[DP] The Sixth

[Bovel]

The Sixth

Draenor was home for us for centuries and this short period of time we made more happy memories here than any other world yet. Even on these slivers of a world they linger, rooted deeply in our hearts. Sometimes moments so strong that they can transcend the physical realm.

Ever since the pilgrims reached Shattrath strange things started happening. Cryptic dreams plagued the nights of many pilgrims and even some days, the spiritualists saw how something stirred ghosts from their peace. Anchorite Telah fell into a deep trance more than once, acting beyond himself.

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Synopsis

Telah first began acting strange while the pilgrims had visited the ruins of Tuurem, speaking words without a sound and later attack friend and brethren while calling them demon.

A potion made by Nexariel, meant for shamans allowed the anchorite to speak of what he experienced, visions that were exactly like the nightmares of the pilgrims.

While held captive in Garadar, the orcish far seer Mochla saw spirits that followed in the hoofsteps of Telah, five of them in total.

Through a ritual, a veiled spirits revealed a riddle that could aid Telah;
- Eyes aglow from the marsh, dust of memory to be held and a drop of blood.

The pilgrims collected dust from Auchindoun, eyes from sporebats of Zangarmarsh and blood from one of their own to create a tincture meant for Telah but imbibed by his former ward Aiya.

Able to commune with the spirits, the pilgrims revealed their wish of freedom and a peaceful death.
Doruum the Artificer, Chrak the Ignored Orc, the Vindicator & the Harbinger and Poi'al the Deathsworn.

The remains of an orc was gathered from Lower City and given a proper orcish funeral under the guidance of pyremaster Bragdana.

The artificer's masterpiece in life was one of the spirit towers, when it was cleared of bones and debris the draenei could find peace.

Inside the winding crypts of the mausoleum, they found the body of the vindicator raised and tainted by necromancy and freed him from such binds.

Kapre was led to a registry by the unnamed harbinger, nestled in a dark tomb inhabited by the Cabal. And the krokul spirit was seen again.

Cabalists have their ritual ended by the pilgrims. Their leaders sacrifices her pupil to summon a beholder from inside his body. Visions points towards Auchindoun once more.

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Related Links
              A Pilgrim's Schedule
              The Draenic Pilgrimage

[Frogspawned]

When Draenic warrior of light Aethim determined to escort an anchorite and his entourage into the depths of Auchenai, he could not have said what he expected. Crazed cultists, perhaps. Undead, probably. Maybe even demons. But solid enemies that could be defeated through strength of arms, at the very least. It didn't seem on the surface to be anything too different from countless other tasks undertaken over many thousands of years of life.

He didn't expect the undead guardians of the deepest crypts to be passive. He didn't expect the only opposition to come from possessed members of their own party, falling prey to spirits screaming out of the very walls.

Nor did he expect to learn one of the darkest secrets ever entrusted to Draenei over the course of their long history.

There can be no light without darkness. The existence of one depends upon the existence of the other. And so logically...
The Army of the Light would never secure peace.

It really was true what they say. Ignorance had been bliss.

[Zhaei]

His gaze darkened, sombre
His tongue spoke of dire things
His will faltered, wavered
His faith was a beacon.

My gaze observed, watching
My tongue remained silent
My will meddled, stolen
My faith faltered: so distant.

Its gaze bright, lurid
Its tongue silent, but so loud
Its will everywhere, nowhere
Its faith black, white; light, dark.

[aroes]

An aging paladin sits in the World's End Tavern, accompanied only by the calmness of Shattrath and a glass of hard cider. Despite a look of weariness in his eyes, the movements of a quill on parchment are fluid and precise. He reflects on the terrible burden the group had been given today and the elation of a newfound vigor in his faith. Deep within the desecrated crypts of the Draenei priests lurks something both wonderful and terrible.

The following is written using a mix of Dwarven and Human runes in what appears to be a set of ciphers.

Addressed to: The desk of Commander Eligor Dawnbringer, Wintergarde Keep, Dragonblight, Northrend
Penned: Third day of the second week, 622 King's Calendar

After Action Report regarding the restless dead of Draenor and further ventures

I am pleased to report that the various matters regarding the famous pilgrimage have been solved and many valuable lessons have been learned...the most important being that the digger you deep the more likely you are to find something that can shake you to your very core. I include this information in good faith that it shall be recorded and only revealed to those who are ready to accept it. All of the incidents that befell the pilgrimage can be attributed to the nearing death of a Naaru.

I must admit that the assertion that being of pure light are fated to fall to darkness struck me harder than any blade forged by man. I wanted to say that it was a lie but standing in its presence only to feel the worst feeling of death and loneliness I believe to be possible...I doubt no longer. Long after we are both gone though, it will once again claw out of darkness and into light again...though I can only speculate on whether this is a natural cycle or a result of influences independent of the individual Naaru.

