King of the Castle

[Illidan Stormrage]

Gods, the Pale Moors breeze is cold.
 
Illidan marched over the empty plains, arms hugging his torso. The moon scuttled from cloud to cloud, bashfully lighting the night before hiding itself away again like a blushing maiden. A gentle wind with an icy edge ground against his violet skin, tossing his black hair and scattering goosebumps over his exposed torso.
 
Hours had rolled by since the night elf burst free of the underground dungeon. At first it seemed wise to glide to his destination, but fatigue weighed heavily on his muscles, and the wind rushed him head-on. Keeping the direction that the vampire had hastily pointed out, Illidan returned to the hard earth and reverted to his night elf form. Maintaining the demonic energies in his blood grew taxing over time, which was at odds with the transformation in Azeroth. Omni's abduction of him must have changed some of the rules around the accessibility of fel magic.
 
Nonetheless, the kaldorei trudged on. The journey had been uneventful so far, which was a double edged sword. The vampiric urge to sate his literal bloodlust scraped at him with hungry claws with each step. More commanding than hunger, more persistent that weariness, it yearned for that sweet coppery tang. With nothing and no one to distract him from its constant tug, Illidan found himself battling himself on two fronts.
 
And yet, the blood thirst didn't differ entirely from the demonic cry of the Burning Legion. While it struck him hard and fast when he re-absorbed the Skull of Gul'dan, the malicious whispers of the Twisting Nether never went silent. He partook of their great and terrible power and they had a spiritual link to him, loosing evil whispers to tear apart innocents and usher in the Legion's commanders to lead eldritch armies. The will of Illidan was ironclad, and if those soulless fiends couldn't break him, then neither would a simple thirst.
 
A crop of trees ahead seemed to call Illidan's name as the wind whistled through its olive-green leaves. Feet pounding, skin cold and sore from the tiny cuts and scrapes all over him, the night elf stumbled towards them. A few steps away from the nearest trunk, he fell to hands and knees, body drawn to the earth as if his muscles had hardened into stone. He finally reached them and threw his back against the brittle bark, head tilting towards his shoulder.
 
He had to rest. With everything that had happened to him in the last few hours, his body refused to cooperate until it had some down time. Even though his vampiric curse demanded blood, there was none nearby to be had, and if there was a rat or rabbit scurrying by, that assumed he had the willpower and strength to lift himself up again and capture the creature who owned it.
 
Yet just as his eyelids drooped over his fiery orbs, they snapped open. That vampire could be pursuing him. He looked back onto the shadowy horizon, expecting the creature of the night to emerge, his pale skin and shirt the only break in the black of his suit. But even if he did reveal himself now, Illidan had nothing left in the tank.
 
If only his Illidari were here. Proud blood and night elves, loyal naga, even the broken Draenei all once served him with devotion and respect. Even the Burning Legion's minions could be cowed into servitude, given the right motivation. Certain demons, like the Fel Guard, enjoyed the simple act of carving into living tissue. If they were pointed in the right direction, they didn't care who gave the orders, as long as their blades sank into flesh. The fiery rock golems, the Infernals, were even less intelligent. In some ways it made them harder to leash, but if there existed a force of nature with sentience, it was them.
 
 In fact, warlocks and the winged Doomguard often trained felbeasts like humans trained hounds, to the point where they followed an order without delay or resistance. Felhunters, those insidious creatures were called, were second-to-none when it came to the business of seeking and slurping the innards of a magic user.
 
Illidan raised his eyebrows. Hadn't Count Dracula taught him how to summon such creatures with this strange omnilium magic? A felhunter could stand guard while the night elf caught up on his shut eye.
 
Closing his eyes and fighting the temptation to nap, Illidan channelled that unusual power through his body and pictured the four legged, red-scaled demon. Two curved spikes jutted out from its shoulders, and its two black tentacles attached behind those, the hungry suckers on its ends responsible for many dried mage husks. He saw in his mind the long snout lined with flesh ripping teeth, and the absence of eyes that should've sat above it. Coarse black hair coated its underside and beneath its jaw, and a shaggy mane of it ran down the length of its back to the end of its tapered tail.
 
