It has been several days since I last wrote, and I am now in Orgrimmar. Most of the rebuild has been finished now, so the whole city is choked up with metal spikes and other fortifications.

I can’t help but think that if Garrosh wanted his city to be a true bastion he should have built it underground. A wall is not much use against gryphons and airships, after all, and I have overheard a lot of talk about the ship that sank Deathwing and its service as part of the Alliance.

It’s just occurred to me that we are now set up for a pantomime. The Alliance’s aerial navy, if that’s what you call it when a boat decides the sky suits it better, versus Orgrimmar, all dressed up in Deathwing’s metal plates. A dramatic reconstruction.

Only Orgrimmar cannot move, or spit fire, or summon up the black dragonflight to its defence. And its demolition won’t scour the world of a great evil, but terminate the lives of a vast number of Horde soldiers and civilians.

Although I accept those two things can be viewed as one and the same, depending on who is asked.

I have to say that the place is strangely monolithic, and by strangely I actually mean in a way that is sadly very familiar to me. Awende and I parted shortly after passing through the gates, and I have decided to scout the inns.

It is unusual that you cannot gauge the thoughts of the Living by sitting in a tavern and listening, so I gained a flagon and a chair and made sure to mind my own business, which is harder than it sounds when you are Forsaken and people are drunk.

But, this time, it was very easy. No-one was interested in me. In fact they may have been purposefully ignoring me. They sat evenly spaced around their round tables, sitting cross-legged on furs, with a guard or two presiding over their talk.

The guards, in fact, seemed to be directing each conversation. I just heard one say, ‘And now, brothers, Northwatch in ruin, where next? Where to destroy, by the will of the Warchief?’

‘Northwatch again,’ said the woman on his right, ‘when the Alliance fleet-’

‘Who we will crush beneath our heel!’

I note he is still doing that. No-one seems to be directly contradicting anything he says, but he’s taking no chances. He’s holding the discussion to a particular course, and the drinkers around him have already surrendered to this, only two or three rounds in.

By rounds four or five they were almost drawn up in it. They used words he would approve of, and there was anger behind them, and if that anger had once been aimed at the guard himself, now it seemed redirected down his sights.

He had not even been subtle in his manipulation, but did he need to be? Orcs are part honourable and part warlike. Some of the drinkers must have agreed with the Horde’s actions already. Those that did not were reminded, every time they were interrupted and corrected, of the futility of their complaint, of their helplessness. But they could express anger and pride if they showed it in the right way, so perhaps that was why they had opted to do so.

I say perhaps because I have never got to grips with this phenomenon. It happened to us after the Wrathgate. Not immediately after, when the Kor’kron came in. The reaction to that was more organic. Some people were angry, some shamefaced, some continued on as they always had done, lost in their still-dead bodies.

No, it happened after the Lich King was dead. There came this surge of monarchism. I am still confused about it. Maybe I missed some important trigger while I was out in Tarren Mill, where there is a tempering orc presence as well, and not all Kor’kron either.

But the results were like this: statues went up to Sylvanas, and suddenly everyone was talking about her. Apparently she had been out in the field with the soldiers, talking to them and taking an interest.

I never saw this, and I never met anyone who had actually seen her themselves. It was always something a friend’s friend had witnessed. No-one seemed to mind. They were all so eager to help her. Sylvanas seemed almost sacred. They were willing to die for her.

That is part of why I went all the way out to Feralas when I wanted to be away from Lydon, instead of returning to the Undercity or Brill. It is also part of why I am not going back to Lordaeron now. I don’t want the queen in my head.

I don’t want the warchief there either. From the inn I have gone out into the market place, which is busy as always, but with an unusual tension hanging over it that made me jittery right down to my bones to be near. I perceived that people were watching each other, more intently even than the goblin bankers watch their customers. There were grins, and greetings that all seemed to mention Theramore, and constant watchfulness.

I retreated to the Cleft of Shadow. I know I said I wanted to investigate this but it makes me sick with unease. Unease makes me think violently, which I think it may do for a lot of the people here. Is it wrong that I am trying to criticise something that I am a part of? Am I a hypocrite? I don’t even know what I hope to achieve. No-one will listen to me. I am a mouldering corpse. My opinion means nothing. The Horde will cut itself to sh


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