King of the Castle

[Illidan Stormrage]

A sharp, stinging pain jolted Illidan out of unconsciousness. He brought his hand down to tend to the pain, at the base of his neck, but something arrested the movement, metal jingling. Illidan groggily lifted his head and looked at his arm. It depended from a rusty chain, encased in an equally rusty cuff. Indeed, all of his limbs were restrained, leaving him to droop from the wall they were attached to.
 
He coughed, beckoning the wound to flare again. Light was scarce, and a coppery smell strangled the air. Tiny dust particles fell like rain all around him. The squeaking of a rat and its hard claws scraping stone were the only breaks in the silence.
 
A prison. Illidan hated prisons. He had already wasted ten thousand years inside of one already.
 
What happened? The night elf thought back. Count Dracula. He ... bit him, if he remembered correctly. Why the hell did he do that? How did that make him black out? And what was he planning to do now?
 
Illidan's stomach sank. Dracula didn't see into his mind somehow, did he? Did that bizarre bite draw out his plans? He had shoved the idea of revolution out of his mind before he walked under Dracula's roof, even declaring it a ridiculous and short-sighted fancy in hindsight. He still believed that. That couldn't be the reason. But then why was he shackled to a musty wall? Officers of an army only get that treatment when they're found guilty of treason.
 
Whatever the reason, it didn't bode well. Besides, his disinclination to while away his time in prison manifested in a hammering heart beat and a sweat at odds with the cold that suffused the walls. Illidan had to get out. Had to.
 
He punched his arms forward, the movement thwarted by his restraints. The panic saddled his thoughts and urged for freedom despite the slim chance, which only drove Illidan on. He grunted, breaths coming and leaving in sharp rasps, chains rattling, skin chaffing against the coarse manacles. He didn't care. Each strike into the air quietened the fear for a split second; if he kept pumping his arms, it would have no choice but to shut up.
 
Illidan pulled on the chains again, and a creak whispered in his ear. The metal plate clasping the chain was losing its adhesion to the brick wall. Another air punch cracked the brick, dust and fragments crumbling to the ground, peeling the plate at its corners. A few more strenuous thrusts and his arm would be free.
 
"Oh, you're awake now, are you? Thought you might sleep a little longer."
 
The voice came so suddenly that Illidan's skin prickled. A slender man in a black suit stalked towards him, his steps impossibly quiet. A sliver of white showed through the cloak that draped over his thin frame, and his gaunt face matched it. Slick, oiled hair looked more like a shaped helmet. An unassuming man in normal circumstances, but hanging chained from a dungeon wall was anything but.
 
Illidan snarled, the chains rattling. "Get me down from this! Now!"
 
"Easy there," the man said, everything about him cool and calm. "The more you struggle, the longer this will take."
 
Illidan lashed out with an open hand. It stopped prematurely, but more of the metal restraint ripped from the wall. "The more I struggle, the shorter your life will be."
 
"You're putting an awful lot of confidence in your abilities," the man said, eyes half lidded. "And not much in mine." He stepped forward and introduced his fist to Illidan's abdomen. The wind raced from his lungs, stomach instantly closed for business. The white hot fury fizzled, simmering on low heat as the night elf dealt with the throbbing repercussions of his smart mouth.
 
"I don't understand!" Illidan said, spitting out a wad of purple blood. "I pledged myself to Count Dracula. Why am I imprisoned here?" Gods, even using the word made him want to shatter his own teeth from clenching them so tighty.
 
The man titled his head, looking at Illidan as if he were an oddity, unsure what to make of him. "Do you feel hungry?"
 
Illidan lashed out, but his arms only drew the chains taut. Even the weakened metal plate failed to do anything but shudder, Illidan's strength momentarily subdued. The anger re-awoke, pressing against the edges of his skull, screaming at him for release. "If you're going to kill me, just do it!"
 
"No one's going to kill you," the man said, chuckling as if the suggestion was ludicrous.
 
"Enough!" Illidan rolled his tongue, collecting the blood on the insides of his cheeks. He focused on the heavy ache in his stomach, using it to channel the chaotic fel energies within him.  Born of pain and sacrifice, they rose swiftly to the surface, eager to fulfil the night elf's bidding. His wrists expanded until they ballooned against the shackles, his feet slimming into hooves. Green eyes glowed as curling horns broke the skin on his forehead and emerged outwards.
 
