Pilgrim

The pilgrim limped up the road, his cheap mail armour clanking as he went.
He had a long way to travel through the desert, heading to Orgrimmar.

As he went he kept his head down, his eye watching the road. He ignored the hails from fellow travellers, not looking at them and not speaking.

A pair of short swords were sheathed at his waist and his gauntleted hands clutched their hilts. Underneath the armour his knuckles whitened at the strength of his grip.

He had a long way to travel, a zeppelin to catch, and then even further to travel.

He had hoped that this journey would allow him to shed his troubles, but they stubbornly remained with him. As his feet thudded the dusty road his thoughts darkened...
Voices echoed through his mind, voices accusing and blaming.
"If you had led them, this would be different."
"Why did you not overthrow her?"
"Report them. Damn them all."
"You were too weak to stop this happening."
"Run coward. Run from your duty."
"She needs you. Do not go."

He shook his head, desperate to clear his mind.

Where he was going he would need to stay on his guard. But, he hoped he might be able to find some sanity, find the right course of action.

Shit's going down!

Yep!

The pilgrim stood on the border of the Highlands, beneath the ruined arch. He took a deep breath and nudged his mount forwards with his knees.
His mount creaked beneath his weight but stumbled on uncomplaining.

At the Undercity he had been accosted by Forsaken who had recognised him. Believing him to have been sent to them by Thrakha. It had taken precious and irritating moments to persuade them otherwise.
The Undercity was as gloomy as ever, but there he had found someone willing to sell him a steed to take him the rest of the way.
The steed, unfortunately, was dead. But still moving.

And a day or two later, here he was. Almost at the object of his pilgrimage.

This land moved him, it always had. Close to here was where he had first made a ploy for power, where his actions and oratory had put a Chieftain in position. So much of his life revolved around this place, and as always, there was the nagging sensation that he had been here as a child.

As his steed, which he had named Crappy, stumbled onwards he lowered his head, avoiding the gaze of the Forsaken guardsmen by the gate.

The orc coaxed Crappy through the town, stopping short of the steep flight of wooden stairs leading to the main building.
"Come on. You can do this." he urged, digging his knees into the steed's boney flanks.
Crappy edged up the stairs, slowly, stumbling as it went.
"Don't fail me now!" shouted the orc, tugging viciously on the reigns.
After what seemed like an age Crappy succesfully crested the stairs, instantly collapsing into bones and dust as it did so, sending the orc rider sprawling.

"By the elements!" the fallen orc cursed, before pushing himself awkwardly to his feet.

The orc limped into the building, his face covered by an iron helm. He surveyed the occupants; several of the Red Blade tribe and an unknown female wearing no colours.
He grinned beneath his helm, the hints Rargnasha had left him had been accurate.

"Throm'ka." he grunted at a robe-clad orc, clearly in charge of the others.
The robe-clad orc turned and eyed him suspiciously. "And you be?"

What a question. Who was he? Grim Stonepaw, Warcaller of the Shatterskull Marauders, shaman of the Horde, advisor to the Shatterskull Chieftain and her right hand?
Those titles, the titles of honour he had spent years gathering jealously as they were treasure... They seemed meaningless now.
And so, he removed his helm, revealing his scarred face to his questioner.

The conversation and the questions blurred into one. He was on his knees, his head bowed, speaking through gritted teeth.
He had asked for aid, almost begged for it. And what he had received in return was mockery. It was if those he asked were delighting in him debasing himself.
He stared at the floor, his one eye twitching at the humiliation.

The door behind him banged and heavy footsteps thudded the wooden floor. His hands fell to his swordhilts and he span around, standing upright in one fluid motion to face whoever was behind him.

Kor'kron!
A large orc, clad in the heavy plate of the Kor'kron, a two-handed sword slung over his back.

Caught.
Fight.
Escape.

These words echoed around his head, a sense of almost animalistic panic filling his mind. Unconsciously he half drew his swords, ready to lunge at the Kor'kron ahead of him.
"Relax Stonepaw!" bellowed the Kor'kron, tugging the helm from its head, revealing a face he knew well.