For the time being, I shall remain here and continue to aid those that come to this city of light seeking peace. Just this evening a group just barely made it to the city gates, that's the third Arakkoa attack this week. I pray for the safety of all those who continue to fight in the frozen north cleaning up what remains if the undead scourge.

~Wolfgang Briggs
Templar, Brotherhood of Light

A flagon of ale hits the wall between the paladin's table and the next patron over. "THUNK THIRSTY!" shouts a wailing brute of an ogre. Wolfgang just rolls his eyes. "Never a single moment of peace."

[CappnRob]

              Gantrithor stood waist high in the lake by the Allerian Stronghold, where the waterfall poured down from the cliffs above. Armor removed and laying carefully placed in the grass by the shore, the mostly-naked draenei cupped the water in his hands and stared intently at it. Thoughts filled his head as he reflected back at what he had witnessed today in the Auchenai crypts. He was familiar with the spirits who had haunted Telah, though not as much as he'd had liked, but he knew of their suffering and need to be put to rest.

              He had seen the Krokul and the Harbinger in the Cabalist hideouts of the Bone Wastes. He knew of at least the Harbinger's plight, whose name was stolen from him and used for a profane ritual that bound his soul to demonic works. He had battled with the Cabalists to end that ritual, to free the soul and put it to rest. He had thought it was a success.

              Yet today, the spirit followed Telah, unseen by anyone, into the bottom levels of the crypt, and it was there the true purpose of their excursion came to light. What he beheld was something he could never expect... the Naaru D'ore, whose light faded and extinguished in the Oshu'gun's crash. Yet, there it was... radiating powerful shadow energy over a bridge which spanned over what could only be assumed to be a well of spirits. Before this mighty scene, even the headstrong soldier felt intimidated as the air around him and the others drew cold with the aura of death itself.

              Auchenai keepers soon approached the party. They seemed intent on fighting, but Gantrithor tried to reason with them. He stalled them long enough for a third figure to show itself... a sixth spirit, a shadowy apparition of a draenei who was nearly naked with a muscled build. She had no name, merely referring herself by the name of the crypt. Telah spoke with her, and she seemed to have known him, somehow... perhaps in life, they were close, but Gantrithor did not think to ask. It was here, he learned a wonderful, yet upsetting truth: the souls that had been saved were all damaged. Broken by their torment, even in freedom from their shackles they could not rest. D'ore took them into itself, merging their spirits with the shadow it created. For a moment, it would seem like a desecration... but it was the opposite. It was restoration, for in the centuries to come... D'ore will glow once more with the Light, and when it does, all of the dead who have come into it shall be healed of their pains, and delivered to the Light for true rest at long last.

              So many wayward souls were felt in there. In the short time Gantrithor has come to learn how one speaks with the "ancestors", in truth just the spirits of anyone departed, he has taken every chance he can to meditate and communicate with them, yet his efforts often fall short, the entire experience being very new to him. Yet, inside the crypt, he did not even have to speak out... it was like standing inside a crowded room, and like a crowded room, every time he spoke out, they ignored him. They led him onward, and he felt their gathering... and that was how he came across D'ore. Now he realizes why they will not speak to him, for the pull of D'ore's energies prevents all distraction.

              "What I thought was a great evil consuming souls... was in truth a natural cycle... life into death. Light into dark. Then, from darkness they will shine bright once more", Gantrithor mused to himself with a murmur. He splashes the water in his face and rubs his eyes.

              "The sixth, though... she resists D'ore's pull, forgotten her own name... she lingers alone in a house of dead. Tragic. I hope she too, finds rest some day..."

              With that said, the draenei resumed focusing on his bath.

[Caravan]

In Azeroth, they were angry. In Draenor, they were restless. She didn't know what to do to make them wait their turn. It was during a Walk that Andra came to bring him to Telah and the others, but Xanthe went instead. A Sin'dorei is hardly a worthy substitute for a Draenei Spiritwalker, but it was with an open and eager heart that she offered her assistance.


D'ore.

I should think that this big secret is not for me. Kapre, if you knew, would you still make them pass?

A Being of Dread and Awe. She would have to spend considerable time contemplating it. She wasn't certain she could.



It was a small comfort that Kapre was asleep when the little elf finally made her way back to their little corner of Shattrath. As silently as she could, she crept over the crumpled scraps of papers -- all warnings, or messages to loved ones, or faces, or angry scrawls of black -- that littered the floor and into their bed beside him.


Could I have lost you to it?

...Will I lose you to it?

[Bovel]

And so did 'The Sixth' come to an end.