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Snakes and Ladders - Illidan Stormrage - 04-04-2017 Illidan took another sniff of the musty breeze, his eyeless gaze creeping up and down the walls of his castle from the highest tower. His castle.   The ferocious Poe River tore past the front gates of his fortress, its churning waters providing a natural defence against a siege. The stones of the castle itself were worn, cracked and thick with lichen, but they held; a fortifying magic brimmed within the walls, protecting it from falling apart. Shafts of light would often penetrate the rooms of the stronghold where roofing tiles or stones had fallen free. Shattered windows held dusty glass fragments on their sills, letting the stale wind waft through his hallways.   There would be time to restore Poenari Castle to its former glory, and time was all Illidan had.   The winds curled through his silken black hair as he leaned against a crenellation of the tower. A few weeks had passed since the siege on Darkshire, and his body had healed well. He ran a hand down his naked stomach, his coarse fingers finding the raised scar tissue from a slew of strikes he suffered at the hands of that plagued knight and the cowled warrior. There were many potent foes in this Omniverse, and now the night elf had a measure of what to expect.   While some of Illidan's forces expressed disappointment at their perceived failure to take Darkshire, the demon hunter did not share it. Conquering that middling human farmland would have bolstered his position and progressed his plans further along, but ultimately, that was always a bonus. The true goal of satisfying Cornelius White and his sycophantic ghost army had been achieved; their combined might had toppled Darkshire's walls and slain hundreds of their defenders, cementing Illidan's name in the minds of the Pale Moors' inhabitants. And when Archimonde, his mindless but vicious demonic hound, came bounding home from the battle, full to the brim with necromancer energy in his stomach, Illidan knew that White and his spectres had seen their fatal conclusion.   With them gone, Poenari Castle was his for the taking. Finally, with a base of power, Illidan could begin stretching his influence over the Moors.   He watched his forces milling about in the courtyard. The night elf hadn't given them orders for almost a week, so they continued carrying out their last received commands; guard the castle. Since Darkshire were still licking their wounds, it was deeply unlikely that they would mount a retaliation strike, at least not yet. There was little to task them with in the meantime, since most of them looked ill-suited to castle repairs. The zombies could barely keep a straight gait let alone hammer a nail. The werewolves could be used for heavy lifting, but few of their kind maintained a lucid frame of mind, and they would no doubt stop in the middle of their task to hunt down a rabbit.   Illidan's long ears pricked as footsteps sounded from behind. His magic sight already knew who approached him, and he turned.   "Lord Illidan," Regis said in his drab tone. "You're looking well."   "Indeed," the demon hunter said. "The air might be musty here, but there's something ... bracing about it."   "Or perhaps your recent victory has reinvigorated your constitution."   "Victory often does." Illidan folded his arms over his chest. "What have you come to see me about?"   "My lord, your forces grow restless. Watching the castle is not providing them with enough stimulation." Regis yawned, and Illidan briefly considered that the necromancer's perpetual dismal state might be due to sleep deprivation. "They are increasingly difficult to control."   "So in other words, they are bored and they think that insubordination would be exciting," Illidan said in a low tone.   "I am only here to offer my counsel to you, my lord. Such things must be considered."   The night elf stared out over the battlements. Two werewolves savaged each other in the courtyard as a ring of thrill-seeking onlookers cheered on the carnage.   "A castle cannot be held unless there is an army to hold it," Illidan said. "If you cannot keep these filthy creatures in order, then the castle is undefended. If the castle is taken away from me, I promise you Regis that you will be the first to die for your failures."   "I apologise, my lord," Regis said in a tone that made his indifference clear. "Count Dracula's beasts are not used to being caged. Marching in an army is the first form of structure that many of them have ever experienced before."   Regis had a point. Few of the surviving members of his army had any official training. Most lived by the rule of strength; whoever was strongest made the rules. Yet since Illidan hadn't given new rules to follow in some time, the mindless creatures took that to mean that they were out from under the night elf's yoke.   Illidan climbed atop the battlement wall. "Perhaps they need a reminder of who is in charge here."   The night elf jumped and plummeted towards the ground. A thick shroud of black smoke encircled him as he fell, and blew out as he slammed into a landing. The fight club stopped abruptly as the creatures took notice of the winged demon that approached them on goat legs. They cleared a path as Illidan strolled into the centre where the werewolves looked uncertainly at him.   "What is this?" Illidan said, his voice deep. "Why are you fighting?"   The werewolves held silent for a moment, but one broke under the night elf demon's blazing gaze. "Just some sport, my lord. There's not much to do."   "Not much to do?" Illidan repeated in his evil voice. "You're holding this castle for the great Illidan Stormrage, officer of Count Dracula! What is of more importance than that?!"   The other werewolf arched his back and bared salivating jaws. "We are werewolves! It is in our instinct to hunt and fight, not pretend that a pile of rubble is worth more than our shit! We want action! We want to feel our blood boil!"   Illidan turned his head slowly, lips parted to reveal his needle teeth. "You want to feel your blood boil, do you?"   He seized the werewolf by the throat, stabbing his long claws into the furry skin. With one thick arm, Stormrage forced him to his knees. The werewolf's eyes bulged, mouth agape, spluttering for air, claws ripping at its throat. The night elf demon pressed down as the werewolf pushed up with its legs, but the man-wolf could not break his hell-forged strength. A green light hugged the outline of Illidan's hand, and the werewolf's back went rigid.   Illidan lifted his head and took in the crowd of his forces that watched in macabre fascination. None dared lift a finger in aid of Stormrage's quarry, not even the werewolf that had tussled with him moments ago.   "It has come to my attention that some of you think that guarding your lord's castle is a waste of your precious time," Illidan said, glowering. The werewolf beneath his grasp gurgled as a sickly emerald light spilled from its open maw. "Let me make one thing clear. Your time is worthless. The reason these Pale Moors are still not under Count Dracula's command is because you brainless scum cannot muster the discipline to march in a straight line!"   The werewolf shuddered under Illidan's power. The eerie green hue poured from the man-wolf's nostrils and edged his yellowed eyeballs. "If you don't desire to end up on the end of a human's sword or crushed underfoot by Count Dracula himself, you will learn to follow commands, whether you like them or not!"   Eyes, widened on all but the most stoic of his army, shifted between Illidan's gnarled grimace and the werewolf's shaking body. The night elf demon hoisted the werewolf in the air with one arm as his quarry convulsed. "Or else you might just get what you asked for."   The werewolf exploded in a ball of green flame, blinding the courtyard with its luminance. As the fires turned to smoke, Illidan stood holding a blackened skeleton. He dropped it and it crumbled to ash as it collapsed on the pebbled earth.   Giving the assembled one last death stare, Illidan arched his mighty wings and bolted into the air.   "A little brutal," Regis noted with half lidded eyes as Illidan landed on the tower balcony, his demonic features shedding into black smoke.   "Creatures without morals only respect strength. Or fear it. No matter how black one's soul is, no matter how they believe they cannot be bought, all is forgotten when their lives are threatened."   Regis met Illidan's gaze. "Do you believe I fear you, my lord?"   "I'm not convinced you feel much of anything, Regis," Illidan said.   "Lord Illidan, I follow you because I respect the work that you are doing for Count Dracula. In my years of service to him, he has never had an effective officer. No one among his servants has ever launched a siege on Darkshire on the scale that you have. No one has claimed power over anything since Count Dracula filled the void of Diablo's departure. Ronaldo was a vain, self important fool, and I was glad to see him die. It meant that someone with vision and the power to make that vision a reality had taken command."   Illidan paid notice to the head necromancer's words. In all the time he'd known him, this was the longest he'd ever spoken without stopping.   "There is no fear here, my lord," Regis said, placing his hands behind his back. "Perhaps Clawfang fears you, or perhaps he enjoys the position you have elevated him to. I don't know, so I won't speak on his behalf. Your army, if they didn't before, fears you now. But do you think that will make them loyal, or effective?"   Illidan scoffed. "There are few exceptional beings in existence, Regis. You may have intelligence and power and privilege, and you may work for a future not yet realised. But you are proscribing your worldview onto those wretches. They are simple and weak and couldn't hope to aspire to what we already have become, let alone what we strive for. They just want their lives to continue marching on with as little pain and as much profit as they can bear. I'd even claim that many of them would simply like to die, since so many are risen undead or cursed who'd prefer the silence of the grave. To that end, fear is their great motivator. Fear of pain, fear of loss, fear of death. It drives them to follow me."   "That may be so, my lord," Regis said. "But consider that fear and loyalty do not go hand-in-hand. You may only need fear today, but tomorrow ... if fear is abandoned, and there is no loyalty to take its place ... what will you have? How will you be pictured? Will they see you as a bright and shining beacon, a liberator of their kind? Or will they see that charred werewolf skeleton scattering to ashes on the wind?"   Illidan narrowed his eyes. Regis' point was hitting home harder than he would care to admit. The eldritch army was a means to an end; as a supporting force to Cornelius White and his gaggle of ghosts. Now that the ghosts were erased, the ragtag collection of spooky and monstrous horrors were all the night elf had under his command. If he couldn't maintain control of them and they abandoned his castle, how would he hold it against invaders, or repair it? Or worse; what if they found a new leader in their ranks, and rebelled against him? Illidan was hideously powerful, but their numbers would overwhelm him.   In truth, the night elf hadn't considered his next step. All his efforts had been focused on claiming Poenari Castle for his own. How short-sighted. What good was taking a castle if he hadn't thought of how he would hold it?   "Do you think their loyalties may be tested?"   Regis shook his head. "Not directly. Not by some charismatic leader. But tensions are rising. If you don't give them something for their dedication to you, for their time and skill, then why shouldn't they return to roaming the fogs, besetting unwary travellers?"   "Then what do you propose I do?" Illidan said. "None of them deserve a promotion. I don't need any more advisors."   "Have them run shifts to protect the castle, and let them leave the walls for hunts or whatever they wish to do. Give them order. So far, they've had the run of an empty and decaying castle and told to not let anyone in."   Illidan rubbed his chin. "So be it. Make the necessary preparations."   Regis bowed his head and walked away.   "Regis."   "Yes, my lord?"   "Send up Clawfang on your way down."   "As you will, Lord Illidan."   There was a time when subordinates did what he told them to do and anyone who disobeyed got their just treatment. Now he had to pander to their desires? This was ridiculous. Unfortunately, Regis' logic couldn't be ignored. It was sound advice, as bitter as it lay on his tongue, and he had to swallow it.   "You called for me, my lord?"   Illidan turned from the view of the dusty horizon to his muscular retainer Clawfang. His promotion, much like Regis', had been little to do with any observable skills and more to do with being in the right place at the right time. That, and Clawfang took joy in backhanding that prick Ronaldo.   "What do you think of our forces, Clawfang?"   The werewolf looked to the side. "Uh, good, I guess."   "No, I mean ... do you think they fear me?"   "Oh, yes my lord. After your demonstration before, no one is questioning who the boss is around here."   "As I would expect." Illidan strode closer to the werewolf. "But do they think I was too heavy-handed?"   "Oh, no one would question you, my lord."   Stormrage frowned and tilted his head. "Yes, but that's exactly what I'm concerned about. You haven't heard rumblings of discontent, or thought such things yourself with how I conduct my leadership of your people?"   Clawfang's red eyes widened. "No, my lord! I am faithful until the end! Everyone else is too, I swear!"   Illidan took a step back and sighed silently. The wit of Regis was not shared by Clawfang. "Very well, Clawfang. Regis is organising some structure into the ranks. As he is the head necromancer and my advisor, I would like to make you the commander of my army. Get them into shape, run some drills, that sort of thing."   "Oh, thank you my lord! But I haven't had any military training."   Illidan smiled wanly. "I trust you, Clawfang. You'll be fine. Regis can help you if you need him."   Clawfang nodded. "Yes, my lord. I'll do that right now."   Illidan turned back to the misty vista of the Pale Moors, the Poe River thrashing past. How had news of the assault on Darkshire been taken by Dracula? There had been no word from him at all, no messengers or birds to deliver communications. Had Dracula turned a blind eye to his dealings, simply satisfied to have bolstered his forces by one night elf and to have left it at that?   That didn't seem right. Dracula wasn't an idiot. Idiots rarely consolidate power over a vacant land when the previous leader vanishes. So what was he doing? Building his own army for an attack? Preparing some super weapon?   Or was he readying to seize Illidan himself and punish him for his failure at Darkshire?   Surrounded on all sides by potential enemies, but none of them are certain threats. Illidan balled his fists. His dry throat made swallowing laborious. There were no illusions about who he could trust; always and forever, he could only trust himself. Yet variables kept cropping up like weeds. Were his forces growing weary of serving under him? Was Dracula an ignorant lord or spying on him all along?   As his gaze settled on the raging river, he realised something. No one in this world could be trusted.   Illidan strode back into the castle, winding down the stairs. He trudged throughout the whole castle, bounding over the walls and to the banks of the wild Poe River. Sitting, he folded his legs and placed open palms in the space before him. He closed his eyes and focused.   A few hours passed, and Illidan took stock of his efforts. Out of the water slithered a serpentine creature, body lined with pale blue scales. Four spindly arms hung from her sides. Snakes writhed from her scalp, hissing at the night elf. Her red eyes fell knowingly on him.   "Lord Illidan," the snake woman murmured. "It has been too long."   Stormrage stood. "It has indeed, Lady Vashj. Much has changed since we last met. Let me bring you up to speed." RE: Snakes and Ladders - Illidan Stormrage - 05-07-2017 All took notice of Illidan as he strolled back into the courtyard with his serpentine officer. Some monsters crinkled their brow, unsure of what to make of this new addition to the castle. Others stared but otherwise masked their opinions. Lady Vashj slithered beside the night elf, taking one glance and ignoring them otherwise.   "These creatures ... they follow you?" she asked in a hiss.   "For now," Illidan said quietly. "Come. We will talk more in the castle."   They entered the foyer of the castle. Motes of dust floated around them, visibly striking in the spears of light flowing through the open gate. The naga leader's wavy movements rubbed the dust from the stones. Her slitted pupils scoured the disused fortress.   "There is magic in these walls."   "Indeed."   "Forgive me, Lord Illidan, but I must ask." The night elf stopped and turned his head. "You are not in the same form as I saw you in since I last saw you. What has happened?"   Illidan glanced at the stairs. "Fine. The walk to my receiving room is not short. Perhaps I should change that. Lady Vashj, as you may have discerned, we are no longer in Azeroth. This world has been named the Omniverse, and we are situated in one of its dimensions, or verses, named the Pale Moors. My arrival in this plane has wrought many changes to me, and one of them is that my demonic state requires an enormous amount of stamina to maintain, so I can only do so in small bursts."   Lady Vashj nodded. "So you are weaker?"   