More words, more questions, once again all blurring together. He sat now, leaning back against the rotting wood of the structure.
The robe-clad orc's mocking had ceased, and now he was talking in spiritual terms. Honour this, heart that, do the right thing the other.
His friend, dressed as a Kor'kron looked concerned, agreeing with the robe-clad one. The third Red Blade orc spoke of challenges, of taking power and of strength.

He had been stupid. Stupid to come here seeking aid, stupid to leave the warband and stupid to tell these orcs of what had happened. Stupid to open his mouth in front of the female stranger.
She had left the room in a hurry, returning some minutes later looking agitated.
He stared at her, poker-faced, as the other orcs continued giving their advice. What if she had informed the Kor'kron of his words? He would have doomed the warband if that were so.

Who was she? Where had she gone? Why did she look agitated?

His face changed. The look of dejection and misery replaced by a look his friend clearly recognised.
His friend smiled faintly, seeing the look of determination he knew return.

Grim Stonepaw, Warcaller of the Shatterskull Marauders, shaman of the Horde, Shatterskull Chieftain's advisor, heir and right hand stood, his hands resting on his swordhilts.
He strode to the stranger, standing behind her.

He had asked who she was, where she was from, why she had left the building in a hurry and why she had returned looking flustered.
She was Kor'kron. Ex-Kor'kron. Having deserted, claiming to be unable to follow their dishonourable orders any longer.
A likely story. But, he knew now he had to return to the warband, to get them to leave Ratchet. He had to protect them from his own loose tongue.

The Red Blade had refused to aid him. They refused to lend or sell him a mount, angered at his aggression to the Kor'kron deserter.
He had just decided to steal one of their mounts when the deserter stood. "Walk with me shaman. I would speak with you in private."

Outside she told him off, as if he were an errant gruntling. Told him off for speaking so freely and without thought, told him off for his paranoia.
He looked down at the wooden decking, grinning despite the bollocking he was receiving.
"You are correct deserter. I have erred, and I regret it."
The female sighed, taking his arm and pointing down the stairs towards several tethered wargs.
"The black one with the sigil of the Kor'kron branded on its arse. That is mine. Take it."
He looked at her in surprise. "Truly?"
"Truly. Take the damned beast and go back to your warband. It is marked as a Kor'kron steed, if they spot me on it they could track me down and then I would be sorry. So take it, just release it when you arrive home."

Grim stood back, saluting the female. "I thank you for your aid."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He focused, sat very still.

Things were in flux and he was taking an opportunity to think. Drek Skysplitter, his mentor and in the deepest reaches of his heart his idol and hero had shown him how to meditate and how to access visions.
He used these techniques now. Right and wrong, good and evil, honour and dishonour. Each point of view would need airing in his mind.
He summoned a positive figure; the image of Sakarah appeared. She smiled and bowed, winking at him.
Then he concentrated, summoning a negative figure. His undead brother, Nazgor popped into existence. His brother smirked knowingly, leaning on a huge war-axe.

Sakarah spoke first. This wasn't Sakarah herself, merely the image of her representing the 'right'.
"Grim. Darling. Stay put. Work for Thrakha, work for the warband and keep your head down. Ride out the storm my love and all will be well."
The image of his brother spoke next, spitting a thick wad of black phlegm onto the floor of Grim's mindscape.
"Weakness. The Warchief is a dangerous fool and his Kor'kron are bastards. Your Chief is weak, your warband is weaker. Sieze power, slay her and lead the warband like a true orc. Make them strong."

The Sakarah image frowned, staring in disappointment at the Nazgor image. "And what of honour? You have sworn oaths, oaths to the Chieftain and oaths to me. Doing as your brother demands will break these oaths."

Nazgor spoke again, a growl of rage evident in his voice. "Oaths mean nothing when made to weaklings. Strength is the only truth. You are strong, use that to dominate those too weak to lead themselves."

Sakarah spoke again, "One of your Hammer has done wrong. Use this as a test. My way, the right way... Punish her lightly, let her know of your displeasure but..."

"ENOUGH!" roared the figure of Nazgor, interrupting her. "No tests, no more waiting. You are a shadow of what you could be! Change this, in our father's name!"

Grim blinked, dispelling the vision.
The way forward was dark, he could see no way out. Hounded by the Kor'kron, oathed to a madman's Horde and no clear path out of this danger.