Southern Kalimdor had become far more insect-filled in recent times, but that changed as a furious storm of sand from the east charged west, removing every insect the grains touched, and returning them to naught but sand. Those who had burrowed into Un'Goro remained hidden, and covered their burgeoning hives from the Dragon's aerial wrath. Thanks to elven reluctance to share information, the threat would continue to fester in the jungle crater for millennia.
Anachronos led his kin, wyrms, dragons, and even drakes. All had been summoned, for as they fought on, they recognized those who had once been constructs of the Makers, now turned to evil. Such dark entities pervaded many timezones, but Nozdormu had a history of removing them entirely, claiming that the powers they served needed to be eradicated, wherever they appeared. Anachronos and the others obeyed that desire, as their sandy charge tore through the line of giants that had been traversing Tanaris, and reduced them to sand as easily as the bugs. As the wall of living draconic sand passed over the hordes occupying Un'Goro's airspace, and pushed ever westward into Silithus, the Heir of Nozdormu got his first real glance at exactly what his sire was so afraid of.
The spires of Ahn'Qiraj loomed in the distance, and behind them, almost incorporeal, was the massive bloated figure of a being that thought itself a god. The endless eyes of the monstrosity blinked at him once, in unison, and then just as quickly as it had appeared, the vision vanished from the sight and senses of a being that could see through multiple time streams. Anachronos and the other elder wyrms reformed themselves over the eastern edge of the sands of Silithus, and with the horizon of the foul land stretched before them, they got a good sense of just how numerous these bugs were.
----------------------------------------
The elves had not been lying. True to their words, their kin now littered the sands in numbers that were well into the thousands. Many had been torn to pieces for fun or food, or just by the general stampeding of thousands of bug-like legs. The wyrms unleashed their sandy breath attacks over and over, yet each time the horde seemed to shrink away and become yet more sand, over a hundred new, fresh warriors would take their place, and surge uselessly towards the bronze scaled Dragons.
Anachronos looked again at the city, and sensed nothing, but he had learned well the lessons his father had passed on. Evil like this, that hid itself and bent insectoid races to its whims, had once ruled this land. He had seen the past, though he had not understood what he had been looking at. He knew that once, this very land had been home to a foul empire, but surely, that malevolent society was long buried under the sands.
The Dragon blinked, once. Or, it was being hidden by them. "Pull back to the Crater. Cover the region from here to Feralas, this infestation must not spread to the jungles. I will summon the other Dragonflights. We will need them."
If the other, typically much older, wyrms disagreed with the heir's judgement, they did not voice their concerns, and instead moved to strategic positions around Silithus. Together, they wove a spell of sand and time that reduced any flying insects to grubs, which then died to the long, long fall to the ground below. The barrier of sand was temporary, but it would hold long enough. As with the demons, for Anachronos had witnessed the War of the Ancients as well, they would need mortal and natural aid to put this threat down, permanently. He looked again at the swarming hordes pouring from the gates of Ahn'Qiraj. Even with everything the allied forces of Kalimdor had, it might still not be enough. The bugs were endless.
----------------------------------------
With a low growl, Anachronos turned, and headed back towards Tanaris, and the elves who yet camped there. He did not like the one called Staghelm, almost entirely because the Dragon had a good idea of what he would become, potentially, but even in this timezone, the elf pricked his last nerve. The other, though, the one that smelled of Ashamane, had at least shown respect where it was due. Once, the elves had treated all his kin with such, but that was in a time now long passed, and forgotten.
Anachronos made good time to his home region, and as he landed atop the Caverns of Time, and stared down at the huddled, but mobilizing elven remnants behind it, the deep voice rumbled over them. "Where are the Druids who defended our offspring while the rest of you cowered behind our home?" The Dragon stared each of the suddenly very guilty looking Night Elves down with a gleaming golden gem of an eye, daring them to lie to his face about their involvement.
Several, bearing the marks of Ursoc and Ursol and led by a particularly fierce pair of females, stepped forward. The golden eyes glinted as he surveyed them, and did not find the male who had requested his aid. He glanced to his right, as a bronze drake, a whelp-watcher named Kairozdormu if he recalled correctly, landed beside him on a lower rocky protrusion. "Looking for one in particular?"
----------------------------------------
The elder wyrm nodded. Kairoz spoke again. "Those below were the bears you saw earlier. The others were led by one who called himself Stormclaw...but I do not sense...ahh, no, there he is."