The cloaked man laughed. "You still have a lot of fight left in you. That doesn't bode well for you at all."
 
He stepped forward and slapped his palm over Illidan's face. A strange, tiring sensation seeped into his body, winding its way into his mind. The night elf fought it, but it crashed over him, smothering him like a tidal wave. The transformation reversed, everything compressing back into his natural state, the demonic energies subsiding.
 
"Why ..." Illidan managed before he drowned in the black deep behind his eyelids.
 
His heavy eyelids lifted. Illidan's skin rose goosebumps in defence of the chill that saturated the dungeon. Other than the absence of his torturer, the room was identical as it was before he slept. Again, without the guidance of the sun's march through the sky, he couldn't say at all how long he'd been out of it.
 
Thousands of tiny stings registered in his mind. Illidan drew a sharp breath through clenched teeth and examined his body. Thin cuts defiled the skin all over him, crusted with hardened violet blood, trails of it slinking down him. Those weren't there before.
 
"Hey!" Illidan shouted, his voice repeating down the unseen lengths of the dungeon. The coal that ignited his anger had cooled, perhaps in response to the blood that had been let from him. Again he yelled, but with less vigour, the weight of his loss pressing down on him. He raged against the weakened metal plate, but the pitiful response from his muscles only jiggled the links. He may have been making progress earlier, but fatigue had claimed that avenue of escape.
 
"Yes?"
 
The man sidestepped from the shadows, acting as if Illidan had simply ignored him. Illidan's thumping heart told a different story.
 
"What the hell is wrong with you?" Illidan said, head sagging against his chest, his voice lethargic.
 
The dungeon keeper sniffed the air in an exaggerated fashion. "Do you smell that?"
 
The man waited a moment, but Illidan didn't respond. His bony fingers clasped the night elf's cheeks and jerked his head up. The congeniality had vanished. "In case you were unclear, I wasn't making a suggestion. I was ordering you to sniff."
 
Fingernails poked into the soft flesh of his cheeks and forced eye contact. The deep cold in that man's eyes made the icy conditions of the dungeon feel like the comforting blaze of a hearth.
 
Illidan sighed, sniffing to satisfy the lunatic. He perked up. Something did smell good, though gods knew he couldn't identify it.
 
The man grinned, recognising the change in the night elf's countenance. "So you can smell it. How does it make you ... feel?"
 
"How do you want it to make me feel?" Illidan said, framing his lips into a frail grimace. If this formally dressed lunatic was goading him into something, his instincts said to ignore it. Then again, the night elf was the one chained to a wall, skin pulsing from a thousand cuts. Not exactly coming from a place of power.
 
"Sniff it again. Tell me."
 
The fingernails pried deeper into his skin. To avoid another wound, Illidan inhaled through his nostrils, flaring them so that the weird dungeon keeper would acknowledge it. The scent wired him , sending electricity through his flagging body. A renewed vigour laced his mind and muscles, as if the strength hadn't leaked away at all, but simply hidden until the opportune moment.
 
The man let go of Illidan's dirt-smudged face and took a step back. His smug smile told Illidan that he didn't want to know what he had caught the scent of. "Smells good, doesn't it?"
 
Illidan couldn't help it; his curiosity got the better of him. He sniffed again, enjoying the rush that charged through him while focusing on identifying the mystery aroma. Another whiff brought the terrible revelation to rise, sinking a rock in his stomach. His eyes widened, blood freezing in his veins. The jailer grinned, showcasing his pointed canine teeth.
 
"You've worked it out, haven't you Illidan?" he said, smiling all the while.
 
"It's ..." Illidan caged the word in clenched teeth, but it made its escape anyway. "Blood."
 
Blood. Count Dracula had somehow transferred a terrible curse into Illidan's already blighted soul; vampirism. Such parasitic methods weren't entirely alien to him; indeed, the night elf had drained both life and mana from his enemies in Azeroth countless times, fuelling himself on their stolen juices. But he had always done this through magical means, forcibly extracting them through the mastery of the fel and arcane. Never would he debase himself by puncturing their skin and sucking up their disgusting blood. Such unrefined barbarism was embraced by the undead, but by no means would it be him.
 
