4. Tea Drama

Belly up on a colorful flowery bed, basking under the twin moonlight broken by the green crowns of ancient trees, was a furbolg cub. The majority of his dark charcoal fur contrasted starkly with his vibrant surroundings. Foam and drool flowed from his open muzzle, his tongue hanging limply in the grass.

In his left paw was an empty crystal flask: the remnants of a strange teal liquid glittered under the dim light. Then footsteps broke the serene silence of the night, followed by an echoing voice laced with anger—the tone a mother might use when chastising her child by calling their full name after repeated blunders.

However, the source of the voice and footsteps–a brown-furred adult female and the cub's much larger mother–arrived, her tone shifting from confusion to genuine alarm as she approached the motionless body, the corpse. Her breath hitched as she fell to her knees.

"No… Nonono…" Tara whispered as she hugged and nuzzled the limp, cold body of her son. In her rising despair, she failed to notice his faint breathing, slightly lower body temperature, or the quiet but rhythmic pulse of a beating heart.

An unmistakable sign of life that if she were silent and paid attention, her ears would have picked it up. The same was true for a small treant glaring at her from the side. Had death truly occurred, his reaction to being awakened would have been much different.

These vital details ocluded her panicked mind. Instead, anguish overwhelmed her, and she cried out in grief and horror at what she believed to be true: 'No! Please, by the Twin Bears, this can't be! My cub!"

Her sorrowful cries made her rather indiscreet, and the following instant, a deep voice, and heavy footsteps arrived hurriedly to see what was happening at the sound of her voice. This one was male and of fur almost as dark as the cub, indicating that he was the father.

"No…" Krolg's reaction was not dissimilar to that of his mate at the sight of his son's 'lifeless' body, and he also didn't notice the signs of life. Instantly, grief festered within his heart, limiting his ability to reason properly.

This scene, while behind bushes, wasn't hidden by any means, and the noise didn't go unnoticed. Soon, a small but growing crowd gathered. Diurnal furbolgs awakened and followed the one of the night to gather around, forming a sizable crowd. Within the, a white-furred male rushed in; his name was Ota Wen, and the emotions in his older brother's eyes were mirrored in his.

But there was one distinction: the ability to function coherently. At least coherently enough to act fast with the understanding of what should be done.

"Tara, brother, I will inform the shamans not all is lost. Your son is a cub favored by the spirits of the ancestors. It must be a test for him and us all." He intoned as calmly and reassuringly as one could be facing his lifeless nephew cradled in the twin tender pair of arms of distraught parents whose entire world had shattered.

Ota Wen didn't waste time, pushing kin aside for the ones too slow; he rushed toward one direction as fast as his leg and arms could take him, using both sets of limbs for greater speed. In less than a minute, he reached the Greenpaw Village's hearth, where a fallen tree trunk stood for its striking number of exotic plants and many bear totems.

Alas, he couldn't stop, his momentum far too large. The thick wooden door, decorated with delicate flowers and potted plants, stood no chance against his large, adrenaline-fueled bulk.

Like a dry stick, it snapped in half, the hinges coming with it as Ota Wen barely caught himself, avoiding by a hair breath from slamming into the glaring aged furbolg in front of him. Vine had grown before the impact, thereby killing any energy. Their cushioning furthered this.

"Young Warrior Ota Wen, what is the mea-" The Elder Shaman couldn't finish his confused and rightfully wrathful diatribe when he was interrupted by the younger furbolg. This would be inexcusable and potentially heavily punishable in normal times, but what was said stopped any possibility of sanction.

"Ohto is dead!" The white furbolg screamed on the ground breathlessly, his heartbeat hammering in his ears. Had sweating been biologically possible, he would have been positively drenched.

"What!?" Oakpaw replied, disbelief evident, and asked with emotion. Ota Wen never knew the elder furbolg could show alarm, horror, and much more, but it was paradoxically calm, measured, "Where is the cub?"

"My brother's den-" That was enough information for another vine to grab him as he yelped. In the blink of an eye, it was followed by the brief sound of shifting flesh and bone before the wind slammed onto his face, and the world moved up and down.