Melting from the shadows that had kept his presence hidden even from an elder Dragon, came a panther with massive saber-teeth, and an uncanny resemblance to Ashamane. Anachronos knew that the Wild Spirits, much like some Dragons, would occasionally choose mortals to empower and fight for them as avatars of their will. Slightly more impressed, the bronze wyrm leaned low over the remnants of the elven host, his neck giving him all the length he needed. "Stormclaw, was it? You and yours have earned a gift. You aided my kin when it would have been easier to let them die, and increase our rage to greater heights against our common foe. You and your fellows leapt to the fore, when the rest had given up." The massive wings rose into the darkening sky, and his massive form began to glow as he summoned the power inherent to his flight, and his blood.
Anachronos eyed the gathered elves who had each resumed their first shapes, remarking not for the first time at how the night invigorated them. Though they had ties to other entities, it seemed the Moon Mother yet favored her chosen mortal race. All but one, anyways. The very druid that had helped lead the defense of their young. Anachronos did not know what had transpired between the elf and the Moon, but he knew Elune's scorn when he saw it. His lips rose into a slight smirk.
----------------------------------------
It was rare that one of Elune's own gave her up, but the more he sensed of the mortal before him, the more he realized what he'd traded it for. Bronze Dragons knew better than any other what Azeroth was, what she could become, and what her fate would be if evil was allowed to fester and spread unchecked. It was a secret older than all of them, and one they never voiced aloud, lest they change the future they were working so hard to ensure. Elves like this would be most useful if they remained fighting fit until their demise, and so, the Heir of Nozdormu gave them a gift.
"For your altruism, I grant you youth eternal. No matter what the future holds, no matter what you lose or gain, through it all your bodies shall remain as vigorous as they are now. Disease can still take you, and weapons can slay you. Death comes for all, in time. Remember this kindness, and why you earned it, when those around you forget." The elves shared a look, puzzled and a bit unnerved at what the time-traveling Dragon hinted at, but their thoughts faded as the rush of power entered their beings, and suffused them with the magic of the Bronze Dragonflight. It was not the same as a blessing he would give a Dragonsworn, but it would be useful for those with limited lifespans and mortal limitations.
----------------------------------------
Stormclaw bowed, and the other elves followed suit once the daze from the rush of power left them. "What would you have us do to aid you in the current conflict, Heir of Nozdormu?"
Anachronos rose up again, looking every bit as regal as Azshara had at her peak. He glowed in the moonlight from the twin moons, and addressed the elves as a whole now. "Return to your groves, bring forth the Green Dragonflight, tell them who sent you, and what has transpired. I shall reach out to the Reds and Blues. Then, return south to your outposts. We will drive the Silithid back from the holes they crawled out of!"
The gathered, demoralized elves rallied, as the bronze wyrm took to the sky once more, Kairoz in tow. What few drakes and dragons had not left in the initial charge thanks to travel, and the trickiness of the timeways, now came forth from the Caverns, and with them, their best weapon.
He was a wyrm from Nozdormu's younger days, in a time before mortals. His eyes had watched the world when it was young, and he had been one of the first 'true Dragons' to be transformed alongside the Aspect of Time. Anachronos fell into flight beside the giant Dragon as they headed west. "Grakkarond. It has been some time since I've seen you in this era."
----------------------------------------
The ancient wyrm shifted his blank eyes to Nozdormu's whelp. "This era is terrible. Fel scars everywhere, far too much ocean, bugs running amok, dark powers best left alone woken from their ancient and hard-won slumber. It is my duty to return, for you summoned all of us. All must come, when Nozdormu's blood calls. No matter how far away we are." The seemingly crotchety wyrm flapped onwards, towards Silithus. "So...the Aqir are roused once more...hrrrrmph." The Dragon growled low as he brooded. He hated when prophecies started fulfilling themselves. Especially when said prophecies ended poorly, for him and his kin.
Anachronos kept quiet as they returned to Silithus to reinforce and lead the bronzes there. Grakkarond was crotchety at the best of times, but he seemed more solemn than usual. Being so old, he had naturally been one of many of the first generation to teach the next, which had included Anachronos himself. Now, few remained who were Grakkarond's age, and those who did were of other flights, if they were not deceased already.
As they came upon the hordes of insects once more, the Heir of Nozdormu fervently hoped he had not just summoned the entirety of his flight to be slaughtered by whatever awaited them inside the city.
