They're In the TREES 003

“WAAAAARRRR!!” The Ancient of War belowed, and ripping an ancient tree from its roots, the savage two-story tall treant began to sweep the log from left to right. 

Each mighty step squished an Orc, each swipe of the tree-club knocked a grunt down, breaking his ribs, or sending him flying. This guardian of nature was an unstoppable beast angrily rampaging down the hillside into the Horde line. 

Perched on top of the treant, Turion withdrew a bow & some arrows he had snagged along the way, and began to release wooden death into the green tide. He wasn't some S-tier marksman who could shoot an apple off of someone's head, but under Tyrande, the young Night Elf had learnt a few ‘basic’ skills. Among them was the art that many male Night Elves disdained, but was crucial to Kaldorei dominance. That was the bow! 

A white hue coated the weapon's shaft, and small ambient mana was drawn from the surrounding environment as he plucked the string. Fitting a heavy oak shaft onto the slot, he barely aimed, then naturally released. 

The arrow flew true, striking a Warrior in the chest. Big, ugly, and tusked, the greenskin roared his defiance, snapping the shaft, leaving the metal point buried deep in his chest muscles. This creature was no ordinary rabble, he was an Elite! Roaring with bloodlusted eyes, the berserker jumped onto the tree leg, and began to climb upwards, chopping his twin axes into the ancient wood like an ice climber scaling a frozen wall. 

Oozing sap, the treant swiped at the Orc like one might flick off a fly that had landed on their arm. 

“Begone. Insect.” The ancient boomed, yet like a flea, the Elite Warrior dodged. 

Turion had been reserving his mana, but had to do something. Holding out a palm, [Moonfire] rained down from the heavens. The holy-arcane energy baptized the Elite with its deadly purity. However, as the white flames touched upon the Orc's sweat stained skin, he roared, unleashing a red haze. The pure power of Primal Rage cast off the [Moonfire] like a water pressure removing filth. 

Barely harmed, and cruelly snarling a mouthful of yellowed teeth, the Orc climbed past the halfway point, intent on slaying Turion, then decapitating the treant. 

Furrowing his brows, Turion sent three more arrows at the bastard in quick succession. Blocking one, then dodging the rest, the Orc laughed mockingly. 

“Your ears are mine!” The Elite growled. 

Turion felt the corner of his mouth twitch. Being able to understand this Orc…Nature Speak was pretty OP. That, and it was yet another skill Tyrande had drilled into his head. Thanks mom, I really needed to know Orcish to understand that this brute wants me dead. 

Jokes aside, Turion had noticed that the gait of the Ancient of War was extremely turbulent, and felt like standing upon a high tower during a fierce wind. Each time the tree took a step, the Elite would time his movements to make a jump. Turion almost felt like he was the villain in some God of War game, and the Orc was the hero trying to stop the colossus.

Closing in, this Orc was breathing heavily, clearly eager for the kill. With such bloodlusted single mindedness…hopefully Turion could outsmart the Warrior. 

Just as the Orc made his next jump, Turion did three things in quick succession. First, he fired a trio of arrows. Second, he inventoried the weapon, insta-cast [Moonfire]. Finally, he used [Entangling Roots]. 

Repeating the process of blocking, dodging, and unleashing his Primal Rage, the Elite confidently remained unscathed. However, due to predicting his movements, Turion had accurately mapped out where he would land! Just as the Elite was going to find purchase by slamming his axes into the treant, a group of vines smothered him from back to front, tightly binding him to the massive animated tree's body. 

“Raaaagh!” The Elite roared, nearly snapping all of the vines at once with his broad shouldered, muscular back. 

Indeed, Turion's spell was of the Advanced tier. To fully repress, and capture an Elite with him alone was a pipedream. However…

“Now, great one!” Turion hurried to speak. 

“DIEEE. PESSST.” 

The Ancient of War's fist landed true, and the Orc could only scream his defiance as he was smooshed into the treant's chest. Falling weakly to the ground, the Elite was then stomped to death, and ground upon the Treant's heel for good measure. 

Taking a deep breath, Turion looked around himself, and saw that they were deep into enemy territory now, and the ancient had no signs of stopping. Troll spears flew at him, harmlessly embedding themselves in the tough barkskin, whilst dozens of Grunts had been transformed into puddles of mangled flesh & blood. 

