The quarantine colony baked in hot sun, cooled by sentient winds in the lush wilds of Nagrand, was once home to a sick child.
Garadar was always home to sick children, to sick grown orcs. This young orc’s strong ancestry set him apart from the others. Even with the benefit of blood on his side he couldn’t even raise an axe in his own defense, the essence of being Orcish. Axes were not the only essence orcs possessed after his father urged them all, warrior and shaman alike, to drink the blood of a demon. Garrosh remained untouched by that corruption, remained unpossessing of that strength, wasting away among the clefthoof and the elementals in Nagrand.
To this day, the elements remain outside Hellscream’s reach. Eventually and with determination, he grew strong and his path was one of the warrior. Despite being among the wonders of the elements, of nature, of the shaman, those things were useless for him.
The formidable, unthinking clefthoof remained Garrosh’s model of strength and health. And so with their unwitting aid, he learned to Smash, to Trample those who opposed him, and trample half of those who were once his allies. His Orcs were as a Stampede over all life on Kalimdor, and were threatening the world in their rage.
Over time, he grew so opposed to the elements, he allowed his Dark Shaman to continue their rituals in a way which rivaled the betrayal of the elements by Gul’dan and his warlocks. Over time, the Orcs and Garrosh found their own, treacherous way to Survive.
So, when a worgen druid comes to your keep with her Clefthoof Runt, she hopes you feel despair deep in your heart for the only true home you knew. That you, for one moment, smell the honey-sweet winds of Nagrand before you remember that she is here to kill you. That moment of weakness is all she’ll need.
What would Greatmother Geyah say if she could see you now, Garrosh? Thrall’s disappointment pales in comparison.
No rest til Orgrimmar.