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+--- Thread: Good Intentions (/showthread.php?tid=1366)
Good Intentions - Jim Raynor - 05-09-2015
Death. It was the first thing Illidan smelled as he passed into the Pale Moors. It reeked of it. A thin grey fog hung in the air, a gossamer veil over moonlit grass and swaying trees. A cold wind rose goosebumps over his violet skin and tossed his fine black hair. Somewhere in the distance he heard the howl of a wolf, long and high, penetrating the stillness.
Illidan strode away from the portal and breathed deep. The stench of the undead assaulted his nose. He could never forget that terrible omen. That decay and rot that clung to risen skeleton bones, strips of skin hanging from skulls like a pallid cloth, eyes aglow with the unholy energies of the Burning Legion. Had they brought their unending curse to this universe as well? Illidan cracked his knuckles. Perhaps he would get his chance at redemption sooner than he thought.
The mist parted as Illidan walked through it, following a gritty trail being swallowed by encroaching grass. The faint buzz of insects played on his ears, but it was the crunch of vegetation that got his attention. Illidan spun, bucklers snatched off his belt, and expanded the blades of his warglaives.
"Who goes there?" Illidan said immediately.
You're a little jumpy tonight, aren't you?
Four undead abominations stared back at him, jaws agape, eyes glowing. They were once men, judging by their tabards and what remained of their armour; some retained their scratched helmets, another stomped about in a single boot, while another wore a leather jerkin torn in two. Their skin was faded and leathery where it wasn't missing, and the yellow bulbs in their sockets shone sickly light. Their bones clacked together as they moved, a grotesque percussion heralding their movements. His cursed eyes saw the undulating energies of necromancy holding their tattered corpses together, a pale imitation of blood coursing around them.
Illidan brandished his twin blades, the moonlight racing down its slick edge. "I am not some hapless prey, fools. I will return you to where you belong - the grave!"
The skeletons shrieked and lunged at him.
The power once at the night elf's disposal was much less than before. Still, strength and speed remained and his skills had not abandoned him. One undead reared a sword into the air and flung it down, but with the ponderousness and jerky movement of a marionette. Illidan rolled to the side and took the opening to slash the creature's arm clean off. It jerked its head at him, unresponsive to the pain, eyes burning with passionless wrath. Illidan grimaced and cleaved the monster's skull from its neck.
Another two skeletons swung simultaneously. Illidan rose a warglaive and caught the blades against his own, a gush of sparks erupting at the impact. They pressed down with greater strength than should have been possible for emaciated corpses. Illidan's bicep bulged against the strain, arm shaking against the pressure, when he noticed the last remaining enemy dragging his feet towards him.
Illidan fell to one knee, unable to remove the weight of the swords. The last skeleton approached, hobbling over with blade raised. There was no time to lose. Illidan ducked to the right, guiding the extended sword arms down into the ground. The undead were powerful but not fast, and that's where Illidan had the advantage. The sword of the last skeleton came down, embedding deep into both spines of the fallen monsters. Illidan sliced the head off all three skeletons while they struggled to free themselves, and their bodies clattered into silence.
Necromancers tainted these lands. How Illidan hated them. It was one thing to command demons, creatures malformed and strengthened by the energies of the Twisting Nether, but to raise slain or dead bodies to battle boiled his blood. Not to mention that most undead lacked basic combat skills and were little more than fodder. He looked at their corpses, yellowed vapour wafting from their bones, necromantic spells unwoven. He scooped up one of the skulls, the last vestiges of skin and hair slipping free of bone. The sockets still lit with fast dwindling yellow. The connection to the necromancer responsible for these abominations was still active. Illidan knew that as he stared into the dimming flames, the necromancer saw him too.
The night elf snarled. "I will find you, necromancer, and I will end you." He tightened his hold of the skull until it cracked and broke into shards of bone. The last of the yellow light jetted into the air.
Illidan let the bone fragments fall to the ground and continued on his way. He had no idea where the necromancer was, but if he found a settlement somewhere nearby he would likely find the answers he sought.
What's the difference between you and the necromancer? Nothing. You're both evil and twisted. You both use dark magic for your own ends. You're not so special.
Soon enough, Illidan's path took him to an outpost. A wall was erected around it, with patrolmen walking its length, keeping a keen eye on the horizon. They were human. Illidan hoped there was a warmer welcome here than with other humans he had dealt with in the past.
Steeling himself, Illidan walked up to the gates.
Re: Good Intentions - Jim Raynor - 05-09-2015
The moon cast long shadows over the earth. Clouds rolled ceaselessly through the sky, blotting out the light, rendering everything dark again. Small fires burned along the length of the gate, tiny vanguards against the ungodly forces at work in the fields. Soldiers in full armour stood alert, eyes scanning the horizon always, searching for the shadowed movement of the unsleeping foe.
Illidan walked up to the gate. The gazes he received were not friendly, but then not many ever were in his lifetime. "I seek information about these undead that stalk the plains."
"And what are you supposed to be?" the guard asked, eyes narrow.
Illidan stifled his anger at the man's blatant disrespect and answered calmly. "I hunt evil creatures. I found the products of a necromancer earlier and I wish to hunt the scum down."
"You?" the guard said, cocking an eyebrow. "You're blind. How can you hunt anything?"
"I am not blind," Illidan said. "I have magic vision, and the sight of my eyes often perturbs people so I wear a blindfold."
The guard held up two fingers. "How many fingers?"
"Stop that," Illidan spat. "I can see perfectly fine."
"And how do I know you're not one of Dracula's agents trying to get into Darkshire?"
"Firstly, I doubt this Dracula is stupid enough to trot up to the front gate and pretend to offer aid," Illidan said. "Secondly, who is Dracula? Is he the necromancer?"
The guard got the attention of another who stood opposite the gate. He pointed a thumb at Illidan. "What do you reckon? Good guy?"
The guard looked him up and down. "He doesn't look undead to me. Show us your teeth."
Illidan scrunched up his face. "Teeth? Whatever for?"
"To see if you've got fangs! You know, like a vampire?"
Illidan knew of vampiric energy, but nothing in his experience was called a vampire. "And what would these fangs do?"
The guards looked at each other. "Are you new around here?"
"Yes," Illidan said, feeling the boundaries of his rage buckling. "I'm a demon hunter. I also hunt anything bound by dark magic. Now do you want my help or not?"
The guards looked at each other. "Go inside. But we'll be watching you."
Illidan groaned. "Delightful. Who is in charge around here?"
"That'd be Mortimer Boone," one of the guards said. "But he doesn't see people very often."
"I have a feeling he'll make an exception for me," Illidan said.
"Oh, and word to the wise," the second guard said. "Don't be so harsh about necromancy. Especially if you do see Boone."
The gates jerked open with a whiny creak, and Illidan entered Darkshire.