That said, a large crowd of Orcs were still gathered at the tunnel entrance, and based upon the power of mana & pitch of his words, the Heroic Shaman was close to bringing down the wall! From his vantage point, Turion could see off in the not-so-far distance a group of wolves lurking in a gully. These were Orc Raiders, just outside of the vision of the Silverwing Hold's towers! 

He could very well imagine a scenario where the eastern wall collapsed, and these marauders pillaged everyone inside!

“Great one, we must hurry forward. Slay that Shaman, his perverse incantations are an affront to nature.” Turion shouted to be heard over the din of battle. 

“Die, demon spawn. Forward tree-kin, forward brothers & sisters of the forest!” The Ancient of War bellowed to the heavens, seemingly lost in a vision of the past. In the treant's eyes, these Orcs were replaced with Satyrs, Succubi, and Felguard. 

However, as they swept towards the Shaman, those 20 Tauren Warriors who had been named in the report had made their appearance. 

Bulkier, and larger than most Tauren, these were the elite of their Elites. Each one was infinitely close to level 41, nearly reaching Heroic status. Armed with massive enchanted totem-rams, and festooned with magical tattoos that acted as armor, they were the chief combat force of the Bloodhoof tribe, the Totem Warriors! 

Slamming their totems onto the earth in front of them in a rhythmic manner, they snorted mightily from their bull-like snouts, and shook their great shaggy manes. These minotaur-like creatures had a red glow surrounding them as Primal Rage began to manifest. Unlike the unmatched savagery of the Orcs, the Tauren maintained their level headed clarity, appearing as fighters that understood both brutality, and the skill of weapons. Totems glowing with enchantments, their act of stomping their totems actually served a purpose beyond warming the blood & boosting morale. 

“EARTH MOTHER RISES.” A deep, dignified voice rumbled forth from the Tauren line. 

In response, a magical scene unfolded before Turion's eyes. 

An earthen ramp of compact dirt rose into the air, and was a little more than one-story tall in height. Given the enormous stature of the Tauren, they now stood at eye level with the treant. 

Before they closed, he would try his hand at diplomacy just this once. Of course, he knew the Tauren language too. 

“Sons of the Earth Mother. Know that you speak to Turion Stormrage, son to Tyrande Whisperwind, and Malfurion Stormrage. The Children of Elune have long been friends with your people, and share with you the protection of nature. Why do you attack us, and so baselessly destroy the forest, such that not even the roots survive?!” Turion righteously exclaimed, his voice booming with magical fury. 

Upon hearing the accusation in his words, the revelation of his lineage, and the truth of his statement, many of the Totem Warriors shifted guiltily in place. Then one snort from the lead Totem Warrior in the center made everyone fall in line. 

“Greetings, Stormrage, long have my ancestors spoken of your kin. I am Baine Bloodhoof, son of Cairne Bloodhoof. Your words ring true, agree with you, my father and elders do.” Baine said in a complicated, but firm tone. 

“Then why-” 

“Forgive me for this intrusion, Child of the Moon, but my people faced annihilation for the last several decades, and had not received one leaf's grace from yours. We hold no hatred in our hearts for the absence of Stormrage or Whisperwind, but the dry winds of the Barrens & the hooves of the Centaur have driven us to the point of desperation. In our hour of need, the greenskins saved us. Blood, oaths, and honor have bound us. Save your words, honored Stormrage, we cannot retreat.” Bain bowed his head, truly not revealing an iota of hatred in his tone, yet with each word he became more & more resolute. 

Turion sighed deep in regret. Baine was a truly good man. To fight him so early on, a clash between the younger generation like this…perhaps it was fate. 

“Honor guide you, Son of Bloodhoof.” Turion finally replied as the Ancient of War closed. 

“May the moon grace your bow, Son of Stormrage.” Baine bowed his head, voice deep with respect. 

Turion then began his assault. He tried to land some pot shots on the Tauren, and the enchantment on his bow was powerful-as evidenced by the knock-back effect it had on that Orc Elite-however, these bovines had enchantments of their own! Their tattoos flared, glowing ever so slightly dimmer under his barrage. Yet it almost felt pointless. 

None of the bulls snorted in contempt, nor did they mock him for his ‘puny’ effort. Instead they treated him, and the treant he rode upon seriously. 