Illidan grimaced. "Perhaps, but I am still not to be trifled with."   "The Legion ... have you seen them here?"   Illidan shook his head. "No. I've yet to come across one of its foul order, but this dimension is vast. They could be dwelling here without my knowledge. I believe it would be best to assume their presence unless it can be invariably proven otherwise."   "So do you prepare for their arrival?"   Illidan lifted a hand and rubbed his fingers down the length of his thumb and palm. "I am always preparing for their arrival, Lady Vashj. But from this place, I must rebuild my strength in order to do so." He faced the naga head on. "However, I have entered into the service of the reigning leader of the Pale Moors. His name is Count Dracula."   Lady Vashj frowned, her tiny facial scales compressing. "You serve another, Lord Illidan?"   "Yes, as you serve me, my lady. Our goals are aligned, and it benefits us both to be in such an arrangement."   Illidan saw a question play on the serpent woman's lips, but she held it at bay.   "And yet I feel that Count Dracula's forces may begrudge my presence. We recently undertook a campaign against an enemy settlement nearby, and although we were unsuccessful, we made great strides in reducing their numbers and flattening their structures. Some, however, dislike the yoke of direct servitude. I fear that they may soon rebel against me."   "Is this why you have summoned me, Lord Illidan?"   "In part. You were always the most trustworthy of my subjects, but your peoples' strengths and skills are unmatched. I wish to gather my forces beneath you, both naga and monster alike."   Lady Vashj's snake-like eyes widened. She bowed swiftly. "I ... I would be honoured, my lord."   "Good. I will begin marshalling naga to my cause. Until then, inspect the castle, see the troops. I will return to you later."   "Of course, Lord Illidan." Vashj bowed once more at the hips and slithered outside.   Illidan clicked his fingers. "Come out, Regis. I know you are here."   Out the old necromancer came, down the stairs with ponderous speed, but with more vigour than an elderly human should've been capable of. "Forgive me, my lord, but I was just -"   "Enough with the excuses, Regis. We both know what you were doing."   "You are making her head of your forces?" Regis made the last step and bowed before the night elf. "Introducing a foreign officer into your ranks will already further mistrust between you and Count Dracula's denizens, but promoting her to general of your army? How do you think such an action will be taken, my lord?"   Illidan bared his teeth. He carried a grudge for the decision he allowed Regis to influence him to make, the decision to allow freedom and a roster for his troops. A lord does not cater to the whims of his dissatisfied creatures, especially when they roam about in relative peace due to his own efforts. No, such malformed beasts are to be ordered, not cajoled. With Lady Vashj, he wouldn't make that same mistake twice.   "They would do well to remember who they answer to, Regis," Illidan said. "If they want to moan about their lot in life, then let them speak to me and I will end their suffering swiftly. Otherwise, they can serve their lord faithfully and to their fullest ability. To that end, Lady Vashj will mould them into the best servants that they can be."   "You are ignoring our earlier discussion, my lord," Regis said with his usual disinterested countenance. "You will create a revolt within your own forces if you do not at least permit them some simple freedoms."   Incandescent anger flared in his chest at the memory of his weakness. "And you are ignoring the commands of your lord, Regis. There are two options; stay and obey, or desert and die. I am not trying to be their friends. I do not care if they dislike me, but they will serve me or I will end them. You are my advisor, but I will no longer entertain notions on this subject. Do you understand?"   Regis held his tongue for a long, quiet moment. The baying of wolves reached them in the silence. "Yes. Yes, I understand, my lord."   "Good. Feel free to inform my forces of Lady Vashj's new appointment. I will declare it officially tomorrow. Until then, you are dismissed, Regis."   "As you wish, Lord Illidan." Regis shuffled out of the foyer.   Illidan cracked his knuckles. He wasn't stupid. Regis was alerting him to a very real possibility of mutiny, and the night elf understood. Those snivelling, mindless monsters served only themselves, and grew complacent and entitled during moments of quiet and peace. But there were others who would endure any punishment, make any sacrifice to ensure their lord and his plans would carry through. Lady Vashj and her naga warriors were one such group, but there were others.   It would take some time, and much energy, but it had to be done.   The night elf breathed deeply as he walked into his receiving room. A long room supported by stone columns, it was once where the kings of its previous owners had greeted guests and officers when conducting official business. A filthy red carpet ran the length of the room to the raised dais where a stone chair was set into the very back wall of the room. Spider webs decorated the roof at the intersection of pillar and roof. Every step on the crusted carpet scattered and scared up dust. The windows were caked in dirt and grime to the point that no light entered at all.   Illidan stepped onto the dais and lowered himself onto the stone throne. The surface was cold against his bare skin. Leaning forward, the night elf held out his hands and closed his eyes, focusing on a mental image of another of his great retainers.   Of those that know sacrifice, of those who would accept any fate to succeed ...   With great determination and without light, Illidan couldn't be sure of how many hours passed by. Energy poured out of his body, but not of fel magic; the strange, intangible omnilium magic. It issued from the very stamina of his body, leaking like oil through him and out of him, pooling into place as his mind shaped it into its form.   As with the creation of his felhunter and Lady Vashj, when the job was complete, something tweaked in his mind and he simply ... knew. The night elf opened his blazing eyes.   Another night elf knelt before him, disoriented and confused. A mop of black hair ran down his back, though it wasn't as long or as fine as Illidan's, nor did he have a ponytail jutting from the top of his head as he did. Shirtless, his pale green tattoos were clearly visible, though in different shape and style to Illidan's own; more straight and angled than Illidan's curved and coiled designs. A pair of ram horns curled from his forehead.   He stood, unsteady at first. A blindfold covered his burning eyes, and when they locked onto his lord, he knelt hastily.   "Lord Illidan! I ... I wasn't aware ..."   "There is much to discuss," Illidan said to his second-in-command, the night elf who saw the running of his empire while he was indisposed. "And discuss we shall, Torandril." RE: Snakes and Ladders - Illidan Stormrage - 05-17-2017 A cracked column of rock shattered into pieces and dust as a meaty fist ploughed through it. There was barely any pain, only a dull thudding where the impact occurred. He turned, teeth bared like a wild dog, saliva slinking from the corners of his mouth, growling deeply. He spotted an old statue; a stone human, clad in stone armour, triumphantly raising a stone sword. Snarling, he lunged at the heroic sculpture, his feet slapping the grimy floor with tremendous force. Clasping his clawed hands together above his head, he swung them down like a meaty sledgehammer. The stone statue burst into rubble.   He stood, back hunched, breathing deeply and fast. Such fury, such primal rage. It flowed through him like his own blood, as if it were a natural extension of his existence. A film of dust shrouded a worn painting on the wall, concealing the image of some human aristocrat that was no doubt worthless. Another pang of anger ruptured in his brain and he slashed four long gashes down the length of the painstakingly painted artwork. No matter how he unfurled it, no matter how many times, it simply didn't bleed away. If anything, each action of irrational violence strengthened and reinforced the need to repeat it.   Thoughts were growing cumbersome. Each one that took form that didn't advocate malice and destruction only irritated him more. All he wanted to do was to tear the entire room to shreds, and then move on to more pudgy targets that would coat his claws in crimson.   Yes ... rampaging around an empty room full of human relics is such a bore. Imagine the coppery tang of blood on your tongue, of the heat of that red juice slopping down your chin! The screams and shrieks as you maul the helpless!   "Lord Illidan?"   His neck snapped to the sound of his name. Another night elf, eyes bound behind a strip of cloth, stood with arms behind his back, a sour expression on his face. He had a name ... what was it? Those ebony horns, jutting out of his forehead and curving inwards, seemed to challenge him, to coax him into mortal combat.   "Is ... this a bad time, my lord?"   Kill him. He stinks of corruption, of life. Can't you hear the thud-thud-thud of his disgusting heart beat? How dare he present himself before you like this! Rip out his throat! Sake your thirst on his blood and flesh!   "How dare you interrupt me, you cur!" he roared, spittle ejecting from his chewed and bleeding lips. "You tempt my wrath!"   "Lord Illidan, you asked me to see you. I received message only moments ago, and I rushed here as soon as I could." The horned night elf had taken a step back, his posture more rigid, his arms bent by his sides, no longer clasped calmly behind him.   Yes. See how he acts around you? He's preparing to strike. Eviscerate him! Before he does it to you first!   His groan rumbled like thunder, but his lips sheathed his ferocious grimace. A single thought scrubbed of malevolence arose out of the mire of hatred.   Torandril.   Kill him! Dismember him and paint the walls with his blood!   "Torandril," Illidan grumbled, his voice in a deep, freakish register. "I ... am still getting used to this new form. Unlike my demon transformation, this one is full of mindless rage."   Torandril nodded curtly and straightened his stance, though still wound up and ready to defend himself if he needed to. "Yes, my lord. I knew other demon hunters who took on the Vengeance form. Powerful and almost impervious to pain, but harder to control the Legion's whisperings, especially with the mindset of the form. At least in the early stages, until they're properly conditioned."   No! Don't listen to him! Stop talking and attack him! Murder him!   Taking a deep breath, Illidan centred himself. He focused on the fel energy within that pumped his muscles to ridiculous proportions, and released the gates that held them within his body. The foul magic poured from his soul like air from a loosened balloon. HIs curved horns disintegrated into black dust and fell away. The unholy voices receded, still scratching at the edge of his mind as they always did and would always do, but to a volume that Illidan could safely and reliably ignore. In mere moments, he had returned to his normal night elf self.   "So, to the matter at hand."   Illidan walked out of the room with Torandril the Felslayer, his second-in-command. Torandril was part of the first group that believed in Stormrage's ideals and fled Kalimdor with him when Illidan was banished by his brother. Among that first band, Torandril stood head and shoulders above his contemporaries and quickly mastered the art of the fel without succumbing to their dark temptations. Once the Betrayer had established himself in the Black Temple in Outland, Torandril was the natural choice for his right hand. In fact, the last time Illidan had seen the horned night elf, he was sending him through the nether portals to Mardum to retrieve the Sargerite keystone, a magical rock that could unlock all portals to all of the Burning Legion's worlds. An item that could open every avenue of assault on the demon horde, and eventually paving the way to the final assault on the planet Argus itself.   Yet Illidan didn't live long enough to see the fruits of that expedition.   They passed through hallways and large, spacious rooms. New cressets had been installed by the hoard of naga and elves, both night and blood, that had arrived at the castle in recent weeks. Many of them had been set to restoring Poenari Castle; fixing structural issues, restoring magical wards, refurnishing the rooms, mending windows, sweeping floors, cleaning carpets. He also allowed time for his people to train and battle in the bailey, to forget about the mundane chores necessary to restore Illidan's seat of power. Unlike the monsters of Dracula, he did not begrudge them their time to train. Still, the night and blood elves had pledged themselves to Stormrage willingly, and the ones still remaining had gone through the unholy trials of the demon hunter. It stood to reason that their loyalty would be as hard as iron. The naga similarly followed Lady Vashj's orders to the letter, and she was the staunchest of allies, keen to see the Burning Legion perish at any cost.   "You have seen how my forces have returned to me," Illidan said. "Some were scattered amongst the Pale Moors, though truth be told, the vast majority were summoned here by me. It was an exhausting endeavour, one I hope not to repeat any time soon."   "Yes, Lord Illidan," Torandril said. Illidan knew that his commander didn't understand the omnilium magic, nor could he, being a product of the process himself. Still he had been informed about all that had befallen the Betrayer since his arrival in the Omniverse.   "Repairs have gone exceedingly well, I see. The fervour of my forces cannot be praised enough." He couldn't contain his pleasure. After dealing with Dracula's taciturn creatures, the elves and naga were a godsend. "How much longer until the castle is fully restored to its past glory?"   "It will be some time yet, my lord," the Felslayer said as a wash of orange light passed over his face, a cresset in the wall fading behind them. "The castle has been left in a terrible state. It may be weeks, it may be months."   As expected. "And how go the troops? Are they battle ready?"   "They have been the moment you brought them under your service once more, my lord."   "Good."   Torandril turned his head to face Illidan as they walked down another hallway. Sconces of flame were the only things that broke up the monotony of the path. "Do you plan to strike a target soon, my lord?"   "No. I simply wish to have a standing army in case ... " A skeleton lumbered past, sword lugged on its bony shoulder. " ... complications arise. Also, I'm considering another expedition."   "But I thought you said you weren't ..."   "A solo expedition, Torandril." Illidan cleared his throat before two naga, engaged in their native, hissing tongue, who parted in surprise. "The Assault on Darkshire taught me a great number of things, namely that there are others in this realm that share formidable power. I must journey beyond the reach of the Moors and learn what I can. The establishment of the demon hunters and naga mean I can make this journey knowing that Poenari Castle is protected."   Torandril nodded, though his face spoke of uneasiness. "Yes, of course my lord."   "Do not fret. I shan't be gone long. It will be an intelligence mission, nothing more."   "In that case, we could send one of the demon hunters to-"   "This is something I must do on my own, not hear about it vicariously through another." They came to the open gates of the castle, and a thick, swirling cloud of fog greeted them in the bailey. "I have every confidence I will be fine."   "Yes, my lord."   "You will be in charge during my absence. Ensure that Lady Vashj continues preparing the naga, and see that the castle repairs are not neglected."   Torandril cleared his throat. "My lord, while I appreciate and accept the offer, aren't you concerned about ..."   Out from the mists, an old and bored man hobbled, a faded green hood over his thinning, almost bald head. His papery hand gripped the gnarled apex of a crude wooden staff, the top only reaching his waist, which he seemed to place much of his weight upon.   "Regis," Illidan said.   The necromancer's watery eyes shifted from Stormrage to his night elf companion, and then back. "Lord Illidan, I would appreciate a word."   "Go," Illidan said to Torandril. The demon hunter bowed swiftly and departed. "What is it, Regis?"   "My lord, I would appreciate a quiet word."   "Look around you," Illidan said, though the dreary cloak of fog prevented the elder's human eyes from observing what he already knew was there. "The elven and naga forces are everywhere. There is scant room that isn't occupied by idle ears."   Regis frowned slightly, adding an extra couple of sagging lines to a brow already riddled with them. He rose a hand to chest height and clicked his slender fingers. A barely perceptible wave rippled around them before settling and fading. Illidan's magic sight, however, saw the sound blocking spell that engulfed them.   Illidan stared at the necromancer until he spoke. "You must know what I come to speak to you about."   "The same thing we always discuss, Regis. The topic is beginning to bore me."   "I repeat it because it bears repeating if not taken on board," he said, pulling the sleeves back on his robe in a huff. The sleeves, heavy and droopy, slid back down to his liver spotted wrists the moment he lowered his arms. "Your drastic additions to your forces have already got chins wagging. Everyone is wondering where they are coming from and what allegiance they hold to you, Count Dracula and the cause. Your actions are fermenting more distrust with each passing day. You must realise this."   "Regis. You've no doubt been observing the naga, correct?" Illidan asked, arms folded over his chest.   "I've been observing everything. I always am."   "Tell me this. Do the naga appear to be built for repairing masonry? Reattaching doors to hinges? Retiling rooves?"   One of the reptilian creatures slithered out of the fog and passed by. Its thick, bulging torso rippled with scaly teal muscle, balanced on a broad, snake-like waist and tail that trailed behind. A series of dorsal fins ran down the length of its hunched back, terminating at the base of its skull. It turned its red, slitted eyes on Regis for a moment, its predatory teeth housed in a stout snout bared in nonchalance, and then glided onwards, back into the grey cloak of the fog.   "No, they do not. They appear suited for tearing apart marine life with animalistic savagery."   "As do many of those filthy beasts that call Count Dracula their lord," Illidan said. "Except many of their victims are sapient."   "What is your point, Lord Illidan?" Regis asked.   "My point," Illidan said, lowering his voice to showcase his distaste for Regis' curtness, "is that the naga have taken upon them the tasks that I have assigned them, regardless of their natural affinity or personal opinion. They understand that there must be order or else we would achieve nothing and our alliance would be worth less than the dirt beneath our feet. Yet the creatures of Count Dracula complain that they're bored and can no longer prey on brainless villagers who venture too far from their tiny hovel."   "The difference between the naga and the monsters is that the naga voluntarily entered an agreement with you to realise a specific outcome," Regis said, placing both frail hands on the knob of his cane.   "Your implication of the monsters' desire to rebel against Count Dracula's will is most surprising," Illidan said. "I wouldn't have thought you would make such an admission."   "Guarding a dilapidated ruin while the living continue to exist in Count Dracula's realm is counter to his will," Regis replied, a touch of passion entering his listless tone. "No one is coming to this pile of forgotten rubble to exact vengeance. We are sitting on our hands when our enemies are still licking their wounds. All any of Count Dracula's minions want to do is return to Darkshire and finish what was started."   "And perhaps that is why they have achieved nothing of import until I took the reins of command." Illidan lowered his head, keeping his flaming gaze on his chief advisor. "They lack direction and focus. They stumble aimlessly from one kill to the next, seeking only a fresh human jugular. By living by their base instincts, they are no better than animals, thinking only of their next meal. How can such self-serving and restless creatures benefit Count Dracula's bid for total hegemony of the Pale Moors? The notion is ridiculous."   Regis went quiet for a moment, his bottom lip couched tightly beneath the top. "Assuming that you are correct, you are still ignoring a vital aspect of controlling your troops. Their desires, as varied and numerous as the stars, are not being heard or-"   "Their desires are of no concern to me," Illidan said, "as I've stated time and time again to you, Regis."   "And as I have repeated, my lord, you cannot treat creatures forged of necromancy and other dark curses to behave as your elves and naga do. Not to mention that you have removed Clawfang from his head military position to be replaced by the Vashj newcomer. They -"   Stormrage took a large, intimidating step closer to his chief advisor. "I have bound demons and undead alike to my will, and not all were willing. I understand the craft of submission and control.  Since most of these creatures were summoned from their graves or infected with their curse, they are capable of being manipulated. If they have too much free will, that only speaks to the lack of skill of their masters. If they continue to think for themselves without forceful magical coercion, then they best learn to bow their heads before me of their own volition."   "And if they choose to mutiny rather than submit?" Regis said. "If they choose to band together and rise up against you?"   "In that case, I will find out who instigated the rebellion and slowly torture them while the disgusting rabble learn who wields the true power here." Illidan narrowed his eyes. "And if such a day arrives, Regis, where will you stand? Will you support their self-centred bid for freedom and wastefulness, or will you follow the only lord you've ever known to actually bruise the face of the human resistance?"   Regis took a long moment to stare into Stormrage's eyes. "I will stand with the side that represents Count Dracula and his interests."   "If such a time comes," Illidan said, turning and striding into the fog, "be sure you can tell the difference." RE: Snakes and Ladders - Illidan Stormrage - 06-04-2017 Illidan perched at the top of the highest central spire of Poenari Castle, wings flared to allow him to balance. A giant lime green crystal floated above the spire and his head, at least twice his height, shining with fel magic. The recently summoned arcane object acted as a beacon to those who knew Illidan or the Burning Legion's power and would draw them to the castle to help bolster his ranks. Whether they were willing or not was not important, especially with demons. At the same time, it would permit him to utilise a number of magical operations, such as teleportation and long distance communication, once they were built. It came with the added bonus of intimidation; the sickly light that trickled from the multifaceted mega-gem stood out as a soft luminescence through the virtually ever-present fog, and even on a clear day it was visible from a long way.   Perhaps it would serve as inspiration to those that rallied around Dracula, and instil fear into those who did not.   The clouds over the Pale Moors hid the shy sun as it rose, lightening at the horizon but still unmistakably grey. A long, drawn-out rumble of thunder rolled through the heavens far away, like a groaning giant. Illidan sniffed and the vanguard scent of rain filled his nostrils. It was a nice change from spilled blood and the putrid, unwashed stench of the Dracula troops far below him.   His thoughts drifted to the fates of his fair-weather allies who assisted in the sacking of Darkshire. According to Regis, they fell in battle. Were they dead? Or had the whispers of eternal life in this dimension been true? If so, they hadn't made a beeline to see Stormrage, further cementing their loyalties if he hadn't already understood them. At best, they became involved to sow death and ruin, and that was perfectly acceptable. It was all Illidan had asked of them.   Yet as time inexorably passed, murmurs of dissent from Dracula's mangy soldiers grew louder. Regis' constant warnings of an uprising were starting to look plausible. How the Count hoped to subvert an entire land with such capricious and self-interested beasts was beyond the demon hunter, but he still needed their support to enforce his strength and legitimise his rule over Poenari Castle. But there was no way he would cave to their simplistic demands any further. They would learn to submit by force if it was necessary.   While things were simmering among the decaying fortress, Illidan knew there were greater things in this Omniverse to discover. His assault of Darkshire had opened his eyes to the unchecked warriors that roamed freely, who gave their lives to stem the tide of his soldiers. That putrescent, festering knight in plate armour that had perished looked as if he owed his existence to the gnarled mind of a necromancer, and yet he seemed to have full agency and had deliberately chosen to defend the living. What other mysteries remained out of Illidan's knowledge? What other valuable information could he unearth if he left the castle for a time?   But could he afford to? He trusted Torandril and Lady Vashj; they had both proven themselves dependable and capable. Regis was headstrong and, despite his age, idealistic. His loyalties ultimately laid with Dracula, but if a mutiny began, who would he see as the proper supporter of the Count's will? Clawfang would likely kowtow to whoever was in charge. Illidan doubted the werewolf had a single independent thought in his head.   Illidan breathed deep of the cool moor air and vaulted from the roof, wings spread to slow his descent. His hooves clacked on the cracked stones of the balcony as he landed in a crouch. Turning, he strode inside and down the winding staircase, admiring the refitted glass windows that had been repaired by a blood or night elf. Regis had wisely began fixing the areas where his lord frequented most.   Still in his demon form, Stormrage passed through a number of corridors. A few of Dracula's forces took a wide berth after soaking in his hellish appearance, some likely remembering that Illidan had burned a disobedient werewolf from the inside out in his current state not long ago. His demon hunters bowed at their waist in deference, while the scaly naga would do the same, though with more rigidity, out of duty rather than respect.   His cloven feet clopped down the red carpet, once stained with years of boot dirt and neglect, now a clean, if pale colour. The cobwebs that festooned the stone columns supporting his throne room had been chased away, and the spiders and their meals as well. Light filtered through the windows in multihued shafts as the thick sheet of grime that obscured the reds and greens and blues and yellows of the glass had been totally wiped clean. The soldiers of his Azerothian forces had done exceptionally well. It only put the childish antics of Dracula's creatures into sharper contrast.   Illidan stepped onto the dais at the end of the room and collapsed into the stone throne, clawed fingers gripping the armrests, wings draping over it like a macabre skin cloak. A small green crystal was inlaid on the left arm, and a red one on the right. The ruby, when a small sliver of dark magic was passed through it, would initiate a castle-wide alarm, indicating to his disciplined forces to be prepared for battle, whether to launch an invasion or a resistance. The actual reason for the assembly would be imparted to them by their commanding officers. The emerald's activation would send a signal to replica gems in the possession of his retainers, making them vibrate and hinting to them that their lord requested their presence in the throne room.   Touching a finger to the green crystal, he leaked a pulse of his power into its core. It shone once and rattled in the stone.   A few minutes went past in silence. Torandril was the first to enter the room, with Lady Vashj close behind. Clawfang strode in next, and Regis last, shuffling in on stiff bones. The lines inscribed into his saggy face were harsher than usual.   The four head officers of Illidan's army took place before the night elf demon, standing to attention, awaiting him to speak first. The lord of Poenari Castle took them in. Torandril and Lady Vashj were the epitome of loyalty; backs firm, chins up and eyes focused on him. Clawfang hunched slightly, though such a stance was common for a werewolf, though his muzzle twitched, his eyes moving about the throne room as if expecting a hidden ambush to spring and slaughter him. Regis placed his cane before him and curled both palms around its rounded top, resting his aging body upon it. His deep, furrowed brow housed eyes blazing with more ferocity than the old human had ever shown before. Stormrage tented his fingers.    "I'll get right to the point," Illidan said, his lips exposing needle-like teeth. "After the assault on Darkshire, I have come to learn that I know next to nothing about this Omniverse. This places me at a disadvantage. I cannot prepare against what I do not know exists. To that end, I will be taking a leave of absence from Poenari Castle to investigate this Omniverse further."   Torandri frowned. Clawfang's attention was snagged by those words, his bestial eyes locked onto his lord. Regis' scowl deepened, wrinkling his face to the point that it looked as if it were a loose-fitting mask and would slip free of him at any moment. Lady Vashj nodded slightly, unfazed by the information.   "Where will you go?" Torandril was the first to voice his concern. "What exactly will you be searching for?"   "Intelligence," Illidan said. "Experiences. First-hand knowledge of what this plane of existence holds. I was wholly surprised by the resistance we met at Darkshire. Judging by its paltry size and wooden palisades, it did not inspire fear or even respect for an army of ghoulish monsters that marched upon it. There were beings that sought to defend it from us, beings that had no right to be protecting it. Powerful beings. I cannot sequester myself in this fortress and remain blind to the threats that may plague Count Dracula's bid for hegemony of the Pale Moors."   "Such a wide-ended task does not sound like it has times set around it," Torandril said.   "It is good that you can decipher that," Illidan said.   Regis pouted. "You cannot leave the castle, Lord Illidan. The unrest with Count Dracula's forces-"   "-will be capably handled by those I will leave in charge," the night elf demon finished. "My presence is needed elsewhere."   "Your presence," Regis said, a note of fire injected into his tone, "is a large part of what is keeping this powder keg from exploding. Your roasting demonstration of that werewolf in the courtyard the other day went some way to dissuading the rebellious element from executing a mutiny. They saw your power and realised it could be turned on them. But if you leave, what's to stop those traitorous thoughts from bubbling to the surface?"   "If you think you know who these rebels are, Regis, then they should be imprisoned and questioned," Illidan said, baring his teeth. "And if the situation calls for it, executed. But there will be no bowing before headstrong upstarts to keep the peace. Either it is kept, or it is enforced."   "You believe it can be handled?"   Illidan sighed, his thick chest rising and falling. "Of course. My forces are no longer restricted to the scum that I had to dredge from Ronaldo's followers. The naga and demon hunters are by my side, all proficient and loyal warriors who will obey orders. As time goes on, their ranks will swell. I may even command demons, should I see the need for it. But if such an uprising occurs, it will be ended swiftly ... and mercilessly."   "But," Regis said, countenance animated, "should the-"   "Enough discussion." Illidan bolted out of the throne to a standing position, making Clawfang flinch. "I have much to explore, and treading familiar ground is beginning to vex me." When Regis left his lips pressed firmly together in a scowl, he continued. "Torandril, as at the Black Temple, you are in charge of Poenari Castle during my absence. All that shelter beneath its walls are to report to you."   The night elf commander bowed his head briefly, no doubt expecting the old appointment to be reinstated. "Thank you, Lord Illidan."   "Lady Vashj, you will retain the position of general of my forces, and in sole command of the naga and the demon hunters."   "As you will, Lord Illidan," Lady Vashj hissed.   "Clawfang, I appreciate that your initial promotion was stolen from you quickly after it was made. That is why I am making you the head of Count Dracula's soldiers. You will report to Lady Vashj, but otherwise you will direct them."   Clawfang's muzzle hung open, eyes wide, surprised by the offer. "O-of course, my lord," he said, slapping a closed fist against his chest in a show of loyalty.    "And Regis," Illidan said, returning the fiery gaze that the old necromancer shot him. "You will continue in your current capacity, advising Torandril as you have me."   A long, icy moment hung between them. All felt the weight in the air; Clawfang swallowed visibly while Torandril and Lady Vashj turned their eyes to the green cloaked geriatric. Regis' spindly fingers tightened around the knob of his cane, his face creased in a glower. The silence pecked at Illidan's patience, and he soon found himself balling his fists.   Regis' eyes blinked several times and he cast them to the floor. "Yes, my lord."   Illidan waited a handful of heart beats, waiting for the necromancer to unleash his frustrations and disagreements with the directive, but it didn't come. He stood stooped over his cane, glaring at the stone brick ground.   "Excellent." Illidan stepped towards his officers, and they parted to allow him through. "I am entrusting everything I have built in this miserable dimension to you four. Do not disappoint me."   "Lord Illidan," Regis called out as the night elf demon reached the archway of the room.   Stormrage looked over his shoulder, fel eyes ablaze behind the tan brown blindfold. "Yes?"   "Do hurry back."   Illidan flushed his nose with a sharp exhale and moved out of the room.   Soon, he stood atop his favourite balcony, just beneath the highest tower of the castle. The fel crystal, over fifteen feet tall, hovered above the spire's roof, humming with otherworldly power, spinning slowly as if caught in an unseen wind. Another grumble of thunder, like an avalanche of rocks, crashed above him, closer than before. Below in the courtyard, his army scurried about. From this distance, he couldn't tell who was who or what specie.   He hoped it would all still be standing when he returned.   Flaring his bat wings, Illidan leapt from the balcony and swept over the bailey. He sailed over the castle's walls as blood elven masons, filling in missing stones, craned their necks to see the disturbance. With a hefty flap, the night elf demon ascended into the greyscale sky, piercing through the fog of the clouds.   