Blackest of black eeriness draped over the town. Torches flickered against simple houses but offered poor defiance to the night that claimed it so utterly. There was barely anyone around on the dusty streets, although Illidan heard footsteps in the distance, around the bend. Every now and then he noticed a curtain sway in a window, or a pair of eyes glancing from an open door that vanished as his gaze settled upon them.
The people lived here in fear. Small wonder. If he were a pathetic human and encountered shambling skeletons while farming and going about his life, he would likely seal himself inside his crude domicile as well.
That train of thought quickly moved onto another; if there was such little bravery here, so little resistance and even fewer residents, how had Darkshire held back their enemy? The guards outside looked like they barely knew which end of their swords were pointy. If there was such an insignificant and untrained force holding back an entire swarm of undead, there must have been something more to the sleepy town than met the eye.
Illidan rounded a corner and discovered what that mystery factor was.
Two skeletons trundled down the path, eyes shifting mechanically back and forth. They spotted Illidan, stopped as they ostensibly sized him up, then kept on patrol.
The night elf armed himself with his warglaives. "Foul monsters! You will not ignore me as some docile pup!"
"Hey!" a guard cried out, sprinting over to Illidan. "What do you think you're doing?"
Illidan's eyes flared. "Are you a fool? Do you not see the undead stalking your very streets?"
The guard sighed. "Damn new blood. Those are Darkshire undead. They're on our side."
"You ... practice necromancy here?"
"Not everyone." The guard nodded his head at a home in the distance. "Standish is his name. A lot of us don't care for it, but without it, Darkshire would've fallen long ago. So put your weapons away. You're making the other guards nervous."
Illidan did as he was asked, but not without a deep scowl. "How many more outposts against the undead still exist in this world?"
"In the Pale Moors?" The guard shot Illidan a dour smirk. "We're the last one, buddy. If we fall, Dracula owns this verse."
Illidan processed this new information as the guard walked off. He hated necromancy with a passion, it being a perverted manipulation of fel magic. He could perform it if he so wished, but why would he? Reanimating the dead had such limited applications; short of amassing an unthinking army, they were virtually useless. A demon or fel construct outclassed an undead creation any day. Yet necromancy had always sat wrong with the night elf. Despite the indelible stains on his soul, that was not one he ever wanted to add.
And yet, if it was Illidan's only hope for survival, would he discard it so readily? He looked around the gloomy town. He had taken the Burning Legion's power into himself in order to destroy them. Were these people any different? Without undead soldiers in their ranks, they would simply not exist. Perhaps Illidan had been too quick to judge. Survival was worth any price.
"Wait!" Illidan called out to the guard. "I battled skeletons outside of town, near the portal. Were those your soldiers?"
The guard shook his head. "We have most of our undead in Darkshire. Some patrol close by, but they don't stray far. We're focused on staying alive, not launching an invasion."
Illidan's eyes narrowed. "I see. And who would I talk to about ending the undead threat once and for all?"
"Who wants to know?"
Illidan remembered a name he heard. One he knew would carry weight. "A Prime."
Re: Good Intentions - Jim Raynor - 05-09-2015
Illidan followed the guard through the dusty town, devoid of noise except for a ghostly wind that collected in his pointed ears. The guards at the gate had made true on their promise; wherever the night elf went, every soldier's eyes scrutinised him, sharp and mistrustful. Illidan ran his tongue over his canine teeth.
The moon hid itself behind the passing clouds and the stretching shadows melded into black. A lantern held a weak flame fighting for its life against a nondescript, albeit larger, house. Two soldiers stood vigilantly outside its weathered door, palms pressed against sheathed sword pommels. Stares that could pierce steel gouged into Illidan's magic sight. No matter where he went, no matter how he conducted himself, he would always be judged on his appearance first and foremost. The night elf sneered. How would these peons act if he knew what great legions he once commanded? What respect would he receive if the blood elves and naga stormed their precious town? The respect he deserved.
With great effort and a tenseness in his chest, Illidan relaxed the sneer. If he was truly intending to change, he needed to at least make an effort to be civil.
Even if he knew these cowardly creatures were beneath him.
"He's here to see the mayor," his guide informed the guards.
"He's got business, does he?" one of them remarked, a cocky smile on his face. "And what gives him the right to see Boone, eh?"
"He's a Prime," Illidan said, voice low. "He's here to help."
The night elf still wasn't crystal clear on what constituted a Prime. He knew he commanded the power of omnilium, and it gave him a creator power he had never dreamed of possessing. Yet the guard reacted positively to his title, and again the two fools keeping watch at the mayor's door abruptly dropped their condescending expressions. Judging by the evidence, Primes were either in short supply, more powerful than the average denizen of this Omniverse, or both.
The door swung open. No light resonated from within.
"Go on," the guide said. "Boone's always interested in meeting Primes."
Illidan passed through the doorway and into the lightless house. Floorboards creaked as he pressed his weight into each step. Dust flooded his nose with each breath, along with an unmistakable scent; decay. He tread carefully, unsure of where this Boone was. The door behind him slammed shut and the sound of wind disappeared. A moment later, the wind howled through the small gap beneath the door, a wailing ghoul hovering just over his shoulder.
The night elf clenched his fists. He didn't like this at all. Where was this mayor? Was this a trap? Had the guards not trusted him from the start, and thought tricking an agent of Dracula to his doom would be simple? Illidan bristled at the thought of being outsmarted by those dimwitted villagers.
"Taking your time, are ya?" a voice said, shattering the stillness.
Illidan turned. Despite the darkness, his magic sight saw him. A feeble man, gaunt and weak, sat hunched in a chair. A shawl draped over his shoulders. His face and cheeks were shrivelled and pale, but his eyes were bright and gleaming. Illidan's vision confirmed what his nose sensed moments earlier. Necrotic energies coiled within the man's body.
"I smell death on you," Illidan said, unable to hide his contempt for necromancy.
The old man quietened for a moment. "You aren't so pure and holy yourself, are ya?" He cleared his throat, a hoarse and crackling sound. "You're a Prime. My guards aren't stupid enough to let anyone in, especially at this time of the night, unless they're a Prime. Well? What do you want?"
"I was told a man named Standish was the ... necromancer," Illidan said, sneering the word unconsciously.
Mortimer sniffed. "No one is supposed to know about my condition. Standish knows a little, but I'm the one holding back the hordes. He's the guy who takes all the praise and condemnation, and that's the way I like it. No one needs to see me like this."
"You manipulate the dead. You raise up mindless corpses in a perversion of the natural order," Illidan said, unable to contain his hatred for the dark art.
Boone's eyes rounded. A light of youth hidden beneath his decrepit features shone through. "Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I wanted to force my citizens out of their eternal slumber to shamble about in decaying prisons? Do you?!" When Illidan said nothing, his voice lowered. "I've done what I had to do to keep Darkshire safe. There was no damn way I was going to let Dracula take my town, not while I had a say in the matter. Now my patience is wearing thin, boy. Tell me what you want without another blasted word about my condition or I swear I'll be raising you up next to fight for me. I don't need any arrogant outsiders, especially ones as hypocritical as you, judging me."
