The Alpha Prime was not pleased.
Nothing novel, Ralaar Fangfire was not known for his great boisterousness or grand festivities.
Yet, the last few weeks were different; there was a change, a shift in the pure form, unlike any other.
A plague. A mutation. A curse. Its name and classification were a secondary concern to the symptom and ultimate resolution of this affliction.
It was not fatal, but it might as well be.
It was an unorthodox infection, yet it was infectious nonetheless. Mere contact was enough for a worgen to contract it; blood and saliva were in a twisted form that acted as amplifiers of the contagion.
It latched onto the Purity, corrupting the force of ferocity and predatory wrath of the Father, Goldrinn, into something it wasn't.
The pure ones afflicted had their abilities to give the blessing stolen, and for some, their minds were scattered, wounded.
But this was the last act in a series of agonies, both mental and physical, for which no medicine could alleviate.
Arugul had studied it in vain; the Alpha Prime had assisted in this research, but they found no cure. There was no way to stop its expansion or contain it.
This was different, and they could guess its origin. Yet it cost much, Ralaar was affected, even if, unlike many, his resistance was steadfast.
They grasped only the sheer magnitude of the threat then.
Be that as it may, and heretical as the thought was, the elder of all worgen resilience wasn't endless. His magic was potent and served as his foremost shield, but even one such as him was fallible.
However, they learned to their conflicting joy and rage, this disease was not of the wolf god.
It was a relief that was immense, yet changed nothing about the fangs slowly puncturing their throats.
Still, they spread the gospel of truth—this was no punishment, this was an assault to the very essence of their purity.
One to rally under and not lose cohesion of the pack.
And there was little time to spare before the jaws severed their jugulars.
They couldn't have defended against such an insidious attack. Indeed, it was an attack; this thing was a weapon tailored against them and only them.
It started without warning, and it had spread fast, far too fast to be a volatile solution gone rogue.
Quarantining this abomination was rendered impossible for more than that; it was infectious, yes, but diseases needed carriers.
And there had been more than one source of this affliction; each of the three major packs suffered the effect simultaneously while far apart.
Whether it was knowingly or not mattered little, even if it was certainly intentional. The patient zeros remained unknown despite every effort to identify them; they didn't even know their numbers.
Neither the Archmage nor the Alpha Prime had noticed this ailment until it was far too late. Blames weren't placed; they served no purpose but caused strife among their already distressed worgen.
Arugal would never do such a despicable thing to his children. And neither would Ralaar to his pack.
This curse was disseminated through the machinations of someone else.
This was calculated, an assault like none other, perfidious and cowardly yet undeniably effective.
The culprits had not seen fit to hide, one a night elf the Alpha Prime despised from the depths of his heart, a hate so bright yet growing even now.
And a priestess of the moon, molesting the Fang of Goldrinn, the first worgen personally knew and almost equally disposed.
They had allied with King Greymane, a man who quickly turned out to be a thorn in the Wolf Cult's side, seeking and hunting without respite like a hound.
The product was no proper alliance as believers of the Purity among the nobles had pointed out, yet failed to counteract efficiently. To call this an alliance would be overly generous and inaccurate.
It was closer to a tense understanding.
Be that as it may, it gave a great deal of free rein to an empire from beyond the Great Sea, called the Wild, to act with little restraint in Gilneas, while the former mostly observed under Genn's decree.
There was little the kingdom could do; the Wild was not fair in their dealing, and the unsaid threat hung in the air.
They came to eradicate the 'Worgen Curse,' and made abundantly clear that none would stop them unless they wished to pay the price.
This was unprecedented, a conglomeration of kaldorei with a plethora of beast races. Half of which were barely, if at all, known in the Kirin Tor's records and prey, but in the known ones, they were kobolds.
Kobolds!
It was against the order of things; the Alpha Prime had mocked it, such was the sheer madness of it all. Worse, the night elves seemingly did not lead.
Not that this was the most absurd aspect of this relentless force that hunted and captured worgen, replacing the constant killing. In many ways, it was worse.
They were terrifying, capable of appearing out of nowhere and vanishing after taking what they came for.
This left the Wolf Cult with no choice but to respond in kind. The divine commandments and rituals within the Purity of Essence had to be… smoothed out and shortened in this time of crisis. The criteria were eased.
The blessings were slipping from their claws, and the only method to slow this horrific eventuality was to share it religiously.
Worgen, still carrying the Father's ferociousness, were ordered to bite freely without due process and bless wells and water sources with their holy wolven blood.
These heresies of necessity were barely enough.
The first was dangerous for the worgen and potential aspirants. The second was even truer for the former, as blood needed to flow, and with an inferior probability of the blessing passing through.
Then the newly blessed had no control, no guide, yet they kept what was disappearing in order to continue passing it down.
Yet they could be shepherded if saved from the Wild, increasing the Cult population.
