The next day, Orgrimmar's Chieftain's Hall, Thrall stood in front of the window, staring at the Orgrimmar night. The candlelight cast swaying shadows on his green face, outlining the deep wrinkles between his eyebrows.
"Another secret meeting?" Vol'jin leaned against the door frame and asked sharply.
Thrall did not look back, but pushed a report on the table to leader Darkspear: "Garrosh's reputation is getting higher and higher. Almost all traditionalists are leaning towards him."
Vol'jin quickly browsed the report, his yellow eyes flashing shrewdly. "He is taking advantage of the orcs' dissatisfaction with the status quo."
"I know." Thrall rubbed his forehead tiredly, "But what he said is not entirely wrong. Horde... Especially the orcs, they are indeed losing something."
"Like the hungry 'Glory'?" Vol'jin asked sarcastically, but soon his tone became calmer again, "Thrall, you can't hesitate any longer. Garrosh is splitting Horde, and may even incite a rebellion, but he hasn't decided when to take action yet."
Thrall was silent for a moment, looking across the window lattice and looking at the lights of Orgrimmar. He could clearly distinguish which lamps were made by humans and which ones were traditional orc torches. Just like Horde now, the old and the new are intertwined and difficult to separate.
"He is Grommash's son..." Thrall whispered, more like convincing himself.
"Grommash finally chose to sacrifice himself to save his people," Vol'jin pointed out coldly, "Instead of creating division like his son."
Thrall did not answer. His thoughts drifted to Theramore - that human city is expanding at an alarming rate, attracting workers of all races. Orcs, Troll, and even Tauren are all looking for a living there. Is this progress or degeneration? Are the orcs really forgetting their blood? Or is this just a necessary pain for the growth of a civilization?
"I need time to think." Thrall finally said.
Vol'jin shook his head in disappointment. "Sometimes thinking itself is a choice, old friend. The choice of inaction."
"However, we have finally reached this point, and I don't want to see another split." Thrall said in a low voice.
"I understand, you are an orc after all." Vol'jin said understandingly, "And Garrosh has the blood of that man. But you must also remember that you are Horde's Great Chieftain. Everyone follows you in order to live a more comfortable life."
"Yes, the current situation is still under control. There are not many of them, and most of them like to interact with Theramore. It has brought many changes to Horde. Some are good, and some are indescribable." Thrall lowered his head and said.
Vol'jin finally said, "You have to make a decision as soon as possible, and don't wait until the incident becomes uncontrollable and then regret it. The world does not give Horde that many opportunities." After saying that, old Troll disappeared out the door.
Thrall was deeply silent, unable to express his inner struggle in words. On one side was the blood of his relatives and brothers, and on the other was the future of thousands of members of Horde.
He knew very well that the orcs had gone through two Dark Portal wars, and had long had a bloody feud with Eastern Kingdoms. Fortunately, they had migrated to Kalimdor, away from the disputes, and started to work hard to create a new world again. But he was not sure about where he would go in the future.
The association with Theramore has indeed brought huge benefits to Horde. But at the same time, Thrall also feels the changes that are taking place in Horde. The orcs no longer look like orcs. In his heart, he is also afraid that he will eventually lead his people to an unknown future.
Finally, he put the report on the light and watched it burn to ashes.
There was a vague hope in his heart, maybe Garrosh was right and he could lead the orcs on the right path.
It's late at night.
Garrosh stood alone on the highest point of the fortress, overlooking the sleeping Orgrimmar. The night wind passed over his rough green skin, bringing the dry breath of the distant desert.
In his palm, there lay the Glass Beads he took from the child. Now, this cheap gadget turned over between his fingers, reflecting the pale moonlight like a drop of solidified alien blood.
"A weak thing." Garrosh muttered to himself, but did not crush it.
His thoughts returned to the rally that day, and those fanatical calls were still echoing in his ears. The position of Great Chieftain... This should have been the glory he dreamed of. But at this moment, a strange hesitation wrapped around him, like a cold snake, slowly tightening.
Orgrimmar stretched beneath his feet. This city was the brainchild of Thrall, the home of the orcs in this strange continent. Can changing it... destroying the existing order... really allow the orcs to regain their glory?
He thought of the grasslands of his hometown Draenor, and the fishy smell of Kodo floated in the wind. In order to compete for the limited pasture and cattle, the clans were always in constant conflict. Any weakness or concession meant failure and destruction.
When Thrall bribed the goblin and brought him to Azeroth from the secret Portal, he wanted to create a great cause in this new world. The life of the orcs is too difficult, and Azeroth has vast land and unlimited resources. The orcs should be the masters of this world!
But these Azeroth orcs led by Thrall are really too weak. The so-called Horde, there are actually Tauren, Troll, these inferior races. Those Tauren always reminded him of the Kodo from his hometown.
His fists clenched suddenly.
The fragments of Glass Beads pierced the palm of his hand, and blood seeped out between his fingers and dripped on the stone bricks, like a string of dark red oaths. The pain made him wake up.
"Not changing is the real weakness." He said to himself.
In the distance, a newly built "human-style" tavern still had the lights on, and the laughter and clinking of glasses could be heard from Orc Peon. A trace of cold disgust flashed in Garrosh's eyes. These compatriots have forgotten what a real orc should look like.
But change requires planning, and it requires... power.
He thought of those fanatical followers of the Dragonmaw Clan and those traditional Warrior who suffered "insult" in Theramore. It was not enough. He needed more allies and more chips.
Recently some unusual customers have contacted him, promising him more and better terms.
They definitely want to get something from him, but what does it matter? As long as the orcs become stronger and become the masters of this world, what does it matter if they temporarily cooperate with these devils?
He tightened his fists and let the glass shards penetrate deeper into his flesh. The blood dripped, glowing black and red under the moonlight. Garrosh ignored the pain. His eyes crossed the Orgrimmar city wall and looked to the south - that is the direction of Theramore, the source of all "corrosion".
"We will get back on track." Garrosh swore to the night, his voice as low as an ancient war drum, "In the name of Hell scream."
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