----------------------------------------
Ahn'Qiraj - Silithus
----------------------------------------
"They're too much for us…" Vek'lor chittered softly as they watched the Bronze Dragons reduce their forces far quicker than they could ever hope to breed them, by way of the more sorcerous brother's Scrying Orb. Their numbers seemed endless, but even the Silithid had limits. The Dragons would soon test them, if they continued to take down fifty fully grown Colossi with a simple breath. "They took out our Anubisaths with their initial charge, and have been slaughtering ever since...if this continues, if more of the Titan's hounds come, they will find us, and they will end us. If not them, then the mortals they infuse with their strength will do their dirty work for them. They're becoming annoyingly common from those who've managed to survive the swarm."
Vek'nilash made quiet clicking noises, his mandibles clacking together as they often did when the warrior attempted to think beyond his station. "We need...a weapon. A better weapon. An answer to the Titan's hounds…"
Vek'lor eyed his fellow Emperor. "What...did you have in mind, brother of mine?"
Vek'nilash strode from the gates of the city then, back to the chamber that the pair typically resided in. "Something...inspired." Once inside, the pair strode to the center of the chamber, and the hidden triangular platform in the center of the room brought them down deep into the bowels of the city. While the tattered, ruined spires above gave the appearance of an empire long dead and a culture past its prime, here, under the ruins, was where the Qiraji's true empire flourished. Yellow-orange lights lit the many massive tunnels that had been carved over the millennia as the hive grew ever larger in preparation for the Great One's awakening. Now, that time was fast approaching.
----------------------------------------
Green flames burned eternal in this Underforge of dark creations, for it was here that the Twin Emperors had first bent the minds of the Titan's Anubisath to their will. There had been other Titan minions, guardians who'd possessed strange magical abilities. They had been rather challenging to completely subdue, and not one had fallen to the twin's attempts to bend them to C'thun's will.
That all changed now. Vek'nilash gathered the ancient obsidian chunks of the long fallen Titanforged, tossing them into the molten pit of fire and equally emerald magma. Their basic shape was easy enough to reforge, and from the mass of pieces came a winged, four-legged obsidian shape that resembled the Tol'vir's form as it had once been, but it was Vek'lor who tried, and consistently failed, to empower the long fallen construct with new life.
After the twentieth such attempt, something changed. The fires flickered, for a moment, and a familiar, if terrifying, presence joined them. Power surged into the twins, and together, they brought forth the first of their new weapons of war.
Eyes still burning with C'thun's dark power, Vek'lor saw a similar essence infused within the construct, and as its head rose towards him with sentience behind the burning green eyes, the Qiraji chittered excitedly. "You are the first...the first of our masterpieces."
----------------------------------------
The construct spoke awkwardly, as if trying, and only just now remembering, how to form words with a throat of stone. "What...is thy bidding...my master?"
Vek'lor began to speak, when quite suddenly, the power that had aided him forced both himself and his brother to their knees. It was then that he noticed the construct's eyes had shifted to the center of the room, ignoring him as immaterial. The statue's words had come before its body had time to adjust its head towards the entity it addressed. A single, massive Eye floated before the three above the burning green flames that kept the eggs of the Qiraji hives warm and viable in the otherwise rather cold sandy underground.
]I grant the power to drain the Arcane mana of the Titan's hounds. Rip their essence from them. Use it to Eradicate any who oppose My will. You are no longer a Watcher. You are now...a Destroyer.
The obsidian entity saluted the Eye in a manner that was more leftover reflex of a life long forgotten, than anything else. "It will...be done." The being left the chamber then, flying slowly and awkwardly on its own power up through the entrance the Emperors had used to descend. The brothers glanced at each other, unsure of what to do now, and wondering if one such creature would be enough.
Obsidian fragments of stone rose up through the sand around them in massive chunks, and a single word accompanied them.
More.
----------------------------------------
Oneiros - Feralas
----------------------------------------
Laronar Stormclaw looked around at the druids he had gathered in the day and a half since they'd trudged from Tanaris to Feralas. Over the course of this conflict, the local settlement of Oneiros, once little more than tent camps gathered together, had gained stone architecture, and even a temple to the Moon. With all of the reserves now drawn upon and the barrow dens emptied, Thaon was with them, though Laronar had kept their patron's Fangs. They were the largest part of why he was still alive, and they helped him keep others that way too. Augmenting their Ashen forces were the Nightsabers that, until this stage of the war, Laronar had been keeping far from the fighting, save as mounts.