His next stop was unknown, one of the few times in his long, long life where he had no plan.  The rain began in earnest. RE: Snakes and Ladders - Illidan Stormrage - 06-10-2017 The sky above the Pale Moors clouds surpassed anything he'd seen in the dreary verse before. Unhindered by grey sheets of fog blocking it, the sun roared with fire and light, tingling Illidan's wet skin. Pale blue suffused the firmament all around, a calming and sensational hue. Perhaps this is what the verse looked like once, before Dracula and his ilk conquered it, before perpetual misery became like day and night.   The clouds rumbled beneath him, the sound following flashes of light that pulsed through the grey. Something darted from the side, sending a jolt of adrenaline through Illidan's veins. He spun in flight, palms facing each other over his chest as green flames crawled around the space between. The moving object screeched towards him, wide leathery wings flapping. The felfire bolt congealed in his hands as he recognised the creature. It was a manbat; what a human might look like if it combined its essence with a bat. Its thick, furry body bobbed in the air in time with the slapping of its wings, with thick arms hanging from its formless shoulders and small legs hanging behind.   These creatures were part of the rank-and-file of his soldiers procured from Dracula, but Illidan had no idea why it flew at him. Was it part of the seething rebellion of his castle, waiting for the opportune moment to strike him down? Surely it should realise that a single manbat wouldn't be enough to even pose a challenge to him, let alone a threat.   The winged beast screeched. Stormrage hurled his ball of felfire, green flames peeling off as it soared. The manbat barrel-rolled to the side, its wings spiralling around it as the felfire bolt careened into the distance. The beast screeched again, and this time Illidan considered that its objective may not be to attack. Perhaps a sudden assault on Poenari Castle had sprung after he left, and this manbat was the messenger sent to recall their lord to command the defence.   The creature clutched a folded square of paper in its claws as it stopped right beside Illidan. It squawked quietly through serrated teeth, its round black eyes staring vacantly. It twitched its massive pointed ears and presented the paper to Illidan. Taking it, the night elf demon unfurled it. A missive covered the white sheet.   Illidan Stormrage,   Your assault on Darkshire has not gone unnoticed. While the attack was ultimately unsuccessful, it has struck fear into the hearts of the Pale Moors again. Through your efforts, my influence has resurged. To continue this trend, I have selected you to attend Dante's Abyss, a televised tournament where the last standing attendant wins.   Destroy your competition and display to the Omniverse the threat that looms above them all. You can sign up in Darkshire.   Count Dracula   Illidan swallowed. "A death tournament." An interesting idea, though what surprised him the most was that he finally had a communication from Dracula. His attack on Darkshire had been seen favourably despite the inhabitants repelling him. Perhaps just the knowledge that Darkshire's populace had now that meant Dracula's forces could strike at any time was enough for the Count.   Participating in such a tournament could be beneficial. After all, the defenders of Darkshire opened Illidan's eyes to the potential foes he could face in the future. If other Primes decided to enter, he could learn valuable information on what other threats existed, and to what extent Illidan should take them seriously. Besides, it was a direct order from Dracula, so best to obey regardless of his own personal feelings.   Illidan looked up from the note and tossed it away. "You can go now."   The manbat grunted and dived like a stone into the grey mass below.   Illidan hugged his wings to his body and plummeted through the clouds. Rain pelted him as he burst back into the miserable plains, spreading wings wide as he headed towards Darkshire. RE: Snakes and Ladders - Illidan Stormrage - 07-23-2017 The familiar stale air of the Pale Moors rustled Illidan's fine black hair. Leathery wings flapped and then flattened to let the night elf demon soar leisurely through the sky. He zipped through wispy tendrils of cloud that curled beneath its fluffy mass, flying just beneath the grey thickness, knowing that his bat-like silhouette was visible for all creatures below to see. He privately hoped that some human witnessed his stark outline in the heavens above them and took it for a dark omen.   The excursion to Dante's Abyss had been less than fruitful. Although he engaged in battle with a number of powerful individuals and learned that there were indeed a great pool of other Primes that could pose a threat to him, he ultimately failed to demonstrate his true might. He had conserved his strength, waiting for the opportune moments to unleash the inner monster within him, but the few battles he participated in did not call for his full strength. He wished he had been less austere with it; at least his demonic form could have been beamed into the eyes of all that tuned in to watch the death tournament, strengthening the reputation of Dracula.   Very few times had Illidan spoken to his lord; twice, in fact, and only once in person. How the vampire master would take the night elf demon's performance was beyond him. Dracula had rarely acted in any fashion after Stormrage's deeds, neither positively or negatively. If he hadn't felt those piercing canines puncture his throat for himself, Illidan likely would have doubted that Dracula even existed. Maybe it was time for him to pay a visit to his lord and entreat him directly?   Another time. Although his body enjoyed an incredible rest during the last moments of Dante's Abyss, Illidan's mind had not. Other than the insistent tug-of-war for his sanity against the demons in his head, the lord of Poenari Castle worried about the state of his fortress. Tensions were strained when he allowed Torandril to assume command, even believing the man-bat that delivered his Dante's Abyss 'invite' belonged to a rebel group sent to attack him. Maybe he worried for nothing, but Illidan had not been a leader of cursed, spurned outcasts and not been on the receiving end of betrayal. Regis' constant rebukes against his leadership brought the situation to the forefront of his thoughts more often than he would have liked, but he knew it continued to pester him for a reason.   However, Torandril and Lady Vashj were to be trusted. If anyone could maintain a grip on the forces of the castle in Illidan's stead, it would be them. Yet it wasn't their loyalty Illidan was concerned about.    Regis' pruned face lingered in the demon hunter's thoughts. His countenance normally subdued, even bored, it twitched and creased as he spoke of Dracula's forces. His tone hardened, pumped with emotion, when he issued the submerged threat.   Perhaps Illidan needed to cut his losses and excise the bulk of Dracula's forces from within his own. The mental burden of a perpetual uprising grew heavier by the hour. There was simply too much he needed to accomplish without worrying about traitors in his own ranks.   The black outline of Poenari Castle jutted up over the horizon, the glinting emerald gem shimmering above its tallest spire. Even from his position, Illidan felt the pull of demonic energies within the spinning crystal. He hadn't utilised any of its true functions yet, but hopefully in his absence other creatures that sipped at the Burning Legion's font would have been attracted to its heady lure and his forces would have been bolstered.   A flare of green light bloomed from the outer walls of his keep. Illidan frowned. What could have caused that? He dipped lower through the sky as the neglected castle came racing closer to him.   Another lime flash, followed by red and orange. The chaotic din of dozens of shouts barely tickled his ears, but there was no mistaking it. Black shadows darted above the towers and the courtyard as bolts of all colours chased them, some colliding with their targets and erasing them from Illidan's sight. Stones peeled away from the parapets and walls of the castle, flung to the wind by rumbling balls of flame.   A knot balled in Illidan's stomach. He scowled as he drew his wings closer to his body and dove towards the courtyard. The shouting grew louder; roars of commands and anger, screams of pain and death, and shrieks of feral beasts. The dull thuds he heard before changed into muffled explosions and the showering of stone and dirt. The stench of burned flesh and distended organs rushed to him on the wind.   All that he feared had come to pass. The revolution had begun in his absence.   A tangle of misdirected electricity whipped past the night elf demon as he plunged into the battlefield. He swept over, gauging the progress of the struggle. Bodies carpeted the courtyard of both his forces and Dracula's. Demon hunters and naga warriors meshed into the fray while the naga witches and a handful of eredar warlocks, who hadn't been present when Illidan left for Dante's Abyss, kept their distance and lobbed a storm of spells, some offensive while others supported their frontline forces.   "Dammit!" Illidan clenched his fists as he circled over the carnage, his frantic vision scanning for any of his officers. Torandril, the most gifted demon hunter Illidan had ever trained, danced within the ranks of Dracula's traitorous throng, his warglaives painting the dirt with vivid crimson splatters. He moved with a fluidity and grace that left werewolves and stiff undead swiping at air as he parted heads from shoulders with effortless arcs of his blades.   Stormrage considered calling out to him, but breaking his battle frenzy would leave him vulnerable to attack while he processed his lord's return. No, Torandril could handle himself. Illidan would soon join him in the heated exchange, but he needed more intelligence first.   Torandril finished a helicopter flourish of his warglaives, slashing the circumference of undead that surrounded him. A lumbering zombie lunged at him, and the night elf pared its rotting arms from its shoulders. Unbeknownst to him, a reanimated skeleton shambled from behind, raising his sword in clicking, jerky motions. Illidan tensed, summoning crackling green lightning around his forearm. As he pointed his index and middle fingers at the target, a werewolf leapt from nowhere and tackled the ghoul, savaging it. When the beast was done, the skeleton lay in a jumble of useless bones.   The Fel Shock spell dissipated as Illidan recognised Torandril's saviour. Clawfang? Was he actually helping the night elf, or did he miss his target in his haste?   As the werewolf's claws ruined the face of a downed necromancer, Illidan knew the answer. Contrary to his expectations, Clawfang remained loyal, turning on his original forces. If that crazy beast survived the fight, he would be promoted.   Sweeping his gaze over the spellcasters of his forces again, the Betrayer caught sight of Lady Vashj. She stood at the front of the naga witches, her sextuplet of arms flailing at her sides, her slitted eyes snapping from target to target, blue vapour burning from her scaly fingers. She shone like an azure beacon in Illidan's magical sight, imbuing her troops' spells with greater power and potency while directing their fire on the most important targets. Again, her contributions to the struggle were too vital for interruption.   The only officer unaccounted for was Regis. Had he kept his promise to serve, or had he sided with those discontented with Stormrage's rule? His warnings had been stern and constant, but Illidan didn't know what the old necromancer saw as the way forward. Did his concerns spring from a desire to protect Illidan's authority, or to warn him of the inevitable conflict that had now broken out?   He followed the foul yellow lights that laced the earth, the magical trail attached to the practitioners of necromancy. Mostly elderly humans, they hunched around each other as they waved hands and fingers about, commanding their risen corpses like the marionettes of a puppeteer. There, in their centre with a straight back and staff raised to the sky, was Regis.   The old man's eyes, normally half lidded and disinterested, shone with vigour and fear, finding the soaring night elf demon. He shouted something, and the tip of his wooden staff blazed with a new light.   That insubordinate wretch! Illidan's knotted stomach unfurled as a searing heat rose from its pit and scorched his chest. His clawed fingers shook as that bastard stared up at him unapologetically, his wrinkled lips moving silently as he gathered whatever dark magic he planned to use on him.   Illidan wouldn't give him that chance. He would rain felfire on those deceitful cretins, reducing them to smoking ashes. He hadn't come this far to lose it all to Regis.   A screech rattled Illidan's ears and he flung himself about. A man-bat snarled at him, dashing towards him through the sky with blood soaked claws and fangs. Illidan caught the monster's furry shoulders as it collided with him, keeping it away at arm's length while it gnashed at him furiously. Its lean arms flailed, its rough claws scratching at the outside of his forearms and elbows, its wings flapping all the while, pressing down on him. Stormrage saw the bloodlust in its untamed eyes, smelt the stomach-turning aroma of raw flesh on its rasping breath.   With a yell and a great heave, Illidan spun and hurled the man-bat towards the ground, using its ferocious momentum against it. Spreading its leathery wings, the humanoid aberration halted its trajectory and shot a baleful stare upwards. Grimacing, the night elf demon birthed a flaming green orb between his palms and flung it. An emerald blaze tore the man-bat asunder, its fading shriek the last remnants of its obliterated existence.   A cacophony of grating screams filled the skies. Illidan turned as a flock of man-bats honed in on him. Snapping his fingers, the night elf demon summoned his warglaives in a puff of black smoke, preparing to cut down  the horde of monstrosities as they convened on him.   This was his damn castle. His soldiers fought and died for him. His officers gave everything they had to preserve his command. These defiant curs would surrender to his all-consuming power or die like all those before them.   A generous pulse of amber light crackled through the air, moving like a lightning bolt. Illidan's hands moved in a flurry, initiating a counter-spell, as the energy crashed into him. The magic dug into his skin and penetrated his veins, cutting deep into him and leaving agonising, flaming streaks within. Stormrage doubled over in pain, shaking fingers losing their grip of warglaives, letting them spin wildly to the ground. He grimaced, biting his tongue as burning pain suffused his entire body. It ran through his limbs and branched into his wings. The flaming torment constricted his muscles, paralysing them in crooked positions.   Illidan could resist no longer and screamed. His strained body plummeted from the sky. He barely felt the collision with the dirt; the dull bruising sensation actually helped numb the torturous spell in his flank for a moment. He curled stiffly on the ground, unable to think, his mind arrested by the pain.   Fel magic, for its most potent and unstoppable effects, required sacrifice. Whether it was a life, a wound or simply pain, the insidious school thrived on suffering. As Illidan strung that agony into an implement, funnelling his torture into a weapon, it slipped through his grasp. He tried again and again, having no other options, but every time the collected power fell to nothing. How had Regis been able to pierce so deeply that even Illidan's spell-crafting was affected?   The demon hunter opened fluttering eyelids to see Regis step out of the throng. Strands of yellow magic channelled into his frail body from somewhere behind him, no doubt being fed to him by a group of other necromancers to enhance his abilities.   "Look what you did," Regis said, tapping his staff on the ground. "Look at the death and ruin your leadership has wrought. If you only listened to me instead of ignoring me, if you heeded my warnings ... all of this could have been averted."   Illidan's face twitched, slathered in sweat. His rage commanded his lips into obedience. "You ... you have no idea ... what fate will await you ... when I am free. You will wish ... you were never born."   Regis scoffed. An amber light burst to life at his staff's tip. "I'm doing this to end the bloodshed. In a game of chess, all the pieces on the board are made inert when the king is captured." He lowered his staff at Illidan, and an amber sphere engulfed the night elf demon. Instantly the blinding suffering stopped. Illidan's first instinct was to leap to his feet. He ordered his limbs into action, but they remained stiff, as if concrete had settled over them.   Lifting his cane, Regis levitated the sphere. Illidan soon noticed all fighting ceased as the battlefield's eyes rested upon his imprisoned body.   "Enough!" Regis' voice boomed over the courtyard, uncharacteristically authoritative. "The impudent leader, Illidan Stormrage, has been bested! You who stand with him will lay down your weapons and spells and surrender, or he will be killed!"   "They would never surrender to you," Illidan snarled, finding his lips still malleable. "My death in this reality is naught but a stumbling block. I am a prime. I will return and wreak horrible vengeance on you all!"   "That may be true," Regis said. "But you could see the state of the battle from the skies. You already know that without you, the fight started with your soldiers on the back foot. Let me assure you that it hasn't improved a whisker since it began. Should they choose to let you die, they will have no one to stop their inevitable slaughter."   Illidan scowled. A moment passed in silence. "Nonsense. No battle is lost unless-"   "Did you hear his hesitation?" Regis called out to the stilled participants of the battle. "He knows you are all going to lose. You scratch and scrape at a fate that is unavoidable."   "And if I am dead, what is their impetus to surrender? Why not fight to the death?"   "Oh, I'm sure they would," Regis said. "You inspire great devotion in many of your subordinates, that is undeniable. Not in enough of them, though, or this conflict would never have happened. But that's beside the point. It's not that the forces of the great Illidan Stormrage will baulk at sacrifice in their lord's name. It's that their lord would not throw away their lives for no reason. Whether it's for strategic or sentimental purposes, letting your forces die amidst certain loss leaves you with nothing. You can come back from death, but they can't. And when it's you, and only you ... Count Dracula's forces will have no cause to fear you."   Illidan swallowed. He was right. The mutinous necromancer was right. It had taken months of effort and negotiation to establish his foothold in the Pale Moors, and it was all crumbling before his eyes. Death would not be the end of him, but it would obliterate everything he had built.   "And what's to say you won't slaughter them like livestock if they do surrender?" Illidan countered.   Regis' cold eyes settled on him. "Count Dracula desires hegemony of the Pale Moors. He needs those who will do his bidding. There has been too much loss of his forces since the ill-fated march on Darkshire. The infighting of Count Dracula's armies must end for him to achieve his goals. Those who surrender will be permitted to join our lord without punishment. But even if such an offer was presented to them, this is their only chance for survival."   "Don't worry, Lord Illidan!" Torandril yelled. "As long as there is breath in my lungs and blood in my veins, I will-"   "No!" Illidan shouted. Regis had won. The only acceptable way forward was for him to surrender, and hope the necromancer truly had Dracula's best interests in mind. In all of the night elf demon's dealings with Regis, that one note had always rung true. "There is no honour in dying for nothing. Everyone who pleads allegiance to me ... surrender."   "But my lord," Lady Vashj's hissed. "We pledged to serve-"   "Do not argue!" Illidan snapped. "Surrender!"   A few moments of quiet bewilderment passed. Illidan's rage drummed in his temples as he heard weapons thump into the dirt and stone. How could he have let his happen?   Regis guided Stormrage back to the earth as he watched his soldiers kneel, their hands on their heads. I will make up for this atrocity, I swear it.   "Congratulations," Regis said, the passion drained from his face. "Your actions just saved a lot of lives and contributed to Count Dracula's war on the light."   "I should've known," Illidan spat. "You are as traitorous as that bloodsucker Ronaldo was. I will sear the eyes from your head, flay the skin from your bones and throw you to the wolves."   "Do not blame me," Regis said, turning his head. The crowd amassed behind the necromancer jostled as someone moved to the front. "I simply sided with those that represented Count Dracula's interests the best. The one who reached out to me is approaching. The one who initiated the rebellion."   Illidan refrained from asking. Such a question would paint him as a fool, as if he did not know the machinations of his own forces. Yet that was the truth, but he would not expose it. Whoever instigated the rebellion would soon be in his sights, and once Illidan was free, this head traitor would join Regis as a bleeding steak for the wild animals of the forests to consume, strip by agonising strip.   The crowd of horrors parted as the rebellion leader made it to the front. His pale skin and blonde hair were marred with splotches of blood. A number of superficial scratches decorated his naked torso. Gripping a pair of sickles, their curved edges desecrated with red, he stabbed them into the dirt and squatted down by the night elf demon.   Illidan frowned. This was not what he expected at all. "You ... you are not one of Count Dracula's ghouls. You are ..."   The blood elf smirked, adjusting his ebony blindfold. "A demon hunter."   "Yes, that's right," Regis said. "Not only were you betrayed, but it was by one of your own." RE: Snakes and Ladders - Illidan Stormrage - 12-01-2017 Illidan had never inspected the dungeons of Poenari Castle. He never felt any need to, nor did he have time even if that particularly strange desire presented itself. Besides, he had already spent more than his fair quota of his life locked in a dark, cold cell with nothing but the taunts and temptations of demonic spirits swirling in his ears without end. Yet now he was going to spend a lot of time getting acquainted with the algae-laden stone walls and musky odour hanging in the air.   The night elf demon curled into a ball within the amber orb of Regis’ spell, the immobilising magic funnelling from the apex of his gnarled wooden staff. A retinue of monsters and ghouls followed the old necromancer in silence. Illidan gazed down at Regis’ creased face. Flat and disinterested, his half-lidded eyes stared straight ahead, the light of his spell plenty to illuminate the path through the black. Not once did they flick up to his captured prize.   Defeat was a bitter pill to swallow but Illidan was not unaccustomed to the sensation. He knew lesser creatures would cling to a vaunted hope that something would save them or their jailers would feel compassion and release them for no reason. Illidan had no such illusions but defeat gave him another opportunity to assert his dominance in the universe, to test his mind and strength. How he would do that in this instance, though, was not clearly defined.   They had walked some distance down winding stairwells and long corridors. They passed under a crumbling archway and into a hallway. Cells lined the right side of the corridor, their bars flaky and flecked with dull orange. The yellow light of the night demon’s prison filtered through the wide set bars and onto the occupants of the cells.   Torandril’s body was slumped against the mossy wall, but his head perked up when the light rolled over his feet. He rushed to the bars. “Lord Illidan!” He kept his eager face on his master, perhaps expecting a miraculous feat where Illidan exploded with raw, surging power and tore his captors to bloody ribbons. Maybe he awaited an order. Illidan could not bring himself to do either.   A furry figure paced around the perimeter of the next cell as if searching for something, his sharp claws clacking on the stone floor. His head snapped to the glowing sphere that Illidan resided in and he galloped to the bars in a motion mimicking Torandril, if a little more desperate and unrestrained.   “My lord!” Clawfang growled, his crimson eyes wide like a lost dog. “My lord, where are they taking you? How will we get out?”   Illidan gave his simple-minded warrior some reassurance. Of his commanders, Clawfang needed it the most. “Be calm, Clawfang. This is but a temporary situation.”   The last occupied cell featured a long, thin creature slithering over the stones, reaching one end of the bars and turning to head back to the other side. She saw the glimmer of amber light on the wet, damp stone and spotted Illidan. She did not throw herself at the rusted bars like the others. She placed her four arms behind her back and bowed at the waist.   “Lord Illidan,” Lady Vashj said. No fear in her voice, no desperation; it was an ordinary greeting, as if they were bumping into each other in the line of her regular duties. The naga warlord knew the inhospitable circumstances of forced imprisonment in a similar way to Stormrage. Their experiences had vastly differed; he, locked in a deep cavern guarded by magical wards for millennia; her, sunken to the bottom of the ocean and twisted into the half serpent, half night elf creature she had become, beholden to the Old Gods. Such events reduced ordinary stone prisons to a momentary inconvenience.   Regis continued past Lady Vashj’s cell, ignoring the remaining empty few that stretched to the end of the hallway. Illidan glanced at his commanders once more before the black of the dungeon swallowed them whole again.   They descended a flight of stairs and came to the deepest part of the prison. A single cell occupied the far wall of the hallway. Regis nodded and a skeleton stepped forward, swinging the squeaky door open. The necromancer guided Illidan’s body inside, manipulating his limbs outward in a star shape, and pressed his body firmly against the wall. With a tense of his bony fingers, a jolt ran through Illidan’s body, severing his connection to his transformed state. His wings, horns and hooves faded away, as did the increased muscle mass. Another skeleton entered the cell with the first and fastened manacles to the night elf’s wrists and ankles, tugging on the chains that linked to the wall to ensure their strength.   Regis swatted the air with his free hand. The manacles shimmered and the thick flakes of rust shed from the iron. He pulled back on his staff, ending the amber sphere that engulfed Illidan’s body. The night elf sagged to the ground in his bonds, the energy from his body depleted. There was enough length in the chains for him to move around if he so chose, though not sufficient to reach the bars of the cell.   “I may not be casting the spell any longer, but I infused your shackles with the same effect,” Regis said. “While they touch your skin, you will be unable to access your powers.”   The skeletons left Illidan in the cell, closing the door and securing a lock. That device wouldn’t do much if he could imbibe the demon strength in his veins, but it was unbreakable while he was in his weakened state.   Regis turned to leave.   “What are you planning to do with me?” Illidan said.   Regis paused and looked over his shoulder. “That will depend on Lavir. As the new lord of Poenari Castle, it is his duty to judge you and your failed enterprise. Until then, you will decay in this cell.”   Lavir ... the name wasn’t familiar. But Regis must have been referring to the blood elf that strutted around after Illidan’s defeat. If the necromancer wasn’t taking the helm, he was obviously entrusting it to the one that betrayed the Betrayer. Yet Lavir did not ring any bells in Illidan’s mind, neither for good or bad reasons.   “I demand an audience with this Lavir,” Illidan growled. “I deserve to know why he led this rebellion.”   “As a prisoner, you can’t demand anything,” Regis said drolly. “However, it may interest him to speak with you. I will relay your request but do not expect that it will be granted simply because it was made.”   Illidan recalled the way Lavir leered at him when Illidan was safely enshrouded in Regis’ spell. He smirked. His body posture was firm and confident. He lauded the victory over Stormrage like a child dangles an object of desire just out of reach of a smaller child. Lavir basted in his own superiority while Illidan was made helpless and weak, and yet the night elf couldn’t even picture this turncoat before the events of the day.   Lavir could be playing the part of arrogant lackey-turned-master, or it could be as real and intrinsic to him as it appeared. How and why he contacted Regis to start this revolution were questions Illidan wanted answered, but most of all, he wanted some one-on-one time with the blood elf to take stock of his character. Without knowing his enemy, Illidan was at a disadvantage, but something told him the cocksure Lavir would take the bait and end the mystery.   Regis stopped one last time at the bottom of the only stairwell from Illidan’s cell. “I didn’t want it to come to this. I saw potential in you. You could have ruled as Count Dracula’s primary vassal in a conquered Pale Moors. It is unfortunate that you couldn’t balance your ambitions with those of our true lord.”   Illidan’s upper lip curled. “Get out.”   Regis ascended the staircase and left the room. The light that shone from the tip of his staff faded away until Illidan was left in darkness.   Illidan was never good at recording the passage of time, especially while incarcerated. Ten thousand years of imprisonment, while by no reckoning a short and breezy time, eventually blended together into one interminable stretch in his memory. As long as that time was in the moment, Illidan found that his memories of that night elven dungeon were featureless and, by comparison to reality, short.   He counted the times a servant of Regis or Lavir arrived at his cell and slipped just enough meat and water under his bars to keep him alive. Illidan postured that he was being fed once a day, though without light or time keeping devices, it was a guess. Every time the dented plate rattled under the cell door, Illidan placed a pebble against the corner of the walls. With the terrible upkeep of the dungeon, loose portions of stone were plentiful.   There were six pebbles aligned against the wall when the ambience of a light trickled down the stairs. Bare feet padded down into Illidan’s cell until the candle came into view, as did its holder.   The blood elf strode towards the bars. The candlelight danced over his exposed torso, illuminating the green arcane symbols scrawled over his pale chest and arms. Touches of emerald filtered through the black blindfold he wore, though Illidan could easily see the demon fire burning in his sockets. Fine blonde hair cascaded down his back and swished with every step.   Stopping at the bars, he gathered his loose pants to lift the cuffs from the dusty ground and placed the candle down. He stood as a smirk tugged at the sides of his mouth.   “The mighty Illidan Stormrage, the Betrayer, confined to a common cell,” the blood elf mocked. “Undone by his love of his army. This is not how I thought you would be defeated. I imagined you would have razed this castle to dust before you willingly gave yourself as a prisoner.”   Illidan tilted his head up, his naked back against the cold stone wall. “Then you do not know me as well as you think you do.”   “I know you well enough. If I didn’t, we wouldn’t be having this conversation with you in chains.”   “You have me at a disadvantage,” Illidan said. “I do not know your name, though I do not often trouble myself with worthless and bland individuals.”   The blood elf barked a laugh. “Your barbed words sting me, they truly do. I’m sure you remember me. Even one as esteemed as the Betrayer knows of my accomplishments.”   Play to his hubris, Illidan thought to himself. He seems blinded by it.   Illidan played a sigh. “Lavir.”   Lavir grinned. “There. Once you got past your hurt pride, it wasn’t so hard to say, was it?”   What an oaf. How did Regis agree to ally with this fool?   “What do you want?” Illidan asked.   “I heard you requested to see me,” Lavir said, running his fingers along the rust-ridden bars, the tips coming away smudged with orange. “So I decided to see what Lord Stormrage would want to say to his new lord. I hoped it was a declaration of submission but I know you wouldn’t work for anyone except the Burning Legion.”   Illidan scowled. “A common misconception. And one I’m surprised a fellow demon hunter would make.”   “So you are willing to pledge fealty to me?” Lavir said.   “No. I mean I am not a servant of the Burning Legion.”   “Though you have been in the past, am I correct?” Lavir said, pacing outside the cell. “And now you’re shacked up with Count Dracula?”   “You speak of things you cannot comprehend,” Illidan said.   “And that’s just the problem, isn’t it, Lord Stormrage?” Lavir said, grimacing. “Your motives are hidden to all but you. We all follow blindly along, trusting that you won’t lead us into ruin and destruction. But look around you. We serve alongside necromancers and undead and other creatures of evil.”   “And you imbibed the power of a demonic soul.”   “But I don’t do its bidding, do I?”   Illidan turned away. “Maybe you do.”   Lavir opened his mouth but his lips paused. Instead, he closed them for a moment. “Why did you want to speak to me?”   “I will tell you a secret I have never told anyone,” Illidan said. “But you must keep it clandestine. If it was discovered, everything will be lost.”   Lavir narrowed his eyes. “Tell me what the secret is and I will make the judgement myself.”   Illidan sighed. “The fel crystal that spins atop the castle ... it’s more than a source of fel energy. When the life signature of a living being with demonic essence is calibrated to it, they are capable of bending any other demon to their will.”   “So it’s a simplified version of summoning a demon? With less effort?” Lavir asked. “That’s not a big secret. Any demon hunter can sway a –“   “Listen!” Illidan interrupted sharply. “It doesn’t just allow domination over evil creatures. It allows control of anything with demonic essence. Including demon hunters.”   Lavir frowned. “What are you saying?”   “I’m saying that the fel crystal, when imprinted with my life signature, allows me to influence and even mentally control my demon hunters without them even knowing about it. Most believe they fight with me because of my cause, but the truth is ... I force them to follow me. Everyone who claims to battle at my side does so because I have overwritten their free will.”   The blood elf went quiet for a moment. “Impossible. If that was true, I couldn’t have rebelled against you.”   “The effect can wane over time,” Illidan said, staring at the far wall. “And those with stronger wills and minds can unintentionally resist or even ignore my orders. As it seems you have done.”   Lavir stared at a missing section of brickwork on the floor in silence. “Why are you telling me this?”   Illidan made the effort to stand, his chains clinking. “Because I’ve had time to reflect on my leadership and my actions in this Omniverse and I’ve come to a realisation. I have failed in my duty. I can no longer lead the demon hunters against the Burning Legion. And as you have bested me, it is only right that you take up the mantle.”   “You’re ... you’re actually surrendering the campaign against the Legion to me?” Lavir said, eyebrows lifted.   “Yes,” Illidan said through bared teeth. “But to have the best chance, you will need to synchronise your life pattern with the fel crystal.”   “How do I do that?”   “Normally I would have to work with the crystal in person to make it happen, but there is little doubt you would not trust me outside with the energy within it,” Illidan said. “However, if you can bring me a fragment of the gem’s outer layer, it will be enough for me to imprint your pattern onto the crystal.”   “And how do I know this isn’t a scheme to get yourself free?”   Illidan raised his arms and the chains jingled against his sides. “I cannot cast magic while these manacles are on me. The process for changing the life signature on the crystal does not require a spell, but I must be physically touching at least a piece of the crystal in order to change control from me to you.”   Lavir stared at Illidan for a long while. Illidan stared back.   “I’ll return with a piece of the fel crystal,” Lavir said, stooping to pick up his candle. “If any of this turns out to be a lie, I will execute your entire surrendered forces and then torture you.”   Illidan narrowed his eyes. “An elf after my own heart.”   Lavir left. The night elf collapsed against the wall and closed his eyes.   I look forward to your return, Lavir the Foolish. RE: Snakes and Ladders - Illidan Stormrage - 12-06-2017 Illidan choked down the last of his meal; a slab of meat, questionable in origin, and a shot of liquor. When he asked the jailer why he was given alcohol, he was told it was to keep him warm in the clammy dungeon so he didn’t freeze. Despite that the reasoning was flawed, Illidan would never need outside help retaining heat. The very blood in his veins burned with demonic fire.   He positioned another pebble by the wall as he threw the plate at the bars. Ten rested side by side.   Where had Lavir gone? It had been four days since their discussion and he still hadn’t returned, with or without a fragment of the fel crystal. Did he suspect he was being played and left Illidan to dangle in false hope? Had he decided to attempt deciphering the fel crystal himself? Or perhaps Regis had advised him against the idea, citing a possible chance at betrayal?   It was foolish to think Illidan would suffer alone in the dark. Ten thousand years of practice meant any imprisonment less than five hundred years danced by like a momentary distraction. Maybe Lavir and Regis miscalculated, thinking that further solitary confinement would be enough to push him off the edge and straight into the abyss of insanity. Illidan had already dived into it and remained himself, if a little scarred.   The soft padding of bare feet sounded like a marching drum in the silent dungeon. Illidan directed his attention to the stairwell and Lavir walked down and to his cage bars. Two skeletons brandishing swords and shields followed close behind, their bones clicking as they moved. Illidan wondered if Lavir actually thought his undead entourage enhanced his threatening presence, considering the night elf could easily undo the bonds of necromancy that held their dry joints together.   A faint green light emitted from Lavir’s pocket of his loose trousers.   Lavir performed a grandiose bow at the hips, smiling as he rose. “Lord Illidan. I hope your accommodations have been to your liking.”   “You took your time,” Illidan said. “By my count, it took you four days to get a flake of the fel crystal.”   “What makes you so sure I’m here to honour our agreement?” Lavir said.   Surely Lavir knows I can see the fel crystal shard through the cloth. “Because I may wear a blindfold, but magic is not invisible to me.”   Lavir frowned, struck silent for a moment, and then went back to his grin. “I had to make sure it wasn’t a trap,” Lavir said, folding his arms over his naked chest. “I had some underlings attempt to mine your glowing gem first in case there was some type of defence mechanism. There wasn’t, so you didn’t lie to me about that at least. But the gem is dense. It took some time to deftly remove a piece without being so heavy-handed as to shatter it entirely.”   “That took you four days?” Illidan said. “Count Dracula’s minions aren’t very efficient.”   “I don’t know if you noticed, but most of them don’t have fine motor skills,” Lavir said. “Or know the difference between hard and soft. But once a chunk of the gem was dislodged, I had it analysed.”   “How so?” Illidan asked.   “For all I knew, the shard of the gem was a trap,” Lavir said. “I wasn’t taking any chances. So the necromancers and warlocks pored over it, searching for anything unusual that might aid you should you get your fingers on it. I didn’t rush it so they wouldn’t miss anything.”   “And what did they find?”   Lavir’s grin fell away. “Nothing. They said it was stable and inert. They said it could possibly be used as a source of fuel for a spell, but your shackles prevent that from happening.”   The blood elf dipped his index and middle finger into his pocket and retrieved the shard of fel crystal. It burned with an eerie green light. He passed it through the bars. Illidan reached for it but Lavir pulled it away.   “Remember if this backfires on me, your entire army will be tortured and killed. And I’ll see to it that this fortress is dismantled brick by brick. Everything you have built will be ash. Consider your actions wisely.”   “Do you want control of the demon hunters or not?” Illidan said through clenched teeth. It was one thing to have to listen to this pompous idiot speak like he held some sort of authority worth respecting, but it was another to have everything spoken to the night elf as if he were some mentally challenged dullard.   Lavir flicked the crystal shard into the cage. Illidan bolted from the ground, his chains pulling taut, as he caught the shimmering green item.   “Now make the change,” the blood elf demanded. “Give me the power to enslave the demon hunters!”   Illidan scowled. “It will take me a moment to scrub my life signature from the fel crystal. Once I’m done, I’ll hand you this sliver. It will provide a direct link to the fel crystal and inscribe your pattern within its core. Afterwards, this fragment will be useless.”   “And how do I control them?” Lavir asked, his features animated. “Do I have to talk to them directly and order them around or can I communicate telepathically with them?”   Illidan suppressed a smirk. “Telepathic communication is viable.”   Lavir smiled to himself, staring into the distance. He quickly came to and frowned. “All right then. Do it! What are you waiting for?”   Stormrage fondled the gem shard with his index finger and thumb. Parts had come away jagged while others were smooth as silk. A small green maelstrom swirled inside its translucent surface, a whisper of the fury that tore through the fel crystal above the castle.   He focused on the raw energy within and sensed the tissue-thin tether that secured the gem fragment's connection to the fel crystal above. He wouldn’t expect most magical practitioners to look for it, let alone feel it, though he worried when Lavir mentioned the scrutiny the spellcasters gave this fragment. Nonetheless, it obviously went under the radar.   This was a big risk. Illidan wasn’t sure of the outcome of his plan but it was the only one he had, and risk had never blunted his ambition before.   “What’s taking so long?” Lavir almost shouted, the volume and sudden slicing through the quiet jolting Illidan out of his thoughts.   “Shut up!” Illidan snapped back. “If you want this done right, you need to keep your mouth still!”   Lavir’s eyebrows rose. “How dare you speak to your new lord in such a disrespectful tone! Once you’ve finished this, you will be punished severely!”   Stormrage clenched the gem shard in his palm and tightened his fist. He concentrated on the pulsing of the fel energy in his hand. It was almost as if he gripped an irregularly beating heart. Further he delved into its blurry undercurrents, his spectral vision awash with a multitude of gritty specks, as if he were caught in a fluorescent sandstorm. He reached deeper, the pressure squashing his mind, resisting his presence ...   “W-what are you doing?!” he heard Lavir shout, though his words echoed down a long, ethereal corridor. “Your tattoos are glowing! How are you ... are you casting a spell? The shackles should be stopping you!”   Illidan managed a short chuckle as his astral hand reached for the gem fragment’s swirling core. “Fel magic is greater than all others, even the dark magic that Regis wields. Necromancy and shadow magic are all descended from the pure, surging strength of the Burning Legion. These petty binds will no longer restrain me.”   Lavir shouted “No!” as Illidan fastened his dream-fingers around the gem fragment’s storm.   As his spirit connected with the fragment, he could easily sense the spider-silk connection winding back to the fel crystal perched atop Poenari Castle. It thundered with demonic roars and crackled with unbridled energy like a furious tornado.   If Illidan was going to regain control of Poenari Castle, he needed more power. The only place he could draw enough of it to do so was within the fel crystal. Even if what stored within its facets was not sufficient, the link to the Twisting Nether would let him siphon as much as was necessary.   And yet the ferocity of the Twisting Nether was never something to underestimate. Battling demonic whispers in his mind was a completely different scenario than submerging himself, mind and body, into their horrendous and terrifying power. He could very well lose everything; his sanity, his free will, his ambitions. But it was worth the price to free himself and right the wrongs of Regis and the traitors who overturned Illidan’s rule.   The night elf plunged himself into the core and funnelled his essence through the link to the fel crystal. The gem fragment fell from his disintegrating fingers as he was fully absorbed through its lattices and spirited towards the top of the castle.   Lavir’s roar of frustration barely registered to Illidan as he charged into the fel crystal’s core. RE: Snakes and Ladders - Illidan Stormrage - 01-06-2018 Intense heat surrounded Illidan as he floated, suspended in a neon green substance thick and slimy. Fel energy tore through his body. He clenched his teeth and growled as his flesh sizzled and broke, dragging fissures over his skin. And yet the pain was sublime. The dark agony inflicted to the core of his soul felt like red-hot needles being stabbed into every part of his being, and still Illidan craved more. The exquisite torture funnelled with it immense power, filling up every corner of his existence. More demonic magic spilled into him, and soon Illidan was revelling in the anguish it brought.   Yes, Illidan ... drink of our well ...   The night elf sensed the power within him swell, pressing light through the tattoos over his torso. A quiet thought at the back of his mind realised he would soon bring attention to himself as he blasted sickly emerald luminance from the core of the fel crystal high atop Poenari Castle, but it was quickly smothered by the pure bliss of fel magic drowning his soul.   Feel the energy, Illidan ... even more can be yours if you submit to us ...   The demons picked at the edge of his consciousness, plying his delirious mind with more promises of power. As the night elf bathed in their eldritch light, he grew more inclined to hear their words. He clenched his fists and set his back straight, reining in the desire to lose himself in their swirling malevolence. He had spent thousands of years beating back their advances, but marinating directly in a nexus of their influence softened his resolve. The power was glorious.   Declare your allegiance to the Burning Legion ... and all of this and more will be granted to you ... Fight for us and know true power!   “No!” Illidan bit back, his voice swirling in ghostly echoes in his ears. “The power belongs to me ... as does my will!”   But it feels wonderful, doesn’t it? You can sense it soaking into your cuts and wounds, drenching your soul in absolute might ... why would you stop now? Take more!   Illidan did. He siphoned the demonic energy that cocooned him directly into his being. He clenched his teeth at the bloom in his spirit, and yet as the demons took a moment’s respite from their pestering, he found himself wanting to join them. The elixir of the damned weakened the recipient’s resolve regardless of the temptations. Most didn’t need the push from the Burning Legion to partake in evil; the very ‘gift’ drove most power-mad and willing to unleash their newfound strength in any way possible. The demons merely directed that outlet and promised more of it if they followed the will of Sargeras. Eventually, the addiction to the fel would become so great that they would become empty thralls, only experiencing thrills when absorbing or utilising their dark magic.   Illidan wasn’t so weak-willed. He had endured ten thousand years of niggling torment in utter blackness and still hadn’t broken. The sinister whispers never ceased, but they never could convince the night elf of the validity of their promises. Yet as he drowned in fel, waves of vile power rushing over him, their arguments made more and more sense.   Your brother has chastised you for your transgressions and never forgiven you. He even labelled you Betrayer for trying to save your world! Such selfish arrogance is punishable by death! Take this power and smite him!   “Malfurion is short-sighted and pious, but he fights for Azeroth as I did,” Illidan growled back, his sense fighting the hedonistic urges that sprung fresh in the midst of the fel. “We may squabble but he is not worthy of destruction, unlike you and your filthy ilk!”   A surge of agony shot through Illidan’s soul. He screamed in his crystal prison, his body twitching but stuck fast in the emerald substance.   You will submit to us, Illidan Stormrage. Sargeras has seen your turn to our side. Continue to resist and you will endure pain which would obliterate a mortal ... but you will survive it, only to be subjected to it again and again until you crumble!   Stormrage’s pained roar was deadened as a mind-shaking buzz blasted through his ears. His back arched as fel power ravaged his body, though it did not deposit its strength within him; this was solely for torturous machinations.   Have you given up hope yet, Illidan Stormrage?   In the murky, shifting greens before him, a dark silhouette coalesced. It pressed closer to Illidan until the lime light tore the shadows from its form. A dark olive demon floated before him, wings outstretched, cloven feet hovering in the green void. His jagged, chunky teeth were bared in a perpetual grimace, the lips too tight or absent to cover them. His angled brow hid the baleful eyes of the demon in shadow, but Illidan knew who revealed himself.   “Still angry about the stolen weapons, Azzinoth?” Illidan said, chuckling briefly before another current of scorching magic scoured his flesh.   You’re acting quite insolent for someone trapped in our web, Azzinoth said, his teeth locked together. I have you right where I want you. You cannot escape from here. I can torment you for all eternity and there’s nothing you can do to stop me. The promises of power and domination will cease. There is no more hope for you.   A recalcitrant response enlivened Illidan’s tongue but it stilled as Azzinoth brought anguish to the night elf’s soul once again.   Illidan tensed his muscles. Azzinoth was a petty doomguard commander that was part of the first invasion of Azeroth over ten thousand years ago. They battled and Stormrage triumphed, using his commanding knowledge of the arcane to slaughter him. As the demon’s limp body bled on Kalimdor soil, Illidan stole his warglaives for use in the war. The hell-forged steel had never broken or chipped in all the years he fought with them, and a deeper connection to the Twisting Nether existed within it, just beneath the surface.   To be at Azzinoth’s mercy now brought bile to the back of the night elf’s throat. Either the doomguard had massively increased in strength since their fateful meeting, or Illidan was ensorcelled by another’s spell and Azzinoth was taking the opportunity to wallow in the night elf’s pain.   “Gloat all you want, fiend,” Illidan said through gritted teeth. “I’ve resisted the advances of your putrid Legion for millennia and never bowed. I shall not now, especially to a worthless cur like you!”   Agony flooded Illidan’s mind. He roared into the void.   Soon I will walk away from you, Betrayer. I will let your torture continue. I may leave you for a thousand years, maybe ten thousand. You will feel every inch of your being on fire. It will feel like molten lava has replaced the blood in your veins. And when I come back ... you will be a whimpering mess. You will beg me to end the pain, and you will submit to me. And your conquest of Azeroth will begin in earnest in Sargeras’ name. You should never have come here.   “You speak of fantasies which have no hope of coming tr-ahhhh!”   