When the mists parted, everything changed. The elements beyond Pandaria were calling. Ancient storms no one had listened to. Spirits with stories no one had heard. Her grandmother held her face in both hands and said: "You were never meant for one village, little storm."
It was Trader Feng who led her to the Wandering Isle. "I know someone you should meet," he said. And there she found Aysa Cloudsinger and the Tushui. Pandaren who believed in patience, principle, and doing what was right even when it was hard. Mei Lin had never been patient. But principle? Protection? Standing between the helpless and the harm? That she understood. She walked the Tushui path to the Alliance. Not because she was gentle, but because she believed the strong should shield the weak. Preferably with lightning.
The Alliance soldiers didn't know what to make of her at first. A Pandaren who'd slam totems into the ground and call down crackling arcs of white lightning that leapt from enemy to enemy until nothing was left standing. And then, before the dust settled, she'd kneel beside the wounded, hands glowing soft blue, and mend every last one of them before moving on. They started calling her "Sykepleier," some old Vrykul-touched word for a healer. She had no idea what it meant. She just liked that it sounded like "sick player." It stuck almost as fast as "Mist" did. The name her closest companions use when the jokes stop and the healing starts.