He gave Storm's chin a thorough scratch, and eyed his oldest friend. He knew the great cat wished to end the bugs that had killed no small amount of Nightsabers he himself had sired, but until now, the druid had been reluctant to send him forth. In hindsight, waiting had been the smart option. Of the Sentinels who had survived, very few had done so with their original mounts. Would that the Dragons had aided them sooner, but he supposed they had Fandral to thank for that. Now, they would need everything they had to fight with. Again.
Beyond the comparatively small division swarmed thousands of now fully corporeal Green Dragons, each of whom was preparing for war by way of magical enchantments. Anachronos had asked for aid, and not long after, the druids had arrived to reinforce the urgency of what the elves had stepped in this time. In the quiet before the conflict, many of the older wyrms stared angrily at the mountains to their south, a small obstacle for any Dragon, and the fields beyond where many good, loved, elves who had been friends of the flight had met their ends.
----------------------------------------
Shandris rode by the Ashen's encampment, followed as usual by a column of the most elite Sentinels who yet lived, each atop panthers that, by no coincidence, Storm had raised. They had the same look as the Dragons, and many, were wondering why they were walking. Their hard glares focused on the attention of their General, as she stopped before a smirking, green haired druid. "Ride with me."
Laronar felt his cheeks darken, especially as the combined eyes of Sentinels and Ashen were now wondering why the fel Shandris Feathermoon knew he existed. "I don't need a ride...but I will join you." He shifted then into his Cat Form, coming up to the height of her own mount, who he greeted as an old friend and the other druids did the same as they felt Ashamane's power manifest once more. Thousands of amber eyes now readied themselves for the relatively short run to the edge of the jungle. Cliffs were little trouble to panthers of their size. As with the first Sentinel reinforcements at the start of this conflict, they would ride over the steep mountains, and fall into the fray. The elves had no doubt that the bronzes would need aid soon, if they did not already. Even the greens had the same bad habit of underestimating the bugs.
Merithra, daughter of Ysera, led them all south from Feralas, and through the Bronze Dragon's shield, or rather they would have, if the shield yet stood. As they crested the southern edge of Feralas, the greens bore witness to a sight unheard of. Of all the Dragonflights, none were as powerful as the bronzes, for while the blacks and blues had strength and magic, time made sand of all of them. Yet even those who traveled the length of existence and guarded the very fabric of reality from being tampered with were, somehow, falling to the bugs.
----------------------------------------
The elves did not pause, for they were well acquainted with what a battlefield suffering from Qiraji shenanigans looked like, and before long, the charging column of druids and Sentinels slammed into the edge of the hordes. They found their path cleared for them as many of the bugs simply ceased to exist thanks to the overhead flying Green Dragons. It soon became clear though, as to what was taking down so many bronzes.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
They flew awkwardly on wings of obsidian stone, and a magic shell surrounded their forms. They had four legs, two arms, and head decor that seemed like a bad copy of Zandalari royal headwear. Each hand held an implement burning with foul green energy, and when the creatures directed such things at Dragons, their scale color did not matter. Their magic was ripped from them, and the defenseless, weakened dragonkin soon found themselves swarmed by Qiraji, and brought into the hordes of Colossi below.
Each fallen titan crushed thousands of the bugs, but there was a very limited number of Dragons, and even at that moment, more bugs streamed forth from the spires in the distance. All across Silithus battle was joined, as the defenders of Kalimdor charged, and pushed at the swarm from all sides.
----------------------------------------
In the east were the blues, the only ones who had any success with removing the strange obsidian constructs, namely by teleporting them back several hundred miles behind their city. From the air, that direction appeared to only contain mountains, but thanks to the construct's slow speed, getting back took quite a while. They had proven immune to attack magic and breath attacks, as well as physical clawing.
Laronar had continued running with the Sentinels, and the cats complimented the riders rather well, namely by guarding their blind spots, and even keeping their wounded mounts from lashing out wildly. The strange amber eyed cats seemed to possess healing magic as well, and throughout the battle, more than one sister stayed alive thanks to the near constant regeneration provided by the ceaselessly slashing Cat Forms.
Ashamane's Chosen and the Ranger General, who had been given authority in this final conflict by both of the honored heads of their people, had little trouble making a path for the rest to ride through, and anyone with eyes knew that they'd done this before. From the air, or the ground, no matter how large, the two smashed through every bug that dared to test itself against them. With almost no warning, a massive crimson scaled form landed in front of them, magical warding gone, as Colossi began swarming.
