27. Prophetic Dream of a Prophet

The defense of the mind was a strange art. Or arts, since there weren't singular ones. It wasn't because they were incomprehensible, quite the contrary, even if they were obscure and not directly worded as such in most cases.

In almost every case, it involved a form of way of thought, an item, bodily enhancement, or mana control–internal and external–since, ultimately, mind fuckery was magical in nature.

It was willpower and imagination when the above failed or were absent, though not exclusively. It was a tricky subject and depended on thousands of parameters.

The Spirit Whistle helped toward that defense of the mind. It generated a short mana field that could give me precious seconds to react and ward off lesser mind-related spells only if the caster was unskilled; otherwise, it dampened it.

It wasn't an aegis. My mind was stronger than the Wise Bear's gift's inbuilt protection, and I wasn't some unflinching creature. I was driven by fear, after all.

If it were that easy to make a convenient device that protected the mind, the Nightmare, Old Gods, and the Void wouldn't be such a terrifying existence. The ability to corrupt and control the mind was dangerous on an existential level and arguably far worse than death or physical torture. At least the latter could be cheated or healed.

Of course, the Void wasn't the only thing able to fiddle with the mind; every magic influenced it in some manner. It was inevitable and unstoppable. The same was true for the body and soul, but mind-rape was one of Shadow magic's bread and butter.

Ursol taught me plenty, adding to what I trained in to be a shaman and ursa totemic since we were placed on a pedestal for reasons, and those were to deal with that type of danger. It was also an important skill to safely commune with the spirits–of the wild and elements alike–since, in many cases, the interaction was of the mind, and neither of the above always had your best interest in mind. It was best to view them as independent individuals.

But that was beside the point. My defense had failed. Deep in my sleep, something or someone, to be exact, entered and fabricated a dream at the very edge of my mind while shackling me to sleep.

Oh, it was done well–and what an understatement it was–and considered the effect of Arcane energy on sensitive creatures like furbolgs. It was a work of art, and the intentions were clear, blaring, and open–wanting to do no harm and offer information.

I believed him, the 'Oracle,' the dead yet alive super mage Medivh. The problem was that he violated one of the most sacred things, the sanctity of the mind—my mind, and it didn't please me in the least.

Then came the numerous worsening conditions caused by the current alien invasion and all its consequences.

Just yesterday, I had to put down fourteen maddened furbolgs, of which three were cubs, as sadly, far too many of my kind couldn't realistically escape. A demon or undead accelerated the corruption, making healing them impossible. Then I had to destroy their still-warm bodies so the Scourge or the Legion wouldn't defile them any further.

I didn't even know those furbolgs, yet I would never forget them.

I hated it. I hated everything about it, my inability to save them, then my choice to give them peace–to kill them–and the fucking situation leading to that. But what choice did I have? None, it was horrible, yet it wasn't a nightmare. It was reality.

The above might have been the worst, but by the ancestors, if only it were only that all. It had no end. From night elves' belief, I was to obey them to the destruction of my home and near death with Mannoroth. It was everything I was terrified of from the moment I knew where I reincarnated.

Words failed to describe the depth of my foul mood, and on top of that were the Fel and Death permeating the air even with purification rituals. I wasn't at my most understanding or patient. Or even rational to anything remotely nonsensical.

I didn't react diplomatically to something messing with my mind while in the scant few hours of light sleep I had in the last week. Alchemy helped on that front, but it didn't replace actual rest.

"Please, you must listen-!" The Prophet turned raven begged as three vines with thorns of bones busted from the fake peaceful clearing to wrung its neck. To my displeasure, he dodged easily for the umpteenth time with a plethora of variety and pattern; the same was for the hundred that followed.

He weaved between them, summoned shields, or teleported. Never retaliating. Oh, I wasn't blind. He didn't want to fight, but the problem was I didn't care; I couldn't find myself doing so right then and there. I wanted him gone.

Still, progress was going toward my escape.

It was my mind, and the illusion was all but that, an illusion, and it crumbled under my will and magic as I began to purge it.

It was the lock stopping me from awakening.