Illidan hissed out a breath. He was turning over a new leaf. He was returning to the night elf he was before the Burning Legion claimed him. He knew the sacrifice the mayor had made in order to save his loved ones. Illidan knew about sacrifice. He had to do this right.
The night elf wanted to apologise, but the words welded his teeth shut. "I've come to ... lend my aid. I am a demon hunter."
"Got our fair share of adventurers looking to make a name for themselves," Mortimer said, shuffling about in his seat. "I don't have time for the likes of you."
"I am not some wet-behind-the-ears simpleton looking for glory," Illidan said. "I wield the dark energies of the Burning Legion. That probably doesn't mean much to you, but I took my enemy's power and used it against them." Illidan ran fingertips along the rune tattoos over his bare chest. "We have something in common."
"Uh huh. And what do you want from me?" Boone said. "To stand out on the walls? To go hunt some undead? You could've talked to bloody Dobson about that."
"No," Illidan said, stepping forward. He felt a purpose well within his chest. "I'm not interested in playing scout or defending the gates for a night. I'm here to find the root of the corruption and tear it out."
Boone's eyes widened. "End Dracula?" He laughed, a wheezy and choking sound that sent him into a coughing fit. Once he recomposed himself, he said, "no offense son, but Dracula isn't someone you just 'end'. If he were, you and I wouldn't be having this conversation."
"Believe what you want," Illidan said. "I'm not interested in your appraisal of my skills. I simply want information on Dracula. Where he is, who follows him, what his weaknesses are, anything you know about him. I will find him, rip out his throat, and free Darkshire of his tyranny."
Boone shook his head, thinning hair swaying back and forth. "You're brave, but all you'll become is another loyal soldier to his army. I don't need that."
Illidan's pride would not withstand the old man's words. His anger rose, his fiery eyes flaring, green light blazing through his black blindfold. "Enough! I am the great Illidan Stormrage! I destroyed the advance of the Burning Legion! I defeated Arthas, the greatest scourge known to Azeroth! I summoned the naga from the watery depths, built an army and assaulted the Black Temple! And you would tell me that I don't measure up?"
You never defeated Arthas, you lunatic. You almost died in Northrend when he ascended the Frozen Throne and became the Lich King. Dracula will defeat you just as he did.
Mortimer stayed silent for a long time. "I can sense the taint on your soul, you know. You aren't a necromancer, and you aren't undead, but I can feel something tied into it inside you. But I can also sense your courage and honesty. You truly mean what you say. The only problem is that you think you can accomplish what you say." Illidan went to rebut, but Boone rose a skeletal hand. "But even if you don't achieve your lofty ambition of slaying Dracula, I have a feeling you will still accomplish much to help us."
It wasn't the full respect Illidan demanded, but it was enough. "So, will you help me?"
Boone waved a hand. "Go. Find Dobson. I'll send a guard to him to let him know I've approved. He'll get you what you need."
Illidan nodded and walked towards the door. His hand rested on the doorknob and he stopped cold.
"Boone," he said. "Thank you."
He turned the handle and walked back into the dark of night.
Re: Good Intentions - Jim Raynor - 05-17-2015
Thank you? Thank you?! What was he doing? What kind of childish fool was he becoming? Manners were not essential to changing his path. Doing good deeds was hard enough. Did he have to make himself physically sick by spurting out useless pleasantries as well?
Illidan made his way through the dreary town, untrusting eyes noting his every step. Was this how it was going to be? Even though he was on their side, fighting for their cause, he would still only be an outsider? Would he ever be able to prove himself, or would his appearance always precede the night elf beneath?
A soldier approached him. His eyes hovered on him, but Illidan sensed no hostility in them. "You must be Illidan."
"Indeed," the night elf replied.
"Dobson Skender," the soldier said. His wide round eyes, thin face, and sparse stubble all spoke to the man's young age. "I'm the commander here."
Illidan arched an eyebrow but stilled his tongue. "I see."
"News travels fast," Dobson said, looking towards the town gates. "I got the message that you saw Boone."
Illidan nodded. "I need information about this Dracula. His fortifications, armies, commanders-"
Dobson put his hands up. "Whoa, let me stop you right there. We don't know all that much about Dracula."
Illidan frowned. "You don't? Then how do you intend to stop him?" What a ludicrous situation this town was in.
"We don't have the resources to stop Dracula," Skender said. "We're just doing our best to survive."
"Well it seems I arrived with impeccable timing," the night elf said. "I intend to kill Dracula and end this curse on this lands once and for all."
Dobson raised his eyebrows. "Wow, that's ... quite a lofty goal."
"I'm not interested in your estimations of my ambitions," Illidan said dryly. "Do you have any information at all? Anything that will help me?"
"Well," Dobson said, finger and thumb on his chin, "there was another village a few miles down the road. Some of the undead seemed to have taken up residence there. I have a feeling they're launching attacks from that place. If you go there, you might find some answers."
"Which way?"
Dobson pointed. "But you should wait until morning. There will still be undead on the road, but there will be less of them."
Illidan shook his head, his thin hair waving. "I don't care."
The night elf walked off, through the gates and into the chilled, foggy wastes.
How long would this night last? It seemed like days had passed since he arrived in the haunted plains, but then his perception of time was warped and distorted by his ten thousand year imprisonment. In the dark, alone in a cell, there was no way to count time as it ticked over, nor much need to.
You weren't alone, Illidan. You had me.
He looked to the sky. The moon shyly flashed its face before a cloud ran over to conceal it again. It had lowered since he last checked, closer to the horizon, but if morning was approaching, it made no subtle sign. The path Illidan followed was likely built by trampling feet over a long period of time, but the grass reached out and over it, attempting to bury it like so many dead bodies that had fallen in this forsaken land. The path led into a small forest, the trees forming an honour guard on either side, their branches entwined to form a roof over his head.
It occurred to Illidan that he hadn't encountered a single undead since leaving Darkshire. He sent his magic gaze over the trunks of the trees. Thin ribbons of yellow light twirled from one, but on closer inspection, he saw nothing. Illidan fingered the bucklers on his belt as he continued down the path.
Two dots of red caught his attention. Illidan snapped his neck in its direction, and there they were, smouldering.
There were undead here, but they weren't mindless. They were watching him.
Illidan snatched his bucklers and the warglaives' blades sprung out. "All right! Enough of this chicanery! Show yourselves!"
At his voice, the lights blinked out.
"Come out!" Illidan yelled. "I've no patience for this foolish stalking! Face me!"
Rustling came from behind. Illidan spun, blades flashing. A man stumbled out of them, a dark cowl over his head.
