Besieged

"The Scourge's army is like the ants beneath these maple trees—endless, no matter how many we kill. We can't hold them back by ourselves."

Sylvanas sat in her chair, exhaustion plain on her face as she recounted the day's battles to Alleria and Soraka.

"You elves are useless. You've only fought for a day and you're already exhausted. If our Horde forces were here, even the Wild Boar People could fight for three days and three nights without breaking a sweat!"

Hearing Sylvanas's words, Garrosh immediately fired back, venting all the anger he'd been holding in.

"What do you mean by that?!"

Garrosh's remark drew the eyes of not only Sylvanas but the other three elves in the room, too. Their gazes were full of menace, so Garrosh wisely fell silent. He still remembered what Lord Leiluo had told him: a real man knew when to bend and when to stand firm. Besides, he'd already gotten his revenge for what had happened earlier. Garrosh folded his arms, leaned his head to one side, and quietly rested against his chair, waiting to hear what the others had to say.

"Even with reinforcements from the Horde, we still can't stop them?"

Soraka was the one who spoke. Although the old man had been through a great deal, he'd never faced an army as vast as the Scourge's. He still held on to a faint hope that they could halt the Scourge's advance.

"Lord Soraka, if you don't know what you're talking about, then don't speak. You sound like a fool. We fought for an entire day, and even though we gave it everything we had, the Scourge's numbers didn't diminish at all. Most importantly, Arthas—the kinslayer who murdered his own father—hasn't even made a move. The Scourge hasn't used its full strength.