Post by Skreeran
Garrosh piled the last corpse on the pile outside of Orgrimmar. It was unsanitary to leave them within the city, and thus they had to be moved. He shook his head in sadness and frustration as the pile was set alight.
The last few days had been hard. The infected grain had been distributed in Orgrimmar without the Warchief’s authorization. It was against Horde law, but people were hungry, and willing to risk it for cheap food. The following plague was so terrible that the Horde had been forced to ask the aid of the Argent Dawn to control its spread. The majority of the plague had been brought under control within Orgrimmar, but the surrounding land was not so lucky. The Barrens and the other surrounding lands were teeming with undead, and the Horde was stretched thin in its defense. As soon as one settlement was cleared, another would ask for help on the other side of the world. Finally, a brilliant Forsaken Apothecary had discovered a cure. Now the Horde and Alliance both were working to cleanse their lands of the remaining undead, but it was not an easy task.
“Blasted Lich King…
” Garrosh thought bitterly, walking back within Orgrimmar. “He has engaged a war with the Horde. Soon he will learn that no king can threaten our people with impunity. I will etch that message into his skull myself.
He walked past his clan, the Warsong, ready at his orders for war. He could see the looks on their faces, thirsty for vengeance. Many had lost their families and friends. They all looked to him for leadership, to let them loose against their enemy. And he would do it. He would take them to Northrend, and their enemy would suffer.
He continued walking to the Ring of Valor, where Thrall was speaking with High Overlord Saurfang and the Banshee Queen Sylvanas Windrunner.
“Thrall!” he called out, before realizing that it was improper for him to address the Warchief by name, even though he was a chieftain himself. “Warchief
… your armies await your command. Let me lead them to Northrend to remove this undead menace! “
“Yes, Thrall,” Sylvanas agreed. Garrosh ground his teeth together in irritation. She knew nothing of the orcish ways. “The time has come to kill Arthas. You can take my grand apothecary with you,” she nodded, a small, bitter, smile on her face as she gestured at the Forsaken next to her. “His knowledge will be invaluable against whatever the Scourge will throw at you.”
“It would be an honor, Dark Lady,” the Apothecary answered, a subtle bitterness in his own voice.
“What say you, Saurfang?” Thrall asked, turning to his favorite advisor. Garrosh regarded the old orc. He certainly reminded him of his old friend, in body and in spirit. Just the little things about his attitude were a mirror of Dranosh.
“Warchief, it is clear that Northrend represents the gravest threat to our people, and that we must act against it,” the High Overlord answered, shifting his grip on his axe.
“My soul burns for revenge,” Thrall confessed, “but the elements tell me to think clearly. The Lich King is a ruthless opponent...one who must be handled carefully,” he nodded, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “We will send scouts to assess the situation. I will also convene with the Lady Proudmoore and see what plans the Alliance has.”
“Gragh!” Garrosh spat. This was too much. The Lich King would not wait patiently while Thrall visited the humans again. “I cannot take this! While you talk and deliberate, our enemies grow stronger! Were it my choice, I would have put all our available forces onto that frozen rock and conquered it for the Horde!”
“If this is a trap, it is one I will not blindly walk into! Do not make the same mistakes as your father, Garrosh!” Thrall snapped.
Garrosh stood there a moment, his mouth hanging open.
“After all that he did for YOU and YOUR people?” he snarled, pausing a moment and recalling Dranosh’s words. Now it was time. “MAK'GORA!”
“You challenge me boy? I don't have time for this.…” Thrall shook his head in anger and disappointment.
“So you refuse? Is the son of Durotan a coward?” Garrosh smiled, goading the Warchief on. He would not let Thrall back down on this one.
“Inside!” Thrall roared in indignation.
Garrosh grinned and rushed inside the Ring, gripping his axes tightly in anticipation.
“Let's finish this quickly,” Thrall spat angrily.
“You duties as Warchief can wait. For now... we fight!” Garrosh answered. “You know the rules. No magic. We fight this orc against orc,” he called out.
“Agreed,” Thrall nodded angrily, holding the Doomhammer tightly.
Garrosh stood a moment, waiting for an attack, but finally gave in and charged at the Warchief.
Thrall grinned, and stepped aside, planting the Doomhammer directly in Garrosh’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him. The Mag’har coughed and snarled, quickly catching his breath and leaping at Thrall, axes high. Thrall swung his hammer in a wide arc in response, knocking aside the twin axes with its massive head.
Garrosh growled, unable to get a clear hit in. Thrall had already hit him. If he was to win, he would have to hurt Thrall soon, or he would tire out first. He ducked under a swing of the mighty Doomhammer, grinning as he planted his axe blade in the thick wood of the hammer’s handle, and quickly brought his other axe down on Thrall’s arm, between the plates of his armor. Perfect. The heavy hammer would be even more difficult to direct with an injured arm.
“GYAH!” Thrall hissed in anger and pain as he stepped back a moment, hefting his hammer up in a defensive stance to make up for his injury.
“So, son of Durotan, what--”
Suddenly, a cold, thin voice carried through the air, loud, but drenched in death. “PUPS OF ORGRIMMAR! HEAR ME, BRASH UPSTARTS OF THE HORDE! TREMBLE, AND KNOW YOUR DOOM, FOR THE LICH KING'S GAZE IS FIXED UPON YOU!”
“Warchief! Scourge forces are attacking Orgrimmar!” High Overlord Saurfang cried, rushing outside.
“We will finished this later, son of Grom,” Thrall growled, rushing back up the steps of the Ring to where the voice came from. Garrosh followed, furious that the Scourge would interrupt, let alone dare to attack his city.
Outside, dozens of Frostwyrms flew overhead, and Saurfang and Sylvanas were both busy cutting down even more undead abominations. Garrosh was quick to join in the combat, cutting down any of the undead in his path. Soon, piles of decrepit undead flesh lay at his feet. He wiped the fetid gore off his face and continued fighting.
Finally the last enemy fell.
“ARGH! THIS SMALL VICTORY WILL AVAIL YOU NOTHING! COME! COME TO NORTHREND. MY MINIONS ARE WAITING, AND THEY ARE HUNGRY.…” the disembodied voice cried, before fading at last.
“Well, Warchief?” Garrosh panted, while a Warsong shaman tended to his wounds. “What say you now? Will you send me to Northrend?”
“Saurfang…” Thrall sighed, turning to his advisor with a weary expression.
“Yes, Warchief?” the High Overlord answered quietly.
“Contact our goblin shipwrights,” Thrall nodded. “The Horde prepares for war!”
“As you command, Warchief!” Saurfang answered, mounting his wolf and riding away.
“Excellent…” Sylvanas smiled with the same bitter smile. “Most excellent.”
Garrosh smiled tiredly. It hadn’t happened exactly as he would have liked, but he was at least going to lead his people to victory.