He couldn't say how long the process took, but when he opened his eyes, a felhunter stood before him, tentacles gnashing at the air. Illidan groaned as a new wave of exhaustion crashed over him. Apparently omnilium usage came with some caveats he wouldn't soon forget.
 
"You," Illidan said, voice weary. The felhunter snapped to attention. At least he had summoned one of the demon dogs familiar with orders. "Guard me. I'm taking a nap. If you see a vampire approach, you have my permission to drink it dry."
 
The felhunter gave no indication of comprehension, but it turned on the spot and trotted a few paces towards the horizon before slumping on its legs. Its tail swiped the weedy grass eagerly as it apparently carried out its duty.
 
"Good," Illidan said, eyelids already descending. "Guard me ..."
 
A warm light splashed over his face and Illidan returned to the world of the living. The sun peeked gingerly over the horizon, painting the sky in a blue so pale as to nearly be grey. Soon enough it would be entirely grey as the dreary spirit of the Pale Moors claimed it.
 
Illidan rose to his feet, sliding up the trunk of the tree for support. Most of his cuts and scrapes had vanished, though a handful of the nastier slices still marred his skin. His legs ached quietly with the memory of yesterday's journey, but they would carry him again. Stretching, he cracked bones locked in place by his awkward sleeping position and ran a hand through his ink-black hair. Overall, his body thanked him for the reprieve. Even the blood thirst appeared to have receded, though a drop of blood could bring it screaming back for all he knew. Still, he reminded himself, if he could rebuff the Burning Legion, he could ignore this, too.
 
The felhunter still crouched in the position that the night elf had left him, tail wriggling with the same enthusiasm.  Illidan dragged his hands over his naked torso, but found no new wounds. He snorted. If the felhunter had decided to consume him in the night, he wouldn't be awake to take stock of it now. Still, the summoned demon performed his task with the loyalty he was banking on. Surely at some point it would have caught the scent of the necromancy that banded the spirits to the walking undead and run off drooling, at least the kaldorei expected the demon to do as such. Perhaps not?
 
Illidan crouched by the felhunter. "So, no intruders then?"
 
The felhunter 'looked' up at him, though if he saw his master in any detail, it was a mystery. It panted and set its eyeless gaze back on the horizon.
 
Illidan stood, resisting the desire to stroke the mangy creature. As the sun elevated higher into the sky, its brilliant light cast the empty plains ahead in a serene beauty he hadn't witnessed in this cursed realm. Stripped of fog, despite its less than idyllic landscape, it radiated a certain charm, a subtle peace.  It was as if the trees were a bulwark against the gloom, a special marker that broke the spell of the Pale Moors. Perhaps it was a sign of what it once was, a taste of its former glory before the darkness smothered it.
 
Even as he watched, fog steamed from the ground, thinly at first. The sun put up a good fight, but in a few scant minutes the mist carpeted the fields and curled around his ankles. A few more minutes would see it thicken and swirl higher about his body. A shame what this affliction had done to these lands.
 
"Up!" Illidan commanded. The felhunter's legs extended, lifting it off the earth, and it traipsed to his side. The night elf gave the far horizon one last glance, still believing the white shroud would spit out the vampire, teeth bared. When nothing coalesced, he searched out his direction again and started walking. The felhunter plodded along beside.
 
As they travelled, Illidan gazed at his new pet. The felhunter had been called to this world through the mystery magic of omnilium, yet Illidan had only ever used the power of fel energies to do so. Did this make the creature a true felhunter, or perhaps some sort of perverse imitation? Nothing about it seemed counterfeit, but then Illidan hadn't known it for very long. He shrugged. Maybe it would become clear with time.
 