----------------------------------------
Laronar glanced at the General, who nodded and pointed. With a roar, five other Sharpclaws followed him as they leapt over and atop the fallen Dragon, and Shandris took the charging column around. They were almost ready to spread out the lines, and begin the final push, but every Dragon they had, they would need.
The Ashen defended and healed the bleeding beast with continuous spells, and their finely honed claws caused any who came near to bleed to death not long after. These five in particular were rather good at what they did, and had, in Laronar's mind, proven themselves as Sharpclaws. One shifted into a Bear Form as the bugs swarmed again, and once more, the remaining four panthers tore into the focused crowd of insect scum.
As bears, and thanks in no small part to a lot of training with Druids of the Claw, his Sharpclaws used the mighty forms as damage sponges, and used the resulting rage of the beast within to continuously heal whatever punishment the form took. The downside was not being able to strike back, as the healing took quite a bit of mental focus to maintain, but given how that healing was their other specialty, much like their teacher, their frenzied regenerations lasted a bit longer than their bear favoring counterparts, and did not require a frenzy to use.
----------------------------------------
Behind them, the Dragon rose, the numerous cuts along its scaled body healed, and the wyrm was rejuvenated by the magic of nature. The Dragon seemed to enhance what spells had been cast upon him, and as he flapped once more into the air, ruby flames burned away every bug around the column, and then some. Strangely enough, life did not bloom in the sands of Silithus, even after being torched by a Red Dragon's breath. Nothing plant related grew from the scorched, glassy patches of sand. Below, the elves had taken their casting shapes, and Laronar, along with the others, reinforced the Dragon with what magical wards they could. Since they drew primarily from the wilds and not the arcane, they might hold up longer, or so they had reasoned.
A sharp whistle pierced the air, and the detached squad found their gazes drawn in the direction of their column. They were spreading out to either side of the cleared field, and the Dragons were regrouping in the air behind them. More reds arrived, and reinforced what their brother had lost. As thanks, they flew behind the Sharpclaws then, and bathed the battle in helpful gouts of ruby flame.
As the push began, black forms began appearing in the sky, and Laronar got his first look at what would come to be known as an Obsidian Destroyer. The being's eyes burned with unnatural green flames, and the one closest to them raised a strange scepter. "They're aiming at the Dragons!"
----------------------------------------
Laronar's ears flicked at Shandris' words, and as usual, he was the first to charge in and do something about it. Arrows and glaives proved ineffective, even those laced with magic. Once more, a crowd of his favored students followed, though many others simply did not do so because the bugs, even when losing ground, refused to stop trying to blindly charge ahead through the forming ranks of the elven armies.
All across Silithus, similar scenes were playing out, though in most, the Dragons found themselves losing more of their kin than they wished. The Destroyers were living up to their monicker, and the Dragons simply had no way to counter them. Thus, the mortals, and primarily the blues, were left to deal with them.
Once more taking the Owl's Form, Laronar again found the Fangs responding to the form change, covering his talons in the usual, magical metal claw coverings. He and the group of roughly ten druids sliced their way through the Qiraji in the sky, though thanks to the Red Dragons, there weren't too many to deal with.
----------------------------------------
They made their first several passes on the obsidian being, and Laronar soon discovered that, for whatever reason, only the Fang-encased talons he was using left any lasting mark. That was fine, for as he looked around the clear desert sky, he saw their numbers were not too terribly great. It would take time, but he could whittle away at them by himself, and force their focus from the Dragons.
With a single shriek from their leader, the other druids descended below, and rejoined the fray with savage landings among the bugs. Nightsaber fangs from above tore through Colossi silithids. Feeling slightly insulted by the sudden lack of targets, the construct's eyes flared, and it raised a scepter towards the owl. A beam of green energy arced towards the druid, but he was already dodging, flying upside down, and aligning his talons for a strike on the construct's head. They sank into obsidian eye sockets with an inverted grab, and then slid completely through, almost too easily. With the source of its power cut clean through, the construct fell, lifeless, towards the sands, its eyes gouged out by the sharp owl talons.
Spurred on by what appeared to be success, Laronar repeated the method with a nearby Destroyer, and hoped that the chunks of statue were crushing bugs below, not fellow elves. It was only when the proud druid glanced behind him at his trail of carnage that he saw the stone, somehow, reforming itself. The first had already taken to the sky again, and suddenly, he knew what they had to do. Many minds across the battle understood, all around the same time. They needed to seal this relentless force away. They could not stop it, not yet. Knowing what would be needed for study, the owl spun in the air, and this time the still gaping obsidian head of his latest opponent parted from its shoulders. The wings flapped a few times, and continued to do so futilely as the now magicless body pummeled the silithid below with death. Minus a head, it did not rise again.
