((Crosspost from TNG))
Dawn crept down the cliffs of Orgrimmar, accompanied by a chill wind and the sound of flapping parchment. On nearly every signpost and tavern door was nailed, glued, or tied a broadside of political propaganda. Peon workers and goblin merchants paused for a few moments of their morning to study the message, then returned to the long work of rebuilding the scarred city. Few cared to discuss the wild accusations, and yet an anxious mood settled upon some of the Horde citizenry. If there were more fistfights in the Drag that night, harsher lashings of peons in the market, or more distrustful glares during the exchange of gold, no one thought to speak note of it.
(( Credit to LudoLullabi at deviantart for the Varian Wrynn image. ))