"Shhh! Are you trying to get us all killed?" he whispered.
"What is the meaning of-"
"Shhhh!" the mystery man shushed again. "Are you investigating the village up ahead?"
"Yes," Illidan said. Normally he wouldn't give away such information, but this man's head would detach quite easily if he didn't end up trusting him.
He motioned for Illidan to follow. "Then come with me."
Crouching, they passed through the trees, winding their way through, away from the path. Soon the moonlight bounced off a distant spear, and Illidan noticed a camouflaged tent resting against a palisade.
"That's our camp," the man said in hushed tones. "The village is on the other side of that wall."
"What are you doing here?" Illidan asked.
"Staking the place out. We've noticed larger and larger squads of undead are leaving from this place. We were sent here by Dobson to find out what's going on." They skulked closer to the camp. Three other men sat on thick logs, staring at the failing embers of a dead fire. "All we've learned so far is that the place is crawling with undead, but they're not just walking around aimlessly. It's like they're all working for a purpose. They're being directed."
Such a sentiment put Illidan in mind of the Lich King. Without him, the Scourge were animalistic and purposeless. With him, they were a destructive force unlike any Azeroth had ever seen. Even the Burning Legion never conquered like Arthas had when his soul was first claimed by Frostmourne. At least he was dead now, slain by Illidan's own hand.
You didn't kill him. I keep telling you. You are more insane than I thought.
They reached the camp. The cowled man sat upon a log and sighed. "I don't know what we're going to do about them."
One of the guards, a thick blonde beard over his face, thrust a thumb at Illidan. "Who's this, Falstan?"
"Illidan," the night elf offered. "Here to sort out whatever mess is in this town."
Beardy looked him up and down, his heavy brow covering most of his eyes. "Oh yeah? All by yourself?"
"Come on now Barland," Falstan said. "Any help is welcome here, isn't it?"
Barland chewed a few times, locked eyes with Illidan, and spat a brown liquid into the grass. "If you say so, captain."
"Don't mind him," Falstan said. "He's got trust issues."
Illidan humphed. "Don't we all."
"This here's Eyra," Falstan said, lifting a hand towards a lanky brunette, clanging a whetstone against a dagger. "She's our archer and scout." The last of the group ripped a hunk out of a chicken leg. "And this is Joni. No one handles a warhammer better than him."
It was all white noise to Illidan. "Why did you bring me here? What if the undead saw us? They could be leading a force to take us right now."
"Oh, that," Falstan said. "I'm sure they know we're here by now."
Illidan's eyes flared. "What? Then what are you doing here?"
Falstan pointed back to the corridor of trees that joined to the village's gate. "When we first came here, we ran into an undead patrol. They studied us, sizing us up, I don't know, and then just ran. We haven't found any more of them harassing us since."
"Then why did you tell me to be quiet back in the trees?" Illidan said.
"Because it's not just these village undead out that far," Falstan said. "A normal one'll just charge at anything it hears. If you set them off, well, it's never a fun time."
Illidan didn't like their explanations at all. If the undead were spying on them, why didn't they do something? What could they learn from these four? Whatever was happening in the town, there had to be a sentient mind at the root of it all.
A necromancer, no doubt.
Illidan sized up the soldiers. Apart from their apparent listlessness, they seemed a suitable team to assist him. If the town was indeed full to the brim of those monstrosities, it would behove him to have allies. But with a squad of four, how was Illidan going to take the town?
"What do you know so far?" the night elf asked.
"Not much," Falstan said. "We know they're preparing something, no doubt for Darkshire, but we can't find out what. They have guards at the north and south gates to the town, and the wall is too high for us to scale."
"Then why stay here?"
Falstan sighed. "Because we can't go back to Darkshire empty handed. Dobson knows there's something of importance happening here, and so do we. But what's the point of going back with no new information? The army is stretched as it is. We can't mount a siege of the town. No, we have to find out something before we go back."
Illidan's eyes scaled the wall. He was right. It was too high to climb and they had no ladders or rope. If only he had the Skull of Gul'dan, his wings would be more than powerful enough to propel them onto the wall.
Wait! He was no ordinary mortal! He was Illidan, the greatest night elf to ever live! What was a wall to him?
Illidan crouched down and an amazing power welled in his legs. Perhaps he wasn't as weak as he first thought.
Pushing up, Illidan launched into the air, surprising even himself, and landed atop the wall.
"A Prime?" Barland said, jaw slack.
"Well?" Falstan said, apparently unfazed by the night elf's leaping height. "What do you see?"
Re: Good Intentions - Jim Raynor - 05-29-2015
"The dead."
The reanimated abominations swarmed the village, staggering from one place to the next. The huts had decayed; chunks of brick strewn over the ground, rooves dotted with jagged holes. Whether from a fierce last stand or the simple negligence of unwieldy undead, Illidan couldn't say. Any desperate battle lost by the humans would have left no decomposing bodies; indeed, they would have only swelled the enemy's ranks.
The only untouched building in the entire village was the church. Towards the edge of the settlement, against the palisades, the only signs of damage were surely weather and age related; small fissures in the brick, faded and eroded edges, cracked roof tiles.
The undead shambled about at the outer edges of the village but seemed to gradually organise into loose lines, as if they queued for something. Illidan's magic gaze soared over them and to the centre of the village. A number of living corpses dug an incessant hole in the dirt, some using shovels in jerky and rigid manners, others giving up all pretence of using tools and simply clawing away with leathery fingers. As the hole expanded, soil flung through the air, the zombies climbed in, disappearing from sight. Obviously the hole was much deeper than it appeared from Illidan's vantage point.
"Really?" Barland said dryly. "Who would've thought you'd see dead people in there, of all places?"
Illidan shot him a dour look. The lack of respect boiled his blood. "They're digging a hole."
"Digging?" Eyra said, never taking her eyes from the sparks that flew from her sharpening knife. "What could they be digging for?" She stopped scraping the steel over the whetstone and looked up. "Could they be digging up more people? You know, adding to their ranks?"
Falstan shook his head, eyes fixated on the crackling flames. "There's no graveyard within the walls. There'd be no one to find, if that's what they're looking for."
"Tunnels?" Joni ventured. "Maybe they're makin' some underground way to surprise Darkshire."
"You ever hear of undead building anything?" Barland said, spitting.
"Don't be so foolish," Illidan remarked. Something about that bearded simpleton tweaked his nerve. "If your foe exhibits strange behaviour, you damn well make sure you find out what it is."
Falstan looked up from the fire. "So? What does the strange behaviour look like?"
Illidan focused. It was distant and hard to sense, but the strands of necrotic energy were balled tightly together beneath the surface. And yet, the magic waned, pulsing strongly and then fading into mist before regathering its strength.
He cast his gaze away from the hole. Light pockets of undead sorcery littered the conquered town, but a brilliant yellow light shone like a beacon from the church.
