The Pilgrims of Elune, a group of three powerful Shamans, had travelled for hundreds of miles, crossing the plains of the Barrens and the wide oceans of Kalimdor. They had watched the jungle shores of Stranglethorn, Kezan and Zandalar slide past on their long voyage from Stormwind to Kalimdor and the Goblin port of Ratchet.
They had travelled deep into Horde-held lands on their journey, stopping to picnic among the beasts of the lush grasslands of Mulgore and pausing, albeit briefly, to pay their respects to the Elders in Horde villages and towns along the way. They came to represent the new-come Draenai, to celebrate the ancient triumph of the Night Elves, the Tauren, the Furbolgs and the Earthen over the forces of the Burning Legion of old. It was that victory that had enabled Kalimdor to become a safe haven for the Exodar and her burdened people.
They had even ascended to the heights of Thunder Bluff, where the natives had greeted them kindly, in respect for their lunar festival mission and the battles of their forebears. Even the slight ‘disagreements’ with the Thunder Bluff authorities hadn’t blunted the open welcome they had received from the common inhabitants, particularly the druids among them. The animal forms of ghost wolves and Jetri, the horned cat had celebrated together on the high bridge to the Elder Rise.
Orgrimmar, though, had been a different matter. Ymi, Magdushka and Telless had entered the city as other pilgrims had before them, respectfully dissuading the city guards from interfering with their mission, and advancing carefully, sometimes dismounting to conduct negotiations, but always proceeding openly to their goal, the elder Darkhorn. They waved joyfully to the locals, the brooding Orcs, betusked Trolls, and hideous, unnatural Forsaken, as the untrusting natives viewed their progress with suspicion. (No Blood elf, though, was to be seen. Despite their fall to evil and lust for arcane power, they still appear to shun that ugly city).
Suddenly, in a moment, the fragile trust was broken. The warriors of the Horde, like beasts, set upon the peaceable travellers and tore them apart.
Elune herself cried out in outrage! She gathered the departing shamanic spirits, and shepherded them back to their fallen bodies.
The spirits of the Pilgrims convened, with regret for the errors of the Horde. Their remains were now surrounded by mindless, bloodthirsty hordes. To resurrect in physical form would be nothing short of suicide, an unworthy thanks for the aid of Elune. A trick would need to be played.
The horde scented death. They were in their heartland, in the foul and noisome Capital of Orc and Troll. They waited for the departed spirits to return, longing to sheath their blades once more in smooth, womanly Draenai flesh, to burn it with their foul magics. In drooling lust they waited, watching, rusty axe-blades and bloodied talons drawn to strike.
But to their grunting amazement, the bodies in front of them began to melt away. They turned, confused. Naught was left but the shadows of bones, but of the Allies there was no sign. Where were they? The rabid pack spread out, seeking, searching. But nothing could be found.
Two of the pilgrims, meanwhile, were gleefully taking in the sights of the Drag (as the Orcs know their main trading street) on the other side of the city, far from their clueless pursuers. Telless and Magdushka rode laughing along, one on her carefully engineered and jeweled Mechanostrider, the other upon her hard-won noble mammoth, waving and chuckling as they passed traders and crafters at their work. Circling round to the North-West they finally found Darkhorn, holding a vigil outside the palace of Thrall, and they proudly paid their respects, the pursuit utterly fooled.
Eventually, of course, the minions of Thrall, hunters and trackers among them and warned by the cries of fearful denizens, found them there, and mercilessly slew them once again while the pilgrims, as befitted their mission, offered only token resistance. Elune, though, was pleased, and appreciating their sacrifice smiled upon them.
Ymi, the third of the Pilgrims, moved to Ragefire Chasm, avoiding the wrath of the beasts. Protected by the spirits of twice-slain Magdushka and Telless, she waited for the pack, sated with blood, to disperse.
One, though, an evil, rotting Magus animated only by the Scourge plague and bereft of all natural life, remained. He seethed with unholy magics, at the peak of his power and doubtless fresh from the betrayal in the Dragonblight. Lurking hidden behind an outcrop, he plotted death and destruction for the final Pilgrim.
Unbeknownst to him, gentler spirits watched him lurk, and they planned his downfall.
Thus it was that when Ymi emerged to pay her respects to Elder Darkhorn, and the Magus sprung his trap, Telless the Seeker was able to appear behind him in physical form, and disrupt his spell. He turned, and in a rage burned the life from her abused and weakened body once again. However, with his attention distracted, Ymi’s powerful magics prevailed, and in the dark heart of the Horde, on the very steps of Thrall's palace, he was defeated, offered to Elune as sacrifice for the Horde’s dishonour.
Some time later, in the safety of Dalaran, the revived and restored Pilgrims toasted their successful journey, while in the rotting stink of Orgrimmar’s sewers, the blasted remains of a forgotten mage added their own noxious vapours to the enduring smell, and the confused peons of the Horde wondered how it was that they had been so thoroughly outwitted.
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Subject: The Ride of the Pilgrims 
Thu Feb 05, 2009 12:45 pm
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