The real Orgrimmar was so different from the game, yet somehow it still felt familiar. I could almost remember my favorite character roaming through this map—and now, seeing it brought to life, I couldn't help but feel a sense of awe.
Awe at the city before me. At the lives I was now responsible for. But that same awe also weighed on me like a suit of lead. I was the new Warchief. Thrall may have built this city—but I was the one who had to keep it standing. At least until he returned... if he ever did.
"Stay positive, David. That pacifist fool will come back. And when he does, I'll have done such a great job he'll offer me early retirement in the Barrens—or maybe I'll move to Northrend and forget all about the Horde and the Alliance."
It was a utopian thought—but even the most rational minds can indulge in fantasy.
Unfortunately, the top of the tower—overlooking the maze of canyons—was also the perfect place to meet with my advisors. At least the morning breeze offered some comfort before the seven hells of Durotar's heat descended again.
"Warchief!"
The orc's voice was firm. His posture still that of a soldier, though slightly bent with age. His face bore the timeworn expression of a warrior among warriors, with deep knowledge of orcish culture and the dark days of the old Horde.
"Eitrigg. Good to see you, old man. How's Saurfang?"
I greeted him—not too formal, not overly familiar. Orc standards.
He let out a low grunt, stepping beside me, a few paces behind.
"He's doing well, all things considered. At least he's finally left his son's grave."
"Hm... At least some good news. Tell me, what's the real status of our supplies?"
I could already see the old orc's frown forming.
"Not good. We won't starve—not yet—but the people are feeling it. We could face a crisis soon."
"Then we double our efforts in Kalimdor. Come, sit with me."
We had a table set up, just like the throne room of the Horde, with a map of Kalimdor and the surrounding regions.
"I've already marked the areas of interest. I had plans for Durotar... assuming we could ever turn this desert into something livable."
"The elements are getting restless. Earth elementals have been appearing along the coasts, fighting water elementals. The shamans are trying to calm them."
I pointed to the most affected areas of Durotar—coastal zones hit by sudden storms, or fissures splitting the ground, making settlements impossible.
"You're talking a lot, Garrosh. What are you really trying to say?"
I looked him in the eyes.
"I want to know why the damned elements chose Horde lands as their battlefield—and what I can do to stop it. And if not stop it... how to use it to the Horde's advantage."
"Thrall went to Outland to learn. I doubt anyone who's not a shaman can truly understand. And even if you could—how would it help the Horde?"
"Water for settlements. Mines in Durotar's guts. There's always a way to profit."
I could already see gears turning in Eitrigg's mind.
"Hmph... Risky, but given our situation, it might work. There's an orc—ex-gladiator, now a shaman. I could ask him to look into these spirits. I can't promise anything—but with a few guards, we might try. Even if he fails."
"Good. Let's move on. I plan to begin expansion across Kalimdor and the Eastern Kingdoms. I want orcs, tauren, trolls—any willing Horde members—to start a new colony."
I moved the maps, pointing to a location in Northern Barrens.
"Here. There's a small camp called 'The Crossroads.' We'll expand it into a thriving hub. Thoughts?"
The orc reviewed the plans briefly.
"Ambitious. But I also called Thrall ambitious when he built Orgrimmar."
I nodded.
"Our problem is twofold: the Barrens are home to centaur tribes—sworn enemies of the tauren. They'll be trouble. I want an initial Kor'kron detachment to scout the territory. Then we build the next phase of the Horde's future."
Eitrigg nodded, taking the marked maps. We stood, ready to act.
"You've changed, Garrosh. More controlled, at least in temperament."
I smiled—an expression that would've haunted a human's dreams.
"The title weighs heavier than my father's axe, Eitrigg. I don't share Thrall's obsessive pacifism—but he built something I don't want to destroy. So I'll try, even though I know that sooner or later... war will come, and my blood will welcome it."
The orc smiled as we shook hands.
"Then I'll hope that war doesn't come."
"Yeah... maybe even I will," I muttered, as the old orc took the elevator down. I lingered, watching the sunset. I could already tell—it was going to be another scorching day.
"Hm... Maybe we should build an underground city. At least it'd be a good defense network."
"Forget it. More trouble than it's worth."