"I don't know yet." Illidan hopped down from the wall. Despite the distance, his legs absorbed the shock with relative ease. "But I know how we will find out."
The night elf led the four Darkshire soldiers around the curved town wall. They passed by a watchtower, skeletal scouts surveying the horizon with their cursed eyes, but never looking down. By Falstan's accounts, even if they spotted them, it would likely result in little action.
Illidan hurled himself skyward again, the jump peaking just over the wall's edge, and located the church. Smashing through the wall would provide the quickest and safest route to the building festooned in dark magic. He landed upon the ground again, and a thought crept into his mind.
The five of them together wouldn't prove much stronger than just Illidan himself; after all, he was a great practitioner of magic, both of the arcane and fel varieties. He was also a Prime, and that afforded him greater strength than the majority of the Omniverse's residents, including these four soldiers. Was there any merit in including them on this raid? If the undead army charged for the church, Illidan was reasonably sure he could escape before he was captured, but these four were a different story.
Illidan spun around. All four had their weapons drawn; Falstad, a greatsword; Barland, two sharp bladed axes; Eyra, a pair of long stiletto knives; Joni, a massive warhammer. A formidable band indeed, but against a horde of lumbering undead, Illidan had doubts.
"Let me handle this," the night elf said. "There's little hope for you against the entirety of the undead host in there."
Barland spat. "We didn't come all this way to miss out on the action."
Falstad nodded. "We need to know what's going on in there. If you're providing the means, then we'll go in and we'll get to the bottom of this."
Illidan looked them over again. "So be it." What did he care if they lived or died?
The ex-lord of Outland wrapped on the wooden wall with his knuckles. Thick and sturdy. It would take a blisteringly strong hit to break through to the other side. Illidan could easily bound over it, but his insistent minions needed a fast way in and out of the village in case things got hairy.
"Hand me that warhammer," Illidan said.
Joni looked at it for a moment, face blank, and offered it to the night elf. Illidan's muscles tensed as the warhammer shifted its weight onto his arms. It should be enough.
The sturdy head of the weapon thudded into the ground. Illidan looked to the wall. "This is going to be loud."
Falstan's brow furrowed. "Wait, what are you -"
Illidan swung the warhammer into the palisade with his full force behind it. The wall cracked at the impact point but did not break.
"One more," Illidan said.
"You'll get the attention of the undead, you moron!" Barland said.
"If they're as docile as you've all been saying, they won't come," Illidan said. The warhammer slammed into the wall again, shattering a man sized hole into it. Splinters flew everywhere. He dropped the weapon onto the soil for Joni to reclaim. "Now follow me."
Illidan hopped through the hole and bounded a few steps. Turning around, he saw Falstan duck in with Eyra close behind. He would let them filter in behind him, but they were of little consequence. Illidan was here to prove himself. He would be the one to discover the situation here and resolve it. These puny humans could play warrior if they wanted to, as long as they didn't get in his way.
The destruction of the village was worse up close. The smell of rotting flesh and burning rubble stung his nose. Some bodies lay discarded on the ground, apparently too decayed or broken to be resurrected for their dark plot. Illidan saw one skeleton, skin drooping from his body like curtains, shuffle around a corner, but otherwise there were no other undead. Strange.
His eyes settled on the church, and the necrotic power almost blinded him with its potency, a brilliant yellow flare in his magic sight.
The others had caught up to Illidan. "Wait outside and guard. Call out to me if the undead armies amass on our position."
"You're telling us to wait?!" Barland said, spittle flying from his lips. "You're not the one who calls the shots around here!"
"Barland, settle," Falstan said. His expression didn't agree with his words. "Let him check first. He's a Prime. He's much better suited to whatever he senses in there."
Illidan didn't hear the rest of the conversation. He strode up the stairs and kicked open the double doors, detaching one that spun crazily over the floor.
Inside, candles lined the length of the church, shadows flickering in tune with the flames. The pews were either missing or destroyed, some bent in the middle, others just a pile of splinters. At the far end, on the dais, stood a cloaked figure, hunched over the pulpit. A book opened before him, he chanted in a low voice. Illidan didn't recognise the language. Beside him, a terrified woman clutched her legs inside a metal cage, hair unkempt, dirt staining her cheeks.
The cloaked figure looked up from his tome as the door clattered to the ground, but it was Illidan who spoke first.
"You insufferable coward."
Re: Good Intentions - Jim Raynor - 05-30-2015
The necromancer peered at him with yellowed, sunken eyes. A thin veil of white hair hung over his sight, almost reaching the top of his bulbous nose. He gripped the pulpit with long, gnarled fingers, nails chipped and ridged. He stared at Illidan with the utmost contempt, his dried lips parted, his breath wheezing out through a gap in his teeth.
Illidan sensed great necrotic energies swirling around the dark practitioner. Pale yellow light suffused his frail, lanky body. He may not be a physical threat, but his command over the undead magicks was indisputable.
"You," he said, sneering. "You dare trespass here?"
You? He recognised Illidan? The night elf realised it all at once. "You're the one that sicced those corpses on me when I first got here, aren't you?"
The corner of the necromancer's lips tweaked for a second before collapsing. "Yes. Thought you were some pretender. Still not convinced I was wrong."
"Indeed?" Illidan said, scrunching his nose. "And my presence here doesn't make the opinion easier to form?"
The sickly man shook his head. "You may be a threat to me, to reach me here ... or you may be a foolhardy jester, here to entertain me for a time before I raise you up in service of my lord."
Apparently necromancy rots the brain. Another reason to abstain from the horrid practice. "You will find me the former, you miserable piece of filth."
The necromancer shoved the pulpit over, his book fluttering as it fell. His pallid hands shone with a sickly yellow glow. "Is that so? Perhaps you'd like to demonstrate your ability ... before I show you mine."
The woman in the cage sobbed, the chain around her ankle clanking.
"Silence!" the dark mage rasped. "I will ensure your demise will be more agony than you can endure if you don't shut up!"
In a flash Illidan's hands found his bucklers and he sprinted down the aisle. The necromancer turned back just in time to see the night elf airborne, blades extended from his bucklers, two green lights penetrating his blindfold.
Despite his ostensible frailty, the necromancer reacted with incredible speed. He threw his hands out and a yellow shockwave battered Illidan backwards, shattering the glass windows still intact. The lord of Outland flipped in mid air and landed gracefully on his feet.
"I will not waste my time on the likes of you! Not when we're so close!" the necromancer yelled. He thrust his hands out and a bolt of pulsing yellow energy flew forward.
Illidan parried the magic attack with one warglaive, redirecting it into the wall behind him where it detonated, blowing the bricks away. In a fluid motion, he spun from the parry, lined up his target, and hurled the warglaive with all his strength. It carved a straight and true line towards the necromancer. The evil mage's eyes widened but ducked in time for the spinning weapon to embed deeply in the back wall with a loud twang.