They had only one choice remaining, and those past acts were a must to ensure the success of this hunt.
It was to launch an all-out attack upon the Blackwald to dislocate the Wild from their fortress and regain the scythe made of the Staff of Elune and a fang of Goldrinn.
Arugal understood little, but his trust in his Alpha was immaculate and true. This godly weapon, from which the worgen were reborn unto their purest form, was the sole solution to their unfortunate situation.
Additionally, the Bloodfang, Moonrage, and Shadowfang packs, along with every smaller worgen group, had gathered on this night, when the White Lady and Blue Child were at their fullest. Their light shining upon them.
The majority of humans within the Wolf Cult had been turned. Each resource they could draw was drawn.
Arugal was one of the remaining unblessed with fellow casters. A natural development, as impregnating and realigning oneself with the spirit of the Great Wolf… was momentarily destabilizing.
Feral grace was an invaluable gift, but the arts of magic were no less in the heat of battle. And he was unworthy of such honor.
They were thousands strong, and the scythe was to become their weapon; then nothing would stop the Alpha Prime from making his grandiose vision a reality.
Oh, how much the Archmage wished to witness this moment.
To see his children liberated of their man-made shackles, free to be wild and pure. It was the greatest joy he could conceive.
The cold air passing beneath his hood cleared his mind. It would have to wait. Haste makes waste. Particularly at the present, where victory had not yet been written in stone
Souring as the thought was, it wasn't a falsehood… defeat was a real possibility taken into consideration. The Purity would not end.
A self-named entity patchwork of random races, arrogant enough to call itself the 'Wild', wouldn't be its end.
Yet they would not flee; never. Fleeing would only bring a slow, agonizing demise.
Arugal heard the rumbling growl of his loyal pet, Funris, a worg like no other, larger than any of his kind with an even larger appetite.
Saliva was dripping from its maw of teeth in hunger, one that would be satiated.
The growl was born at the sight of a figure standing unmoving in front of the Blackwald. One that scouts had dutifully informed them of, by all accounts, it was a trap.
Yet there was no army to be seen, no archers hidden amidst the trees.
There was nothing but the object that would heal their wound in a clearing of pure white fragrant flowers.
Their delicate petals, humming with druidic energies, gently swayed in the wind, almost bringing Arugal an impression of peace.
This garden, while ethereal in beauty, was a mockingly obvious diversion, masking both smell and magic alike.
But still no shred of an armed force was to be seen, nor strangely behaving wildlife that would indicate druids. Nor were priestesses and sentinels melded among the shadows.
Though an absence of fauna was noted, it was unsurprising given the Wolf Cult's presence. The three packs were encircling the area, swiftly moving through the ancient grove unimpeded.
In the middle of it was a figure.
The Archmage didn't recognize it. It was an elf, and a she, that much was evident by the curve below her white robe.
She was unlike any high elves he had seen.
A night elf.
Her ears were more akin to those of a troll, even if the mage wouldn't dare say it; she was tall and muscled, with purplish-grey skin, pale violet hair, and burning silver eyes.
In her hand was a tool commonly used by peasant farmers that made his breath hitch at the sight. He was not alone, nearby worgen stared at the curved blade as if entranced by it.
"As I thought, Belysra…" He heard Ralaar, the fury within made the hair of Arugal's neck stand on end.
And before he could voice his thoughts, the Alpha Prime howled, and in unison, his worgen followed, the chorus bathing the clearing and surrounding forest with their combined wrath.
However, only he rushed onward, for it was his prize.
"Starbreeze! You come alone facing me and my pack with the Fang… have you lost the little reason you held on, traitorous bitch?" He roared, claws bared and fur rising as the kaldorei raised her solemn gaze.
She did not react to the insult, nor did she flinch as death ran toward her; she only raised her serene gaze to Fangfire.
Then she walked forward, fearlessly approaching the wrathful elder worgen. She came just near enough for Arugal to hear her, and her words made his blood boil and run cold at once.
"Ah, Mother Moon has blessed me with clarity indeed. Come, fight… if you wish to take her scythe. You will fail." The priestess of Elune declared with absolute confidence, her tone soft yet harsh, mocking, and full of melancholy.
Impossibly thick, fast, and powerful roots burst upward from the ivory garden under the feet of the Alpha Prime's paws; neither he nor Arugal had the time to react as the worgen was held high in the air.
The roots ensnared his limbs, locking his movement in place as a second kaldorei arrived, walking from the earth, parting like a mouth.
He had great antlers and eyes of the same gold as the Alpha Prime.
"MALFURION!" The Archmage master bellowed, his voice raw with vitriolic hate and rage. Yet it was as effective as emptying the sea with a bucket.
Ralaar called upon his power to free himself, both physically and magically. Green energy wisps appeared, and muscles flexed. It was to no avail; the roots only tightened in response.