I mumbled to myself. It had been three days since I woke up in this world. So far, things had been quiet after the Horde's last meeting. One day to get used to the new body—and thanks to Garrosh's memories, the transition was smoother.
Unfortunately, being Warchief came with endless work—especially bureaucracy. Even after the meeting, I had to handle the planning.
Most of the leaders didn't trust me. Not really. Cairne had returned to Thunder Bluff and left his son behind to keep an eye on me—of that I had no doubt.
Not that it mattered. I had things to do and a long road ahead planning the Horde's expansion.
Because in just over a month... I'd face something I wanted to avoid at all costs:
Diplomacy with the Alliance.
Neither David nor Garrosh wanted to talk. Honestly, if they just left me alone, I'd be happy. But Varian and I hated each other. From what I remembered, the Alliance was dealing with internal problems around this time.
Even if I wanted peace, they'd push their advances—one of them being Gilneas.
Despite wars, internal strife, and a damn werewolf curse, they were strong enough that Sylvanas resorted to using the Plague.
I wanted the city, its resources—and to cripple a kingdom that might pose a threat if it joined the Alliance.
Problem was, if I attacked... the elves would become my problem too. King Genn Greymane was likely already in contact with the elves thanks to the worgen curse.
"Tsk! So many plans, so little time."
I grunted. I really needed a drink after this night. But of course, it looked like one of those days.
"Damn you, Thrall, for this cursed title..."
Orgrimmar – Early Evening
The warm winds of Durotar blew high above the halls of Orgrimmar, carrying dust and the smell of burning oil from goblin forges. Vol'jin stood silently on a stone balcony, eyes sharp and ancient. Beside him, Baine Bloodhoof stared at the horizon, arms crossed.
"I've never seen him so... calm," Baine said, breaking the silence. His voice was deep but uncertain.
Vol'jin remained quiet a moment longer, eyes painted in black and blue narrowing as if trying to read invisible signs in the air.
"Calm isn't the word, brother," he finally replied. "He's restrained. Like there's a beast chained inside. A different Garrosh... but still a Hellscream."
Baine sighed, removing his helm with a heavy gesture.
"He talks of diplomacy. Of supply routes. Doesn't yell at soldiers. Doesn't reject every idea with contempt. You saw it at the council. He even... yielded. That's new."
"Which is why it worries me," Vol'jin muttered, eyes fixed on the city below. "When someone changes so suddenly, it's because they lost something... or gained something."
"What do you think he gained?"
Vol'jin didn't answer right away. His gaze shifted briefly to Garrosh's palace, where torches were being lit.
"Clarity. Vision. Or maybe... he's seeing the world with eyes that aren't his."
Baine turned to him, brow furrowed.
"You think he's possessed?"
"I don't know. But the Garrosh we knew wouldn't have listened to the Darkspear. Wouldn't have heeded the shamans' warnings about the elements. He stayed silent and acted with rage. This one... thinks."
Vol'jin scratched his jaw, worn by years of battle.
"But thinking doesn't make him less dangerous."
"He said he wants to stabilize before attacking. Said he's not Thrall—but he's not a fool either."
"Pretty words can be just as deadly as axes, Baine."
Silence again. They watched the growing shadows over Orgrimmar.
"Do you think he can change?" Baine finally asked.
Vol'jin smirked—but it wasn't a happy one.
"Anyone can change, brother. But not everyone changes for the better."
He crossed his arms, eyes locked on the palace.
"And even a new path can lead to the same abyss."
He repeated the line, more to himself than to Baine.
Another moment passed in silence before hurried footsteps interrupted their thoughts. A young troll scout approached, panting, and stopped a few steps away.
"Vol'jin! Chief Baine! News from Ashenvale!"
Both leaders turned. Baine frowned. Vol'jin stayed expressionless.
"Speak," Vol'jin ordered, voice low and firm.
"There was another clash with the elves. A scout group was ambushed while gathering timber. No deaths, but... one of their druids sent a warning."
"Warning?" Baine raised a brow.
"Next time, there won't be a warning. Only fire."
Vol'jin was silent a moment, then nodded.
"Rest, little one. Thank you."
The young scout saluted and left, leaving the weight of his words behind.
"That changes things," Baine said. "Will you confront him?"
