Standing upon the precipice Gurgrok looked down at the city of Orgrimmar. They hauled the bodies of the dead away and fixed the broken city. The mongrel races of the Horde had betrayed Garrosh and sided with the fucking Alliance in some desperate gain for power. He spat on the desert ground. Now they had a new Warchief, a Troll. Disgusting. If he was there, he’d put his blade into a good number of trolls if he had the chance. He heard that Garrosh had fallen to worship of an Old God. He didn’t know what the Old God was, but he thought it sounded an awful like a demon and demons were the only thing worse than the Alliance. He had no love lost upon his old Warchief, however letting that half-blooded whelp lead the Horde, a Horde founded by Orc blood, was treachery. If only he was there to teach the mongrels of this world the true meaning of Orc power, instead he was left babysitting some Undead in Lordaeron. He ditched his Kor’kron armor on the sail back to Kalimdor, and set about finding a new line of work.
Word on the street was that there was a band of mercenaries still loyal to the true meaning of the Horde, led by an Orc by the name of Grazzug. He knew there’d be mongrels there, but maybe these mongrels knew the discipline of obeying when told. He slung his blade over his shoulder and walked into the mass of beings in The Drag. He told an innkeeper, an old friend, to pass a note to this Grazzug telling him that Gurgrok, Son of Grot, would take his blade and chop those that stood before him. He smiled finally, the thought of screaming humans running away, their limbs falling off in a pool of red rain. He hoped the Orc would contact him soon, for when he closed his eyes all he saw was blood.