Durotar was a harsh land.
It was inhabited by countless dangers, from its dry and hot climate to its unwelcoming landscape, ferocious predators, and hostile races such as the quilboars, harpies, and centaurs.
It had little vegetation, unlike the great forest of Ashenvale and the permanently autumnal North East that was Azshara. Yet Durotar wasn't devoid of vegetation. Though cruel and deadly, it wasn't a desert of sand.
It couldn't be farther from the truth to call it that, but its savannas, canyons, and hills weren't any kinder.
The flora was sparse. Few plants were useful as materials, and even fewer were edible. The soil and climate were unwelcoming to agriculture itself, with rare exceptions where the ground was arable.
Among them, the largest were the swathes of ground along the Southfury River, which divided the Northern Barrens and the very scarce permanent water bodies.
Otherwise, it was up to the shamans to make it possible, and it was no simple task.
A task that was unforthcoming for the shamans as it was necessary even with the numerous pockets of groundwater. The Horde held no choice, and pride had no place in the face of survival.
Rains were rare, and the cycle of rainy seasons was too quick for water to seep deeply into the impenetrable, rock-like, cracked ground. The plant life absorbed the rest before quickly evaporating or rejoining the sea.
But Thrall, against all the odds from the unforgiving nature of this part of the Barrens, chose this to be the homeland of the New Horde. And as the Warchief, his words were law.
It was where the fleet he stole from Lordareon landed, be the boats intact or not, beyond the Echo Isles where Thrall did. It was where many had remained while he took the Horde to find the Prophet.
There were children or the ones too young, old, or wholly untrained in war to fight. But also with warriors to avoid being massacred by the bloodthirsty natives.
Settlements were built, many temporary and of diminutive size, others far less so. And obtaining further territories from the North or too far West would spark the inferno of war.
The Battle of Mount Hyjal was not enough to bring forgiveness, let alone erase the years of conflict between the Horde and the Alliance. Or the night elves, for that matter.
The younger generation, shaped by the early conflict in Kalimdor with Alliance and camps in Lordaeron, merely reignited the hatred cultivated over the past twenty years and unearthed what older warriors had buried.
It had never gone away, weeks of fighting together or not. It was to continue for generations—unfortunate as it was to admit.
It was the terror born from the looming annihilation of Azeroth by the Burning Legion that had allied with them. Archimonde's banishment was the brutal severance of that tie.
The tie had been flimsy from its very inception.
Outside forces were its enforcers, and the sheer desire for survival strengthened it enough to last. But to remain? No. It wasn't to be.
The fact remained that friendship and deeper bonds were born, but they were exceptional and explosive, with nearly no hope of further development.
They were chastised and frowned upon by both people, and it couldn't be controlled in short order, if ever. Tragic as it was to accept.
And the island state of Theramore and its surroundings, with Jaina Proudmoore's efforts, provided a tenuous illusion of stability. Thrall and she were tense, if amicable, but it wasn't enough.
Peace was a far cry from burgeoning, with trades between the two far too commonly ending with dispute and, in the worst case, blades.
And it went beyond old hatreds.
The Horde needed lumber, and a lot of it. It was the foundation of the industry, the building blocks in the most literal sense.
It made tools, weapons, amenities, and cities themselves, such as the capital Orgrimmar, named after Orgrim Doomhamer, to never forget the heroic and monstrous deeds of the past.
Lumber values almost equaled gold, and no trees could provide the quantity and quality needed. They weren't using firewood for building.
But this resource was impossible for their nation to provide to its full extent using Durotar alone, even with the Echo Isles.
It was that or risked razing the meager amount of usable forested ground there and even fewer in Durotar relative to space available.
These resources couldn't be handled recklessly.
Ashenvale and Azshara were, at first glance, an easy answer to that issue. But that would be the more hot-blooded speaking.
A part of the lumber was from their edges, but it was the extent Thrall was willing to go. It was far enough to avoid conflict but still too close for comfort.
But it was insufficient; alas, demanding more wasn't impossible. Through his old friend Cairne, Thrall had tried to contact the Elder Crone of the Grimtotem.
A mistake.
It ended poorly, justifiably so given their past histories, but it meant going deeper into the forested areas would potentially lead to a war the Warchief was unsure of surviving.
The Horde wouldn't and couldn't win in its current state.
The Stonetalon Mountains, for that same reason, were unusable beyond the absence of a foothold there. Magatha and the taurens she had gathered aiding her tribe made it impossible.
It was vastly impractical from the beginning. There were no routes, the mountains were deadly, and the journeys would be long, dangerous, and arduous.
And this extended to the section of the Barrens near her claimed territories.
The old cow wasn't the only danger. The death toll would be unacceptable, and her oppressive presence accentuated it.
It left Dustwallow Marsh, and it was the source of much tension as trade from Theramore was insufficient to feed the growing appetite of the Horde.
And the refusal to sell more, valid and fair, the logic behind it maybe didn't change that reality. Thrall had to be less restrained.
