Good Intentions

[Jim Raynor]

The moon cast long shadows over the earth. Clouds rolled ceaselessly through the sky, blotting out the light, rendering everything dark again. Small fires burned along the length of the gate, tiny vanguards against the ungodly forces at work in the fields. Soldiers in full armour stood alert, eyes scanning the horizon always, searching for the shadowed movement of the unsleeping foe.

Illidan walked up to the gate. The gazes he received were not friendly, but then not many ever were in his lifetime. "I seek information about these undead that stalk the plains."

"And what are you supposed to be?" the guard asked, eyes narrow.

Illidan stifled his anger at the man's blatant disrespect and answered calmly. "I hunt evil creatures. I found the products of a necromancer earlier and I wish to hunt the scum down."

"You?" the guard said, cocking an eyebrow. "You're blind. How can you hunt anything?"

"I am not blind," Illidan said. "I have magic vision, and the sight of my eyes often perturbs people so I wear a blindfold."

The guard held up two fingers. "How many fingers?"

"Stop that," Illidan spat. "I can see perfectly fine."

"And how do I know you're not one of Dracula's agents trying to get into Darkshire?"

"Firstly, I doubt this Dracula is stupid enough to trot up to the front gate and pretend to offer aid," Illidan said. "Secondly, who is Dracula? Is he the necromancer?"

The guard got the attention of another who stood opposite the gate. He pointed a thumb at Illidan. "What do you reckon? Good guy?"

The guard looked him up and down. "He doesn't look undead to me. Show us your teeth."

Illidan scrunched up his face. "Teeth? Whatever for?"

"To see if you've got fangs! You know, like a vampire?"

Illidan knew of vampiric energy, but nothing in his experience was called a vampire. "And what would these fangs do?"

The guards looked at each other. "Are you new around here?"

"Yes," Illidan said, feeling the boundaries of his rage buckling. "I'm a demon hunter. I also hunt anything bound by dark magic. Now do you want my help or not?"

The guards looked at each other. "Go inside. But we'll be watching you."

Illidan groaned. "Delightful. Who is in charge around here?"

"That'd be Mortimer Boone," one of the guards said. "But he doesn't see people very often."

"I have a feeling he'll make an exception for me," Illidan said.

"Oh, and word to the wise," the second guard said. "Don't be so harsh about necromancy. Especially if you do see Boone."

The gates jerked open with a whiny creak, and Illidan entered Darkshire.

Blackest of black eeriness draped over the town. Torches flickered against simple houses but offered poor defiance to the night that claimed it so utterly. There was barely anyone around on the dusty streets, although Illidan heard footsteps in the distance, around the bend. Every now and then he noticed a curtain sway in a window, or a pair of eyes glancing from an open door that vanished as his gaze settled upon them.

The people lived here in fear. Small wonder. If he were a pathetic human and encountered shambling skeletons while farming and going about his life, he would likely seal himself inside his crude domicile as well.

That train of thought quickly moved onto another; if there was such little bravery here, so little resistance and even fewer residents, how had Darkshire held back their enemy? The guards outside looked like they barely knew which end of their swords were pointy. If there was such an insignificant and untrained force holding back an entire swarm of undead, there must have been something more to the sleepy town than met the eye.

Illidan rounded a corner and discovered what that mystery factor was.

Two skeletons trundled down the path, eyes shifting mechanically back and forth. They spotted Illidan, stopped as they ostensibly sized him up, then kept on patrol.

The night elf armed himself with his warglaives. "Foul monsters! You will not ignore me as some docile pup!"

"Hey!" a guard cried out, sprinting over to Illidan. "What do you think you're doing?"

Illidan's eyes flared. "Are you a fool? Do you not see the undead stalking your very streets?"

The guard sighed. "Damn new blood. Those are Darkshire undead. They're on our side."

"You ... practice necromancy here?"

"Not everyone." The guard nodded his head at a home in the distance. "Standish is his name. A lot of us don't care for it, but without it, Darkshire would've fallen long ago. So put your weapons away. You're making the other guards nervous."

Illidan did as he was asked, but not without a deep scowl. "How many more outposts against the undead still exist in this world?"

"In the Pale Moors?" The guard shot Illidan a dour smirk. "We're the last one, buddy. If we fall, Dracula owns this verse."

Illidan processed this new information as the guard walked off. He hated necromancy with a passion, it being a perverted manipulation of fel magic. He could perform it if he so wished, but why would he? Reanimating the dead had such limited applications; short of amassing an unthinking army, they were virtually useless. A demon or fel construct outclassed an undead creation any day. Yet necromancy had always sat wrong with the night elf. Despite the indelible stains on his soul, that was not one he ever wanted to add.

And yet, if it was Illidan's only hope for survival, would he discard it so readily? He looked around the gloomy town. He had taken the Burning Legion's power into himself in order to destroy them. Were these people any different? Without undead soldiers in their ranks, they would simply not exist. Perhaps Illidan had been too quick to judge. Survival was worth any price.

"Wait!" Illidan called out to the guard. "I battled skeletons outside of town, near the portal. Were those your soldiers?"

The guard shook his head. "We have most of our undead in Darkshire. Some patrol close by, but they don't stray far. We're focused on staying alive, not launching an invasion."

Illidan's eyes narrowed. "I see. And who would I talk to about ending the undead threat once and for all?"

"Who wants to know?"

Illidan remembered a name he heard. One he knew would carry weight. "A Prime."