Faster than Ota Wen had ever moved, the shaman-turned-bear grabbed him and galloped, the biggest bear he had ever seen. There were an abnormal amount of firsts tonight. Regardless, the two of them arrived, and Oakpaw shifted back, the large crowd parting for him, his old aching bone doing little to drag him down as he stopped a meter away from the 'dead' cub. Relief with an equal surge of anger flooded his system.

"He is alive." He muttered, observing the not-corpse of his apprentice, causing the grieving parents to stop in cathartic shock. His senses detected signs of healthy life in torpor, a pseudo hibernation, "The cub is alive and well! Ohto is in good health! He is simply sleeping. You may disperse!"

The crowd of big bipedal bears obeyed without arguing, scattering away like flocks of birds back to what they were doing, working or sleeping as if nothing had happened.

"Thank the ancestors…" Tara snuffled, two moist trails on the fur of her face; relief and joy in equal amounts were in her system. Krolg was no different, as was his little brother. However, it wasn't so for Oakpaw as he picked up the vial and sniffed it, wrinkling his nose.

"Hm. Foolish cub…" He muttered too low to be heard coherently as his eyes shifted to a stump where worse dirtily written notes than usual were carved on barks, a mortar and pestle, a half-empty water bowl, and an array of dried herbs and fresh flowers were. Understanding dawned on him; his student had been brewing something. Something foolish yet interesting.

'Too much moonblooms' petals. Maybe he was hasty in the making of this elixir of painless rest. Or is it? Why the white roots? He wouldn't make such a mistake by adding them. An altered elixir then, or a new one… By Ursol's wise guidance, what shall I do with this reckless cub? My old heart can only endure so much.' The Elder Shaman thought critically and in exasperation as he studied the little improvised alchemy table.

The drama of this elixir aside, it seemingly puts the body of the one who drinks in a deep sleep, similar to the hibernation of some species in the cold seasons.

Ohto was a lot as a student, and thus right there was one example why, another was the baby treant studying him. And that spoke volumes for someone like Oakpaw, who was vastly experienced in that department and had taught all life matters.

Ohto wasn't a regular cub by any extent of the word. He was dramatically more gifted in the branches of shamanism that the Lord of the Forest Cenarius had renamed druidism for some mysterious reason, not that it mattered, for it was merely a part of a whole.

Communicating with the ancestors put aside, he was deeply attuned to them, letting him speak and hear them with far more clarity and far less effort than normally possible.

Still, the young cub excelled in restoration the most, making him seem incredibly mediocre in others. Otherwise, he was remarkable in a significant portion of them. The contrast was, to a degree, that the Elder Shaman never knew was possible.

The memories of the confused cub at his shock after the little one reattached two fingers to the paw of a clumsy warrior who cut them by not paying attention were anchored in Oakpaw's memories.

This feat was expected of a trained shaman in that branch after using a potion or the like, and then it would have risks of scarring and potential after-effects for some time, depending on the initial damage. Healing magic was delicate and complex.

But Ohto had done so without formal training and healed the paw perfectly. It wasn't the first case of him healing others, but minor flesh wounds were decidedly not the same as reversing a double amputation, no matter how clean, minor, and recent it was.

It was a blessing of the Bear Ancients. Or a test from them, it arbitrarily changed with the mood of the day.

Then came the fact that Ohto was astoundingly clever and intelligent and certainly more mature than any in his age group, but a cub he remained, and dangerous, curious recklessness was part of the course. Even more, here with who the young cub was.

A cursed blessing worsened with an extreme drive to learn, train, and progress, almost like it was an absolute must. May Ursol guide his path and Ursoc give him strength, for Oakpaw knew he would need both. With the sporadic sleeping trouble that could get rather intense, the cub always had a less than uncommon occurrence. And the old shaman had some ideas as to why.

Alas, there wasn't much he could do to act upon it. Or he was willing to. Visions were profoundly personal and spiritual matters, after all. It would be on the cub's terms if an explanation ever came to pass. And sometimes words were unnecessary.