Azzinoth crept closer as Illidan writhed. You will lead the final invasion of Azeroth. Your great power will decimate their armies as you march with a demonic force of your own at your back. Their lands and cities will be razed, their populaces slaughtered. The ground will run in rivers of blood. Flies and buzzards will swarm over the carrion left strewn everywhere.   Illidan’s thoughts went blank. Pain was the only thing he could register. Panic flashed briefly in his thoughts – had he finally pushed himself too far, beyond where he could escape? Were Azzinoth’s words true, and not the trivial boastings of a low class demon?   I can see into your mind, Azzinoth said without words. He opened his jaws and the stench of sulphur stung Illidan’s nostrils. All that you hold dear, all that you fight for ... your people, the night elves. Why would you stand up for them? They abandoned you, damned you for siding with us. They locked you away in a prison to rot for the rest of time. And yet you still want to save them? What useless sentimental drivel!   The words pierced Illidan’s brain and sunk in deeply. Was he right? The pain stopped him from combating them, but he wasn’t sure if they needed to be. The night elves had imprisoned him for trying to fight the true fight – the endless hordes of the Burning Legion that would eventually return. What did a single victory matter when all they did was scoop a bucket out of the oncoming ocean? And yet none of them understood his far-reaching vision, believing his actions were all in the name of securing more power for himself.   Your brother, the great Malfurion ... he never approved of your talent for magic. As soon as Cenarius expelled you from learning the druidic arts from him, Malfurion always acted superior to you. You gave everything for your people and your world and he turned his back on you. He never understood your sacrifices.   No! He’s manipulating the facts ... isn’t he? The rage and pain funnelled into his resistance and broke them, letting the sprinkle of tainted truths settle in Illidan’s mind. Something didn’t seem right, but he couldn’t fight it.   And his precious Tyrande Whisperwind. Do you remember how she betrayed you? How she chose your brother over you? The one who was truly fighting to save your world?   A heat rose in Illidan’s chest, completely divorced from his torture.   She picked the safe option, the cowardly option. She left you alone, to shoulder the burden all by yourself. She feared standing by your side, feared doing the right thing.   Illidan unfurled bent, quaking fingers.   She deserves to be wiped clean from your world for her crimes against you. You loved her –   Illidan lifted his head. Crackling green electricity still surged over his body, but his limbs unlocked, the bones and joints freed. A new mentality overrode the night elf’s mind – one greater than pain or coerced bliss.   No, wait. You LOVE –   Leathery wings tore from Illidan’s back. Horns burst from his forehead. Toes fused together to produce cloven hooves. Muscles ballooned in size.   The night elf demon seized Azzinoth by the throat, cutting off his telepathic communication. The flowing emerald essence surrounding them drew towards Illidan as if green water swirled around a drain. Despite it matching the colour of their surroundings, light blazed from Stormrage’s tattoos and eyes, standing out like a flare in the black of night. His violet skin deepened until it resembled charcoal, intensifying the luminance of his fel attributes.   Azzinoth scratched at Illidan’s hand, his teeth parting to release a strained chortling. Did I find your sore spot, Betrayer?   Power brimmed within Illidan, sublime and horrifying. His mind quietened, supplying a single objective. No demons whispered to him, no agony disabled him – fury and determination broke through both jails and arose to the surface.   “You demons are all the same,” Illidan spoke, his voice several octaves deeper, ringing with a dark echo. “You think you’ve won until the moment you’ve lost. Let me do you a favour, wretch. This is the turning point. Your victory has ended, and your failure has become manifest.”   You think your childish tantrum means anything? I have broken your spirit, and now you will -   Illidan burst forward, still gripping the demon. Azzinoth’s back collided with solidity, but no object was visible in the green liquid. A crack splintered reality, white and shimmering with light along its thin length. Illidan slammed Azzinoth against the crack and it spread like the downpour of a waterfall. White light pierced the green gloom.   Wait! What are you-   Illidan thrust Azzinoth one last time into the epicentre of the cracks and the shattering of a thousand panes of glass consumed them. The demon roared as the reality of the crystal flew around them in spinning jagged shards. Fresh air blasted them both as they fell, careering down the side of a grey castle. Azzinoth struggled all the way down, but all Illidan did was tighten his fingers around his prize.   Azzinoth slammed into the ground, roaring as the air raced from his lungs. Illidan drove his knee into the demon’s chest. The broken pieces of fel crystal rained down on them, tinkling as they shattered on the gravelled ground.   Perhaps for the first time, Azzinoth drank in the new visage of Illidan. His skin had turned to an inky black as smoke rose from his frame. The shining of his emerald tattoos was enough to project light onto the demon’s chest. Illidan knew he had achieved what he had wanted to in the fel crystal, though his attempt had almost cost him his soul. At least he held the perpetrator in his clawed grasp.   Illidan yanked Azzinoth from the ground and shoved him against the castle wall. Thrusting an accusatory finger at him, a black serpent burst from the tip and coiled around the demon. Azzinoth fell, his wings wrapped around his body like a misshapen cape. He wriggled against his restraint but to no avail.   “Stay here,” Illidan said. “I’ll deal with you when the important matters are handled.”   Flaring his wings, Stormrage took off into the air, leaving a trail of smoke behind him. The fel crystal above Poenari Castle shone with emerald light despite the huge chunk that had been torn out of it from the inside. Green steam poured out of the gap like a smoke signal into the dreary Pale Moors sky.   Heads craned upwards as Illidan streaked overhead a stream of skeletons and decrepit undead. Many wielded weapons, ostensibly rushing to the source of the shatter. They were small fish.   The night elf demon skated through the air and plunged through the entrance to the dungeons. His spread wings clotheslined the two werewolf guards, knocking them over effortlessly. As the tunnel restricted in width, Illidan filled his wings with wind and alighted on the floor, sprinting past the cells.   Some still had warriors and mages faithful to Illidan’s cause. Scores of night elves, naga and Broken draenei lifted their weary heads as their master barrelled past them. Illidan skidded to a stop.   “Stand back!” he shouted. He aimed his fists along the line of cell doors and a ripple of the air flew from his hands. The swell of force swung every door of each cell so hard they cartwheeled off their hinges.   His followers climbed to their feet and tentatively examined the frame of the cell where the doors were once attached. Other than a few injuries from battle and perhaps some forceful shoves and strikes from their jailers, they were in good shape.   “Hold until I return,” Illidan said. “We will reclaim Poenari Castle.”   The lack of light did nothing to stop his magical sight detecting his objectives as he dashed into the penultimate floor of the dungeons. The figures in the cells blazed with light in his eyes, their arcane strength unmissable.   “My lord!” Clawfang said, throwing himself against his cage. “You’ve returned! I knew you would come back!”   Lady Vashj twisted her svelte body around at Clawfang’s words and slithered to her cell door, silently nodding her approval.   Torandril, sitting against the wall, leapt to his feet and ran to his door.  “My lord, your skin is smoking ...”   Illidan waved a hand, sending invisible tendrils of telekinetic magic into each lock. As they made contact, the locks snapped open with a loud crack.   “Hold it!”   Another figure was present in the hall, one Illidan was surprised he hadn’t noticed before.   “Lavir the Foolish,” Illidan growled.   “How on Azeroth did you get back so quickly?” the blonde blood elf sputtered. “You were gone for less than a minute!”   “Time flows differently in the realms of fel, ‘demon hunter,’” Illidan said. He ran his gaze up and down Lavir and failed to detect a whisker of fel power bleeding invisibly from his body. His two skeleton guards, however, reeked of yellow necromantic energies.   Lavir scowled and stabbed a finger at Illidan. “Get them!”   The skeletons lurched forward, brandishing their swords and shields.   “You send leaves to battle a hurricane,” Illidan spat. Opening a black hand, an emerald fireball burst from his palm and screamed towards the skeletons. The raised dead blew apart, their faded and gnarled bones incinerating to ash before they landed back on the ground. “I warned you they would do little to stop me.”   Clawfang exploded out of his cage. “You will die for betraying our lord!”   “Stay your jaws, Clawfang,” Torandril said. Echoing down the hall came the clapping of dozens of feet on stone. Each second lent strength to the sound. “Let Lord Illidan handle him. We must hold the dungeon lest Lavir receive reinforcements.”   Lady Vashj left her cell to join the other loyal officers of Illidan’s forces. “Do as you will, Lord Illidan. Know that we will keep you safe.”   “I’ve freed our forces that did not change sides,” Illidan said. “See that they get their revenge.”   His liberated retainers rose up the steps to the next floor.   “Hey!” Lavir shouted, his voice echoing in the damp jails. “You think this is over?”   Illidan scowled, parting his smoking lips to reveal daggered teeth. “No. You and I have only just begun.”   Stormrage clawed at the air, mimicking grabbing something. Lavir snapped hands to his neck and grimaced as Illidan tightened his telekinetic hold of the blood elf. Raising his hand, Lavir also lifted into the air. Snarling, the night elf demon swung his curled fingers from side to side, battering Lavir against the wall and the cells repeatedly. He continued as blood broke free from the usurper’s mouth and nostrils. He didn’t stop when he heard the crack of bone breaking as Lavir’s shoulder collided awkwardly with the cell bars.   “Please – stop – this!” Lavir struggled between every collision.   “You stole the command from me!” Illidan roared. “You conspired with Regis to take away everything I’ve worked for! You betrayed me!”   “I’m – sorry!”   Illidan clenched his teeth. The hatred swirled within his core, etching the snarl on his face and keeping it rigid. He bashed Lavir again and again against the cold brick and rusted steel until the blood elf’s head sagged. Grunting, Illidan dissolved the magic and let Lavir flop to the ground.   Lavir’s body shuddered. Blood slinked from cuts on his arms and shoulders and stained his golden hair.   Illidan strode over to his quaking body. He prodded Lavir’s naked torso with a hoof and flipped him onto his back. He could still sense the subtle rise and fall of Lavir’s chest.   “I’m ... sorry,” Lavir huffed, grimacing. “I ...truly ... am.”   “I know you are not a true demon hunter,” Stormrage said menacingly.   “How ...”   “When you brought me the piece of fel crystal and I sensed it through your pocket, you lowered your guard for a moment. I saw surprise on your face. Shock. A demon hunter would know that our cursed vision lets us see sources of magic through objects as long as the magic is potent. You, obviously, did not.” Illidan lent down and tugged Lavir’s blindfold free. Beneath were eyes of flesh, unburning. Small pricks of green light were positioned on the cloth approximately where his eyes would have been with the strip of fabric on. “You did not know because you do not have this sight. You have not endured the ritual.”   Lavir sucked in a deep breath and let it out. “You’re right.”   Cries of battle reached Illidan’s ears. “You will explain to me what this revolution was about, and you will do it before my warriors are finished defeating yours.”   “I was going to join you,” Lavir said, still splayed on his back, eyes closed. “I appeared in the Omniverse like everyone else who isn’t a Prime; scared. Soon I heard about the great Illidan Stormrage and thought I would be safe with you. At last, someone I recognised from Azeroth! All I had to do was act the part of a demon hunter and no one would know. I would be protected by your warriors. Part of me even considered becoming a demon hunter.”   “But when I saw the process ... killing a demon and eating its heart ... I couldn’t do it. I was too weak. And I realised, after you attacked Darkshire, that it would only be a matter of time before my uselessness in a fight would be exposed. So when I saw Regis walk away frustrated again after talking to you, I came up with a plan. A stupid plan, a risky plan ...” He coughed and spat blood to the side. “But doing nothing was riskier. Fear makes people do stupid things.”   “I convinced Regis to use me as a rallying symbol. Those that followed you could feel easier by betraying you if they still followed one of their own. I would be a figurehead and Regis would control the army to better Count Dracula’s position in the Pale Moors. He cast an illusion of burning eyes on the blindfold and drew these tattoos so I would look like a demon hunter. Regis promised my safety.”   “But it’s not working. Your forces who joined Regis aren’t happy. They’ve been changing their minds. So Regis sent them to the dungeons. This whole situation has weakened everything.”   Illidan let his gaze roll over the prone blood elf. He was nothing but a coward. He couldn’t blame him for fearing the demon hunter ritual; many brave enough to attempt it didn’t survive it. Lavir just wanted to survive in a world full of horrors dealing death at every turn. These were the people Illidan fought for, whether he would ever admit it. He fought to save worlds from evil, and that included all that lived in them.   “You betrayed me,” Illidan said, tightening his grip on Lavir’s blindfold, trying to convince himself that the yearning for murder was justified. “You damaged my bid for hegemony of the Pale Moors, my quest to oust the darkness, all to cover your hide.”   Lavir opened his green eyes for the first time. “Your ... quest?”   Illidan frowned. “I will defeat Dracula. Do you think I am truly beholden to his will?”   “There’s plenty of rumours about the Betrayer,” Lavir said. “It’s ... hard to know what to believe.”   The demonic pounding in his head ordered him to slay Lavir. His blood had to be spilled to pay for his actions. He deserved to be wiped clean from this world for what he had done to –   She deserves to be wiped clean from your world for her crimes against you, Azzinoth’s past words rang in his ears. You loved her –   Illidan stood in silence as Lavir stared at him. “What are you going to do to me?”   “Wait here. If you are not here when I return, I will hunt you down and make your death unbearable torment.”   The night elf demon stormed up the stairs and towards the din of battle. He reached his forces as they tried to beat back the rotting undead and monsters underneath Regis’ command. The green vapour rising from his eyes intensified.   “All warriors true to Illidan Stormrage – drop to the floor now!” the Betrayer roared.   In unison, his loyal demon hunters, naga and Broken leapt to the side and collapsed on the ground without question. Illidan ripped the blindfold away as fel light blazed from the twin flames on his face.   With a bloodcurdling roar, twin beams of intensely concentrated fel magic burst from Illidan’s eyes, widening to encompass the entire hallway. Screams and bellows drowned beneath the crackling of the emerald columns as Illidan’s faithful flattened themselves to the floor, letting their lord’s attack buzz overhead.   The corridor was blackened and layered with ash when Stormrage ceased his eye beams. His forces stood again and kneeled before their lord.   “We are with you,” Lady Vashj said, bending at the waist.   “You are my long suffering warriors and I thank you for your loyalty and steadfastness,” Illidan said in a rare moment of praise. “But I will not need you to face the traitor in our midst. Protect the castle and kill any of Dracula’s forces you encounter. I will be visiting Regis alone.”   Before his officers could object, Illidan rocketed past them and out of the dungeon, reaching the entrance to Poenari Castle.   “Regis!” the night elf demon shouted. “Your insurrection failed and now I’m coming for you!” RE: Snakes and Ladders - Illidan Stormrage - 03-08-2018 Creatures of darkness scuttled away from the demonic night elf. Despite their terrible and haunting visages, they fled like ants at the sight of Illidan’s full powered form as he hovered above, beating wings that lashed smoke from his blackened skin. From the dungeon entrance, his warriors poured forth in pursuit of the fleeing traitors, their single-minded purpose akin to Illidan’s own.   Colours of green and yellow writhed in the night elf demon’s magic vision; the stench of necromancy and other dark, corruptive magic. They trailed like steam from their owners, but one amber beacon blazed through all of the interference. The sigils and enchantments etched into Poenari Castle’s walls could not shield the intensity of power that brimmed from that source.   “Regis...” Illidan growled.   