They were now less than thirty seconds from colliding, and Turion was wracking his brain, desperately thinking up solutions to turn the odds in his favor. Spamming [Wrath] & [Moonfire] would maybe inconvenience a single Tauren, whilst [Bear Form] couldn't do dick all to those big Elites. He could act as a healer, but how much could he really change after the first few seconds? 

Heroes-like the Ancient of War-were strong, but this line up of Elites seemed to be extremely lethal. In WoW, it was a fact that numbers could absolutely overwhelm powerful individuals. That was basically the whole premise of the games. Even in the cutscenes, guys like the King of Stormwind, Varian Wrynn could get killed by a random Felguard after being surrounded. Hell, not too long ago the big badass demon Demigod tier foe-Archimonde the Betrayer-was slain by thousands of the weakest, most base level creatures: the Wisp. 

In fact, from the lessons taught by his mother, tactics were included…among them how to swarm, kite, and tire out opponents of a higher tier. From the knowledge he possessed-both meta & learned-this fight…was not in their favor. 

Taking a deep breath, Turion could only cast [Thorns] on the treant, hoping that this slight reflective damage could help chip away at the tattoo rune enchantments if even a little bit. He also cast [Mark of the Wild] for what it was worth. Next, maybe he could use [Entangling Roots] for what it was worth…wait, that's it! 

Turion felt like a lightbulb had lit in his mind. He still subconsciously treated things from a gamer's mindset. All this time, he had been focused on directly dealing with the Tauren, when he should have been focusing on the environment! 

Looking at that dense patch of dirt beneath the Taurens hooves, he had a realization. There is nothing more annoying, or better at breaking a foundation than the roots of a plant! White light manifested in Turion's eyes, and an evil grin filled with malice spread from ear to ear. 

Spamming [Entangling Roots] several times, the ground beneath the Totem Warriors feet rumbled, cracked, and came apart! Stumbling into one another, and into the now soft dirt, the Tauren began to panic, losing all of their momentum. 

“Begone, traitors.” The ancient declared, his stride unbroken. 

Stomping down upon a pair of Totem Warriors, their enchantments flared, barely saving their lives as their bones crinkled. Twitching & half crippled, they were paralyzed in place. 

“Moo!!!” Five of Tauren rose up, swinging their powerful totem-rams like baseball bats. 

The tree-club in the Ancient of War's hand was then infused with the treant's own nature-attuned mana, and pressed them back. With his other hand, the treant backhanded a Warrior to the side. 

Baine, meanwhile, ran forward, and rammed his weapon up into the crotch of the ancient, sending mighty shockwaves throughout his wooden structure. Bark fractured, and large leaves fell from the tree. 

Experiencing this dull pain, the Ancient of War reached down, and squeezed. Caught in this sudden attack, Baine struggled to break free. His tattoos lit up like Christmas lights, and his eyes went wild as he resisted with all his might. 

“Protect the future of Bloodhoof!” The clansmen roared, trying to defend their young liege. 

Turion didn't want to see Baine die, as such an event would make reconciliation with most of the Tauren unreconcilable. Yet he also didn't want to lose his head here. Feeling somewhat conflicted, he cast [Entangling Roots] on the ground beneath the reinforcements, churning up the dirt & forming a deep trough/small gully. He had enacted his magic in such a way, that a group of five overeager Totem Warriors tumbled into one another, and accidentally locked horns. 

The treant continued squeezing with one hand, whilst the other swept the large nature infused tree into the stumbling group, heavily damaging them. 

With most of the Tauren knocked out, or injured on the side, several of them had gone around, intent on attacking Turion. However, unnoticed by him, a shadow flicked out, and stabbed the Warriors from behind in their hamstrings. A paralytic poison swiftly took hold, muting their moos of pain, and locking them in place. 

Baine, meanwhile, had an incredible haze surround his form. Turion-who was looking at Baine's nameplate-saw the young brave's level rapidly flash between 40 & 41, before settling back down onto 40. Despite this near-failed transition to promote into the next tier, an intense red aura of Primal Rage surrounded him, and a faint image of a monstrous cow spirit seemed to flash behind him before disappearing in an instant. 

“MOOO!!!” 