It pained him, and if an alternative were there, he would take it. But the Horde and the well-being of its people came before his relationship with the Kul Tiran Princess.
Ultimately, it wasn't as consequential as probing the wild nature of the North.
If the Alliance remnant could not hold such a large territory, their claim would be null and worthless.
Also, the spark of war was far less threatening—the Alliance remnants from the Eastern Kingdoms were small. They had been weaker than the Horde and still were.
And through Rexxar, a mok'nathal–a hybrid of ogres and orcs–a village of ogres within the marsh joined the Horde, solidifying their hold on the area.
It was one of the many feats of the beastmaster with the help of his best scout, a troll named Rokhan.
They had done much where otherwise Thrall would have sent his brother, Hellscream, to slaughter enemies of the Horde.
The old Warlord had changed since the shattering of Gorehowl, but diplomacy wasn't among them.
The Blood Curse was to stay, so instead of fearing it or letting it infect the mind, it was a wild, bloodthirsty beast to control, guide, and beat into submission.
And Grommash was the creator and leading figure of that philosophy. A way of thought that naturally spread far and wide among the orcs.
Though it didn't apply to them only, it was more than this to the orcs than a well-crafted dogma.
The once proud blademaster had cursed his race, not once but twice. The second time led to the Warsong clan's near extinction, and it might as well have been.
Be that as it may, it wasn't insurmountable, and as it had become part of them—rejecting it was not foolishness but madness itself.
It wasn't to embrace, however; it was a curse, and to deny its very nature was inviting damnation. And to forget why their skin was this color was no different.
History wasn't to rhyme.
Any hint of the practices of the profane magic that was Fel was punished by brutal execution no matter the excuses or reason.
Fel wasn't tolerated, and all dissenters became grisly examples.
Demons still scourged the land, and cultists were this plague's symptoms and secondary vectors.
And believing the Blood Curse to be anything other than what its name and history implied was insanity.
Yet, the Blood Curse didn't add to the mind; it twisted, muted, and amplified part of it. But it didn't add what never was.
To ignore this was desiring a deplorable end just as much.
It increased the anger, hate, aggression, and bloodlust present in every orc. It was to varying extents, mild and extreme, but if left unattended, it would result in profound lethargy.
However, letting it fester unrestrained would result in a danger to all. It was a delicate balance to reach, and as detestable as it was, it was a source of strength.
Not all of it was unanimously negative.
It was Mannoroth's 'blessing,' pushing the orc limit beyond what was normally possible and others 'boons' from fearlessness to supernatural pain tolerance.
Those were tools as the orcs once had been and never would be again.
The 'boons' were weaker than before, as were the prices–heavy though they still were–but this was why they were free from the Destructor's sway.
But it was theirs to wield, to master and tame. To do that was the greatest insult to the demons one could do.
Ultimately, it was a dark symbol of defeat, failure, and tragedy. And it was to surpass, and that for all. It was indiscriminate, after all.
And those were among the largest shifts after the defeat of the demonic invasion. As Warchief, Thrall had made sure all went smoothly.
Despite that, the young shaman's wishes were far from being realized. Durotar wasn't alone in its harshness.
The present proved it more than ever as he held court in his Hold in the Valley of Wisdom of Orgrimmar.
All the people that could come in such a short order of urgency attended.
His blade, personal bodyguard, advisor, and brother, Grommash Hellscream, stood to the right of his throne. Ready and alert to sacrifice his life if need be.
To the farther left was the diminutive and fidgety form of a goblin, Gazlowe, Architect of Orgrimmar, and leader of all goblin ventures for the Horde—technological or otherwise.
Closer was a calm, aged male orc with a snow-white wolf pelt and a blindfold. He was Drek'Thar, tutor of Thrall, Chieftain, and eldest shaman of the Frostwolf clan.
The elderly farseer was his trusted advisor. Nazgrel, next to him, was no different, if not for his younger age. He was a warrior and managed Orgrimmar's security.
Righteous anger was evident in the half of his visage unhidden by the wolf pelt.
Closer to the middle, Baine Bloodhoof, like his father, stood out by size alone and seemed almost out of place—still unused to his position.
He was an advisor and the liaison to the Bloodhoof tribe and all taurens deferring to it. He was his father's equal here until said otherwise by the Bloodhoof patriarch.
Cairne had judged it wiser for him to be in Orgrimmar due to the danger posed by the Grimtotem tribe. It was one part of a whole.
The true reason was for the young bull to learn, to acclimate himself, and to solidify his position among the Horde.
Those were invaluable and vital skills that, by remaining among the tribe, he would have never obtained or fostered to maturity.
Baine's face showed open worry.
His mouth was twisted in a thin line of unpleasantness as he studied the map at the center of the court. He wasn't unique on that front.
The West coastline had four red wooden pieces, each going progressively down following the line between land and water.
They represented settlements and outposts destroyed, at that, in a terrifyingly small timeframe.
It was what those pieces meant, and he had heard who had done it, yet hardly could believe it.
It was several hundreds of lives lost at Baine's most optimistic estimate. An estimate that he was intimately aware of the wrongness.