He shot from the sky and summoned his warglaives in a puff of smoke as he neared the downed portcullis. His blades exploded in green flame as he pared through the rusted gates and he burst inside.   Stormrage followed the thinning yellow fog that catalogued the old necromancer’s path through the castle. Any undead creature or warlock not of Illidan’s forces unlucky enough to encounter him fell in a mangled pile, their wounds hot and festooned with emerald fire. This new power he drew from the Twisting Nether made all of these peons little more than momentary distractions.   Dashing around a corner and lopping off a warlock’s head in the process, Illidan reached the end of the necromantic trail. Regis sat in the stone throne of Illidan’s throne room, clutching his staff with gnarled, pallid fingers, the amber gem at its apex glowing faintly. Scores of defenders filled the room. Some belonged to Dracula’s original forces while others were of Stormrage’s own ilk who had defected. Many visibly tensed as the warlock’s decapitated head bounced with a wet, slopping thud through the throne room’s threshold with a blackened, smoking demon hunter close behind.   “Illidan,” Regis said, his voice reverting to the listless tone he often used when addressing his former lord. “Remarkable that you managed to escape your prison. Those shackles were specifically designed to restrict your magical capabilities.”   “You underestimated me again, necromancer,” Illidan said. “And you gave too much slack in your little pet’s leash. You can thank your treacherous puppet Lavir for providing the keys. Not that you will have the chance to do so in person. Though maybe once I tear your skull from your neck and stick it on a pike, I can bob your jaw up and down in a symbolic gesture of atonement.”   “I’m guessing from that elaborate threat that mercy is off the table?” Regis said, leaning against the armrest of his uncomfortable stone chair. “I can smell that you’ve been busy in your down-time. I’m sure you would have brought this power to bear in our earlier fight if you had half the chance.”   Illidan took a few steps forward. The clopping of his hooves on the cold stone echoed through the room. “As intuitive as ever.”   “You never cease to surprise, Illidan.”   “Why?” the night elf demon said. “Why did you betray me? What did I do to warrant the knife in my back? You didn’t even challenge me head-on. You waited until I left before you ransacked my castle and slaughtered my soldiers.”   “I think the answer to that should be self evident,” Regis said. “I followed you because I believed you brought vitality and purpose back to Count Dracula’s campaign. When I realised that this perception was all a mirage, I took measures to stop any further damage to the cause.”   “And at what point did my history of service and sacrifice to Count Dracula make you decide I was unworthy of leadership?” Illidan asked, baring his sharp teeth in a grimace.   Regis’ brow angled lightly, as if Stormrage had abruptly become more interesting. “I’m not blind to the actions of the self-interested. You were building your own forces of soldiers loyal only to you and not Count Dracula. You repeatedly ignored my warnings about Count Dracula’s underlings growing bored and complacent running guard duty. You have manipulated and killed everyone who has had an advantage over you in some way. It was only a matter of time before your inflated ambitions came into conflict with the will of Count Dracula.”   “And so you acted to nip my nascent influence in the bud before I bloomed into this imaginary threat to our lord?” Illidan said. “While I still performed my duties to Count Dracula, participating in the Dante’s Abyss tournament, you set out to undermine me. No doubt to wrest the reins of leadership from me. You always harboured dreams of being one of Count Dracula’s elite and you saw the chance to snatch that dream... at my expense, and at our lord’s.” Illidan dropped into a fighting stance, bending at the knees and turning side-on to the warriors blocking his path. “His influence is all that much weaker from this pathetic in-fighting and we only have you to blame. I’m sure Count Dracula won’t mind if I add your traitorous corpse to the piles that already line my castle grounds.”   “A fable,” Regis said. “My only interest is to secure the Pale Moors for my lord, and then beyond the reaches of this verse. When a threat to that plan is established, it is my duty to destroy it.”   “Why try talking your way out of this now, Regis? You’ve played your hand. You might as well embrace it.”   Illidan read the faces of the guards before Regis. Steely countenances were in rich supply but some of his old followers frowned or their stature faulted, their feet shifting and shoulders rolling. He could see their argument was exposing the doubts in their minds.   Regis smirked. “Do you think that all of these fighters stand even a chance of defeating you?” he said, gesturing with an open hand to the abominations and turncoats defending their master.   “Don’t be ridiculous,” Illidan said. “You don’t stand a chance and you’re much more powerful than this blade fodder you have arranged before you.”   Regis climbed to his feet and tapped the base of his staff on stone. The amber crystal at its top sparked. “You know... I think you’re right. A warrior as skilled and strong as you are would find little challenge in them. In fact, forcing you to fight them all here is really just a waste of time.”   Illidan furrowed his brow. Where was he going with this?   Regis raised his staff. The spark of light in the amber gem flared like a small star. The magical colour saturated Illidan’s vision. “Count Dracula thanks you for your loyal and steadfast service. Know that your contributions to his goals will go a long way to victory.”   Bolts of golden lightning burst from the shining staff’s apex and tore through the warriors. Illidan hurled himself out of the way as a crackling finger scorched the stone. Screams shook the throne room as skeletons, zombies, werewolves, warlocks, demon hunters and naga writhed in a blanket of horrible yellow energy. Illidan blinked his eyes shut, his felfire eyes licking the back of his blackened and cracked eyelids, and turned away, unable to witness the intense spell any longer.   “Don’t look away now, Illidan!” Regis voice, brimming with vigour and life, pierced through the static. “Your final battle is upon you!”   The night elf demon broke his eyelids apart. Desiccated corpses filled the throne room. Their skin wrinkled and clung to their skeletons. Their hair had whitened in the cases where it hadn’t fallen out entirely and framed the skin pulled tight over their skulls. Eyes stared ahead into emptiness, the whites infested with red veins.   Illidan slowly lifted his gaze to Regis. A blazing aura of amber surrounded his new body. Black smoke seeped out of his finger tips. His eyes blazed white. He pulled back the green hood over his head and the crinkles and lines that tarnished his wizened face had receded. He stood tall, the arch in his back replaced with a straight spine. Veins of ebony ran up and down his white skin like the barren branches of a tree.   “You’re not the only one who can draw power from other sources,” Regis said, his eyes ablaze with youth and confidence. He levelled the pulsing amber gem at the night elf demon. “Now we’re on a more even footing.”   Illidan flared his wings. “You have never been in my league, and you still aren’t.”   The Betrayer dashed towards Regis, his blades igniting in green fire. Regis swung his staff around as Illidan lunged, their weapons connecting in a shower of sparks. Tensing muscles, they pressed against each other, the impact point growing bright and white. In a simultaneous roar and final push, the energy exploded, launching them backwards and obliterating the roof, sending chunks of stone skyward like grey fireworks. The walls peeled away and tumbled to the ground far below.   Illidan rose to his feet, as did Regis. The unceasing clouds of the Pale Moors rolled overhead. Lightning cracked and the sky rumbled with its fury.   “Let’s try and deal with this quickly,” Regis said, aiming the staff at Illidan. “I don’t want us to destroy more of my castle than is needed to dispose of you.”   “Funny. That’s exactly what I was thinking.”   Regis thrust his staff forward and a set of deep purple projectiles screamed outwards like frenzied bats. Illidan dodged past them, feeling the ungodly heat as they almost sliced through his black flesh. Still more they came, salvo after salvo of conjured arrowheads. A powerful slap of his wings and Stormrage bounded off the decimated throne room and into the musty air. He ducked and dove through the gaps in between each projectile, though his margin for error was slim.   “You can’t dodge my attacks forever, Stormrage!” Regis shouted, his once depressed countenance alive with premature victory. “Count Dracula will have this fortress!”   A spear of darkness slashed Illidan’s side and he faltered, grunting as the pain flared unnaturally. He collapsed his wings and slammed onto the open throne room as Regis redirected the stream towards him. Illidan yelled with force and agony as he hurled both of his warglaives at his enemy. Immediately he clutched his side, feeling the warm purple blood ooze from the wound and run down his fingers.   Regis cut off his attack and swung his staff into the spinning warglaives, sending them flying away with ease. One careened out of sight while another flopped to the ground away from the night elf demon.   That staff... Illidan could see the power wafting from the arcane object. Much of its strength resided in the gem and flowed through the wood and into Regis’ body. Slowly he witnessed the tendrils of magic wend their way into the necromancer’s flesh, burrowing that stolen energy into his spirit, but slowly was the operative word. Over time, the life force burned from the wrinkled corpses in the throne room would seep into Regis permanently, but it wouldn’t happen over the course of this fight.   A beam of yellow energy fired from the tip of Regis’ staff. Illidan’s eyes widened as a familiar containment spell wrapped around his body and formed a sphere around him. Regis drew the immobilised demon hunter closer to him.   “Don’t you remember our last altercation? One spell to capture you and you were powerless to resist. How did you not see this coming?”   Illidan snarled. “If you chain me again, I’ll break free again until I kill you.”   “In that case,” Regis said, his empty white eyes beaming, “I better kill you.”   The night elf demon grinned. “You won’t get that chance, fool.”   Illidan reached out and placed a hand on the amber sphere that surrounded him. Green light crackled from his skin.   “No...” Regis said. “You... you are supposed to be frozen... paralysed...”   “The power of fel towers over your pathetic corpse-rising!” Illidan spat as sparks of emerald energy raced around the sphere and channelled into the amber gem of Regis’ staff.   “No!”   The gem splintered as the yellow luminance dulled completely. A moment later, it shone a brilliant green and exploded. The spell encircling Stormrage disintegrated like amber dust and his cloven hooves clanked on the stone floor. Regis staggered backwards, staring at the shattered, smoking stump of his staff in disbelief. His skin grew more haggard and the dark veins in his skin had shrunk away from prominence. A fog of yellow wafted above.    Illidan loomed over the prone necromancer. Lightning snaked through the sky. He picked up a warglaive. “Any last words, betrayer?”   “Yes,” Regis said, raising a hand. “Never assume victory until you have it in your grasp!”   The yellow mist above, the remnants of the staff’s gem, sucked down into Regis’ waiting fingers. It coalesced into a ball of light, and Illidan instantly felt the spell’s power.   “No!” Illidan raised his warglaive and swung.   “Yes!” Regis projected a beam of amber energy from his hand.   Stormrage jerked his head to the side, pivoting as the deathly concentration of necromantic magic flew inches away from his face. He tumbled in a controlled spin to the ground, though the warglaive slipped from his fingers, clanging on the stone and falling over the room’s edge.   He rolled back to his feet as Regis aimed at his target, rage etched in his aging features. The searing beam of magic descended on Illidan.   Grabbing his blindfold, the night elf demon tore it free and from his fiery eyes issued forth a torrent of sickly green fel energy. His eye beams collided with Regis’ last-ditch spell, their frenzied struggle bursting at the seams with molten magic that splashed thickly on the stone floor. Two colossal forces waged war against the other, shaking Poenari Castle and infuriating the sky.   “The power of so many souls cannot be resisted!” Regis boasted. “You do not have the strength to stop them!”   “The trouble with your flimsy spell,” Illidan shouted, “is that you used a finite power supply. And an evaporating one at that. The spiritual residue you sucked from your staff’s destruction will only last you so long. In fact, it must be time for it to run out.”   The thickness of Regis’ spell shrunk. Even through the green haze, Illidan could see the unadulterated shock on the old necromancer’s face.   “Oh, and one last thing before I scour you from this reality...” Illidan said. “Dracula will break beneath my heel!”   “...Betrayer!”   Illidan’s eye beams dissected the yellow column of magic, plunging through its core and blasting into Regis. A flaming green explosion engulfed the old necromancer and threw Stormrage from the castle. The night elf demon flexed his wings and flapped above the smouldering room. A blackened rib cage secured the space where Regis once was; Illidan thought he saw the arm and leg bones cartwheeling towards the courtyard. A charcoal skull dropped from the sky and broke into dust as it hit the throne room floor.   The squabble for leadership was finally finished. Illidan alighted on the roofless throne room and watched a moment as the winds gradually eroded the rib cage away, the black dust swirling into the sky. Content that Regis was not coming back, Illidan flared his wings and glided to the ground, a stream of coal-black smoke marking his descent.   His loyal followers had regathered in the courtyard, awaiting their leader outside the rusted iron portcullis of Poenari Castle. Touching down on the ground, his acolytes parted to make room, in the process revealing two bound figures on the ground. One struggled with all his unholy might while the other lay in defeat, or perhaps acceptance.   “Let me free, Stormrage!” Azzinoth bellowed, squirming against his restraints, wings pressed awkwardly against his muscular body. “Let’s have a true fight and see who is the strongest!”   Lavir lifted his glowing green eyes to Illidan but didn’t say a word. Illidan let his gaze linger on the blood elf before he addressed his warriors.   “Today is a great day,” Illidan said. “We have reclaimed what is ours and sent the disloyal host of Count Dracula to the winds. It will take time to rebuild, but we shall. Ours will be a strength without end and without compare!”   The crowd cheered but it quickly died down. Torandril sidled up to the night elf demon. “My lord. We have brought these two before you for judgement. The others wish to know what you will do with them.”   Illidan pointed a finger at the demon whose blades he stole thousands of years ago. “Take this filth to the dungeons and chain him. Ensure he cannot escape. He will be dealt with when I see fit.”   A group of demon hunters bore Azzinoth in their arms and trudged towards the underground dungeon, the demon struggling and spitting threats all the while.   “As for this one...” Illidan said, his head jerking to Lavir. “He betrayed his lord and set a traitor to rule over us all. He benefited from this arrangement and he wasn’t even a demon hunter! However, he has shown regret for his actions, and his betrayal was driven by fear rather than greed or ambition.” Illidan paused as he considered his options. “Ultimately, he is not of our stock. He cannot stand at our sides as a brother on the battlefield against the Burning Legion. He simply does not have what it takes.”   Lavir lowered his head, his face blank.   “And yet I do not believe death is a fair punishment. Without his cowardice, Regis would still be scheming and plotting to take my power from me, and perhaps another avenue without Lavir would have seen him successful.” Illidan turned to Clawfang. “Unbind him.”   The werewolf raised his hairy brow but complied. He stomped over to Lavir and tore his binds to shreds with his claws. The blood elf sat motionless, staring at Illidan.   “That’s it?” Lavir said.   “You may live,” Illidan said. “But it will not be with the Illidari. You are banished from Poenari Castle and any other lands I will one day claim.”   “But... where will I go?”   “Darkshire is not far from here. The portal out of this verse is further but leads to better places. I care not which you choose, but you will not remain here. Take what provisions you need for the journey and be on your way.”   Lavir stood and brushed the dust from his pale skin. He looked around at the hard gazes of Illidan’s forces. “I... understand. You are merciful to let me live at all. Thank you... Lord Stormrage.”   The blood elf passed through the crowd that ringed him and vanished.   “Now my warriors,” Illidan said. “Rest. We have been through much in recent times. We will restore Poenari Castle to its former glory and restock our forces, but let us take heart that we have won the day!”   Illidan looked his fortress up and down as his followers cheered. If Regis did all of this to his forces, what hope did they have of moving forward?