Good Intentions

[Jim Raynor]

Death. It was the first thing Illidan smelled as he passed into the Pale Moors. It reeked of it. A thin grey fog hung in the air, a gossamer veil over moonlit grass and swaying trees. A cold wind rose goosebumps over his violet skin and tossed his fine black hair. Somewhere in the distance he heard the howl of a wolf, long and high, penetrating the stillness.

Illidan strode away from the portal and breathed deep. The stench of the undead assaulted his nose. He could never forget that terrible omen. That decay and rot that clung to risen skeleton bones, strips of skin hanging from skulls like a pallid cloth, eyes aglow with the unholy energies of the Burning Legion. Had they brought their unending curse to this universe as well? Illidan cracked his knuckles. Perhaps he would get his chance at redemption sooner than he thought.

The mist parted as Illidan walked through it, following a gritty trail being swallowed by encroaching grass. The faint buzz of insects played on his ears, but it was the crunch of vegetation that got his attention. Illidan spun, bucklers snatched off his belt, and expanded the blades of his warglaives.

"Who goes there?" Illidan said immediately.

You're a little jumpy tonight, aren't you?

Four undead abominations stared back at him, jaws agape, eyes glowing. They were once men, judging by their tabards and what remained of their armour; some retained their scratched helmets, another stomped about in a single boot, while another wore a leather jerkin torn in two. Their skin was faded and leathery where it wasn't missing, and the yellow bulbs in their sockets shone sickly light. Their bones clacked together as they moved, a grotesque percussion heralding their movements. His cursed eyes saw the undulating energies of necromancy holding their tattered corpses together, a pale imitation of blood coursing around them.

Illidan brandished his twin blades, the moonlight racing down its slick edge. "I am not some hapless prey, fools. I will return you to where you belong - the grave!"

The skeletons shrieked and lunged at him.

The power once at the night elf's disposal was much less than before. Still, strength and speed remained and his skills had not abandoned him. One undead reared a sword into the air and flung it down, but with the ponderousness and jerky movement of a marionette. Illidan rolled to the side and took the opening to slash the creature's arm clean off. It jerked its head at him, unresponsive to the pain, eyes burning with passionless wrath. Illidan grimaced and cleaved the monster's skull from its neck.

Another two skeletons swung simultaneously. Illidan rose a warglaive and caught the blades against his own, a gush of sparks erupting at the impact. They pressed down with greater strength than should have been possible for emaciated corpses. Illidan's bicep bulged against the strain, arm shaking against the pressure, when he noticed the last remaining enemy dragging his feet towards him.

Illidan fell to one knee, unable to remove the weight of the swords. The last skeleton approached, hobbling over with blade raised. There was no time to lose. Illidan ducked to the right, guiding the extended sword arms down into the ground. The undead were powerful but not fast, and that's where Illidan had the advantage. The sword of the last skeleton came down, embedding deep into both spines of the fallen monsters. Illidan sliced the head off all three skeletons while they struggled to free themselves, and their bodies clattered into silence.

Necromancers tainted these lands. How Illidan hated them. It was one thing to command demons, creatures malformed and strengthened by the energies of the Twisting Nether, but to raise slain or dead bodies to battle boiled his blood. Not to mention that most undead lacked basic combat skills and were little more than fodder. He looked at their corpses, yellowed vapour wafting from their bones, necromantic spells unwoven. He scooped up one of the skulls, the last vestiges of skin and hair slipping free of bone. The sockets still lit with fast dwindling yellow. The connection to the necromancer responsible for these abominations was still active. Illidan knew that as he stared into the dimming flames, the necromancer saw him too.

The night elf snarled. "I will find you, necromancer, and I will end you." He tightened his hold of the skull until it cracked and broke into shards of bone. The last of the yellow light jetted into the air.

Illidan let the bone fragments fall to the ground and continued on his way. He had no idea where the necromancer was, but if he found a settlement somewhere nearby he would likely find the answers he sought.

What's the difference between you and the necromancer? Nothing. You're both evil and twisted. You both use dark magic for your own ends. You're not so special.

Soon enough, Illidan's path took him to an outpost. A wall was erected around it, with patrolmen walking its length, keeping a keen eye on the horizon. They were human. Illidan hoped there was a warmer welcome here than with other humans he had dealt with in the past.

Steeling himself, Illidan walked up to the gates.