Horde

Woooooo~~~~

A pack of white beasts raced wildly across the endless snowfields, their snowy fur blending into the goose-feather snowfall. Each beast stood about a meter tall, like a young calf.

The Orcs on the Frostwolves' backs had brown skin and bulging muscles. Amid the ice and snow, each Orc wore only simple leather armor, with all manner of beast bones decorating their shoulders. Roughly made leather banners fluttered behind them in the wind, embroidered with a silver-white wolf's head.

The leading Orc wore a full set of Frostwolf pelts, the wolf's head covering nearly half his face. The Frostwolf beneath him was several times larger than the others.

Woooo~~~ Woo woo~~~

One of the Orcs in the formation sounded that desolate horn again, its lingering call echoing across the ancient snowfields of Frostfire Ridge.

Another group of Wolf Riders approached from ahead. Their mounts were black, and the Orcs riding them were much larger than those of the Frostwolf Clan. This group had only one enormous black banner, bearing the image of a massive black warhammer.

The two groups of Wolf Riders stopped when they were a dozen meters apart. The leading Orcs leaped from their wolves and embraced fiercely.

"Ha ha ha ha, Durotan!"

"Long time no see, Orgrim!"

Seeing his close friend before him, Orgrim's long-heavy heart eased considerably. Surely Durotan could answer all the questions weighing on him.

"Come on, back to Draenor Citadel! The feast is waiting for you! Ha ha ha ha!"

The two mounted their wolves and rode forward side by side. The two groups of Orcs merged into one and followed closely behind the two chieftains.

Draenor Citadel, a massive tower-shaped fortress, stood in the middle of the snowfields. The Frostwolf Clan had lived in this rugged stone stronghold for generations. Evening was approaching, and countless fires flickered into view as cooking smoke rose. The Frostwolf Orcs had finished a day of hunting and fighting, sitting in their stone-built homes as they devoured meat and drank deeply. The biting wind began to rise, and Frostfire Ridge was brutally cold at night.

Inside the hall at the highest point of the fortress, Orcs sat around a huge bonfire. Boisterous laughter and conversation formed a deafening din. Durotan and Orgrim sat in a corner, clinking their stone goblets together.

"What's wrong, old friend? At this time of year, weren't you usually busy organizing large hunts? Why did you suddenly come all the way here this time?"

Before his close friend, Orgrim did not hide the worry between his brows. "I'm a little concerned. No... very concerned. Ever since Gul'dan displayed that mysterious and terrifying power to the various clans, things have begun to spiral out of control. The number of warlocks has started rising wildly, while shamans are becoming fewer and fewer. I understand that warlocks possess extraordinary power, but..."

"But that power of the warlocks feels strange in every way, doesn't it?" Durotan took over for his friend. "The Stormreaver Clan's warlocks came here as well and showed me their power. It was simply unbelievable. Even mighty gronn could not withstand that force. But I also saw how that power called fel reduced everything to scorched earth, leaving not a blade of grass behind. And it did not merely affect the land—it affected the Orcs' temperaments as well."

Orgrim nodded hard. "Gul'dan's influence is growing greater and greater. Many small clans already follow his lead. And you're right—the changes caused by that power called fel... A small part of Tanaan Jungle, where the Stormreaver Clan resides, has already completely changed. The Orcs affected by fel... have become cruel and crazed. They no longer know what honor is."

"Then what is your concern, old friend? Are you worried that the Orcs will fall to corruption because of fel?"

"No... I don't know... Now that the major clans have warlocks, hunting and fighting have indeed become countless times easier than before. Even Warchief Blackhand of the Blackhand Clan has accepted the power of fel."

Durotan fell silent for a while, gazing at the noisy Orcs in the hall. "Leave it to time. The ancestors will guide us. All I can do is preserve the Frostwolf Clan's traditions and the teachings of the shamans."

Shadowmoon Valley, Karabor Temple.

Prophet Velen's aged body suddenly collapsed to the floor. Cold sweat covered his face, and he trembled without stop. The Exarch Yrel, standing guard nearby, immediately rushed over and helped the Prophet up from the ground.

"Prophet, what... happened?" Yrel's voice was delicate and gentle, though now it held even more confusion.

"Disaster... a disaster for our entire Draenei people. No... I must seek more guidance from the Light."

Yrel immediately tensed. A chill rose from the soles of her... well, her hooves. Prophet Velen's prophecies had never been wrong. Could the Draenei truly be so plagued by misfortune? They had escaped the pursuit of their former Eredar brethren, and now disaster was about to descend upon them again?

"That's right, guidance... I must continue communicating with that voice. Those beings called the Naaru told me before. Now, I must know more."

Nagrand Great Grassland. Orcs stretched as far as the eye could see, gathering together.

Many of them no longer had their original brown skin. After drinking the Blood of Mannoroth, their bodies had turned blood-red, and their eyes were likewise filled with red. Their savage expressions were plain to see.

Their former calmness and straightforwardness seemed far behind them. Throughout the gathering grounds, Orcs could be seen flying into murderous rages over the slightest trivial matter. Yet none succeeded, because whenever this happened, a streak of green fel fire would lash their bodies, drawing mad screams from them. The warlocks maintained discipline among these Orcs from different clans. These Orc warlocks had green skin, with bulging veins on their arms, and even the blood within seemed to have been tainted green by fel.

An exceptionally tall Orc emerged from a tent and stepped onto a raised platform. His shoulders were adorned with two dragon-like skulls, while two long, sharp bone tendrils trailed behind his back. His hands had already become a pair of horrifyingly sharp claws, streaked with fel-green, like rocks covered in filthy green water.

"Orcs! Silence!" Warchief Blackhand's roar rang across the entire area.

"To the east! Those Draenei have lived on that land long enough! Now, we Orcs will take that land! Slaughter their people!"

"Lok-tar!!! Lok-tar ogar!!!" Wild cheers resounded across the Nagrand plains.

Standing behind Blackhand, the warlock Gul'dan hid his entire face within the shadow of a black hood. He quietly watched everything unfold and let out a few low chuckles.

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