He had considered euthanising the beast, but a felhunter was hardly a challenge should it turn rogue. Besides, a vicious animal that could both sense and siphon magic would be an asset in a realm bedraggled with necromancer scum.
 
Plains rolled by as his feet ate away at the ground remaining. The fog thickened as the journey progressed, as if Illidan approached a yawning geyser belching the mist out never ending. While they had been infrequent, mires, forests and even a pond or two broke up the monotony of sparsely grassed fields. They had also been excellent milestones, varied enough to be useful for the return trip. The pervasiveness of the fog soon cloaked them from view, and any other landmark that he could use to guide his path. Luckily for him, his eyes were not restricted by the fundamentals of sight. His felhunter didn't stumble either, his toothy tentacles snapping at the air, turning like miniature periscopes above an ocean of fog.
 
Those ravenous tendril-mouths chomped rapidly and the felhunter charged ahead of its master.
 
"Hey!" Illidan shouted, sprinting after it.
 
"Who's there!?"
 
Illidan halted and crouched, then stood upright again when he realised the fog covered him from sight. He sent out his own magical vision, penetrating through the mist, and found the voice's owner. A man in a loose fitting robe, a goatee greying on his chin, bobbed his head and squinted as if it would make a difference.
 
Another in similar garb was at his side, slighter in build, voice feminine. "Show yourself!"
 
A jagged tree trunk propped up another body, a frayed rope binding them to it. Potentially dead, but Illidan wouldn't know until he got closer. His felhunter was nowhere to be sensed.
 
The night elf passed through the last threads of fog and into the small clearing. "Here I am."
 
The man recoiled, his opinion of Illidan clearly written on his face. "What ... what are you?"
 
The woman, grasping a poorly carved wooden staff, unveiled steely blue eyes at the visitor. "Not human. But wait ... can you feel that?"
 
Eyes fell upon Illidan and the man spoke, eyebrows meeting at angles. "Yes. The taint of dark magic. Those tattoos, even his eyes."
 
Illidan went to interject, but the woman overrode him. "Another who would defile a land already defiled! Why must you monsters feed on the weak and spread misery wherever you go?"
 
Illidan planned to give the two strangers a chance to explain themselves, but her words made it plain that judgement had already been passed. "And what will you do about it, filthy human vermin?"
 
The woman's eyes shone, lips pressed in a tight seal. Open, clawed fingers grappled with an unseen orb before her chest, as if she attempted to compress the very air in front of her and struggled to do so. In moments, a blue light flickered in the empty space, quickly expanding to fill the gap. The female mage drew her hands away from the invisible centre, giving the sparking ball of mana room to grow, and grow it did.
 
"We will scour the Moors clean of your influence!" she shouted, her tone at the precipice of sanity.
 
Illidan clicked his fingers and two warglaives ensconced his fists, lime green blades gleaming in the blue light of the magical conjuration. "So be it."
 
As the kaldorei readied for the spell, the woman's face went flat, mouth ajar, like she had just remembered something of life-saving significance. The man's eyes bulged, lips quivering, a stuttering moan leaving him. Illidan frowned but brandished his warglaives, ready for anything. As he watched, their skin deflated, sinking closer to the bone beneath, moment by moment. The blue collection of magical energy subsided as their desiccated bodies crumpled to the floor. Illidan had seen this before.
 
Behind them, the felhunter flailed its parasitic tentacles, the sucker mouths covered in scarlet.
 
"Hungry, I see," Illidan said. The delectable aroma of blood filtered through his nostrils, and his resolve came screaming to the fore. "Best we move on."
 
"Wait!"
 
Illidan rotated his blades toward the sound, but lowered them as his sight settled on the one responsible. A young man in the prime of his life struggled against the ropes that cinched him against the tree stump.
 
"Please, you've got to help me!" he said, grimacing as he shuffled his shoulders. "They were going to kill me, but now you've saved me!"
 