----------------------------------------
The druid took stock of their forces once he handed the very angry glowing head off to an elven courier that would see it stored somewhere safe, likely with the supplies they'd brought with them. Laronar had tried calling on the Highmountain Tauren, or at least the Skyhorn for aid, but Shandris had refused, as had many others, chief among them being Fandral. They were of the opinion that guarding the world from this threat was the Kaldorei's responsibility, for the mantle of immortality had been given to them, and them alone. They had defended the world before, they would not fail now.
He'd pointed out that only by using many races had the tides of war finally turned in favor of the Ancients, but he was then reminded, by those who had actually been in the final battle of the War of the Ancients, that by that point, Malfurion and Illidan were already off succeeding on whatever their mission had been. The specifics were always vague, but everyone always attributed the closing of the demon portal to Malfurion, and sometimes his less popular twin. In the end, most elves, at least in Fandral's new political stronghold of Silithus, saw the other race's contribution to the ancient war as little more than an admittedly needed stopgap during the months of constant carnage from the front lines.
Laronar shifted back to his Cat Form then, and charged back into the fray as he spied Anachronos, alongside another massive Bronze Wyrm, tearing through the carnage with impressive results. Colossi, Anubisath, even a pair of Destroyers had not made the Dragons pause, though what exactly became of them was unclear. One second the Dragon killers were facing down the ancient wyrm, and the next, they had simply never been. The combined force of Ashen and semi-wild Nightsabers that was his to command rallied as one of their pack leaders charged by them, roaring, and infusing them with Ashamane's speed. Their latest push needed to gain momentum, and sure enough, as his druids clawed their way deeper, aided in no small part by the many gaps in the lines the Dragons left, they encouraged the units around them to fight that much harder to keep up. The bugs began to lose ground for the first time since the wolf-faced giants had taken to the sands, and slowly, the defenders drove them back towards Ahn'Qiraj. By that point, most of the Destroyers, what few there were, had either been beheaded, or magically shunted to the very southermost tip of Kalimdor, a mountainous, and inhospitable region, not to mention a long, slow flight back to Ahn'Qiraj.
----------------------------------------
Anachronos ascended into the sky then, as did three other equally large wyrms of various scale color. Laronar assumed they must be the ones leading the Dragonflights. The ancient wyrms, with the exception of the greens and a few reds, had largely ignored the 'mortal' defenders aiding them. Word of Staghelm's tactics at the Caverns of Time had soured many ancient allies on supporting the Kaldorei, but they had answered Anachronos' summons all the same. They were more focused on avoiding the Destroyers, and eradicating entire generations of Qiraji with their widespread attacks, than actually helping the elves. Most of the Dragons struck where they pleased, and eradicated years worth of silithids with each pass over their ranks.
Feeling hopeful for the first time in several long days, that hope faded, as the magnificent form of the larger bronze that had charged alongside Anachronos fell from the sky, a massive sword embedded in his wing. The surrounding area shook with the Dragon's rage, and the wyrm's forced landing was guided towards its assailant as he barreled through hundreds of bugs. Laronar grimaced. He knew that look, he'd seen it already, far too many times. It was the last charge of a Dragon who knew, even as bugs climbed his massive body, that this was his end.
The druid watched, very much impressed, as the beast mauled the obsidian giant, a leader of some sort judging by his headwear, who'd had the stones to challenge him. Both massive golden claws tore the grinning wolf-like visage to pieces, but before he had a chance to crush the rest of the body, Colossi charged Grakkarond, rising like a tidal wave of water, and forcing the wyrm into the sand. His mauled opponent's form sunk far too quickly into the sand below it, and did not reappear. Spurred on by his patrons, Laronar charged with the others, but by the time they came close enough to the Dragon to aid, he was already long gone.
Suddenly, every combatant on the field paused, groaning in pain as emanations of power surged from Ahn'Qiraj. The sound had stunned the Silithid...and then driven them into a frenzy. The elven lines threatened to buckle as the bugs entered an inexplicable rage that the elves had not seen before, and Laronar knew, this was the end. Here and now it would be decided. They would stymie the bugs, somehow, or they would charge over the elven corpses to the rest of relatively undefended Kalimdor.
