Thirty-five years ago, in the parallel world of Draenor, on the Nagrand Plains.
There were no chaotic, shattered floating rocks, much less the kaleidoscopic turbulence of the cosmos. As far as the eye could see, the grasslands were utterly tranquil; the wind bent the grass low enough to reveal herds of cattle and sheep.
On a scenic little hill that lifted the spirit, two uninvited guests had camped for several days.
Garrosh had carefully surveyed the terrain of the surrounding area again and again. Over the past few days, he had found no trace of Warsong Clan scouts. This hill lay at the edge of Warsong territory, and in such peaceful times, there was simply no need for patrols to come here.
Bands of ogres would only come from the west, in the direction of Highmaul, while the other Orcish clans came from the east. If Garrosh remembered correctly, no one would be coming to hunt during this season either. The Month of Hunting had only recently ended.
He remembered that the last time he had stood upon this hill, he had been very young, and...
No, this was not the hill he had stood on as a child. These were not the trees he had climbed, nor was this the grass his fingers had brushed over. This was an entirely different parallel world.
But Grandmother...
Thinking of that, Garrosh let out a heavy sigh. He missed Grandmother Geya'an. He also knew that his escape and disappearance would surely leave her terribly worried and anxious. He had let her down. He had wronged her.
Garrosh might have been extreme, and sometimes his stubbornness got the better of him, but he was not some fool without political sense. He knew that if he had continued to sit in prison and waited