Grimnir looked out over the teeming battlements of the Blackrock Clan.
Stonard as it was. Stonard, basecamp for the Horde's invasion of Stormwind, filled with bloodlusted orcs and their brutal commanders. From Stonard, the Horde had swept into Azeroth and won itself bloody victory.
Grimnir saw them all. Ghosts and shades, slaving, fighting, hacking, tearing...
He blinked, and now the orcish ghosts were in panicked retreat, fleeing before the combined might of the Grand Alliance. Now he sees General Turalyon leading a company of knights into the town. The round orcish huts are burning, their panicked cries fill the night...
He blinked again, and now he saw ghosts no more. Stonard as it was; a fortress city once again, bastion and stronghold of the Blacktooth Grin. South of the Thandol Span, there was no stronger concentration of Horde forces.
He stepped out of his tent, watched Shadiel training a batch of new grots.
He blinked, and it was Gorfrunch, doing the same.
"STAND STILL, YOU MAGGOTS!" "YOUSE GROTS WANNA DIE?" "STAY IN LINE!" "FOLLOW YER ORDERS!"
Grimnir swayed a bit, and found a seat on a nearby treestump. He passed a hand over his eyes, and saw visions of times layered upon times. It was...wearying.
Poor me. Poor Grimnir.
He knew what Gor'd say. Hell, he knew what Yag'd say, too. Stop feelin' sorry fer yerself. Yer a Warlord. Act like one. Serve yer Chieftan in a manner befittin' yer rank. Stop lettin' him down.
They'd be right, too.
Grimnir rubbed his eyes, and found Heimdall looking calmly at him. The frostwolf's fur shimmered, translucent in the muggy Stonard sun.
"I know. I've been mopin'."
The wolf nodded.
"Time ter get started."
Again, the wolf nodded.
Grimnir pushed himself to his feet. He blinked once, rapped himself on the forehead, and looked out with a grin on his face. So what if he was halfway into the spirit world? So what if he was dead already? So what if he was constantly tormented by visions of countless past events? He could take it. He was Grin.
There was work to do.