----------------------------------------
Being what he was, Laronar knew quite a bit about how insects communicated, for such things were among the many exhaustively covered topics by druids who, apparently, had nothing better to do than speak to and watch insects go about their daily routine. Though it was rare in Kalimdor, in some smaller species, such calls that induced battle states usually originated from a leader of some sort, and as his sharp ears followed the source of the noise, his eyes noticed what the four Dragons hovering high above had already begun to deal with.
The battle was a constantly shifting sea of chaos, carnage, and spells. So very many spells. One side of Silithus lit up, drawing his eyes, as the result of several Starfires 'boomed' within Hive'Zora. The foul tentacles rising from the sands were burned away to stubby, charred remnants, and not long after, Hive'Regal suffered a similar fate. That booming lasted several minutes, as that particular hive had been the main source of new bugs for the entirety of the conflict.
Horns sounded across the front then, and the elves began their final push, as Ahn'Qiraj was in sight, and they still lived. Some, were beginning to believe they might just be able to stop this threat, if they could but reach the city's gates. The plan had been relatively simple, charge in as far as momentum would carry them, and then press the bugs back into the city from whence they came, removing their other hives in the process. By this point, every soldier fighting in Kalimdor's name was more than motivated. Too many had fallen to the bugs, and as Zora and Regal were toasted, the defenders pushed the bugs back to the very gates of the city. Then, once more, the minions of C'thun proved that there would be no stopping them. Ever.
----------------------------------------
The area around the gates became a bloodbath as frenzied bugs surged from Ahn'Qiraj in a wave of bodies into the waiting blades, claws, and staves of the elves who'd faced them since the start. Horns blew again, futilely, as the bloody stalemate continued, and even the druid's usual tactics of drawing focus and slashing from behind proved ineffective here. There were simply too many bugs, and they attacked whatever was closest, regardless of how loud the bears roared. It soon became clear that if something didn't change, the lines would break for a third time, and that time, they would never reform.
The Tauren and other races of Kalimdor did not have the numbers to stem this tide. It needed to end here, and the heirs of the Aspects intended to make sure it did. Several things happened at once. Massive forms of red, green, and blue charged into Ahn'Qiraj itself, forcing the bugs back with the combined fury of four Dragonflights. Then, the orders came down to the druids.
Fandral's infantry and the Sentinels would hold the line, and the druids would craft a barrier, with the aid of Anachronos, to imprison the Qiraji threat indefinitely, or at least, until the elves had enough forces to storm the city, and finally end the bugs for good. The structure that would come to be known as the Scarab Wall rose quickly before them, as the bronze heir worked the combined natural, arcane, and even holy energies into a barrier not even the insects could smash.
----------------------------------------
The Qiraji who tried flying past in the air found an invisible wall of nope that they battered uselessly against, and the bugs glared down at the exhausted elves with hate in their compound eyes. The elves stared back at them with much the same. Both sides knew, this was not over, not yet, but for the moment victory, of a sort, once more belonged to the Kaldorei and their immortal allies.
It had come at a heavy cost. Grakkarond, one of the 'generals' of the Bronze Dragons had fallen alongside hundreds of other Dragons who had been alive longer than most of the gathered elves, and now three of four heirs of the Aspects were imprisoned, or more likely dead, within the walls of Ahn'Qiraj. The entire desert was littered with corpses, mostly bugs, and while the fallen defenders had left piles of carnage around them, against the silithid, that hardly mattered. Even at that moment they could hear them, buzzing furiously as they realized this imprisonment was too much even for their slowly awakening master. His rise had been put on hold, but next time, when the wall came down, the Qiraji's rise would be unstoppable.
Laronar did not witness the breaking of the Scepter of the Shifting Sands, something he would later learn was apparently a key to unlocking the shield. He and the other druids, upon seeing the battle concluded, had begun the long march back to Feralas. Fandral's forces, what was left of them, would be cleaning up the fallen dead as he would still remain in Silithus for his actions with Vordrassil, and the Dragons saw to their own fallen. He'd found it strange that they had not bid the elves with so much as a farewell, until he'd heard what Fandral had done to the symbol of their alliance, the end result of all the death and pain and loss. He added yet another reason to dislike and distrust Staghelm to his already lengthy list of grievances.
----------------------------------------
Ashamane's Fall - Val'sharah
----------------------------------------
Overall, the Ashen had lost over six thousand of their number, and the rest of the elves had been hit just as hard, if not harder. Every day, new names were added to the ever-growing list of those now fallen as those responsible for such numbers recorded them. There were few who had seen the conflict in its early stages, and had lived through to the end, and each of them found themselves visited not long after the war ended.