Those areas were defended, but it was meager, any danger for the most having been purged months ago.
Rexxar, with his bear companion, Misha–the sight leading to unpleasant memories in some–had seen what had happened firsthand.
Rokhan had witnessed, too, and he played the role of representative of the Darkspear trolls. His distress contrasted deeply with the mok'nathal.
There were more, but the court wasn't full, but it was as full as it could be in the current condition. And it would have to do.
"I will not waste my breath. On his return, Rexxar informed me that humans were attacking a fishing village under New Hook two days ago. No prisoners were taken, and no survivors were found. He had to retreat. And this wasn't the first, only the first that made us aware of what is happening." Thrall began, his tone cold with fury and gaze hard as he stood before the war map.
He took a deep breath and spoke once more, his voice softer, yet the edge of bonafide rage was clear to all, "They were massacred, men and babes alike, under blades and cannons. Since then, they have continued, and the map is what we are certain has been lost."
The air in the room grew impossibly heavier, but none dared to speak. Never had they seen their ever-composed Warchief this angered.
It was shocking for some and elated for others.
He extended a hand to Grommash, and a tattered flag was given. He threw it on the table, and the symbol led to an immediate reaction from Gazlowe.
"By… no… That's the Kul Tiran flag! Proudmoore banner! Deserters? Pirates, maybe!? But then… it was why you requested my men to investigate the coast." It wasn't denial; no, it was denial but of a different kind.
"Indeed, it is, my friend. And I fear they aren't any of those; they're too disciplined, organized, trained, and well-equipped. Too numerous. This dozen, possibly hundreds of vessels, is their main fleet and one for a singular purpose: war. But they might as well be the same." Thrall growled, each word hammering into the silence of the throne room.
To call them pirates was fitting.
It was an uncaring massacre they were orchestrating.
A naval force that landed wherever it wanted, ruthlessly ravaging and pillaging everything in its path.
Devastation, ruins, and burned bodies of those unable to flee or those who honorably succumbed with blades in their hands were what remained after their passage as if they were tidal waves of fire and butchery.
None were spared, pleas falling on deaf ears, and mercy a foreign concept to the Kul Tiran invaders.
Words were of no use against foes of that nature. Their purpose was the destruction and extermination of the Horde—nothing, less, nothing more.
The reality of their actions became even more repulsive as they sacked every resource they could scavenge and then torched the rest for only ash to remain.
It extended to nature; wild animals and tamed beasts were killed and hunted for food and sport, thousands of trees were felled without care, and crops and fruit-bearing plants were destroyed.
It went beyond a need to feed and resources—it was excess to bring ruin.
Then it was lit alight, spreading fire to what they didn't touch, but what they did touch was salted before they were set aflame.
It was to ascertain nothing would grow from the wasteland it had become.
It was spiteful, vile, and something that could only be the product of irrational, vitriolic hatred.
Or so the goblins, as Gazlowe had informed, he had sent, concluded before with utmost haste flying back to Orgrimmar.
"I knew it! We shouldn't have trusted those human pigs! That bitch is one of their royals, isn't she?!" Nazgrel spat, glaring at the flag with hate. And he wasn't alone in this sentiment.
It had been brewing for a long time, and this was the tipping point. Theramore had been a thorn in the Horde's side for far too long already, and it would continue to grow.
"Silence." Thrall said sharply, the wind thrumming as utter quietness followed, "I understand your displeasure, but we cannot attack Theramore Isle without knowing what is happening. Rexxar?"
"Yes, Warchief Thrall, what is your order?" The half-orc, half-ogre immediately answered, alert and ready to do as asked without question.
"Go there, seek Jaina Proudmoore, and give her my letter asking for her account of this madness. You may choose whom to accompany you, and the answer would decide the fate of her city." The Warchief declared, handing the letter in question to the much taller hunter.
However, the lone troll of the Warchief Hold spoke up.
"Pardon, boss-man, but the humans be comin' from de sea, my tribe-" A raised hand stifled Rokhan's fair reaction to the existential danger ahead.
"Don't worry, Rokhan. I sent your tribemate Ty'jin by zeppelin to inform Vol'jin earlier. I won't let anything happen to your people. My, my words won't be broken again." There was an almost unnoticeable flinch from Grommash at the last part.
"Thank you, mon, I be eternally grateful." The young shadow hunter bowed and followed Rexxar and Misha on the way out.
"Let's continue. I won't have the human fleet go unchecked."
And the court went on, for it was a preparation for war, and retaliation would be their first act and hopefully their last.
The enemy was predictable and mighty; they were unrivaled on the sea to fight, but they had to walk upon the land to fight beyond scratching the surface.
For now, the humans would grow arrogant, feasting on the outnumbered, defenseless, and innocent as the Horde planned and gathered its forces. It was to be decisive, a precise strike to the heart.
Then, there was the response to the damage wrought or ongoing through the raging fire left by the humans and tending to the survivors.
There was much to do and little time to waste.
*
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