And yet, as he dangled from rusty chains, the scent suffused each breath. Whereas before he could inhale and remember the tiny cuts all over his skin, now all he could think about was that intoxicating bouquet riding the stale air. At first he could rebuke the enticing desire by picturing a pool of blood dripping from the mangled corpse of some lesser creature, but as time went on, the sadistic jailor rubbing his pallid hands together, the image gained traction in his mind. It went from revulsion to longing to craving.
 
Struggling against the will of the taint only emboldened it. It climbed into his brain, scraping at every corner resisting it, until it begrudgingly acquiesced. Gods knew how long he thrashed against the chains while the dungeon keeper watched with dark glee. Nothing makes time flow like molasses like battling an escalating urge and making it the centre of focus.
 
Eventually, as the cruel march of time stretched out, Illidan couldn't fight it any longer. He roared into the empty chamber, fighting against his shackles. The jailor watched with a sly smirk but said nothing.
 
"Get me out of these chains!" Illidan growled. There were no more thoughts about being proper, or being above the act of drinking blood. In fact, the thirst overrode his will entirely, screaming to be satisfied, a crazed animal in a night elf's flesh.
 
The cloaked man walked up to Illidan with infuriating slowness. That self-satisfied smirk still painted on his thin, grey lips, he stood before him, occupying Illidan's sight. "Why?"
 
Illidan lashed out with his teeth, trying to snag the bastard with a vicious bite. His teeth clicked together, catching nothing but air. "I have to get out!"
 
"Why?" the jailor demanded, his face hardening. "Why do you have to be free?"
 
A fleeting thought danced over Illidan's mind. He's trying to break you. He's forcing you to admit that you want blood. If you do that, he'll own you. Just like the Burning Legion did.
 
An icy hand strangled the burning urge for blood, cooling it enough for a rational discourse to take place. No. He couldn't let that happen again. Illidan couldn't be yoked again, not for any reason. His will was his greatest asset, and it never buckled even to the great demon commanders. Indeed, he had accepted assignments from them, most often to assuage them. But never had he held their interests at heart. And never would he.
 
The night elf yelled in the dungeon keeper's face as the selfish defiance of thousands of years leapt into the fray. Startled, he stumbled backwards, the surprise unmissable on his gaunt face.
 
"You ... you ... you won't!" Illidan slammed his arms forward, screaming as the tarnished shackles bit into the raw flesh around his wrists. The blood thirst wrestled for control, every breath through his nostrils bolstering its assault, burning his veins with the raw madness that addiction brings. And yet, the night elf collected that fury and repurposed it, imbibing it through his own will, his own desire for true freedom.
 
Fight fire with fire ...
 
"Enough of this grotesque display!" the jailer said. "Give in to the urge! Stop fighting it, you will not win!"
 
"I ... I will not?" Illidan repeated. He grimaced, welling up the terrible pride that wrought so much disaster to his life. "I? The great Illidan, will not do as he pleases?!"
 
Illidan barely heard the crack and shatter of brick behind him over the thunder of his pulse in his ears and his own maniacal screeching. His quaking arms shot forward, catapulting the metal plates once affixed to the wall. He dropped to hands and knees, the plates clanging on the icy floor. Jumping to his feet, the night elf scrambled forward, but plummeted back to the ground. He shot a glance over his shoulder, remembering the manacles about his ankles.
 
A solid explosion of pain connected with the side of his head, jumbling the next handful of thoughts. Illidan flopped on his side and swam groggily through the high pitch in his ears and the airiness flooding his skull. Hands splayed and he lifted his chest inches from the ground.
 
"Enough!" a voice cut through the disorder. "Even in a weakened state, you are entirely too spirited. Perhaps more time is needed, or I need to drain more blood from your veins. No matter how impudent you are, after a certain point even the strongest of wills-"
 
Illidan shut out the voice. He focused on his turmoil, both physical and spiritual. He fed on it, magnifying the fel magics washing through his defiled blood. He couldn't see it, but he knew that black smoke spilled from the pores of his skin, as it always did when he quickened the heightening of his sinister power.
 
A great jolt of freeing pain arched Illidan's back, and moments later, two new appendages obeyed him, flapping him to his feet. Speaking of which, they had fully formed into hard hooves. The shackles fastened to his ankles bulged and fractured, and with another sweep of his wings, shattered the corroded metal as he bounded forward. He flexed the corded muscle that heaped upon his arms, channelling the pain of the numerous stinging cuts into the dark well within. The exhilarating chaos of the Burning Legion's magics wore the negative effects of his injuries and made them his strength.
 