Baine's muscles bulged as he pressed out from all sides. The wooden hand of the ancient exploded into a million splinters, freeing the bull. Steam rising from his mane, the Tauren picked up his totem, and wordlessly snorted in challenge. 

The ancient met him with his club for several dozen exchanges. Competing in strength, the duo created large furrows in the ground, and destroyed the environment for half a mile around them. 

Turion supported from the side, occasionally dropping a heal or two, but for the most part, he could only serve as a witness to this epic clash of titans. 

‘Is this the power of Heroes?!’ 

Whilst his heart rapidly beat, afraid that he would lose, the relatively tiny effect of his Advanced tier [Thorns] had slowly built up upon Baine's body. Additionally, the Ancient of War was a bonafide Hero, and ultimately had slightly higher stats than this young bull from the plains of Mulgore. 

“I die. A Warriors. Death.” Baine muttered to himself, vomiting vast amounts of blood as the internal injuries added up. Taking a knee, he supported himself with his totem, and stared up at the treant clear eyed, accepting his fate. 

Only. 

That ancient log plunged into the ground next to him, and Baine looked up in confusion. 

“You have brought honor to the name Bloodhoof, Son of Cairne. Upon this day, I shall not shame the blood of my ancestors by spilling yours.” Turion strongly declared, then directed the badly damaged treant towards the Shaman, knowing time was short. 

“Blood & Thunder, Son of Stormrage. Go with honor.” Baine mustered his strength, and slammed his fist into his chest, ignoring the ache in his muscles. 

“We will speak again, Baine. The older generation have many considerations. Naga, Murlocs, Satyr, and more have stayed their hand in fear. The Centaur yet remain a threat, the blood of our alliance may yet be renewed by their deaths. Until next time, Child of the Earth Mother.” 

Baine wordlessly looked at the back of the Night Elf, then at the devastation to the forest that the Warsong had wrought. ‘If only you had been there for us sooner.’ He thought to himself, his heart burning with more than the pain of [Thorns]. 

Meanwhile, the Ancient of War labored forward, his steps staggered, and barely a fraction of what they once were. Turion was rapidly healing the tree, but without access to the Moonwell, his powers were stymied. However, the Shaman was still chanting, and this was their moment! If they could cause the greenskin to suffer from a backlash, then this battle was as good as won! 

As they approached, the Shaman suddenly opened his eyes, and a vial grin stretched from ear to ear. His final word fell, and the earth totem in front of him let loose with one final, earth shattering pulse. 

Oh no. 

At that moment, the eastern wall of Silverwing Hold collapsed. A horn sounded, and the hidden Wolf Raiders that had been hanging back emerged, shouting in glee as they drove their mounts up the ramp, intent on entering the fortress. At their helm was a big ass Orc covered in heavy plate armor from head to toe. Enchantments were on every inch of his apparel, and his comically large axe gleamed with a demonic fel hue. 

“WO LO LO LO LO LO!!!” Drum'ga Hellscream, Epic Hero of the Horde, Clan Chief of the Warsong, and cousin to Grom Hellscream had taken the field. 

Hellscream's life aura was so intense, Turion couldn't help but shudder in place, his body felt numb, as if it had received an electrical shock. 

“No one is going to save you this time, knife-sears. Where are your spirits now?” The Shaman mocked in broken Darnassian, and he began casting a spell that started to sink the Ancient of War into a quagmire of sand. 

“Die, Legion.” The treant roared his defiance, but in his injured state, it was pointless. 

Just then, as the pure white enchanted walls came crashing down, and the wolf riders were about to fly into the gap, a different series of horns sounded out. At that very moment, the Priestess of Elune executed a high level spell, temporarily shrouding the sun, and making the world in this localized area bathe in moonlight. 

The Moonwell refilled at a rapid rate, and coming out of the dust of the broken wall was a Heroic Mountain Giant, Elite Dryads armed with poisonous spears, and an Elite Chimera breathing thunder from its twin heads. 

At the head of a line of Elite panther mounted Sentinels, was none other than Epic General Haldrissa Woodshaper, close friend of Tyrande Whisperwind, Commander to the Silverwing Sentinels, and Turion's unofficial Aunt. 

(Charge of the Roherin: https://youtu.be/LhL5qMllTJI?is=MzddYgZ_Bt-eTJM_)

She raised a hand, her voice resonated with power as she spoke in ancient Darnassian, and the sisters matched her intensity. 

