Good Intentions

[Jim Raynor]

The winds splashed into Illidan's bones as he soared over the undead wasteland. Low cloud concealed the winged night elf as he glided, searching for his destination. The cold gale bit especially hard into his blood soaked fingers, wrapped about the curly strands of Barland's beard. His other hand cramped, rigid and stiff in a claw formation, digging into the metal of the cage that held his other, living sacrifice. Thankfully the woman was still unconscious, but whether from exhaustion, fear or the chapel collapse, he couldn't say.

He flapped his leathery wings once more to stay aloft and a burning fatigue snaked through them. He couldn't keep up flying for much longer; for the ability to fly outside his demon state, it seemed he paid a high price to use them. It was blindingly apparent that they could only be used for short bursts at a time. Illidan noticed his altitude falling, the cracked and desolate earth growing closer with each moment. Several skeletons craned their skulls upward as the night elf's shadow washed over them, staring at him without emotion. He needed to land.

Illidan drew back his wings like skin sails and alighted upon the ground, taking a few long strides to burn out the inertia. His wings pulsed with heat, but soon the feeling faded entirely. He looked over his shoulder; his wings had receded back into his body. Focusing, the night elf tried to will them back into place. He could sense them, two tiny bone seeds ready to sprout into huge wings, but they would not respond to his prodding. He would have to walk from here.

Carrying a metal cage and a severed head, Illidan thought he might be conspicuous. Yet wherever it was he landed, there were no humans about to see him. The undead, roaming around aimlessly, stopped when he trudged by, glaring at him with those eerie yellow sparks. Illidan tensed, expecting a skeletal mob to ambush him, but after an uncomfortable time, the undead shifted their attention elsewhere as if the purple humanoid bored them.

Strange. Everywhere else they swarmed him as soon as he entered their vision. Still, as Illidan passed by another upright corpse, he mentally prepared himself to throw down his offerings to Dracula and obliterate it should it show the slightest hint of hostility. All that frame of mind ended up doing was keeping the night elf tense for no reason, since once again he was ignored.

Illidan had no sense of where he was going, but his only choice was to keep moving. His gaze swept the landscape, reminding him strongly of Lordaeron, the human homeland, after the Lich King had laid waste to it. The ground suffered, dried and dusty. Plant life all but withered away, with only the hardiest varieties persisting, and even they were not untouched. An unending fog suffocated the landscape through which horrid glimmering eyes pierced it, belonging to the previous denizens of the land, now empty husks bent to their master's will.

The taint of the land intensified as Illidan marched on. The earth chipped and crumbled at his foot steps. Only pale blue weeds sprouted from the ground. The fog clung around him like a thick cloak. A sea of yellow eyes shone like malevolent stars through the mist. His cursed eyes saw the thick cords of necrotic energy that slithered through the landscape; the colours grew bolder and brighter with each passing moment. More risen creatures surrounded him, slack jawed and empty headed, watching him with disinterest.

You are hammering the nail into your own coffin. Once you're under Dracula's sway, you'll become his pawn. His marionette. Just like Sargeras did to you. Any power you take leaves you indebted. This will be no different. You will not save these people. You will only ensure your own servitude to a new master.

No. That was a lie. Illidan had tamed the wild, raging magic of the Twisting Nether. Whatever Dracula possessed could not be harder to control. Combining it with his own fel power, Illidan would make short work of the lord of the undead. The Pale Moors would be saved, and he would be a hero. Just like he was always meant to be. He may not have his amber eyes any longer, but the great destiny they once foretold would never leave him.

It's incredibly sad when the crazy voice in your head is making more sense than you are. Enjoy your new collar and leash.

Further through the fog, a faint outline formed. Each footstep brought the sketch into relief; it was a castle. Tall, pointed towers shot off into the sky. Its black walls blended perfectly with the night sky above. Two fires burned brightly at the portcullis. Two guards stood vigilant outside, but from this distance Illidan couldn't make them out, though his magic sight observed the dark magics binding souls to bodies.

This is your last chance. Turn back.

This was it. Illidan would gain Dracula's power, kill him, and save Darkshire once and for all.

The night elf increased speed, his two trophies firmly in hand, ready to make the offering to the dark lord.