"You ... you dare disobey me?!" the jailer blustered. He thrust an open hand towards Illidan's gnarled countenance. "You will follow orders!"
 
The night elf demon snatched the vampire's wrist and squeezed. Illidan snarled as he watched the man drop to a knee. Another tense of his fingers would snap the brittle bone, he was sure.
 
"I follow no orders but my own," Illidan seethed, his voice an order of magnitude deeper in his demonic state. "I will spread Dracula's darkness to the corners of this forsaken realm, but it will be done on my terms. You will not herd me like livestock into your bloodied pen."
 
The vampire hissed, baring daggered teeth designed for piercing flesh. Little more than a frightened display when kneeling before an eleven foot monstrosity. "Count Dracula will hear of your insubordination."
 
"I get the feeling Dracula values initiative."
 
The jailor changed tactics. "If you really want to please the Count, breathe in. Deeply. Through your nose."
 
Oh no. Illidan had pushed the blood frenzy from his mind, but now in undeniable control of the situation, he had loosened the reins. Even without sniffing, it roared back into focus, beautifying the stench of copper lacing the dank air.
 
The night elf demon balled his fist. A snap echoed down the dilapidated prison, followed by a surprised whimper and a lot of heavy breathing. Illidan hauled the vampire off his feet, raising him to eye level by the broken limb. The cloaked man winced, eyes screwed shut. Illidan would be lying if he didn't find a certain satisfaction in drinking in his former jailer suffering at his hands.
 
"My body and soul may be polluted with chaos," Illidan said quietly, "but my mind is free. I will not bow to the vampire curse."
 
His new friend said nothing, perhaps finally understanding that the balance of power had shifted. Illidan considered slaughtering him, tearing his thin body into a messy pile of body parts, but reconsidered. If Count Dracula prized this man, there could be repercussions if he murdered him. Also, and perhaps more poignantly, the blood that would flow from his pulverised corpse could draw the thirst to a point where even his almighty determination would falter. It almost had already.
 
"Now!" Illidan shouted in the vampire's face, jostling his body. "I wish to do the will of Count Dracula. Tell me a way I can achieve this."
 
"Just drink the blood and all will -"
 
Illidan snarled and hurled the vampire against the wall like a limp sack. He cried out as his back slapped against it, bouncing him to the ground.
 
"Your ruse has failed, vampire!" Illidan shouted, his voice returning to him from all angles. He slammed a hoof on his former jailer's back and ground it in. "I grow weary of your unco-operative silence! What of Dracula's plans?"
 
"His ... plans?" the vampire moaned. Illidan paused a moment to give the beast a chance to consider. "If you want to impress him, show him this 'initiative' of yours ..."
 
"Spit it out!" Illidan shifted his full weight to the hoof pinning the vampire to the grimy floor.
 
"Argh! All right! Poenari Castle!"
 
Illidan lifted his foot and kicked his once-jailer in the ribs. Gods that was enjoyable. "More information."
 
The black cloaked vampire sat up, holding his side. "Poenari Castle was a bastion of defence when Diablo first invaded the Pale Moors. The humans and associated scum held for a time, but they crumbled against the onslaught eventually. It remains a strategic location should war ever break out again, especially close to the gate. It's empty right now, but I know Count Dracula wants it under his control."
 
Illidan considered this new information. Was the occupation of the abandoned castle to protect against unforeseen threats, or perhaps the return of an ungrateful commander of monsters hungry for his throne? "If it's empty, why should I waste my time claiming it?"
 
Despite his pain, the vampire managed a mirthless grin. "Do you think it will be easy, unfit for a demon such as yourself? If it was that simple, it wouldn't earn you the kudos of the Pale Moors ruler, now would it?"
 
Illidan breathed in and caught the delectable coppery scent again. He had to leave before the frenzy he ran from finally caught up to him. "How do I know I can trust you?"
 
"I only want the best for Count Dracula." Delivered without emotion.
 
"Which way?" If the vampire lied, Illidan would come back and finish his grisly work. His tone made sure the message was conveyed.
 
The injured jailer pointed towards the far wall. "That way. I can sense ... it from here."
 
The night elf demon's spectral sight fanned out in all directions, finding the closest distance to the outside world, sensing where the dungeon ended and the flat, pale plains began. He aimed an open hand at the wall and propelled a telekinetic shockwave, obliterating the aged brick. "I'll see myself out."