Grim Views

Mixed emotions roiled through the white-maned Troll as he sat on the rooftop of Orgrimmar's bank under the rising sun. Utter jubilation jockeyed with a morbid undertone of dread. He could still feel the exhilaration of the previous night, the charge into the massed ranks of Stormwind infantry at the gates. All those years ago, that was what he had signed up for! Older and wiser as he was now, there was still a part of him that yearned for that black and white... and red. Da killin'. Ohh yah mon, da killin'. Da complete destruction o' a hated foe, da annihilation o' all dose who would oppose us.

Leyu'jin sighed and slumped down onto the roof, laying back with his head nested in the callused palms of his hands. And yet, little in the end had been accomplished. Worse than that. He had supported Cristok's plan, because he had recognized the power those three witches yielded at first sight. And the plan had been flawless, except for the minor detail of the spell itself. And its spellcasters.

Played as fools ba' da Scourge itself.

The Troll snarled and banged a fist against the roof, hard enough that one of the peon bankers poked his head out briefly in consternation. Yes. In the end, it had all been a plot of the Scourge, and he had helped lead the Grim straight into it. The spell cast by the three witches was not completed, and Varian's soul remained connected to his body. Worse, it was revealed that the incantation had been intended to bring about the final death of the leaders of both factions. Not only was half the Horde now deriding his comrades as Scourge collaborators, but any chance of peace with the Alliance, far removed as it was with Varian and Garrosh in the picture, was now, very clearly, out of the question. The assault would surely have crushed the morale of some of the Alliance... but their leaders remained standing. And this brazen attack would have the rest baying for blood.

Leyu bit his lip until the blood flowed, then grinned, slowly rising to his feet. Da penitent sinnah schtick nevah sticks fo' me any'ow. Dabbing his tongue at the wound as the flesh reknit itself together, Leyu'jin hoisted up his shield and grabbed his mace. Thrusting them into the air to greet the coming dawn, he thundered to the skies, "DIS BE ONLY A TASTE O' WAT DA FUTURE BRINGS, ALLIANCE!"

"FO' DA HORDE!"

Yichimet's hooves crunched deeper into the snow-cap as Syreena's red drake flew off. He had missed the great battle because of the Spirits' callings, but her story of Cristok's glory and failure had unsettled him.

The Shadowblade had always been more astute than she let on. The Grim was a group of cut-throats who often thought their own schemes more important than that of the whole, but not Syreena--she had been devoted since the first day she put on the tabard. That was why he trusted her judgment on Cristok. And the only shu'halo Yichimet knew who was more moon-calf than Cristok was Gex. Yichimet only wondered how Leyujin could have been so blind. He would have to ask him what went wrong--the troll, Yichimet's sworn brother, was not normally so careless.