"I'll talk," Vol'jin answered calmly. "If that beast inside him is truly chained... best make sure the chain holds."
Baine replaced his helm, sighing.
"Be careful, brother. A cornered beast bites harder."
Vol'jin said nothing. He turned and made his way toward the palace, steps silent as shadow. But inside, the troll leader's instincts stirred. Something about this Garrosh was... off. Not evil—just misaligned.
As he climbed the stone ramps and suspended platforms, the city's noise faded. The moon rose high, casting silver light on the halls of power.
At the entrance, two Kor'kron guards moved to block him—but recognized him and stepped aside.
Vol'jin entered the hall like a stalking predator. Garrosh stood alone, before a massive map strewn with notes and markings.
"Warchief," Vol'jin said, calm but firm. "We need to talk... now."
Garrosh looked up slowly. For a moment, they stared in silence.
The beast was still there. But behind those wild eyes... something else lurked.
Command Hall – Garrosh's War Room
Garrosh stood, back turned, studying the massive map of Kalimdor. Torchlight danced on the rough stone walls, casting long shadows.
Vol'jin entered slowly, but with the presence of a predator.
"Warchief," he said again. "We need to talk. Now."
Garrosh didn't turn right away. He just pointed to a marked area on the map.
"Northern Barrens. Most viable spot for our colony. The Crossroads will grow," he said, as if ignoring Vol'jin's tone.
"I got word from Ashenvale," Vol'jin continued. "The elves sent another warning. Next time, it'll be blood."
Garrosh snorted and finally turned, arms crossed.
"I'm not blind. I knew they'd react. But we haven't started a war... not yet. And coming from me, that's saying something."
Vol'jin narrowed his eyes.
"That's why I'm here. You speak like you're calculating everything. But the Garrosh we knew didn't calculate. He reacted—with an axe. With fury."
"Maybe I've learned," Garrosh leaned over the table. "Or maybe you've only ever seen one side of me."
Vol'jin stepped closer.
"And this 'new side'... where does it come from? Your father's axe? Or voices only you hear?"
Garrosh grinned—not friendly. The kind that showed teeth—and warning.
"Clarity. Understanding that strength without purpose is just savagery. Thrall built something. I may not agree with all of it—but destroying it would be foolish. I'm not here to repeat his mistakes. Or mine. Or my father's."
Vol'jin didn't speak, but held his gaze.
"You know... I look into your eyes and see two souls. One chained and screaming for war. The other... trying to figure out where to steer."
Garrosh stepped closer.
"And you, Vol'jin? Will you keep watching me from the shadows, ready to strike if I stumble? Or walk beside me while I try to build something better than ashes?"
The silence was thick.
"I'm not here to follow you, Hellscream. I'm here to protect my people. And if I must stop you to do that... I won't hesitate."
"Good," Garrosh nodded. "That's the kind of ally I need. Someone who speaks truth. Who challenges me—but helps build. Bootlickers brought me down once. I won't let them do it again."
Vol'jin raised an eyebrow.
"So you actually want me here?"
"I want you to watch. Question. See for yourself. And when the time comes, decide whether the Horde I'm shaping... deserves your spear—or your wrath."
Vol'jin crossed his arms. Still wary, but the chill was gone. He had come for answers—and found something else. Conviction. Or at least something well-practiced.
"We'll see how long that new mask holds on the battlefield."
"It's not a mask," Garrosh said. "It's a forge. And I've only just begun shaping."
Vol'jin turned to leave, but paused at the door.
"If that's true... maybe there's still something left of the Horde we once knew."
Then he was gone, leaving Garrosh alone. The Warchief stared at the map... then at the axe on his table.
Not yet, he thought. But soon.
[Garrosh]
The talk with the troll was short—but it seemed we'd reached a mutual understanding.
For now, that was enough. I wasn't dumb enough to antagonize one of the Horde's strongest races. I also wasn't foolish enough to think one conversation would fix everything.
Actions would show the path I chose. And those same actions would decide if I'd be seen as a hero—or a villain.
"Looks like it's time to write that damned letter. Let's see how I do as a diplomat."
Part of me wanted to laugh at the absurdity.
"Garrosh the Diplomat."
It wasn't even funny.