It was high noon when Laronar placed the Fangs of Ashamane back upon the pedestal they had sat on for millennia prior to the bug's awakening. He felt the approval of his patron rumble through his being, a sensation that he, and every other Ashen, rather enjoyed.
"They have drunk much of the bug's blood. You wielded them well, Laronar Stormclaw."
Laronar shrugged. "I hope I do not need to wield them again. In fact, I hope they stay there, absorbing the natural power of this realm, for as long as elvenly possible. We will need that strength, when the Legion returns." The ancient panther nodded in agreement, and then faded away to rest. Though she would never admit it, the conflict's near-constant warring had taken a toll on her, as well. Her favored druid had drawn deep of her strength, but she was glad to give it, in a desperate time of war.
----------------------------------------
Laronar glanced up, as a surge of natural power poured into the Fangs, rejuvenating and restoring their depleted energy. A semi-corporeal Ancient of Lore was standing behind the altar upon which they rested, and Laronar slowly arched a brow as he recognized who this was. All knew of Leafbeard, and his stories. In his time in Val'sharah, Laronar had heard many of them, and had long since stopped sitting around nightly to listen. The ancient did not begrudge him that however, for many did the same after a few years.
"Archdruid Stormclaw. I am glad you yet live. I have spoken with Lea and Koda, as well as Isoraen, and those who lived through the War of the Shifting Sands. All have given me the same advisement: find you, for you often fought both in the sky and on the ground, charging bravely into danger numerous times, using only your Cat Form empowered by Ashamane's Fangs. I would hear your account of the war as well, so future generations will remember."
Laronar had walked over to the nearby stream that ran around Ashamane's shrine, and he saw the incorporeal panther, looking slightly stronger after the appreciated gift of power, eyeing him expectantly. She more than most knew his shy tendencies, but for this, he needed to speak. So he did, after quenching his thirst. It was a luxury he had enjoyed since returning, for water had been scarce throughout the conflict.
----------------------------------------
Laronar leveled his harsh amber gaze at the Ancient. "When you speak of this war, ancient one, be sure to end with this: It is not over. The Qiraji are not defeated, and some day, the Scarab Wall will fall. We must be ready before that happens. We must also keep in mind that the bugs will likely not simply fall asleep while they are trapped. Warn those who will listen, the Qiraji who come forth next will be prepared for everything we have already used against them." The Ancient gave a slow, single nod, and Laronar began recounting his tale, from his perspective.
From first arriving in Un'Goro Crater to the raising of the Scarab Wall, the usually quiet druid demonstrated, with some surprise to the Ancient and his favored Wild God, that he was rather good at storytelling. His words were complex and old, his style of speech, especially after extended periods, sounded more like a Night Elf from Azshara's time, rather than a modern druid. As he spoke, wisps gathered above them in the trees, and the druid's tone grew increasingly somber.
He knew who they were, he did not have to guess. Many of his Ashen's spirits had now returned here, by way of the Dreamway, preferring to rest near Ashamane's Fangs than within the Dream. As he finished his tale, he looked up to them. "I am sorry I could not do more to keep you alive, my kin. Mark me, some day, the Qiraji will pay for taking you from us before your time. I will personally charge into their foul city until they, and whatever spawned them, are rotting corpses beneath the sand. I swear it on Ashamane's Fangs. Rest, and know you will be avenged."
Seemingly satisfied, the wisps made soft ringing sounds, and circled around the shrine several times, before flying off at great speeds in whatever direction drew what was left of their attention span chose for them. Leafbeard left as well, after asking several questions, and proving his ancient mind yet retained its sharp edge. He had absorbed every word, as was his nature.
----------------------------------------
"What do you plan to do now, my Druid? I sense you do not wish to resume teaching."
Laronar gave a humorless smirk. "I taught my Sharpclaws every trick I knew, every skill, every healing spell, and it still was not enough to keep them from being overwhelmed by a horde of enemies. I am going to travel to what is left of Old Kalimdor, I am going to learn what foul power strengthens the bugs, and I am going to find a way for a smaller force to take down one whose number is legion. At the very least, there are two massive wars in our future, and even my libido will not replenish our numbers enough to match them. We need quality, over quantity." He fixed the incorporeal panther with an amber stare.
The panther nodded. "Go. Travel the world as you wish, and return when you are ready. Thaon shall take over in your absence."
Ashamane faded away then, leaving the druid once more alone. He sighed, shifted into his Cat Form, and began walking towards the Dreamgrove.