Siege of Darkshire - Spearhead [PvP - Great]

[Illidan Stormrage]

Illidan ran his face over slick skin. Every part of his body dripped with water, a bright white sheen shining off him with every lightning bolt. Darkshire stood defiant against the weather and the forces that sought to overrun it, a blight on Dracula's perfect kingdom. The roars of the defenders reached his ears even through the splashing of the rain and the crackling of thunder. The humans were ready to die for this misbegotten chunk of turf, though a reason for such sacrifice eluded the night elf. Those that followed his command at least fought for total domination over this realm, or wanted to help secure it. Perhaps they only bowed to Illidan due to his might, but he knew they all, from the lowliest zombie to the wisest warlock, would rejoice in a united kingdom under their Count once the battle was won.
 
The outer walls of Darkshire slumped in co-ordination with a muted rumble, one Illidan felt through his bare feet, and the defensive line crumbled into rubble. Skeletor and Kerrigan had done well.
 
"Storm the town!" Illidan shouted. "Kill anyone within! For Count Dracula!"
 
His eldritch army bellowed and charged towards the breach. Illidan clicked his fingers, summoning his two warglaives, and grasped them firmly. Sprinting through his own vanguard, he launched forward and slashed at the first guards to provide resistance. Not expecting such a swift and powerful combatant to burst through the fray, they collapsed with surprised expressions on their faces. The demon hunter spun, moonlight glinting off his reddened blades, catching a descending sword in the criss-cross of his weapons. He planted a muddy foot into his attacker, sending them sprawling backwards. A werewolf took the opportunity and pounced, tearing out the defender's throat. As it rose its blood-matted snout, a warhammer crashed into its skull, ending its life swiftly. A skeleton charged into its place, catching the next hammer swing on its shield. Illidan dashed from that confrontation, taking a moment to slash the exposed backsides of another defender's knees before his crescent blade parted head from neck. 
 
A sharp sting bloomed in his shoulder. Illidan hurled his warglaive at a charging soldier and wrenched the arrow that had pierced his skin. He looked up, spotting a small contingent of archers that stood on the left side of the wall that hadn't fully tumbled into a heap. Stabbing his other warglaive into the muddy slosh that was once firm earth, green flames spun in an orb between his palms, expanding until the heat roasted Illidan's skin. As the next volley of arrows tore through the air towards him, Stormrage hurled the felfire bolt at the archers. Arrows incinerated as the flaming green ball consumed them. The night elf rolled out of the way from the arrows untouched by the attack and stood in time to see an emerald explosion erase the human figures that once stood upon the ruined wall.
 
Carnage surrounded him. The stench of blood and spilled organs overwrote the musty smell that normally pervaded the air. Shouts of courage and screams of fear crashed into each other from both sides. The demonic taint in his soul revelled in the slaughter, pumped his blood faster through his veins, yearning to shear flesh from bone. Wraiths screeched as they tore into their victims, sometimes seeping through their skins to possess them and force them to attack their own kin. Illidan quested out with his telekinesis and recalled his warglaive from the trench he made in the dead soldier. Yanking the second of the set from the sucking mud, he cast his sightless gaze about, wondering where to insert himself in the frenzied chaos of the battlefield.
 
One figure drew his attention more than any other, staring out into the battlefield from the shattered wall. It appeared as some resurrected corpse, some ancient knight buried in his own armour, or what was left of it. Its dull green plating failed to cover its exposed abdomen, where skin clung to ribs in thin and translucent bands. Flies buzzed around his apparently decomposing flesh, though he took no mind of the pests. Illidan frowned. He didn't recall seeing that creature in his army, nor notice him battling so deep inside enemy territory. For such an undead to exist, surely one of his necromancers had to focus on channelling its energies?
 
The desiccated knight wielded a rusted, notched sword in his hands ... and cut down the first skeleton to reach him. With ponderous movements, he bisected a lunging man-bat at the waist on the upswing. A bulky undead creature, sowed together from several other corpses, found an opening and struck the knight, though despite his outward frailty, the armour absorbed the powerful blow. He plunged the sword through the patchwork corpse's chest and cracked his heavy heel into its face, dislodging the blade and launching the undead's massive body down the slope, bowling over several more of Illidan's army that sought their way up.
 
What is that foolish creature doing? Why on Azeroth is it killing my army?
 
Stormrage bounded over the battlefield, slashing at targets as he went, burning gaze set upon the armoured corpse. He landed beside the traitorous creature, but before he could utter a word, the aged sword scythed towards the night elf. Illidan rolled from the swing as the blade clung against the rubble strewn over the ground. The overwhelming stench from the knight overwhelmed all other sources, forcing the kaldorei to breathe through his mouth.
 
"You will fall back in line, undead, or you will taste the copper of my blood-soaked warglaives!" Illidan shouted.
 
The single eye beneath the horned helmet locked onto Illidan. "What makes you think I'm one of yours?"
 
Illidan's brow lifted. His magic sight searched for strands of undeath, of the ties that bind a reanimated body to the farcical appropriation of life ... but found none. Some form of pestilence or disease ate at his bones, but it was not birthed by a necromancer of his. He ... fought for Darkshire?
 
Green light illuminated the tattooed rivulets carved through Illidan's torso. The unholy thrill of combat surged within him. "When I'm through with you, you'll wish you were on my side."