The setting sun in Orgrimmar resembled a splash of blood, staining the animal hide tents and rammed earth walls of the orc settlement.
Garrosh Hell scream's heavy footsteps echoed across the dusty path, his metal shoulder armor gleaming coldly in the afterglow, as if plated with burning copper. His gaze swept over the low shacks, the muddy alleyways, and the orc laborers leaning idly against doorframes.
His brow furrowed deeper and deeper, and his knuckles unconsciously cracked.
A burst of children's laughter pierced his eardrums.
Several orc cubs were squatting in a circle on the sand, playing a game of toss and catch. Garrosh stopped and squinted—they weren't passing around traditional orc bone dice or wolf tooth carvings, but rather a few cheap human Glass Beads, refracting dazzling colors in the setting sun.
These were indeed more appealing than the original orc toys. They were transparent, sparkly, and came in a variety of colors, and children's laughter echoed through the orcish quarters.
"Where did that come from?" Garrosh stepped forward, his voice low and rumbling like thunder, and the children's laughter stopped abruptly.
The eldest child shrank back, but still mustered his courage to answer, "Yes... it was brought back from Theramore by my father, sir."
Garrosh's breath hitched slightly. He slowly crouched down and picked up a Glass Beads from the child's palm. It was ridiculously light, utterly weightless, like all human creations—showy but impractical, all show and no substance.
"What is your father doing in Theramore?" he asked, a dangerous undertone in his voice.
"I work at the docks," the child puffed out his chest, his voice filled with innocent pride, "and I bring back lots of good things every month! Candy, cloth, and—"
"Enough." Garrosh interrupted him, not returning the Glass Beads to the child's hand, but rising with a deeper shadow on his face. He continued walking, but this time, his gaze began to catch those details he had previously deliberately ignored—
An orc woman had a jingling human copper bell hanging from her waist, so that the bell would ring as she walked while selling the groceries she carried on her head, attracting the attention of passersby;
Several young Warrior sat together, drinking Dwarven Ale from glass bottles; some even wore human-style short boots, the thin leather soles barely leaving a mark on the sand...
Every detail was like a thorn, deeply embedded in his flesh.
The orcs are becoming weak; they constantly work in Theramore to earn money to buy things from the human world, indulging in pleasure and depravity.
Garrosh watched all this with cold eyes, his face almost turning to ice.
In a side hall of a fortress, the crackling embers in the brazier illuminated the tense faces of the orcs. The old warrior Dragris slammed his fist on the wooden table, causing a few drops of murky liquid to spill from the cheap ale in his earthenware cup.
"This is an insult to tradition!" he roared, his voice a mixture of anger and something akin to sorrow. "The orcs have stopped being orcs! They've forgotten how their forefathers fought their way through Draenor, how they routed the humans in Stormwind City."
Garrosh sat at the head of the table, silently observing everything. His fingertips tapped lightly on the table, the rhythm slow and subdued.
"Our people are becoming weak!" another orc Warrior growled, his armor still bearing the marks of the Ashenvale battle. "A true orc should have pockets full of spoils, not..." He paused, as if chewing on some poison, "... working!"
In the corner, a young orc dressed in Human Standard Leather Armor suddenly looked up, his eyes flashing with defiance. "But working in Theramore can feed my family! My sister didn't have enough food last winter—"
"Shut up, you coward!" Draegash snapped, "A true orc would rather starve than beg for food from his enemy!"
The young orc's face turned a deep green, his fists clenching and unclenching. Garrosh finally raised his hand, stopping the impending conflict. The noise in the room instantly fell silent as everyone turned to him, awaiting his judgment.
"We were once proud Warrior," Garrosh's voice was low and slow, like a dull knife slowly cutting through the air, "Our ancestors won everything with battle axes and courage. Now..." He reached for a human-made Clay Pot on the table, his fingertips tracing its rough glaze, a hint of contempt in his eyes, "Our children play with human Glass Beads, our women wear human bells, and our Warrior sell their strength for a few copper coins!"
He paused for a moment, then continued, "And what's next? Are we supposed to fight for humans' money, like dogs, obediently following orders for a little bone, becoming vassals of humanity?"
"We are proud wolves, not groveling dogs!" Garrosh suddenly shouted.
A chorus of approving growls echoed in the room, like a pack of enraged wild beasts.
"The root of all this," a sinister voice came from the shadows, "Is Thrall's policy of weakness."
The speaker was a One-Eye Shaman. He slowly walked to the edge of the firelight, the scars on his face appearing particularly grotesque in the flickering light. "Ever since Thrall became Great Chieftain, the orcs have been bowing to other races. Peace? Trade?" He sneered, "These are all excuses of the weak!"
Draegash jumped to his feet, his beard trembling with excitement. "Lord Garrosh should be our Great Chieftain! He inherited Grommash's courage and glory!"
"Yes! Let Garrosh lead us!"
"Restore the glory of the orcs!"
The shouts grew louder and louder, crashing against the walls of the room like a tidal wave. Garrosh remained seated, his expression unfathomable.
As the noise reached its peak, he slowly rose, and the room immediately fell into dead silence.
" The Horde needs change," his voice wasn't loud, yet it resonated like a war drum in everyone's ears, "But change requires... the right time."
"No need to do anything right now, but we can begin to contact all our comrades who still remember the honor of the orcs and unite them. We will never succumb to the enticement and decadent pleasures of humans." Garrosh clenched his fists and commanded all his supporters.
He didn't explicitly accept the support, but the faint smile at the corner of his mouth made his attitude clear to the orcs present.
"Long live Garrosh!" Everyone shouted the slogan fervently.
After the crowd dispersed, a thin figure quietly entered and joined Garrosh, who was alone.
Zuluhed stood in the shadows and complimented the young orc, "You are a born leader."
Garrosh grunted in response.
The Dragonmaw Orc Shaman was not angry and continued, "Once you become the Great Chieftain, the orcs will surely achieve greatness again under your leadership!"
(MOGA!)
Second update.