Orthur's Pilgrimage North.

Hours felt like days, minutes like hours. His feet burnt against the volcanic ground, bruised and blistered and every single step seemed like a marathon. Yet all this was worth it, Orthur felt, all this was but a test. The others within the Chapter had served their purpose, and were now imprisoned where he had fled, they were weak whilst he was strong and he had learnt all that was required from them. He outgrew them. They only held him back from his purpose; to spread Ancestral Anethionism; the true Word of the Ancestors, the true message of Ancestor Anethion.

Penniless the nomadic Blood Priest had set barefoot to traverse to his homeland of Arathi, leaving the sacred Abbey due east to Redridge. Most wildlife that he came across perished, as the muttering of the twisted spirits in his head insisted on their sacrifice, in order to sustain themselves and Orthur respectively. Raw meat. Warm Blood. That was his diet, and he didn't discriminate against what type of meat, Human, Dwarf even Gnome alike grew to know to flee his slow steps. Eventually, he reached the border of the Burning Steppes. Rarely leaving the road, the danger of Blackrock Mountain was his destination.

“Remember Old Orthur; The Light is distant, but It is also close, the Light fills the whole universe and yet whispers to the heart of every man, compelling him to do Good and shun Evil; to ignore this call of Good is to choose a path of wickedness. Are you wicked, Orthur? Will you forsake the Light and shun your Sacred Duty? Keep on, Elder, strive forward...We have work to do...”

These Recitations, these Sacred Truths kept Orthur walking forward. The Ancestors were on his side, the Light itself. It was his duty to spread the truth in the North, it was the only way he would redeem himself for his life of Sins and allow him eternity in Afterlife side by side with Chaori, his beloved.

Bruised and battered from fights, weak from mana loss and blood loss evenly, the Elder emerged through the Mountain into the Searing Gorge. By now his feet, red and raw, barely felt the intense heat of the land and his body was head to toe in mud and blood. Mud and Blood. Yet he had a long way to go yet, the lands of Arathi were hidden behind the great Kingdom of Khaz Modan where Dwarves reigned. Atleast there, Orthur thought, the ground would cool his raw feet. His path through the Gorge took him through the Sea of Cinders, past the Thorium Advance as he sought out the Stonewrought Pass. Upon sighting the Crest of Ironforge's Red Hammer, his heart filled with joy. He was close, closer than he had ever been and he was convinced that the saviour of his Nation, doomed to the Forsaken, was just around the river bend. Every step on the cool marble of the tunnel brought a tear to Orthur's eye and as he emerged, a young female Mountaineer rushed towards him mounted on a strong Ram. “Ach, ye look like shite! Who're ye!? Where're ye off tae?!”, questions, questions, too many questions.

The next chapter of the journey would be easier, Orthur thought, the Ancestors had blessed him with a Ram and enough Dwarven Blood, filled with nutrients and magical substance. Powerful Iron and Minerals, plenty to replenish what Orthur had spent travelling through the blasted lands south of him. Astride a Mountaineer's Ram however, forced Orthur to forsake the Roads laid ahead of him. Thankfully, the destination was simple. North. Even a detour through the drained Loch Modan was swifter astride a Ram than walking along the road with blistered feet. It took barely a day and stripped of all the fabrications of the Mountaineer's, Orthur's new Ram looked as muddied and battered as he did allowing him to pass through Algaz Station with minimal trouble into the moist, drowned Wetlands. Times were hard and odd, the world wasn't the same as it had been and a old battered Human astride a Ram wasn't nearly as odd as some of the sights these veterans had seen. Even when he started to respond to the voices.

“Lives of most are empty, lived from day to day until the moment of death; the Light gives us a purpose - to fill our lives with the sole goal of the Sacred Duty, and through it obtain purity and salvation, and in exchange It asks only for our Faith, Orthur. Do we have your Faith? Do we?” whispered the Ancestors inside of him. “Aye, Aye...Ye kno' ye do, I love t'Light with all my heart. Suxen, Anethion. I am yers. I am yers. Guide me. Guide me.” A pious fool, they thought, they wasn't wrong.

So travelled the old Elder, keeping to the roads, on the home stretch. He could feel the presence of Arathi calling to him, the grass in the Highlands aching to soothe his feet with their familiar feel rubbing through his toes. The voices grew stronger as he reached the Ancestral Home. Intense. Blocking every other sense out as they battled with each other to be heard. Yet Orthur heard them all. Happy and content, Orthur dismounted the Ram immediately upon reaching the lush green. Raised his sacrificial dagger in the Light of Morning, witnessed by the Light, the Ancestors. He slew the Ram like a Sacrificial Lamb and solemnly walked on looking like divine death itself. At once 'Anethion' spoke up inside of his head, “Remember Old Orthur, recite after me; Faith in the Light can overcome any challenge and enable us to endure any hardship. As long as our lives are devoted to the Sacred Duty the Light shall fill us with It's Glory and protect our souls from the damning touch of Evil” and as the old man repeated the words, he couldn't help but feel that this pilgrimage was only the start, the real challenge was to come.