It was worrying, however. Oakpaw, his fellow shamans, and the ancestors could feel it; major change was coming, yet its nature was eluding them in its entirety, but from the cub's behavior, the future would prove to be one of hardship. Trials were coming to test their honor and right of survival to weather the incoming storm. And this cub will be the pillar of the tribe that he, the Elder Shaman, was intimately aware of.

'Is that why he did this tonight, to slumber peacefully, to not see? Poor little fool, you are my student…' Oakpaw wondered when closing the vial, the little teal liquid remaining inside now secured. He did the same for what remained on the stump; he wouldn't want any furbolgs with more curiosity than good sense–the vast majority–to take a sip.

The use of such an elixir, when properly crafted, was clear to his experienced eyes, even if two-thirds of what it did was very likely unplanned. For that, the punishment would be light, but one would still be needed, and he got the perfect idea.

•••••

"Fuck… my head…" I groaned, a headache pulsing through my brain while I opened my heavy eyelids, wincing briefly at the bright light. Blinking a few times, I stared dumbly at an unfamiliar ceiling, one where I wasn't used to waking up. The same was true for the smell, and I knew where I was.

"Watch your tongue, young cub." A stern voice chastised to my right, one I recognized instantly as my teacher's, confirming that I was in his den. I stood up or tried to, but everything was sluggish and felt like lead. I opted for the smarter option, which was to sit. And once comfortable, I couldn't help but stare awkwardly at the old furbolg carving a totem, the air tense and heavy.

"Why am I here-oh…" The recollection of my late alchemical experimentation came to the forefront. I did something stupid, didn't I? Well, I don't recall it all, but I had a bad dream and decided to go out to clear my thoughts. Rarer they may get with time, they never went away.

An annoyance this time that had led to only what I could assume from blurry memories was a eureka moment with a half-sleepy, frustrated mind where I concocted a drink from what I was learning to help me sleep… and promptly drank it fully. Everything after was pure nothingness until now.

I made a slightly magical sleeping tea, even if testing it immediately after brewing it for the first time wasn't my brightest decision.

At least I was aware enough in my fucking sleep inertia to avoid making THEN drinking poison. The dose makes the poison or something along those lines, and the ingredients weren't toxic for furbolgs unless taken in excess, even for a three-year-old cub like me.

It did work, though. A bit too much.

"...I'm sorry, teacher, for worrying you about what I did," I said tentatively with a small head bow. My ears flicked from the unamused snort I got in response, both a relief and a source of dread.

"It's not to me you shall say that, young Ohto." Oakpaw let out a grin of fangs growing on his snout, "But I will accept your apology. Your hasty brew has potential, and we shall work on it. It would be your punishment from me…"

My ears perked up; this was good, excellent, but too good to be only that. Then, my nose picked up two smells that were essentially half and half of my own. Oh shit…

"…but I'm not your mother and father. They would do finer work than I at showing what a lack of forethought can lead to." He confirmed my fear and a feminine voice I associated with as my mother arrived in full swing.

"Ohto! Thanks to the Twin Bears, thanks to the ancestors, you are fine! My precious little cub… I thought you die-died…" She cooed and cried, checking me over through smell and vision.

Guilt welled in my heart at what I must have let her go through when her demeanor flipped. She harshly nipped one of my poor round ears, and she flicked my nose hard, causing me to yowl meekly on both accounts. The motherly love was not gone. It was stronger, just of a different nature.

"No honey for you until the next Communion of the Twin, young cub! And do not try this again or disobey. I will know. I will know. Believe me, Ohto, I will. Clever tricks will not suffice no matter how smart you may be." And the horrific punishment fell. My expression was one of despair.

The sweet divine nectar that had become a necessity in this life was forbidden from entering my stomach. I loved it as a human, particularly with cheese, the strong kind, and being a furbolg only amplified my love for honey.

My rational side was relieved it was only that, but my brain was far from happy.

"Okay, Ma. I promise I will…" But I didn't throw a tantrum, accepting my fate, and the nuzzle was almost enough to make it all great. Then father came, and it all started again.

*

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