The felhunter stalked over to the bound man, its tendrils bowing to sniff. It instantly grew excitable, bouncing from side to side as if savouring the thought of a new meal.
 
"Please! Keep this thing off me!"
 
"Creature!" Illidan said, wishing he had thought of a name for the felhunter. "Heel!"
 
It looked at Illidan and whined.
 
"Do it!"
 
Reluctantly, the felhunter dragged its feet back to its master's side, snout down.
 
"What did those mages want with you?" Illidan said, examining the prisoner. Nothing stood out about his appearance. It seemed he was a simple farmhand, or perhaps a fool seeking glory by killing the undead and returning home with a trophy of his heroism.
 
"Isn't it obvious?" he said. "Just cut me loose."
 
Illidan approached with his warglaives and knelt down, setting the edge to the ropes. "No, tell me."
 
The bound man flexed his hand, and now that Illidan was close enough to see it, he fully understood why. Despite his youthful appearance, his hand looked as if it had been sawed off a decaying corpse and sewed on to him.
 
Illidan stood up, his gut clenching. "Necromancy ..."
 
Laughter. "What? Are you telling me someone with dirty blood like you is afraid of a little-"
 
Wwarglaive steel sank into the wood beside the man's cheek with a solid thump, missing it by inches. "What are you doing out here, and what did those mages want with you?"
 
The young necromancer's jovial attitude vanished. "All business I see. Believe it or not, there are some proactive members of the Omniverse that mourn the retreat of the armies that were once stationed here. The Pale Moors was once a much nicer place. All that's left of that force is Darkshire, and they've been completely abandoned by the larger factions."
 
"So?"
 
"So ... some people thought that it wasn't fair, so they've come from far and wide to help stem the flow of evil. Undo it, even, if they're especially naive. Mostly from Camelot, like those two, but all kinds."
 
Illidan gazed at the shrivelled corpses lifeless on the earth nearby, and swallowed down a firm lump that had risen in his throat. They were only here doing what he himself had originally planned, and they died for it.
 
"That explains them," the kaldorei said. "What about you? You're out in the middle of nowhere."
 
The felhunter sniffed around the ground, his nose leading him in random circles.
 
"I thought you could sense it too?" The necromancer gestured with his head in the direction Illidan was heading. "Can't you feel that? All that spiritual energy?"
 
Illidan scowled. His spectral sight once detected magical energy. Sometimes it appeared as trails of coloured smoke, others it sparkled like a constellation of stars within the practitioner's soul, though the hues always indicated the type of magic used. Sulphuric yellow meant necromancy, pale and dark greens for corrupt and demonic arts, blue often for the 'cleaner' magicks. But the Omniverse had robbed him of that, slowly but surely. He only had the vampire's vague direction to lean on. It was good to know that he wasn't heading into a trap, or that he had lost his way somewhere along the line. But if it was snaring the hungry eyes of others, even from a distance, perhaps Poenari Castle wasn't as abandoned as he was led to believe.
 
"What sort of spiritual energy?"
 
The necromancer smiled at Illidan, as if realising the night elf's deficiency. "I can't tell. There's enough to sense it from a way off, so it must be concentrated. Potent." He struggled with his binds. "And I'm going to find out. Now set me free."
 
The second lime green blade flashed in the veiled sunlight and bedded between the man's eyes, splitting his skull from forehead to top lip. Illidan heaved the weapon free with a sick slurp and flicked the blood that drenched his warglaive.
 
"There. You're free."
 
The felhunter halted and lifted its snout, its teeth filled tentacles waving back and forth. It turned back to its master, hopping to get his attention.
 
"You sense it, don't you?" Illidan said, casting a glance into the fog soaked horizon. He hauled his other warglaive out of the tree trunk, leaving the necromancer's face to hang in two different directions, and started walking towards the horizon, picking up speed as the sickly sweet stench of blood tempted him once more.