out of the goodness of their hearts.
They were conquerors.
And it certainly wasn't their presence alone that dictated the battles. They were localized, and that was irrefutable.
They were hard at work with their nascent 'empire' and the aftermath of the Burning Legion and Scourge invasion in the harsh land they settled.
But servitude, as the senile Chieftain of the Bloodhoof tribe wished, was another. A crime among many Cairne had committed in his honor bound stubbornness.
To be led by an orc with cursed blood was ridiculous, and one who was weak of heart and blinded by emotions—a contradiction all in itself.
Thrall's talent as a shaman was meaningless beyond a potential threat to be wary. He could reach greater heights than her, and he would, but power alone wouldn't attract her.
She recalled with clarity that the proposition to be under this Warchief from Cairne–or so it was to be part of the New Horde–had angered her as few were capable of.
It was callous, clumsy, and insulting, as well as daft and naïve.
If she hadn't grasped the young orc mentality, she would have believed it was to taunt her. It was on the Bloodhoof patriarch, but he agreed to it.
Of course, she saw its uses and would exploit it, but to bend the knees and kindle proper entendre? Never.
And it went beyond this; the leaders of the Horde seemed to forget to whom her allegiance laid.
It was as if they forgot the murder of her own people after Ton attempted to open diplomacy between them and the kaldorei to avoid a needless conflict.
It was mad. She wasn't like those feeble trolls who accepted the excuse of demonic influence and the decimation of the Warsong clan as enough.
The instigator wasn't even executed, merely placed as some kind of honor guard. Who would wish to pledge allegiance to this kind of leader?
It was why Magatha made sure it wasn't to be for the taurens that were her queries. But also beyond, she cared less for those not of the Grimtotem, but they wouldn't be livestock.
The taurens were above, and her numerous preparations would see that through.
It was early. Not all were successes; Cairne's position remained undestroyed, even if it was slowly chipping piece by piece.
The bloody reputation the Grimtotem carried was of no help in serving Magatha's causes at times. Fear was ineffective toward lasting partnership.
But they had equal light, and the passivity of the other tribes slowly whittled down with her guidance.
It had been the case before the war, but her efforts have multiplied in the last months.
She was taking an active role, and tribes in Grimtotem's territories and their edges were the first beneficiaries. It was a striking shift from what had been done up to now.
Food, water, shelter, supplies, and military aid were given and traded, indebting them to her and hers.
After this, it was a matter of acclimation to the luxury and benefits of Magatha's influence.
Peace had not served their kind for millennia, and it suddenly wouldn't now, but needless warmongering was worse.
With the Horde, it became an even bigger necessity to keep this at bay.
It was a delicate situation, and the old matriarch knew better than to act rashly.
Small scattered tribes were ultimately small scattered tribes, even if not all followed that trend.
"This 'gift' is no gift; it is not deserved but earned as the Earth Mother intends it. And that you have not, not yet, at any length." Magatha said with a tap of her staff that quieted the winds.
"Then, how may I earn it?" Hamuul asked, staring into her eyes, the ever-scheming mind behind at work.
The truth was necessary, and it couldn't be altered. Not against the Runetotem elder, Magatha didn't wish for a hidden dagger, and earning him would be profitable toward her goal.
A fabrication would be quickly dismantled; it wasn't a grand mystery or heroic quest that brought back druidism.
There was no need for theatrics.
It was both far more simple and complex than the above.
"I can give the opportunity only, and then my voice would end. It is given by greater power. However…" The Elder Crone hummed, playing the words in her muzzle.
"I demand your unwavering support." She stopped his outburst at her fair statement by tapping her staff again.
"Ohto of the Greenweald would prefer to track and feast on your warm entrails than have you in the Horde with his touch. It is he who has blessed us. You have no choice, Hamuul Runetotem. Sacrifice must be made." She finished, her tone leaving no option for rebuttal.
And there was none, none that would be worth listening to.
The Grimtotem tribe could wield Nature magic, for they abided by the Chosen of the Twins' few but strict rules. It wasn't a gift without ropes.