And the dainty little prairie falsifying a dream cracked like glass and mimicked lava and cinder surging from volcanos as Life and Nature replaced Arcane. Plants grew wildly, as did mycelium, flesh, bones, and skin, many of which were merged. Although I didn't find it particularly disturbing, it was a strange sight. Life was in all forms, and it's not as if, in reality, I couldn't do that. It would just be limited and substantially slower.

"Mortal race must alli-!" A furless bear jaw with exposed muscles snapped where he once was, tearing off a handful of black feathers. A serrated tongue shot outward from a flower instant later, latching onto a leg at long last. My satisfaction was short-lived, however.

It was his tipping point, it seemed.

"ENOUGH!" And everything froze to a halt. My attacks slowed down to a crawl, as was my 'body' where vine and veins connected me to the crack of the illusion as if I was some kind of hybrid of flesh and tree, as if time was slowed down.

I felt a tiny spike of fear at the show of the dead sorcerer's might. He would fight back if I pushed in attacking him.

While I intellectually knew it, he managed to slip into my mind without me noticing after all, and that was alarming, even if he couldn't do much more beyond causing extremely nasty headaches. It remained a cold shower.

Be that as it may, it cooled the heat down to a manageable level where I only snarled and glared at the not-corvid landing in front of me. Not that I could do much more besides continuing to try to dismantle the 'Oracle's spell, forcing me to dream.

He took on his 'true' form, a hooded–substantially handsome and athletic–middle-aged man holding a staff with a similar raven of wood atop... Medivh. The first human I have seen, even if only in vague resemblance. At best, he was a strange spirit that went against most of what I knew of spirits.

"Would you listen at last?!" He said irritatedly with what sounded almost like distress as he approached my much, much, much larger frame. My right paw was nearly half his height with the finger counted, but since it was moving at a snail's pace, I was as dangerous as said animal.

As emotion rose once more, I made a growl-like sound, but they were focused, as was the case with my following answer. Venom and vitriol were in it, rolling off the natural deep rumble of my voice.

If magical violence didn't work, verbal would. Maybe it wasn't going to be wise, but he pissed me off. Just like his aura of enforced calmness, he tried first and was trying again. It was only doing the opposite.

I knew plenty about him, the Guardian of whatever that plot of land was called. But I knew enough. And I utterly loathed him for that. In my past life, it wasn't the case; he was a great tragic character, but here, when I was living in Azeroth? He was real. Fuck him and his sob story.

Medivh wasn't ignorant. He could have done much to contain this horror in its infancy once he was freed. Like, burn his evil book! I don't know! It shouldn't be complicated, even if it were to be enchanted or warded.

He was in the top three, fighting for the first place as the most skilled mage on the planet. He wasn't a damsel in distress; death probably weakened him, but he wasn't weak by any means.

But he didn't act. Instead, he weaved a ridiculous, grand, heroic quest for others to fix his mistakes while playing the mysterious magical hobo. He was an idiot of cosmic proportion. If not, then he was a monster. Pranksters weren't funny when they killed cubs.

What happened with Sargeras wasn't entirely his fault, but now? It was, and not by a little.

"No, get the out of my head, puppet of the Dark One! And don't dare demand me to listen to your inane riddles after violating the sanctity of my mind! You're no different than demons by this act alone." He visibly flinched–almost recoiled in shock–hand holding his staff tightening and his spell wavering.

An opportunity I used to further push toward my freedom as the cracks began to spread again. If slowly. However, it was gaining in speed.

I wasn't finished, but this time, there was far less heat. I understood why he did what he did, and I agreed with his line of thought. I was expecting a contact. The problem was I was the target of that misguided fear and following action.

He could have just spoken to me, but no. That could have been reasonable, so for some nebulous reason, he didn't. Go convoluted when you don't need to.

"I know the Burning Legion is here and what they want. Another of your sins. I know we need an alliance with the outlanders if we wish to survive because you refuse to help. The kaldorei aren't ignorant of this. You aren't the first oracle, but they're kaldorei, and that's why I'm going to meet the orcs and humans. Random poetry won't help solve anything." He flinched again, then his eyes widened slightly, then his brow furrowed in confusion before he seemed to realize something.

