Post by Skreeran
It had been seven months since Garrosh had arrived in Orgrimmar. The human tower built on the orcs’ land had bothered him, and he had been relieved when it was finally demolished. But still, the humans had attacked them on their own land already. He didn’t trust that they wouldn’t try again.
He had learned so much in the past months. The orcs had been imprisoned, enslaved, beaten… for fourteen years. The Warchief Thrall had been forced to fight for the humans’ amusement and beaten to unconsciousness at their cruel hands. They had even followed the orcs across the sea to continue to hunt them. Garrosh didn’t trust them to keep to their treaty at all. Now he walked the night, trying to clear his mind.
He came upon a small farm, it’s primary hut unfinished, apparently. It was still lacking several support beams, and at the moment it was hardly a tent, merely stones and small branches gathered in a semi-circle with skins stretched over the top.
He was about to pass by when he heard a faint crying sound. Concerned, he followed the sound to the shelter, finding a family of orcs shivering under a large kodo skin. The crying came from a small child, who appeared quite faint.
“By the ancestors…” Garrosh mumbled. “Can I help you? Why do you live like this? You’ll freeze to death!”
The male shot him a harsh glance but said nothing.
“At least let me start you a fire,” Garrosh nodded, taking out a piece of flint rock.
“And burn what?” the male orc growled.
Garrosh hadn’t thought of that. There was hardly any wood in Durotar. Of course they had nothing to burn. That would explain why their hut was so poor.
“At least come with me to Orgrimmar…” he asked.
“Bah…” the male grunted in reply. “No room there. No food. At least here I can hunt. At least we still have pigs to eat here. Orgimmar already hunts all the game near the city, and they do not have enough to feed us as well. We would starve there.”
“But you could freeze like this!” Garrosh answered.
“I need not your sympathy,” the orc spat back. “I am well aware that it is cold. My son is already feeling ill. But what choice do we have? We cannot board our animals in Orgrimmar, and we have nothing to burn here.”
Garrosh wanted to help them, to do something, but he knew it was useless. He couldn’t do anything, and already the male was growing angry at his prying. He couldn’t blame him. Angered that he couldn’t do more, he began walking back to Orgrimmar. Finally, he found Dranosh in the Hall of the Mag‘har, where most of Garrosh‘s brethren from Nagrand were staying.
“What ails you, brother?” Dranosh asked, his brow furrowed with concern at Garrosh’s frustration.
“My people freeze to death out there, that is what ails me,” Garrosh growled back, slamming his fists down on the table. “They lack shelter, fire…”
“Wood is not easy to come by in this land,“ Dranosh shrugged. “What can we do?”
“Not in this
land,” Garrosh growled, turning north. “But there is a forest covering half the continent less than a days march north.”
“That land belongs to the Night Elves,” Saurfang nodded thoughtfully. “They will not let us take from it.”
“Bah…” Garrosh grunted angrily. “They live in luxury, with wood and fire and food and all these things that we lack. Who are they to claim a forest? Why should we die to respect their claim to some blasted trees?”
“Your clan already fights for those resources, brother,” Dranosh nodded.
“But that is not enough,” Garrosh nodded. “The Warchief has pulled so many troops out of Ashenvale that it is all they can do to hold what land we have, much less engage in any lumbering operations.”
“Then speak to the Warchief,” Dranosh shrugged. “You are a chieftain, after all. It is your right.”
Garrosh blinked. That thought had not crossed his mind.
“Indeed,” he smiled, “I shall do that. I can tell him what I’ve seen. No longer shall our people freeze like animals. Thank you, brother,” he nodded, turning and making haste for Grommash Hold.
Finally, he reached the Warchief’s chamber, to once again find Rehgar Earthfury--a shaman and former slave master--standing next to the Warchief’s throne.
“Hello Hellscream,” Rehgar grunted.
“Hello Earthfury,” Garrosh grunted back, turning to Thrall. “Warchief, I must speak with you.”
“Speak,” Thrall nodded, pressing his fingertips together. “Anything I can do for you, so be it.”
“I come to ask that reinforcements be sent to Warsong Gulch,” he asked. Rehgar grunted, but Garrosh ignored him. “Our people freeze to death in half-constructed huts, lacking the precious wood to survive.”
“That is Night Elf land,” Rehgar nodded. “We could spark a war. A war that we do not need.”
“Bah,” Garrosh growled. “The Night Elves have plenty of trees. They do not need them all. If it means our survival, then we must take them.”
“The Night Elves have allies, Hellscream,” Rehgar growled angrily. “Or have you not heard of the Alliance?” he chuckled bitterly, turning to Thrall. “The humans will attack us, should war break out! We must comply to their demands, on this matter at least.”
“It is madness, Rehgar, to suggest to Thrall that we should cooperate with the humans!” Garrosh shouted furiously, losing his temper.
“Collaborative coexistence is not madness, Garrosh!” Rehgar screamed in return. “It’s common sense! Orcs and humans have common enemies!”
“Pfahh…” Garrosh scoffed, “The Alliance is the enemy!”
“Was, perhaps. Before we signed a treaty--”
Suddenly Thrall stood, a glowing stone in his hand.
“You’ve both made excellent points…” he nodded. “But we must table this discussion for another day. I’ll be leaving Orgrimmar for a short while,” the Warchief finished, walking out of the Hold.
Garrosh grunted angrily. How could Thrall just walk out like that? His thoughts drifted back to the young child out there in the plains of Durotar. Would it survive the night? Something had to be done. He looked to Earthfury again, wishing he could strike the shaman.
Instead, he turned and returned to the Hall of the Mag’har, sitting in his private quarters, trying to think. He had been a useless leader in Nagrand. He had sat by and let their enemies taunt and threaten them. After he had come out of his depression, he had vowed never to let that happen again. He would not be useless again. No more would he let his people live in fear of starvation or living without shelter. But if the Warchief would not listen, what could he do? He slammed his fist into the wall in anger.