“Tor ilisar’thera’nal!”

“LET OUR ENEMIES BEWARE!”

“Andu-falah-dor!”

“LET BALANCE BE RESTORED!”

“KALDOREI!”

“FOR KALIMDOR!”

The moon beams from the sky hid their advance, and the reinforcements from Astranaar emerged ‘at night’ just as planned. 

Descending from the sloped hillside, the sisters unleashed their thrown glaives, arrows, and other ranged weapons, routing the enemy, and tearing them asunder. 

Caught by this sudden turn of events, the Warsong Clan were forced into a retreat, escaping back behind the walls of Warsong Lumber Mill. 

Pulling upon the Moonwell, Turion rapidly healed the Ancient of War. Now strengthened, he pulled himself out of the sinkhole, and started to trot towards the Orc spellcaster. 

Snarling in impotent rage, the Shaman quickly transformed himself into a ghostwolf, and ran away to safety. 

All around him, Orcs & Trolls died one by one. Of the 3,000+ combatants that took part in this assault, only a small percentage of them managed to retreat. Shields lay splintered upon the ground, blood flowed like a river, and the tusks of the savages lay crushed beneath the large paw prints of the Kaldorei host's panthers. 

Sacred moonlight bathed the arena as the Priestess of the Moon floated onto the scene. Her eyes glowing a magnificent white, an ethereal aura shrouded her like a cloak. The exclusive spell of Elune's favored was channeled as she held her hands high. It was:

Starfall. 

Large balls of holy-arcane energy the size of sedans came flying down upon the field one after another. Explosions rocked the land, knocking Orcs off their mounts, and completely incinerating anything at Advanced tier or below. 

Completely routed, this Horde force trampled one another as they scrambled to hide behind the protective totems guarding their hold. When the Starfire spell clashed against this fortress dedicated to the desecration of nature, it clashed with a nearly transparent shield, dissipating into stardust. 

Making eye contact with Baine as he led his wounded companions away, Turion nodded meaningfully, staring at his back until the gate to that savage fortress slammed shut. 

Chasing off the Epic Hero, Hellscream, Haldrissa eventually circled back, and appraised the lumbering Ancient of War that was raring, and ready to go. 

“You possess your mother's spirit, your father's will…and your uncle's daring. Well done, Turion. I will share your triumph when I write my report to your mother. For now, return to the fort.” Haldrissa said, seemingly preparing to set off. 

“Wait a minute, Aunt Haldrissa, we aren't going to finish the mission?” Turion asked, gesturing towards the Warsong Lumber Mill. 

“Warrr…” The ancient rumbled. 

Haldrissa shook her head with a faint smile. “While I admire your persistence, this artificial night lasts for an hour, and the Priestess must rest for some time after so heavily exerting herself. Thirty minutes have already passed, and during this time, it is critical that we raid their supply lines, and damage their infrastructure whilst they are cowering in their hold. 

In the meantime, the reinforcements from Astranaar must make haste, and return home. The Satyrs have been restless as of late, and we are stretched thin enough as it is. 

Our losses were not great, Turion, but even the disappearance of one sister is a heavy blow to morale. Trust me when I say the vengeance of Elune will arrive one day, but the losses attacking the Horde fort would not be worth the price.

That being said, this front is much too dangerous for you. Due to your irresponsible teacher, I am no longer confident in your safety. Therefore, I am relieving you of your promise to station here. Go, young Stormrage, return to Darnassus.” 

The Commander then rubbed the head of her panther mount, gave him one last look, and then gathered with her sisters to attack as many Horde resource points as possible.

Turion pursed his lips. This interlude at Warsong Gulch may be over for him, but if WoW was anything to go by, fights like this would become a common occurrence in this valley. If he wanted to make a change, he couldn't afford to go running home to mommy. Ashenvale was host to plenty of mystical artifacts, special locations, and exp that he was loathe to leave. 

Breathing a sigh of relief that the conflict was over, Turion sat upon the treant's shoulders, allowing the fatigue of the day to wash over him, and let the adrenaline fade. 

He had done it. He had survived his first day of transmigration. 

Without any further thoughts, he sleepily directed the treant back to Silverwing Hold, found a cot in the barracks, and fell into a deep sleep.