5
"Do you truly expect to just take over, when you have only lived with us for a few months?" Sync asked. "You are still a stranger, and you are a Frostwolf. No Frostwolf has ever been warchief."
"I was not raised a Frostwolf," Thrall pointed out. "I was raised by humans, a fact of which I have been reminded countless times by both your clans."
"Yes, yes, I know the story. The humans found you after your parents were murdered and raised you as a slave, but you managed to escape and reclaim your rightful place as an orc. Now you expect to lead us all to victory. I've heard it too many times already. It's disgusting." Sync turned to the older man. "Surely you cannot accept a Frostwolf as warchief. I've lived with them long enough to know what they are like. Durotan, Garad… they were good men, but they did not have the true passion to be warchief."
Grom shrugged. "The Warsong have lived in hiding for too many years, waiting for a chance to strike at the humans. We have it now. I do not care what clan the warchief is from."
"Have you changed that much? Clans don't matter anymore?"
"The clans are dying out. We've lost so many people. The Warsong, the Frostwolves, Blackrock, Thunderlord, all the others - if they're not already gone, they soon will be. Our numbers are too small to argue about clans." Grom pointed toward a group of ragged children gathered around a fire, mesmerized by one of the Warsong warriors who appeared to be telling them a story. "Some of them don't even know what clan they were born into. All they will know is all the orcs unified as the Horde."
"I thought that was the whole point of breaking them out of the camps. We will tell them who they were, and the clans will exist again. The old ways will return, and everything will be good."
"And how are the clans to come back? You are the only female Warsong still alive, at least that I know about. Unless you wish to breed with my warriors and provide them all with children…"
Sync pursed her lips. "I am a bit old for that."
"Then they will have to find mates elsewhere."
"There may be a few Warsong left in Garadar," Sync spoke without thinking.
Grom closed his eyes. Slowly he exhaled, and his shoulders seemed to droop. "We cannot count them."
Sync felt a pang of regret at the echo of pain in Grom's voice. She wished she had not mentioned Garadar. It was one sore spot she could not mend.
"Garadar?" Thrall asked.
"I misspoke," Sync said quickly. "Garadar is on Draenor. Some years ago, the red pox broke out on Draenor, and the sick ones were sent to Garadar to recuperate."
Grom opened his eyes. "That's enough, Sync. They are not here, and we must take care of ourselves. There is no other way to continue but to find mates outside of our clans. But how can you be so distressed when that is exactly what you did?"
Sync stared at him. Her words came slow and quiet, as if she were having a great deal of trouble controlling her temper. "When I married, I had to leave my family and my clan - and you - because no one would accept a union between a Warsong and a Frostwolf. And now you encourage it?"
"You cannot judge it the same. It was different then. There were plenty of Warsong boys you could have chosen for a mate. Besides, you were only fourteen. Even if you had picked a Warsong, you would not have been allowed to marry that young."
"You did not accept him even when we came back," Sync went on, her anger barely in check. "You still won't call him by his name. But you expect me to accept a Frostwolf as my leader. No, Grom. I cannot do it."
She stormed off, and Grom sighed. "I suppose I had best go after her."
"Why such a fuss over one small female?" Thrall asked.
"Because I have known her since the day she was born. And because she has a husband and six children. If she leaves, we may lose half the Frostwolf clan." Grom looked a bit sheepish. "And because she is right. I have never called her husband by his name."