The rules focused on symbiosis, mutual benefit, and non-abuse of the magic he shared.
And the warrior shaman was meticulous in keeping his edicts respected.
Furbolgs, shamans or not, were sent as teachers, helpers, merchants, and even watchers, though the latter role was not explicitly declared.
It wasn't hidden.
The hold hardened after he began making his existence fully known to the Cenarion Circle. From that, kaldorei druids came to the Grimtotem tribe.
It was a logical step if Magatha wished to better the night elves' view of her tribe in ways battle couldn't.
Some were amiable, some less so, but there was nothing to find that Ohto didn't put into place or guide. If there was a problem, the fall was on him.
The Elder Crone understood the furbolg's set boundaries weren't to be tested.
At least not without his oversight in some form, be it himself or furbolgs—he wasn't against even extreme experimentation when done right.
Still, the lack of total freedom was an annoyance, but it was part of the course if a tangible alliance for the benefit of all was to be built.
"Ohto… the… that furbolg…?" She smirked at the edge of fear among his voice's unmistakable excitement and awe.
And what an amusing way of reacting about her ursine confidant. It was to be expected. Magatha didn't holler about it.
It was quite a tall order the legends the Greenweald furbolg weaved around himself.
It was fitting for a creature who had broken the chain of conventional mortality. But Ohto's gift in the art of healing was secondary to the sheer wild ferocity he had.
He was a creature that blinded the demon lord not once but twice. The second time was by sacrificing two-thirds of his body–shredded and burned–yet he lived.
Ohto had gained an even greater reputation—an ever-regenerating vengeful force of nature.
A force of nature that she was working with and understood better than any other as he did to her.
"Call him what you wish. He is the patron of my druids, the one to have blessed the Grimtotem with the Touch of Nature." The Elder Crone added, but the reaction she got made her nostril flare.
It seemed he gathered the wrong variety of courage.
"Then it is for him to decide what I must and mustn't, Magatha. It is he who would speak of his views unmolested by yours. We know each far too well for this charade to be effective." Hamuul Runetotem enunciated each word.
Her frown turned into a grimace but soon became a polite smile that was too wide and small simultaneously.
"I'm magnanimous and will still give you the opportunity for an audience. The result would be unchanged if you truly wish for this gift. Throwing water at dirt won't make it dry. You're a greater fool than I believed if you think otherwise. Now, out of my sight," finished Magatha before the old bull exited her chamber—his emotions unreadable.
Be that as it may, he didn't appear the most pleased.
'Fool the lots of them…' She raged internally, pinching the bridge of her muzzle.
She didn't achieve what she did by being entitled.
Given that taurens require an outside force to wield Nature magic. Then they were to respect that outside force's terms just as they must to the elemental spirits.
It was no more complicated than that. It was an exchange, and sentiments alone were valueless.
Perhaps Hamuul might find another patron to teach him druidism, but the Elder Crone couldn't help but snort in derision at the thought.
No random druids held the capability to spread their talents to any that were not their calves.
She didn't know how it was done. The Touch of Nature was no basic spell. It wasn't power alone.
But what the Grimtotem matriarch knew was a being incredibly attuned to the Emerald Dream and powerful must be the one to give it.
And they were few and far between, with none amicable with the Horde to any extent. Or that would care enough to act.
With the situation at hand regarding Malfurion's brusque departure, it was even less of a possibility.
And Staghelm was as inconceivable to help as was his scorn for any non-kaldorei, higher than the Stonetalon Peak.
It was unfortunate his personality was as is. Truthfully, Magatha found it tragic; she had no love for him. It was quite the contrary. But she recognized the truth for what it was.
He was a man of intellect, ambition, competence, and bravery.
And it amounted to nothing as his emotions crippled him.
He was arrogant, blind to the greater whole, and unable to evolve—stuck to his ancient way and vehemently doubling down on them.
It wasn't unique to him either. It was the weakness of the kaldorei. And it would be the downfall of those unable to adapt.
The faster they fell or adapted, the better it would be.