He stood again, eyes wild, teeth bared. "What do you hope to gain here, you simpleton? Killing me won't stop Lord Dracula's plan! It is already set in motion! If I'm gone, he'll simply summon another to complete my task! He may even bring me back from the dead! You can't stop the undying army by killing them!"
What a fool. Arthas was undead and he never returned after Illidan killed him. He must have been babbling because he saw the grim spectre of death on the horizon. Such were the worthless and feeble; ever frightened of their demise, unable to prevent it.
"Stop your churlish boasting. What are you doing here?" Illidan cried out, leaping onto the dais.
The necromancer fell onto his back, crawling away from his adversary. "You will rue your decision to come here!" He then flipped over, head buried in his hands as if he could will Illidan away by hiding his eyes from him.
Illidan scoffed. Such cowardice from a supposedly powerful mage. "I have little patience for your kind. Speak now or I will end you, and I will find out the information from some other pathetic weakling."
The earth shook beneath his feet, almost bringing him to one knee. Illidan shot a glance over his shoulder. "Report!"
Joni was closest to the chapel door. He was rising to his feet, using his warhammer as an aid. "No idea. Earthquake?"
"Any undead?"
"None!"
More quakes followed the first, jostling the candles, rattling the cage. The woman squeaked at each vibration as the church grew darker, flames petering out as their wax towers teetered over. The necromancer kept his head to the ground, no longer acknowledging Illidan's existence.
"Enough games!" the night elf roared. He grabbed the necromancer's hood and hoisted him to his feet, where he stood weakly. His cowl removed, Illidan saw the pale, filmy skin beneath, almost all of his tiny veins embossed through it, a sparse crown of hair to cover it. He spun the pathetic excuse for a man around to meet his eyes, and they were rolled back in his head.
Dead? That didn't seem likely. "I am through with this childish silence!" Illidan poised his warglaive for the coup de gras. "You will die, and I will find out what I need from another!"
"Illidan!"
The night elf craned his neck backwards. Falstan stood at the door, eyes wide. "We've got a whole mess of trouble coming our way! Run!"
Before Illidan could inquire further, Falstan ducked out of the doorway and out of sight.
Another earthquake interrupted, but Illidan was done with stalling. It was time to do what he did best.
An ear splitting boom knocked Illidan to the ground. Bricks and tiles crashed atop him. He bounded to his feet as soon as he was able, kicking away debris. He looked up. The entirety of the chapel roof had been ripped open.
And a godless behemoth stared down at him, yellow eyes blazing. Illidan had seen nothing like it in his life. It was a giant built solely of corpses and skeletons. Its thick, corded muscles throbbed with the undead still possessing skin, while its fingers and knuckles were constructed out of crudely entwined bones. Its head was perhaps the most ghoulish thing about it; instead of one large skull, it was a ghastly collaboration of hundreds of skulls, smashed and pieced together like a terrifying jigsaw puzzle.
"You are wrong!" it blasted in a deep, throaty voice. "Death comes for you!"
The building sized fist hurdled towards Illidan. He dove forward as the punch plowed into the church floor. Snatching the warglaive still embedded in the wall, Illidan bounded out of the church as the follow-up punch obliterated the second portion of the building.
The night elf landed atop the spire of the chapel, the last section still able to stand. A quick survey of the town revealed two important facts; the first being that there was now an even bigger sinkhole in the centre of the village, and that his crew were outside the town walls, watching the undead leviathan as it sized up its foe.
"Building a giant undead brute underground all this time?" Illidan remarked. "Those pesky Darkshire humans giving you too much hassle? Seems like a lot of effort for a such a small resistance."
Illidan was already airborne as the spire crumbled into pieces, the horrid mega-undead's fist extended into it. How was he going to handle this? For some reason, he couldn't call upon his spells since he came to this Omniverse plane of existence. He had tried a handful of times while in the Nexus, but nothing had come. No fire, no lightning, no ice. He could still feel the connections to his magical source, but he just couldn't pull the power down the lines. His Twin Blades of Azzinoth would not make a whole lot of difference in this fight; he needed something more.
If only he still had the Skull of Gul'dan. The intense demonic strength that relic preserved ...
I thought you were turning over a new leaf. Already lusting after the Burning Legion's collar?
No. He was going to do this right. Somehow ...
"This isn't just a vehicle for Darkshire's enslavement!" the necromancer boomed from within the horror. "Once Lord Dracula has dominion of this wretched verse, I will be the vanguard of the entire Omniverse's doom! Nothing will stop me!"
Dammit. What the hell could he do against such an almighty opponent?
Illidan sprinted down the alleyway. The lumbering mega-undead chased after him, massive legs powering after him, the individual corpses writhing with every step. Buildings broke against its body like waves on the shore. As fast as Illidan was, his foe's strides were unfortunately long. He couldn't outrun it forever, nor could he wear it out before he suffered from fatigue himself.
No! He had to win this! There must be some way!
Punches and heel slams came quick and fast, cratering the earth as Illidan dodged deftly away. The mega-undead moved with a speed completely removed from its size, and possessed raw strength unmatched by his opponent. Illidan could only run, the village slowly being pounded into a memory as he hoped his mind would invent some brilliant scheme to prevail.
But with every fist that scarred the ground, with every buffet of wind from a close call, Illidan's patience strained. His muscles joined in as well, complaining about the extra effort they put in just to keep him alive, all the while his mind finding dead-end solutions. Illidan's fury compounded moment over moment, until he couldn't think straight anymore.
He turned mid stride, slid backwards on his heels, and hurled himself into the air. His thoughts were no longer his own. "You dare hound the Lord of Outland around like some common dog?! I am Illidan, your superior! You will not mock me a moment longer!"
The raging haze fled as Illidan realised something quite unusual; he floated in the air. Returning to himself, he quickly discerned the reason. His wings had sprouted! His wide, leathery wings!
But ... he didn't have the Skull of Gul'dan any more! His fingers dabbed at his forehead. No curled horns. His eyes dropped to his feet. They were not cloved. Yet his wings beat, keeping him aloft. Somehow in his fury, he managed to summon them. Now if he could only pinpoint how he -
A bone battering ram crashed into Illidan, sending him soaring over the village.
The night elf awoke moments later on the ground, trampled buildings surrounding him. He couldn't remember the flight, nor hitting the ground, but the memory of the mega-undead's fist finding him distracted in the sky came racing back. Everything ached. In fact, Illidan supposed the burning fire in his chest meant that a few ribs were broken. He carefully rose to his feet, noting that his wings remained.
The gargantuan plodded closer, each footfall rumbling the earth. "It appears the Lord of Outland is about to be dethroned."
His inner tormentor laughed. Just like when Maiev Shadowsong finally claimed her quarry. Another failure to add to the unending list.