There was a hint of shame as well. This mind-bullshit situation made reading emotion almost like a pseudo telepathy. It's why we could understand each other. And he was an open book, not that I was much different in making my displeasure known. It was a two-way street.

The cracks kept on growing in speed by the second as I pushed more power, the bound forcing me into slumber and starting to wane. I could feel my ears and fingers twitching, and that served as encouragement. Little was there to describe the sensation of imprisonment in your mind beyond how viscerally wrong it was.

I was utterly helpless to anything who would get past the safety measures of my sleeping cave. The good intention behind this being done was of no importance to what he did. You don't cage a wild animal and hope for anything but aggression.

"I don't want a war. Not now and, if possible, never, but it won't be a concern if we fail to have a future. Now free me, or I will do so myself." I spat, and as my words left my muzzle, my effort began to take effect. The false world began to unravel truly, but it wasn't there yet. The world shook at the name, giving me even more ground.

"Then, young prophet, I offer my most sincere apologies. I have nothing to give you that you do not already possess, and my welcome is long gone." Then, with a self-deprecating smile, he let go, and all of my effort to destroy his spell exploded at once.

Right after I abruptly woke up, my eyes widened as I took a big gulp of air, my heart hammering in my head with my fur soaked in metaphorical cold sweat. Minutes or seconds passed, and I calmed down and reviewed what happened.

"Prophet… Shit…" It was too late for regret.

"By the Twin Bears, I'm stupid…" Palming my forehead, I groaned loudly. Yet it wasn't that bad, or I liked to think. Only Ursol grasped the depth of my knowledge. Calling me a 'prophet' without that was nothing but thinking I just have a starking gift for vision.

That remained idiotic, but emotion and panic didn't mix well. Still, if it hadn't been Medivh… It would have been bad. And it couldn't be anyone else; I would be dead otherwise or worse.

But paranoia remained. It had been humbling in the most unpleasant way possible.

Moving my paw off my face, I eyed Groot, whose worry and distress were crystal clear even if he tried to hide it like every time, and I faintly smiled, "I'm fine. Just annoyed."

A smell registered, and I stared at the stone below and around my bedding of fluffy moss that I grew to that effect. Patches of living tissue of the three primary varieties, vegetal, animal, and fungal, were strewn around, resembling tiny tumors.

Though it wasn't that, it resulted from my Life mana running wild on inorganic matter–dead organic matter too–changing it into something else, living organic matter.

My first instance of this phenomenon was after a nightmare reviving my death as a newborn cub. It couldn't be said enough how lucky I had been that my tribe saw it as another blessing.

To put it simply, this was transmutation or a form of it. Nature mana could do the same, but it was between different living tissues, from shifting bone to bark to neuron and beyond, and vice versa. It was a pillar of shapeshifting.

The first was how the Aspect of Life could pop entire forests out of deserts if memories served me right, and something so far beyond any of what I could do wasn't funny. As for the second, I was only starting to get a proficient hang of it, but I was not a master of it. Yet.

The possibilities for either with everything else were beyond vast; healing was self-evident, as was for defensive purposes and even symbiosis regarding my bio armor, but not exclusively. Why limit the only living armor to a single furbolg? Though I wasn't there for either yet.

Offense wasn't exactly excluded, but I would never make thunderstorms, freeze seas, or cause earthquakes. It would be subtler. It was better to call it tinkering with life. Just like I did until now, but it would only get better.

I yawned. Right, I had been sleeping until that asshole had the bright idea to invade my mind. Flicking a claw, the seal of roots, thorns, and venomous vines of my temporary cave home parted, and I noted it was early in the morning of the savanna that was the Barren.

It was a beautiful sight, but alas, the moment wasn't to appreciate it.

I sighed, stretching like a dog, loving the satisfying loud pops from the fluid between my articulations.

Well, let's meet the humans–mostly–and orcs–mostly–propper. A few hours earlier than I had planned. But I wasn't in the mood to sleep anymore, and it was too late for that anyway.

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