“And lest anyone think us of weak use in battle, of being unable to defend our brothers beside us, we now hope to dispel that misconception. . . .”
With that, Genn and his people transformed.
Their bodies swelled, growing a third again in girth and height. Although originally loose-fitting, the Gilneans’ clothing still proved too tight for this shift, and shirts and jerkins ripped loudly. Hair sprouted over the Gilneans’ arms, legs, chests, and faces, spreading so thick that it became fur. Beneath the fur came the sounds of cracking and popping, of bones shifting and tendons stretching into positions of which they should not have been accustomed. Their arms and legs twisted as their forms contorted, the legs turning sleeker, more akin to those of a swift predator. Each figure became hunched, but in that manner of a powerfully built beast.
As the audience watched, rapt, the Gilneans’ hands stretched and the nails grew into long, savage claws. Yet, that paled in comparison to the astounding metamorphosis of their faces. It was not just that the ears narrowed and stretched but that the mouth and nose pushed forward, melded together, and created a muzzle filled with sharp teeth capable of rending through flesh without trouble.
The worgen stood before the Alliance.
The lupine figures held their ground, although there was in them the evident urge to run, to hunt. They did not turn from the gazes of the crowd, instead staring confidently back.
Genn Greymane, his chest heaving from adrenaline, eyed Malfurion and Tyrande. They nodded in turn. There was no greater way to emphasize the worth of the Gilneans to the Alliance than for the refugees to reveal their full strength.
The Gilneans had not always been among the worgen, though, and not all of their people were affected. Many were, however . . . and it was, to Malfurion’s shame, he himself who was in great part to blame.
It had begun with other druids, those experimenting with the pack form. They had called upon the power to shift into large wolves, only to discover too late that in these forms they lost control of themselves. Blood had been shed.
Malfurion was one of those nearly lost, the aid of the demigod Cenarius all that saved him. Finally aware of the threat, Malfurion had banned the form’s use. However, unbeknownst to him, a group of druids had gathered in secret to continue its efforts. Using the legendary artifact called the Scythe of Elune, they had sought to tame the wolf form . . . only to have the scythe transform them into the first of the worgen.
Bringing the savage creatures under control, Malfurion dismissed the advice of others who demanded their destruction and cast the worgen into a pocket dimension within the Emerald Dream, where they lay in a taming sleep under the tree Daral’nir.
That was supposed to have been the end of the tragic matter—and it would have been, if not for the human archmage Arugal. Under the orders of a desperate Genn seeking aid against the Scourge outside Gilneas’s great wall, the mage had pulled the worgen to the kingdom . . . and once the curse of the worgen had entered, it spread through the populace swiftly.
Yet, the Gilneans had discovered the means to control their feral nature and turn what had been evil into—at least to a point—a force to benefit themselves in regards to not only the Alliance but also the eventual liberation of their homeland.
“We are Gilneas,” Genn Greymane rumbled, his voice still distinctly his own, albeit now with a guttural addition to it. “We are the worgen. . . .”
The king howled.
The sound was not meant to disturb or frighten, only to again point out the power of him and his people. In that, it served well, for even the dour Dark Irons looked with great respect and interest at the might of the worgen.
As Genn’s howl reached its crescendo, the others with him added their voices. Yet, even that paled when from beyond the summit, from deep within the forest, other worgen voices answered the call.
Their combined howl lasted but a scant few seconds, yet that was long enough for the moment to burn into the memories of most there. As Genn ceased—and his people near and far immediately did the same—the king of Gilneas concluded, “We humbly submit ourselves before our brethren for full membership in the Alliance. . . .”
No one responded at first, so unsettling was the sight. Rising, Malfurion pointed at the worgen. “A few of you know the old tales of the worgen and their ferocity! You know the stories of their unthinking evil! To both you and those unfamiliar with the stories, what stands before you has little link to either legends or the past! These fighters of Gilneas have tamed the curse! That which was once a deadly threat is now forevermore a force for good, a force for the Alliance!”
The archdruid’s words rang throughout the assembly. Genn and the worgen waited as the emissaries digested both what Malfurion had said and, more importantly, what they had just witnessed.
Murmuring rose among the representatives, and they quickly became more animated.
Kurdran suddenly rose. “Wildhammer welcomes the strength o’ the worgen . . . and o’ Gilneas!”
Tervosh immediately followed. “Theramore seconds that welcome!”
At these pronouncements, applause burst from many sections of the gathering, applause for Gilneas. Several of the emissaries and members of their parties saluted Genn’s people in one manner or another.
Tyrande, touching her husband’s hand, took command of events again. “You have witnessed the might of Gilneas and heard its request to enter back into the Alliance!” the high priestess called, echoing Malfurion’s sentiments. “I say that, after seeing this display and if there are no objections, we shall begin a vote for approval immediately!”
The high priestess let her gaze sweep over the assembly, focusing no longer on Stormwind than she did any other faction. There was no objection, and even Varian seemed in a reasonable mood.
“I call for a vote by acclamation!” the archdruid next proclaimed, following the course of action that they had discussed previous to the gathering. “A single voice to acknowledge the welcome of the worgen into the Alliance! All those in favor—”
The chorus of ayes began to resound, their enthusiasm matching that of the worgen’s earlier howl. Malfurion and Tyrande glanced down at Genn, who gave them a grateful look in turn.
And then, from where the contingent of Stormwind sat, King Varian silently stood.
The effect was immediate. The shouting died. The two night elves and Genn stared at Varian, whose face revealed nothing of his intentions.
“Members of the Alliance, my good night elf hosts, I’d like to speak.”
Even Prince Anduin appeared uncertain as to what his father planned, although he did not seem worried, only curious.
Tyrande signaled for attention, then said, “Stormwind has asked to speak. Please go on, King Varian.”
The ex-gladiator and slave brooded for a moment. Finally he said, “Everyone knows that there’s no love lost between Stormwind and Gilneas. Everyone knows why.”
Utter quiet fell upon the assembly. Genn’s expression was unreadable as he waited for Varian to go on, but his ears lay flat in concern.
A Sentinel suddenly stood behind the high priestess. Tyrande touched Malfurion’s hand again, and he nodded to indicate that he would keep the proceedings going. The archdruid understood that whatever it was that would make someone interrupt the high priestess at such a delicate time had to be as significant as the murders of the two Highborne.
A third? he wondered. Praying that it was not so, the archdruid leaned forward so as to indicate to Varian that while Tyrande might have to leave, it was no slight to Stormwind.