Illidan didn't care about his pain any longer. He didn't care about his self imposed restrictions on powers. Fury welded into his chest and channeled into his mind. There was one way he knew he could obliterate his opponent, and he didn't care what it cost.
He darted into the sky as if he had never been without his wings at all and landed upon the mega-undead's shoulder. As the monstrous hand lifted to swat the night elf bug, Illidan thrust his hand into the arm, and a green light pulsed down the length of the ghastly appendage. A second later, the undead comprising the arm disconnected entirely from each other, spilling onto the ground like the limb had become liquid. The bony fingers that reached for Illidan crumbled and fell. Even the disjointed undead did not rise. Illidan's fel magic had made sure of that.
"No!" the necromancer roared. "No! You can't do this!"
Illidan snarled. "I am Illidan, master of the Burning Legion! You will bow down to me, or you shall be vanquished!"
He swooped to the other shoulder, repeating the same step. The second arm exploded with bodies and fell apart.
Enough games. Illidan dug both hands into the neck. The green light thrummed and the mega-undead went rigid. The winged night elf pushed off the shoulder as the towering giant fell. As it impacted with the ground, it shattered into the thousands of undead that once were bound tightly together, spilling into the streets unmoving. Illidan flapped above, his magic sight searching for the blip of power he knew still remained.
He spotted it in a single skull and dived on it, clasping it in his hands.
"No!" the skull screamed."You've ruined everything! All the months it took to plan, the bodies we collected ... you just ..."
"Unravelled it," Illidan interrupted. "Undead magic is the product of the Burning Legion. Wherever it is you source it in this plane of existence, it seems there are many similarities. The right pulse at the right place nullifies it."
"You are a fool!" the skull yelled back. "Don't you see the power Lord Dracula possesses? You would hold onto your vaunted Burning Legion, whatever that is, when you have witnessed but a portion of his strength? You could be conquering the whole Omniverse in his name!"
Illidan was ready to argue back, but there was something tragically intriguing about what he said. Dracula had the power and resources to pool this juggernaut together almost unopposed. If Illidan had a sip of such strength, imagine the heights he could reach! The people he could save! Why, he could turn Dracula's own power against him! The fools of Darkshire didn't even have a plan on how to end the threat once and for all; they would be content fighting off raiding parties for the rest of their miserable lives. They couldn't comprehend such a strategy, nor would they have the fortitude or bravery to undertake such a dangerous operation.
Indeed, wasn't that how Illidan had operated since the first war? Given the immense energy of Sargeras, he used it to combat the very armies that were fueled by that same power. How destructive it had been, how unstoppable! No druid would ever understand, especially his muddled brother.
Illidan, on the other hand ...
"Speak plainly, necromancer. If you tell me how I can access this Dracula's power, I will spare you."
"Yes!" the skull said excitedly, yellow flaring in its eye sockets. "All you have to do is present yourself to the castle bearing two tokens of your sincerity; a woman or child, alive, and the head of a Darkshire soldier."
Simple. A woman remained caged within the ruins of the chapel, assuming she hadn't died when it collapsed. And there were four Darkshire soldiers nervously awaiting him outside the walls ...
"You've been most helpful."
Illidan squeezed the skull as it screamed, shattering it into a handful of bone. The necromancer's yellowed spirit rose out of it and thinned into nothingness.
Now was the time for Illidan to shine.
Re: Good Intentions - Jim Raynor - 05-31-2015
Illidan folded his wings back as he stepped around the lifeless bodies splayed all around him. It was an alien feeling, his leathery appendages. He excelled at using them, having possessed them for a number of years before his final battle in Outland, but to use them in this pre-demon state was strange. Welcome, of course. Any edge to his battle style was welcomed.
Illidan almost tripped over a corpse as he wended his way through the abrupt mass graveyard. He hid it well from the talking skull, but the strength it took to unspool the dark magic stitching the gargantuan together had not been an infinitesimal amount. The exertion he spent just trying to stay alive before his strategy had only compounded the matter. Still, he had a mission to accomplish.
Dracula had to die, and what better way than to take his dagger and thrust it into his back?
You'll have to give that woman to him. And kill one of your little friends, too. Your perception of 'good' is getting murkier by the minute. Why don't you just capture Darkshire yourself and be done with it? We both know that's what you really want to do.
Was that true? Was he moving further and further from the new path he had chosen for himself? Handing over the living in order to gain more power for himself? Malfurion would never do that. Tyrande would never do that.
Bah! What did they know? They never forgave him. They were relics of a past era, stuck in their antiquated ways. Life sometimes had to be sacrificed in order to protect it. That was what war was all about, after all. Soldiers died at the behest of their commanders, never choosing the moment of their demise, only happy to give all they had to protect their world.
In this instance, Illidan would be the one making battlefield promotions. Once he had Dracula's power, his reign of tyranny would come to an abrupt end. What were two lives in service of hundreds, maybe thousands? Nothing. They were nothing.
If you say so, Betrayer.
The night elf strolled up to the crumbled ruins of the church. Most of the structure had fallen onto the first half of the aisle, leaving the dais comparatively unscathed. Broken brick and glass surrounded the top half of a dirtied cage. Illidan sensed the woman within. She was alive, although weak, and she had air supply. She would keep.
He turned to the hole in the outer wall as the Darkshire scouts wandered through, eyes wide.
"I don't know where to begin," Falstan said. "That Dracula could twist undead bodies together like that is beyond any nightmare I could imagine."
"How can we fight something like that?" Joni said. "What if he's building more of them?"
"Then we've got Illidan here to help us," Eyra said, folding her arms. "Oh, you have wings now."
"Not exactly something I can do easily," Illidan replied. "Nullifying necromancy on that scale is ... draining. Besides, there will never be another one of those monstrosities ever again if I can help it."
"How can you guarantee that?" Barland said sarcastically. "You didn't even know that this one was here. You're full of hot air."
And to think, Illidan thought, I was having trouble deciding who would be the sacrifice.
"Just ... how did you do that?" Falstan asked. "Not something most Primes would know how to do."
Illidan humphed. "My history isn't up for discussion."
Barland motioned to Illidan. "What about those bat wings on your back? Off limits too?"
Illidan barely kept a lid on his anger. What an intrusive boor. "Barland. Get over here and help dig out this woman. The rest of you, ensure the town is secure. We may have missed something."
"I don't take orders from you!" Barland snapped. "Only Falstan can-"
"Just do what he says," Falstan said, exasperated. "Not everything has to be an argument."
Barland grumbled something under his breath, muffled by his thick beard. He followed Illidan over the pile of rubble and to the silver top of the cage. A gap about two centimetres high let the imprisoned woman enough air to breathe, but she slumped against the bars, small rocks littering the inside of the cage. Illidan could sense the woman lived, but Barland was too dense to know.
"We've got to get her out right now!" Barland said.
