There was a huge thread where people were retiring from the Horde over Teldrassil. I posted in it. BFA really killed Horde pride.
It appears printed from a press in Orcish.
I, Treng, son of Treng , a national of the Horde, solemnly swear that I was born in An internment camp , Hillsbrad in 18 BDP , that I formerly resided in Orgrimmar , Durotar , that I am a national of the Horde by virtue of its formation .
I desire and hereby make a formal renunciation of my Horde nationality and absolutely and entirely renounce all rights and privileges and all duties and allegiance to fidelity thereunto pertaining. I make this renunciation intentionally, voluntarily and of my own free will, free of any duress of undue influence.
Treng, son of Treng, whose father was Treng before him
I’ve served the Horde since I was old enough to wield a spear. My father saw to that. First, it was hunting. Animals were fair game and troops had to be fed. You’d be surprised by what you learn about killing from hunting. One quick jab to the ribcage, just in the right spot, pierces the heart. It kills quickly. It kills well. It’s the least we can offer the dying. A quick death.
After a year hunting, I was given an axe and sent to an old human fort in Durotar. Turned out some holdouts from Kul Tiras had re-occupied Tiragarde Keep. I went in with a handful of other soldiers. Mostly Orcs and Trolls. Some Tauren, and a couple undead, but all of us, for the lack of a better term, green. We went in and we killed them all, but most of us killed them well.
No one deserves to die slow and in pain. Or at least most don’t.
I’ve served in the Barrens and Ashenvale. I’ve served in Stonetalon and Desolace. Truth be told, there’s more places I’ve been than I’ve not. I was a right and proper soldier of Thrall’s Horde. His Overlords would point, and I’d follow.
I’ve seen Warchiefs rise and fall. I’d been opposed to Garrosh since day one. I remembered how he was in Nagrand. How willing he was to let his clan die in his malaise. But I respected Thrall – he’d earned my faith. So, I followed Garrosh Hellscream after he killed Cairne, and he tore through Ashenvale, and sailed to the Twilight Highlands. Garrosh killed and maimed like a man possessed, but he didn’t kill well. He killed for the joy of it. Pandaria was when it became too much. Pandaria was where I drew the line.
I should have drawn it sooner.
I signed up with Vol’jin’s revolutionaries the second I’d heard news. The Horde was fragmented, and with Lor’themar’s help, Vol’jin stood as a unifying force. With the Alliance’s aid, we stormed Orgrimmar and put the tyrant on his knees, Titan artifacts or no.
Vol’jin became Warchief not long after that, and my son was born. I felt such great pride. And to see the homeland of my father, no matter how remote or incongruent, to see his people in their frozen homeland. I wish my son could have remembered it.
But then the Legion came and Vol’jin fell. And Sylvanas became Warchief. I remember standing in the crowd, one face among many, my wife holding our son as Sylvanas asked us: “Who among us would help her avenge him?” It was a masterstroke, in retrospect. I believed her, despite my best senses. But we got to Stormheim and it was all made clear. The only thing Sylvanas did in the entire Legionfall campaign was try to enslave Odyn’s Valkyr.
And so the Horde didn’t avenge its last true Warchief. The Alliance did most of the work, while we served the order halls and the Horde, itself, did nothing. Kil’jaeden fell, though I don’t know any who were there to see it. Nor Argus.
For any sensible man, this should’ve been enough, but I wasn’t sensible. I let it pass. And as the Forsaken killed women and children in Ashenvale, I let it pass. And as their tree burned, I let it pass.
All those people did not die well.
And finally we were called to Lordaeron. The Alliance’s counter-attack called in force, to make us answer for Teldrassil. And for the first time, I couldn’t say they were wrong. But it only got worse. This ‘Warchief’, Sylvanas Windrunner, equipped her Forsaken forces with special masks and gave them Blight equipment. She sent them into the battle, spraying down Horde and Alliance alike. And as they died, they did not die well. They choked, and gagged, tearing at their throats to breathe breaths that would not come. They threw up, and rithed in their mess on the ground spasmodically, but that nightmare wasn’t enough. Not for her. The Banshee Queen wove her magics and the dead stood again, tearing their flesh from their bones like some kind of macabre puppets before running head long into the Alliance forces. She had a message to send.
Orcs, Tauren, Trolls, Humans, Dwarves, Gnomes. It didn’t matter to her, as long as it wasn’t her Forsaken troops. She repeated this at least three times as I saw. It got kind of fuzzy and jumbled after a while. So many who did not die well were not only being weaponized, but cut off from their ancestors. But surely she’d let them go and release them when the battle was over.
The retreat was called. I don’t remember how we got out. I don’t remember how I survived. After a week I flew back out to Tirisfal in the dead of night. I had to see for myself. See if I could find my wife’s bones. I couldn’t. Not in that sea of blight. Not in that ocean of skeletons. All still animated. All still patrolling, or working. Some even on the tanks. And to the north east, some Forsaken stood with their masks, doing something to the Blight.
Now, I stand at the precipice. How many soldiers is she willing to kill to get what she wants? How many of our own will she sacrifice? I lost my wife to her lunacy. I won’t risk my son.
I should have learned my lesson with Garrosh. I thought that I had. All too late, I’ve come to the realization that Saurfang was right.
I won’t return to her Horde.