"I'm sorry. I have failed you, my student. May your spirit rest in the Dream embrace, for your crimes cannot be forgiven." The elf named Malfurion spoke in Darnassian, his voice somehow overpowering the howl of the Alpha Prime.
The few words Arugal understood made the blood in his veins run cold and boil at once, furthering the sweltering rage and dread from the spectacle of it all.
He wasn't idle; blazing emerald fire poured from his staff above his palm.
But it was too late. Far too late. The Archdruid hadn't wasted time; those were his sorry self-righteous and hypocritical excuse of a goodbye.
Then, with a dry and sharp, sickening crunch, the root that had snaked around the Alpha Prime's neck flicked. His voice rose in despair, abruptly ending as his eyes dulled, and he went limp.
Ralaar Fangfire died swiftly and methodically. Slaughtered like common poultry to be butchered.
There was a moment of suffocating silence and disbelief. Arugal was the first to break, and a torrent of flame poured in a cone toward the one who murdered his master.
His children did much the same for the Alpha, or so they tried; the ground rumbled and roots exploded forth by the thousands.
The roots ate his spell. He screamed and stumbled as the ground trembled. His eyes widened. Something was below. Something massive and incredibly powerful.
Yet the instinctive blink that was coming wouldn't be quick enough to dodge what seemed to be a tree trunk ten times his width.
Funris jumped before him, shielding him from the flying tree, only to be flung and slammed into Arugal. His vision went white, and burning pain thrummed through his entire body.
He choked, blood spurting from between his parted lips, his body crushed between the giant worg and a tree.
Then his bleary eyes landed on a creature of wood, the shape of a bear and a worgen combined, yet the size of a small house. Sparkling light danced around, tickling his nose, forcing his thoughts to an agonizingly slow crawl.
"Archmage Arugal, you are under arrest." It said in heavily warped Common, as heavy as its thunderous voice, then there was a blissful void as the man lost consciousness.
••••
"‐arrest," I said, one of the rare times I spoke in battle.
Vines snapped into place, and the large canine was pushed to the side, allowing me to lift the concussed human two-thirds of the way to full slumber.
Without further ado, I healed his broken ribs and other minor injuries while realigning a number of nerves along his spine and face.
The results essentially cut off his sense of sight, smell, and taste, while also stopping his speech and the use of his limbs. Perhaps overkill, but magic casters were tricky, one of his skills even more so.
I caught him by surprise, and barely, Malfurion attacked far earlier than what was planned. So I had to rush because the fool feared for Belysra.
I nearly killed the fragile, small man, and he was a half-second away from teleporting.
A back paw from me could be deadly to a tauren bull; nevertheless, a particularly unathletic human.
"You may take him, Yera, Kar. Be careful, I want his mind intact." And half a second later, a dark troll and a tauren–adventurers of the Wild Hunt–took the madman into the tunnel.
Arugal would live. Well, for the immediate future at the very least. He was important enough for me to handle his capture personally.
Not that he was some grand political figure, but his title wasn't to be taken lightly; it didn't carry the same weight as Archdruid, but outside of the Council of Six, there were very few people above him.
What he did to invade the Emerald Dream was extremely worrisome, too. If he could do it, who knows what anyone else could. The threat was undeniable.
Now was the battle, and the Scythe of Elune was in full force, for the feral worgen in its radius… which was while sizeable, remained small.
Too small to encapsulate even a fifth of the battlefield.
She could only control the worgen without the Rekindling full effect, and was mentally strong enough while in the scythe's range.
We would have to hunt those after Ralaar's head-twisting display was impactful. Stormrage could have waited a wee longer, but no.
This could have been worse, but it didn't change the fact that this was a profoundly stupid action. Starbreeze would have fought Ralaar for long enough.
But no, he had to intervene. I understood, and I, myself included, didn't want to do that; alas, this was the direction with the best result.
'How can a man who lived more than ten millennia be so… this?' I shook my head; there was a more important matter than the impatience of a once-immortal.
The battle raged on. Worgen of the Wild under the News and Darius' followers, while sentinels, priests, and druids kept a close circle of Belysra and Malfurion, who were also in the thick of it.
I went deeper with the Wild Hunt proper—the institutionalized adventurers, and what great and many equally strange and amusing thoughts it brought, given my position.
This wasn't a video game, however, and the similarity to me, being a quest giver, ended here. And this battle was a chore, boring to the utmost, with only healing needing my attention.
Also, to avoid killing too much. Many of the worgen would be given the opportunity for a new life.
Was it arrogant? Very much so. But unless this bumbling horde of worgen could find a way to my brain, I was virtually unkillable.
Enough could beat me, but they were in disarray with no coordination whatsoever.
Still, the battle must go on, and boredom was good. Boredom was safe, and I needed that.
*
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