Illidan eyed him with disdain, but the soldier couldn't tell. One advantage of having no eyeballs meant only his facial expression could give him away. "You get started. I need a moment to rest."
In truth, he did. He was still recovering from his ordeal, and he needed to recuperate as fast as possible for what he was about to do.
He looked out over the demolished village. The other three scouts waded out into the sea of corpses, kicking a body here or there, making sure one wouldn't jump out at them. They kept their eyes away from Illidan, ostensibly trusting him. It made sense, though. The night elf decimated an impossibly massive foe with, at least in their eyes, little effort. Without Illidan, everyone would've been in dire peril.
Ironic.
"You gonna help yet or what?"
Illidan turned back to Barland. He'd done quite well with the short time he had to dig. Three quarters of the cage was visible now. A strong enough pull from its top would likely dislodge the rest of the debris surrounding it.
Now it was time to take the path that would save Darkshire.
With Barland still crouched in the brittle brick and soot, Illidan took one of the bucklers from his belt and extended the blades. The bearded buffoon didn't react. Good.
Illidan swept the warglaive across Barland's neck. He stopped moving, still crouched, and his head slipped forward until it tumbled from his shoulders.
It was done. The night elf grabbed Barland's decapitated head by his scraggly beard, fingers dripping with blood, and clawed his fingers into the metal, forging a crude handle contoured around his hand.
"Illidan ... no ..."
The three scouts returned, weapons drawn. Illidan recognised the hurt look in their eyes.
Betrayal.
"How could you?" Joni said.
"Tell me where Dracula's castle is, and I will spare the rest of you," Illidan said.
"You do work for Dracula after all," Eyra said. "Barland was ..." Her voice broke, but she recomposed herself. "Barland was right not to trust you."
Illidan unfurled his wings. "This needn't end with all of you dead. I have what I need. Point me in the direction and I will leave."
Joni's eyes burned with rage. "Help you?! Come down here and I'll show you what we do with traitors!"
Traitors? Didn't these imbeciles see that what he was doing was for the benefit of all? "You fool! Once I taste Dracula's power, I will turn it on him! I will end the threat to Darkshire once and for all! These two lives will save countless more!"
"Don't believe a word he says," Eyra said, eyes wet, lips tight. "Dracula's henchmen'll do whatever it takes to kill us all."
Falstan drew his greatsword. "You deceived us, Illidan. We can't let you go."
Illidan couldn't fight them. He hadn't recovered yet from destroying the mega-undead. He barely had the strength to fly out of the ruined village as it was. A battle here would be ill advised.
"So be it." Illidan spread his wings and launched into the air, soaring away from the squad who had once been his allies.
Illidan the Betrayer. You will never be anything else.
Re: Good Intentions - Jim Raynor - 06-12-2015
The winds splashed into Illidan's bones as he soared over the undead wasteland. Low cloud concealed the winged night elf as he glided, searching for his destination. The cold gale bit especially hard into his blood soaked fingers, wrapped about the curly strands of Barland's beard. His other hand cramped, rigid and stiff in a claw formation, digging into the metal of the cage that held his other, living sacrifice. Thankfully the woman was still unconscious, but whether from exhaustion, fear or the chapel collapse, he couldn't say.
He flapped his leathery wings once more to stay aloft and a burning fatigue snaked through them. He couldn't keep up flying for much longer; for the ability to fly outside his demon state, it seemed he paid a high price to use them. It was blindingly apparent that they could only be used for short bursts at a time. Illidan noticed his altitude falling, the cracked and desolate earth growing closer with each moment. Several skeletons craned their skulls upward as the night elf's shadow washed over them, staring at him without emotion. He needed to land.
Illidan drew back his wings like skin sails and alighted upon the ground, taking a few long strides to burn out the inertia. His wings pulsed with heat, but soon the feeling faded entirely. He looked over his shoulder; his wings had receded back into his body. Focusing, the night elf tried to will them back into place. He could sense them, two tiny bone seeds ready to sprout into huge wings, but they would not respond to his prodding. He would have to walk from here.
Carrying a metal cage and a severed head, Illidan thought he might be conspicuous. Yet wherever it was he landed, there were no humans about to see him. The undead, roaming around aimlessly, stopped when he trudged by, glaring at him with those eerie yellow sparks. Illidan tensed, expecting a skeletal mob to ambush him, but after an uncomfortable time, the undead shifted their attention elsewhere as if the purple humanoid bored them.
Strange. Everywhere else they swarmed him as soon as he entered their vision. Still, as Illidan passed by another upright corpse, he mentally prepared himself to throw down his offerings to Dracula and obliterate it should it show the slightest hint of hostility. All that frame of mind ended up doing was keeping the night elf tense for no reason, since once again he was ignored.
Illidan had no sense of where he was going, but his only choice was to keep moving. His gaze swept the landscape, reminding him strongly of Lordaeron, the human homeland, after the Lich King had laid waste to it. The ground suffered, dried and dusty. Plant life all but withered away, with only the hardiest varieties persisting, and even they were not untouched. An unending fog suffocated the landscape through which horrid glimmering eyes pierced it, belonging to the previous denizens of the land, now empty husks bent to their master's will.
The taint of the land intensified as Illidan marched on. The earth chipped and crumbled at his foot steps. Only pale blue weeds sprouted from the ground. The fog clung around him like a thick cloak. A sea of yellow eyes shone like malevolent stars through the mist. His cursed eyes saw the thick cords of necrotic energy that slithered through the landscape; the colours grew bolder and brighter with each passing moment. More risen creatures surrounded him, slack jawed and empty headed, watching him with disinterest.
You are hammering the nail into your own coffin. Once you're under Dracula's sway, you'll become his pawn. His marionette. Just like Sargeras did to you. Any power you take leaves you indebted. This will be no different. You will not save these people. You will only ensure your own servitude to a new master.
No. That was a lie. Illidan had tamed the wild, raging magic of the Twisting Nether. Whatever Dracula possessed could not be harder to control. Combining it with his own fel power, Illidan would make short work of the lord of the undead. The Pale Moors would be saved, and he would be a hero. Just like he was always meant to be. He may not have his amber eyes any longer, but the great destiny they once foretold would never leave him.
It's incredibly sad when the crazy voice in your head is making more sense than you are. Enjoy your new collar and leash.
Further through the fog, a faint outline formed. Each footstep brought the sketch into relief; it was a castle. Tall, pointed towers shot off into the sky. Its black walls blended perfectly with the night sky above. Two fires burned brightly at the portcullis. Two guards stood vigilant outside, but from this distance Illidan couldn't make them out, though his magic sight observed the dark magics binding souls to bodies.
This is your last chance. Turn back.
This was it. Illidan would gain Dracula's power, kill him, and save Darkshire once and for all.
The night elf increased speed, his two trophies firmly in hand, ready to make the offering to the dark lord.