Let Darkness Come

[Illidan Stormrage]

On curved bat wings, Illidan soared over the Pale Moors. He cut a swath through the clouds, misty and insubstantial, a much different reality than the view from the ground promised. There was no shortage of the grey sea, and knowing that other necromancers may covet his power if they could sense him, the night elf demon resolved to at least stay out of sight. Initially, it appeared his caution was needless, but as he drew closer to his destination, crowds of undead dotted the landscape. None craned their necks skyward, at least.

Black hair wrapped around the fingers of his left hand, Gerald's severed head hanging from it. Illidan held Marie's fragile body to his shoulder with his other hand, afraid that letting her dangle could snap off a limb. Their ends would be the catalyst for the land's eventual redemption, and at least Gerald never knew what happened to him. Marie, too, would probably expire before Count Dracula's henchmen could use her for their depraved rituals.

It was time to set his mind straight. Illidan couldn't risk this Count Dracula seeing through his facade, whether through body language or some telepathic incursion. He had to become the facade. Not a huge stretch; thinking about how he had been wronged throughout his millennia-spanning life stirred a great and terrible hatred within him. It was a hatred that awoke the naga from their watery slumber, that willingly enslaved the blood elves to the promise of dark magic, that defiantly turned from the night elves and into the dishonourable clutches of the Burning Legion.

Part of him hated the idea of fully submitting to the darkness in his soul. After all, everything he'd ever done, almost, had been for the night elves or Tyrande. Every now and then he sought to further his position in the universe; what was the harm in that? Yet never had he acted to battle the common good, at least not purposefully.

Yet in order to honour the remaining shred of soul that grappled with his sin, he had to bury it. His new life, obeying Count Dracula and carrying out his orders, would one day lead to a confrontation with him. The Count would donate a portion of his own power that would eventually bring his destruction.

Until that day, Illidan had no plan. He was the primal, unbridled monster that sought selfish gains, and woe and suffering to anyone that stood in his way.

The darkness would claim him. But it would claim him on his terms.

Clouds brushed away and the castle appeared, stone black. It stabbed towards the sky, almost penetrating the clouds that Illidan descended from. He glided down and took in the massive structure, evil magic brimming within the bricks. It could hold an entire town and still have room to spare.

Illidan touched down on the ground in the empty space before the castle gates. Eyes had watched him fall from the sky with great interest, though none had moved to intercept him. At the wide doors, two sinister men approached him, tall and gaunt but still with a speck of haunted life to them. Black capes draped over their shoulders.

The night elf demon hugged his wings to his body. "I'm here to see Count Dracula." He threw Marie and the head of Gerald at their feet. "Here's my tribute."