Survival

The Griffin Legion that finally swaggered back into town didn't look like a band of defeated losers—no sir, they looked like battle-hardened war machines, barely crawling but still snarling.

Wounds? Oh, they had wounds—deep gashes, broken bones, limbs barely hanging on with the help of a comrade's steady arm. Armor? Forget sleek and polished, their gear was battered like a blacksmith's reject pile—huge dents, gaping holes where heavy axes and hammers had smashed them. If you took a closer look, you'd swear their armor had seen more beatings than a tavern brawl on a Friday night.

They were the punchlines of every noble's cruel joke and the scapegoats of every civilian's angry whispers. The whole city blamed them for the disaster at Redridge Mountains. But here's the kicker—nobody dared laugh at them. Why? Because behind those bloodied faces and limping bodies came cartloads of orc heads—an unspoken warning wrapped in lime and fear.

These weren't just any heads. No, these were the grotesque, terrifying faces of the enemy: bulging eyes that seemed to scream even in death, razor-sharp fangs dripping with dried blood, and those nasty little tooth rings that made orcs look like they'd pierced their mouths with chainsaws for fashion. The kind of heads that gave even the bravest citizen nightmares.

And the bodies—the massive hulks of orcs, towering and brutal, their heavy battle axes and war hammers paraded through the city like trophies. When the strongest men tried hefting those weapons, their faces turned a hilarious shade of red, gasping for breath like they'd just chugged a barrel of ale upside down. It was a brutal reminder: these weren't just monsters, they were walking wrecking balls.

At first, the streets were so quiet you could hear a rat fart. Then, a smattering of applause—tentative, like a cat testing the water with its paw. Finally, the applause exploded into a roaring thunderstorm of cheers, whistles, and shouting.

"Here's to you!" cried some old crone who hadn't seen a hero since the last tavern brawl.

"Good job, Griffin Legion!" bellowed a burly blacksmith, pounding his fist on a barrel.

"You didn't die in vain!" shouted a baker who might've been exaggerating his gratitude.

The Griffin Legion's young warriors felt the emotional roller coaster of their lives. They were losers—no sugarcoating that—but also survivors, warriors who stared death in the face and snarled back.

Suddenly, the first soldier's tears broke free. Then another. And another. It was like a waterfall of tough-guy sobbing—because men, especially warriors, don't cry unless the pain is real and the stakes are life or death.

Yes, they had lost tactically and strategically. They'd been crushed, humiliated. But they'd stared down the inferno and lived.

Anduin Lothar, Tom Seamus, and Bolvar Fordragon strode through the long corridors of Stormwind Keep, feeling the weight of every gaze on them. Guards who barely glanced their way before now watched with newfound respect. These men were no longer just soldiers; they were legends carved out of fire and blood.

Before they could reach the conference room, the air thickened with noise—noble voices, sharp and loud enough to drown out the echoes of war. These were the very same nobles who once acted like speaking loudly was an act of barbarism. Now? They practically begged the king to unleash hell on the orcs who dared steal Stormwind's lands.

The massive double doors, each taller than two men stacked, creaked open.

Silence slammed into the room like a giant's fist. The temperature dropped. Even the dust seemed to hold its breath.

Among the nobles, hate simmered like molten steel. They cared nothing for the suffering of the Griffin Legion, or the staggering losses—60% dead, by the way. No, all they saw was their lost lands, their power stripped away, and the man they blamed most: Lothar.

And these disgruntled border nobles—the ones who'd gone from mighty lords to what were essentially noble stray dogs—were loudest in their accusations.

But then King Llane Wrynn did something nobody expected. Forget the royal stiff-upper-lip. The king jumped off his throne like a man who'd just found his missing puppy, sprinted down the steps, and wrapped Lothar in a bear hug so fierce it nearly crushed the wind out of him.

"Damn orcs... I almost lost you forever."

Those five words carried more weight than any victory speech ever could. No praise, no consolation—just raw, desperate relief that his childhood friend had survived.

Lothar patted the king's back like a grizzled uncle at a family reunion, eyes glistening but emotions tightly reined in.

"Your Majesty, Anduin Lothar is back," he said, voice low but fierce—reminding the king that this was a court, not a battlefield.

Llane blinked, caught, then straightened up and boomed: "Welcome back, my commander! Welcome back, Duke Fordragon, General Seamus!"

Even the nobles had to bite their tongues, their barbed words silenced by the king's show of loyalty.

Seated once more, Llane turned serious: "I've read the reports. Now, those who faced these green monsters—Lothar, Bolvar—tell us what we're truly up against."

Bolvar stepped forward, bowing with the gravity of a man about to drop a bombshell. "No words pale enough to describe their ferocity. Let everyone see for themselves."

With a dramatic clap, the council hall doors swung open again, and a wave of rank, savage stench poured in—like a dozen rotting fish had been mashed into a single, foul breeze.

Two guards pushed in a massive wheeled cage surrounded by a phalanx of royal guards, swords drawn, shields raised.

Inside, a hulking green beast lay asleep—a creature so monstrous it made the nobles' eyelids twitch involuntarily, some even yelping in surprise.

Bolvar grinned grimly. "Behold, the green-skinned nightmare we tangled with in Redridge Mountains. Simply call it 'orc.'"

The cage door creaked open.

Six muscle-bound guards grabbed the chains shackling the orc's wrists and ankles, ready to hold him down.

Lothar quietly drew his sword and stepped forward, shielding King Llane halfway, because nothing says 'court drama' like a deadly beast about to wake up angry.

The tension was thick enough to cut with a dagger. Even the nobles who had never laid eyes on an orc furrowed their brows.

Bolvar nodded at the court wizard beside Llane, signaling him to cast the removal of the "Sleeping Curse."

The wizard muttered a few arcane words.

The orc's eyes snapped open.

A roar erupted—something primal and prehistoric, a sound so fierce it sent several nobles tumbling from their seats in terror.

Without hesitation, the beast lunged for the closest human—fast as lightning, pulling free from six strong guards like a furious storm breaking chains.

One unlucky guard, caught mid-stance, was yanked forward like a ragdoll.

The orc's savage speed was met with even sharper reflexes: seven or eight swords plunged into the beast's massive body in perfect synchronization.

But the dying orc wasn't going quietly.

With a blood-curdling snarl, it snapped its jaws and bit the guard's shoulder, tearing off a chunk of flesh that would make even the most hardened veteran wince.

Blood splattered.

Luckily, the guard tilted his head at the last second—because a bite to the neck would've been a one-way ticket to the afterlife.

The orc died swiftly, but the room stayed thick with tension and the unmistakable coppery scent of fresh blood.

Suppressed groans echoed softly.

This was no fairy tale victory.

This was war, ugly and relentless, and the Griffin Legion—and all of Stormwind—had just taken the first brutal steps toward survival.