On the plains of the Wetlands, the Horde's peons were hard at work, chopping down trees with axes.
"Work harder, all of you!" an overseer from the Blackrock Clan roared, lashing a peon viciously with his whip. "No slacking!"
With the Horde's frontline campaign going poorly, and their ships at sea frequently coming under surprise attacks from the Alliance's Gryphon Riders and Mages... they had no choice but to fell as many trees as possible and transport them to the Goblins' shipyards to build ships.
Recently, however, the Dwarves in the mountains had begun stirring up trouble too. They started sneaking out of the mountains and riding Rams to ambush the Horde's peons and supply convoys, while the Horde's rear lines lacked the troops to wipe these Dwarves out.
"What a mess!" the overseer said helplessly. "I hope the Warchief can kill off that Alliance on the front lines soon!"
As he muttered to himself, the overseer suddenly noticed a large group of Orc peons ahead sprinting toward him.
"What are you all doing?" the overseer roared, brandishing his whip. "Get back to work!"
But the whip, which had always terrified the peons and never failed him before, suddenly lost its effect today. The peons fled toward him for their lives, and no matter how he swung his whip, it did no good.
"Why does something feel wrong?" The overseer frowned.
Then a Black Dragon swept across the sky.
The overseers, along with the peons, were reduced to ashes in the Dragon's flames.
Beneath the setting sun, only lingering screams could be heard.
"What? Those Black Dragons have turned on us?" Orgrim Doomhammer cried out, his expression changing drastically.
Even in the face of the most devastating defeats before this, the Horde's Warchief had never been so flustered.
"Yes.