•••••
Briskly walking on the ancient marble ground where nature reigned was a kaldorei taller and larger than most, a giant of his own right.
His golden eyes scanned the night elves of Moonglade or children of Cenarius, be they resting from the effort to clean Ashenvale or working on other projects.
His visage darkened at the occasional furbolgs and even rarer taurens.
It only worsened at the gaps between the two groups and the tension in the air that grew heavier from his appearance.
Two groups that exemplified the precarious state of the Cenarion Circle to perfection.
It was mortals wishing to subjugate it, a vexingly large number of Cenarius' children tricked into thinking it was right and disillusioned and traitorous druids incomprehensibly desiring to mingle as equals with mortals.
Then was his, Fandral Staghelm, where kaldorei should thrive to regain what they have lost and grow beyond to claim what was rightfully there.
Between them, elven druids were unsure of what to do.
The taurens were to be evicted, and the furbolgs humbled to their original place. And the last would have to see reason or be judged.
Yet it wasn't for now that Fandral was aware of the adverse results it would bring. If there was a conflict, it must be a reaction, not an attack from him.
He had prepared for the fallback once his Shan'do returned from his hunt of the Betrayer. Be that as it may, acting on his immediate desire would be counterproductive.
The dire fate of the Cenarion Circle couldn't be left unchecked. But little could be done without extreme consequence and retribution.
A war would ensue if he were the aggressor, a war Fandral was unsure who would claim victory. He doubted winning was obtainable.
He wouldn't have the newly appointed General support, nor would the Sisterhood, even those within supporting his view, be close to sufficient.
Many shared his ideas or were willing to forge alliances from the past ten millennia accumulated grievances toward the High Priestess and Archdruid.
That Staghelm was made aware of the treason from the arrogant six-limbed lizards and that this knowledge would inevitably spread changed ultimately little.
It fell onto them, and the dragons didn't lead, or so beyond the spies which needed to be exposed, but it was another problem.
It was no fringe extreme, but it couldn't be acted upon. Not now and not like this.
Malfurion and Tyrande's departure would be short.
It was an impasse for grander plans. Plans that were ambitious, too ambitious even, and needed temperance.
However, it wasn't what the second strongest druid sought as he reached his goal, a tree sculpted into a living abode.
The ongoing discussion stopped as he entered; however, it wasn't the palpable tenseness of the outside.
"Has there been any development on my demand, Hendir?" Fendral asked, and the smaller night elf shook his head.
"I'm sorry to disappoint Archdruid Staghelm. The furbolgs stance is unchanged. Only Malfurion and any he recommends may have the right to access the World Tree and only under constant monitoring." The younger druid answered with a frown.
"Typical of that bear." The secondary Archdruid spat. It shouldn't surprise him—it was the anticipated response to what was for future leverage.
But it was enraging all the same.
That oversized bear was a thorn that dug further into his skin at every opportunity.
"Are we so powerless to stop this mad animal from misusing Undrassil?" His daughter-in-law, Leyara, asked with pursed lips.
She was part of the rare female kaldorei here with druidism skills, for he had tutored her for millennia.
"We are far from it, dear. I understand how it weighs heavy on your heart, but hastiness would bring ruin to our nascent cause." Staghelm answered far more softly than one would imagine him capable.
"Diplomacy has shown to be ineffective and violent conflict is undesirable… surreptitious observations remain." He added with the hint of a smile tugging at his lips.
Studying the underground World Tree and what of the blessings within were necessary steps to recover what had been ripped away from them.
It was the purest and largest remains of Nordrassil, a root that had been unaffected by the detonation on that fateful day.
It was the last bearer of the Aspects' blessings diminished, as it may have been from the tempering.
The task would be far from easy; furbolgs' senses were keen.
Far keener than most beasts of nature, their smell was equal to their quadrupedal cousins.
However, it wasn't infallible or foolproof. The underground labyrinth wasn't foreign to numerous druids, and navigating to Hollowmaw was well within their abilities.
The hard part would be to be unnoticed the way in, during, and out.
Preparation, organization, and adequate transformations were solutions to that conundrum.