Assault on Darkshire [Staging]

[Illidan Stormrage]

The clouds drifted lazily across the night sky. Starlight filtered through the gaps they occasionally left, though the thin veil could not hide the luminosity of the moon, full and ripe, its light bright even through the grey. A clap of thunder boomed through the courtyard, though none of his focused warriors flinched. Humanoid man-bats flapped noisily around the courtyard, hissing and baying for blood. Wraiths of all colours swirled with them, sensing their master's excitement at the coming events.
 
A peal of lightning lit up Poenari Castle in all of its terrible, ramshackle glory, and rain fell at its beckoning.
 
Illidan breathed deep. The cold, frigid air of the Moors inflated his lungs and focused his mind. The icy rain sloshed down in sheets and rose goosebumps on his dampening skin. His toes clawed at the soft earth, raking tiny trenches in it, gritty and wet. Miles and miles of swaying grass rolled out before him like a carpet of blue-grey, bending to the whims of the precipitation hammering over the plains.
 
Drink it in, Illidan thought to himself, unconsciously flexing his calloused hands. The anticipation before battle. The adrenaline rush before the violence.
 
He smirked. The calm before the storm.
 
Cornelius shuffled to his side, staff tip glowing with yellow light. Spirits hovered closer. "Great. You finally decide to start the march, and it's raining! I could catch a cold in this weather, you know!"
 
Illidan clenched his jaw. Soon the castle will be mine. "Military campaigns cannot be rushed, White. Save your breath for the trek to Darkshire."
 
Clawfang, his hair matted down, prowled to his master. "Lord Illidan, your forces have been marshalled. We await your command."
 
The night elf nodded. He thought a speech might be in order, but many of those following him did not believe in his cause. Some barely tolerated his authority. Yet, it seemed cruelly unfair to allow himself the pleasure.
 
Stormrage vaulted onto a broken column of the outer wall. His eyeless gaze spread over his forces; wraiths, werewolves, sword-wielding skeletons, zombies, vampires, warlocks, man-bats ... they all felt their commander's movement, and all eyes fell upon him. His head necromancer Regis, assigning squadrons further in the back, turned his bored gaze towards him. The burly werewolf Clawfang stared at him like a dog would a fresh steak. Even Kerrigan and Skeletor, his newly anointed officers, recognised a speech forthcoming.
 
Illidan folded his arms and set his spine straight. "My army ... a great and disgusting blight blemishes what would otherwise be a perfect realm for our Count Dracula to rule. One tiny pocket of human resistance remains, thumbing its nose at its great host. They do not bow, for they believe they are better than he is, than we are. They hunt our kind down like diseased vermin, bulking at the sight of us, using their misguided and self-entitled morality as their justification. They would see all of you wiped clean from the face of the Pale Moors!"
 
The kaldorei commander paused, hearing his voice echo over the courtyard. Many eyes, blinking from the rain, remained trained on him. "Yet they fail to realise that this is not their home. They exist only to strike fear into us, to attempt to cow us. They may seem like a small force now, but if we continue to abide their presence ... one day Camelot will recognise the threat of our people, and Darkshire will be their launching pad into our realm." He turned his face to Cornelius. "And to those who have already been wronged, who have been abandoned and damned to a fate worse than death ... their waiting has come to an end! Vengeance shall be theirs! Today is the day that we eradicate the human filth that would stand against us!"
 
"Today ..." A bolt of lightning shattered the grey sky, illuminating Illidan in brilliant white. "Today they shall see the storm rage!"
 
A great cheer blended from many varied voices flooded the night elf's ears; roars and screeches of bestial creatures, the haunted hisses of the undead, the croaked shouts of the dark sorcerers. Even Cornelius' white eyes grew sharper, a thin smirk creasing his face.
 
Illidan hurled himself off his podium and to the front of his forces. "Skeletor, Kerrigan ... take what forces you need for your roles. Clawfang, you and Regis will protect Cornelius until I say otherwise."
 
His werewolf officer turned to find Regis, but paused a moment and turned his snout. "And you, my lord?"
 
The kaldorei's flaming eye sockets shone through his blindfold. "I will spearhead the main attack myself."
 
In a huge, booming voice amplified by a quick spell, Stormrage's command issued over his army. "NOW, FORCES OF THE DAMNED ...MARCH ON DARKSHIRE!"