Good Intentions

[Jim Raynor]

Illidan followed the guard through the dusty town, devoid of noise except for a ghostly wind that collected in his pointed ears. The guards at the gate had made true on their promise; wherever the night elf went, every soldier's eyes scrutinised him, sharp and mistrustful. Illidan ran his tongue over his canine teeth.

The moon hid itself behind the passing clouds and the stretching shadows melded into black. A lantern held a weak flame fighting for its life against a nondescript, albeit larger, house. Two soldiers stood vigilantly outside its weathered door, palms pressed against sheathed sword pommels. Stares that could pierce steel gouged into Illidan's magic sight. No matter where he went, no matter how he conducted himself, he would always be judged on his appearance first and foremost. The night elf sneered. How would these peons act if he knew what great legions he once commanded? What respect would he receive if the blood elves and naga stormed their precious town? The respect he deserved.

With great effort and a tenseness in his chest, Illidan relaxed the sneer. If he was truly intending to change, he needed to at least make an effort to be civil.

Even if he knew these cowardly creatures were beneath him.

"He's here to see the mayor," his guide informed the guards.

"He's got business, does he?" one of them remarked, a cocky smile on his face. "And what gives him the right to see Boone, eh?"

"He's a Prime," Illidan said, voice low. "He's here to help."

The night elf still wasn't crystal clear on what constituted a Prime. He knew he commanded the power of omnilium, and it gave him a creator power he had never dreamed of possessing. Yet the guard reacted positively to his title, and again the two fools keeping watch at the mayor's door abruptly dropped their condescending expressions. Judging by the evidence, Primes were either in short supply, more powerful than the average denizen of this Omniverse, or both.

The door swung open. No light resonated from within.

"Go on," the guide said. "Boone's always interested in meeting Primes."

Illidan passed through the doorway and into the lightless house. Floorboards creaked as he pressed his weight into each step. Dust flooded his nose with each breath, along with an unmistakable scent; decay. He tread carefully, unsure of where this Boone was. The door behind him slammed shut and the sound of wind disappeared. A moment later, the wind howled through the small gap beneath the door, a wailing ghoul hovering just over his shoulder.

The night elf clenched his fists. He didn't like this at all. Where was this mayor? Was this a trap? Had the guards not trusted him from the start, and thought tricking an agent of Dracula to his doom would be simple? Illidan bristled at the thought of being outsmarted by those dimwitted villagers.

"Taking your time, are ya?" a voice said, shattering the stillness.

Illidan turned. Despite the darkness, his magic sight saw him. A feeble man, gaunt and weak, sat hunched in a chair. A shawl draped over his shoulders. His face and cheeks were shrivelled and pale, but his eyes were bright and gleaming. Illidan's vision confirmed what his nose sensed moments earlier. Necrotic energies coiled within the man's body.

"I smell death on you," Illidan said, unable to hide his contempt for necromancy.

The old man quietened for a moment. "You aren't so pure and holy yourself, are ya?" He cleared his throat, a hoarse and crackling sound. "You're a Prime. My guards aren't stupid enough to let anyone in, especially at this time of the night, unless they're a Prime. Well? What do you want?"

"I was told a man named Standish was the ... necromancer," Illidan said, sneering the word unconsciously.

Mortimer sniffed. "No one is supposed to know about my condition. Standish knows a little, but I'm the one holding back the hordes. He's the guy who takes all the praise and condemnation, and that's the way I like it. No one needs to see me like this."

"You manipulate the dead. You raise up mindless corpses in a perversion of the natural order," Illidan said, unable to contain his hatred for the dark art.

Boone's eyes rounded. A light of youth hidden beneath his decrepit features shone through. "Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I wanted to force my citizens out of their eternal slumber to shamble about in decaying prisons? Do you?!" When Illidan said nothing, his voice lowered. "I've done what I had to do to keep Darkshire safe. There was no damn way I was going to let Dracula take my town, not while I had a say in the matter. Now my patience is wearing thin, boy. Tell me what you want without another blasted word about my condition or I swear I'll be raising you up next to fight for me. I don't need any arrogant outsiders, especially ones as hypocritical as you, judging me."

Illidan hissed out a breath. He was turning over a new leaf. He was returning to the night elf he was before the Burning Legion claimed him. He knew the sacrifice the mayor had made in order to save his loved ones. Illidan knew about sacrifice. He had to do this right.

The night elf wanted to apologise, but the words welded his teeth shut. "I've come to ... lend my aid. I am a demon hunter."

"Got our fair share of adventurers looking to make a name for themselves," Mortimer said, shuffling about in his seat. "I don't have time for the likes of you."

"I am not some wet-behind-the-ears simpleton looking for glory," Illidan said. "I wield the dark energies of the Burning Legion. That probably doesn't mean much to you, but I took my enemy's power and used it against them." Illidan ran fingertips along the rune tattoos over his bare chest. "We have something in common."

"Uh huh. And what do you want from me?" Boone said. "To stand out on the walls? To go hunt some undead? You could've talked to bloody Dobson about that."

"No," Illidan said, stepping forward. He felt a purpose well within his chest. "I'm not interested in playing scout or defending the gates for a night. I'm here to find the root of the corruption and tear it out."

Boone's eyes widened. "End Dracula?" He laughed, a wheezy and choking sound that sent him into a coughing fit. Once he recomposed himself, he said, "no offense son, but Dracula isn't someone you just 'end'. If he were, you and I wouldn't be having this conversation."

"Believe what you want," Illidan said. "I'm not interested in your appraisal of my skills. I simply want information on Dracula. Where he is, who follows him, what his weaknesses are, anything you know about him. I will find him, rip out his throat, and free Darkshire of his tyranny."

Boone shook his head, thinning hair swaying back and forth. "You're brave, but all you'll become is another loyal soldier to his army. I don't need that."

Illidan's pride would not withstand the old man's words. His anger rose, his fiery eyes flaring, green light blazing through his black blindfold. "Enough! I am the great Illidan Stormrage! I destroyed the advance of the Burning Legion! I defeated Arthas, the greatest scourge known to Azeroth! I summoned the naga from the watery depths, built an army and assaulted the Black Temple! And you would tell me that I don't measure up?"

You never defeated Arthas, you lunatic. You almost died in Northrend when he ascended the Frozen Throne and became the Lich King. Dracula will defeat you just as he did.

Mortimer stayed silent for a long time. "I can sense the taint on your soul, you know. You aren't a necromancer, and you aren't undead, but I can feel something tied into it inside you. But I can also sense your courage and honesty. You truly mean what you say. The only problem is that you think you can accomplish what you say." Illidan went to rebut, but Boone rose a skeletal hand. "But even if you don't achieve your lofty ambition of slaying Dracula, I have a feeling you will still accomplish much to help us."

It wasn't the full respect Illidan demanded, but it was enough. "So, will you help me?"

Boone waved a hand. "Go. Find Dobson. I'll send a guard to him to let him know I've approved. He'll get you what you need."

Illidan nodded and walked towards the door. His hand rested on the doorknob and he stopped cold.

"Boone," he said. "Thank you."

He turned the handle and walked back into the dark of night.