Silence. Nothing pervades his mind. The Orc passes through Hellfire Peninsula and slays all who cross him, but no pleasure is found. He kills because he must, because he knows no other way. Blood flows, many cry out as he trails across the land.
Blood colours the waters of Zangermarsh as death spreads across Outland. Wildlife, peacefully living out their existence are brought short as legs and wings are left strewn on the ground. The Fallen flee as the Death Knight wades through the dirt of the land and Ogres fall before his runed axe. He does not know why he is there, but he carries on in the hope that a reason will appear.
The fields of Nagrand stretch behind him. His ancestors homelands, still claiming a hint of their former glory. But none of this matters to the Orc. He plagued the ground and carved up the wildlife as he made his way through, the green hills turned red from his actions. Life seems abhorrent, an anathema to all that he knows. The only reason he lets Orcs, Taurens, Trolls and Blood Elves live is because they provide a place for him to fix his armour before returning to the killing fields.
Shattrath, the city of Horror! It burns me to be here!
Shattrath City, home of the the Naaru and the Draenei, haven for the turncoat Blood Elves, the Scryers. The Cursed Cathedral of A'dal lies at it's centre. Never had Gurfang seen something so awful as when he came to this "fair city" in the forests of Terrokar. But he could finally bear it no more. Longing for the familiar death and destruction of Lordaeron, he returned to Ebon Hold.
But the voice that had been silent suddenly rang out:
Death welcomes you. Come turn your blade to Northrend and let the ice consume you!
And so he finds himself at Warsong Hold, looking out on the icy tundra of Borea, breathes deeply and then lets out a loud cackle. He is home, and blood will turn the ice red!
"We are the ones that want to choose; always want to play but you never want to lose."