King of the Castle

[Illidan Stormrage]

A new army with a renewed purpose marched behind their new commander.
 
Illidan strode in front of his new force, taking the vanguard. If he was following proper protocol, his position should be in the rear, but Illidan wanted to see this Poenari Castle first, before everyone else. He had suffered plenty and he hadn't even reached the blasted structure yet. Besides, the undulating crowd of monstrous terrors wasn't pleasant to look at, nor be downwind of. The stench from the undead alone was enough to curl his toes.
 
Archimonde pranced happily beside his master, as if reaffixing his tentacles had rejuvenated him. The likely explanation was the aromatic wake of magical energy that they chased through the fog. Illidan almost had to squint at it now, its yellowy-tan hue darkening in colour and brightening in luminosity. The felhunter's wormy mouths clacked over and over again, as if they were feeding directly on the magic trail. Illidan frowned at that thought. If residual magic condensed enough for a felhunter to consume it from the air, the actual source of it could be significant.
 
The necromancer who healed Archimonde hung back two strides from his new commander, hands joining behind his back, face dour and almost bored. Illidan learned that this foul sorcerer was Regis, apparently an understudy to the now squished Milton. That fact alone almost inspired the night elf to reduce Regis' height by a head, but his no-nonsense demeanour and his apparent good standing with the army of the damned helped him solidify an advisor role. When questioned, he spoke frankly and bluntly, avoiding any long-winded exposition. He displayed admirable intelligence as well, and thus Illidan begrudged him his life if he served loyally. So far there had been no question of that.
 
"You're going to fail!"
 
Illidan sighed audibly. "Clawfang, if you please."
 
A loud thwack resounded in the night elf's ears, and he smiled. "Another word, Ronaldo, and I'll give Clawfang permission to strike you with something other than the back of his furry hand."
 
A deep, gruff laughter chased Illidan's words from behind him. "That would be enjoyable."
 
For reasons unbeknownst to him, Illidan had decided to keep Ronaldo alive. Missing his left arm and quite a bit of blood that gushed out after it, the vampire wasn't much of a threat. Yet his pride could shrivel if he realised how futile it was to struggle against the night elf, and then he could prove a tactical asset. For the time being though, with his strength sapped and a blood thirst no doubt tickling the back of his throat, Ronaldo attacked with the only tool he had left in his arsenal - his voice. The army had been trudging through the Pale Moors for two days since the night elf usurped the leadership role, and for two days Ronaldo had taken every opportunity to berate and curse him.
 
On the first night that they made camp soon after the night elf demon and the vampire clashed, Ronaldo shouted and complained that he was thirsty. When Illidan ordered the blood drinker abstain from blood, his complaints turned to insults, some more vivid than the night elf was expecting. A particularly conservative werewolf took offense to Ronaldo's uncouth language and kneed him hard in the stomach, citing that the vampire would need air to complain and now it was all gone. Illidan laughed and promoted that werewolf to be Ronaldo's official guard.
 
Clawfang had not let Illidan down. He had doggedly watched the prisoner, back-handing him with his sinewy hand-paw when asked, though often the werewolf struck him once his sensibilities had been trampled on. When Ronaldo refused to march, Clawfang stabbed his pointed nails through the collar of the captive's suit and dragged him along, as he was doing now.
 
So far, while not the most elite of armies, Illidan conceded their worth. Most were simple minded but vicious and powerful, and those that could think for themselves remained loyal, perhaps recognising an opportunity to be noticed by Count Dracula. In any case, they would make great fodder for whatever awaited them through the shroud of creamy fog.
 
Illidan heard the flap of wings overhead and a moment later, Regis caught up to him. "Lord Illidan, the scouts report a large castle looming in the distance. We're perhaps an hour away."
 
"Excellent," Illidan said, facing forward. "I take it there aren't any other castles out in these miserable deadlands?"
 
"No, my lord. Certainly not as grandiose as the scouts have described. It can only be Poenari Castle."
 
"What of its defences?"
 
"From the air they see nothing. The castle gates are raised and the ramparts are empty. Outward appearances suggest that it's abandoned, but-"
 
"-there's likely more to it than we can see," Illidan finished the thought.
 
"No, it's perfectly safe! Just walk in the door and claim it!"
 
"Clawfang!"
 
Another meaty slap and a gruff bark of laughter followed his order.
 
Illidan indulged in a smirk, but it faded quickly. "Have the scouts keep watch. I don't want any surprises that could've been prevented. And have them report when we are closer."
 
Regis nodded, eyes half-lidded as if he were about to doze off. "Yes, my lord." He fell back several steps.
 
"Clawfang!" Illidan shouted over his shoulder.
 
"Yes, my lord."
 
"Bring the prisoner to me."
 
The werewolf did as was asked of him. He clutched Ronaldo by the throat and lifted him as they walked, tight enough to hold him but loose enough to stop from strangling him. His arm dangled from his side.
 
"Oh, you want to talk to me now?" Ronaldo said, a dried line of blood running from the corner of his lips. "Every other time you've had your pet backhand me."
 
"A punishment that will continue if you speak out of turn," Illidan said, again not affording the vampire his gaze. "Tell me what you know of the castle."
 
"You know what I know," Ronaldo said. "It's an empty castle."
 
"Clawfang-"
 
"All right!" the vampire roared. "There is a reason why the castle hasn't been occupied yet, but I don't know what that reason is! I swear!"
 
Illidan regarded Ronaldo for the first time with a sharp glare. "You've puffed yourself up like a peacock when we first met, saying how vital and high ranked you are. I find it hard to believe you know nothing of the nature of this castle." Illidan paused, letting his smouldering eyes glow beneath his blindfold. "But I'm sure you've heard something."
 
The vampire registered the threat and went silent for a moment. "I seem to recall a report ... one of the lesser vampires sent a reconnaissance team to inspect Poenari Castle shortly after Count Dracula established dominance in the Moors. Only two returned of a team of five. I don't remember what happened to the three that were lost, but suffice to say they weren't alive. One of the two surviving creatures went insane the next day and put down four of the castle guards before he was killed."
 
Not much information to go on. Perhaps an aggressive mage or psychic, maybe a gruesome scene so macabre that it drove even Count Dracula's minions to madness, or even an infestation of ghosts. The Omniverse had proven to be diverse and unpredictable even within the Pale Moors, so it could be anything.
 
Illidan gestured with a nod and Clawfang fell back, dragging Ronaldo with him. The vampire, to his credit, kept his stupid trap shut.
 
"So how's the thirst going?"
 
Son of a bitch. "Clawfang, inflict pain on the blood drinker through whichever means you find most amusing."
 
The werewolf guffawed and Ronaldo hissed in a breath at whatever new wound he was sporting.
 
Up until then, Illidan had managed to push the blood thirst from his mind. He could fight it, just as he did the demonic influence that was now a part of him, but unlike the Burning Legion's clarion calls, the vampire's taint seemed to draw strength from his other compulsion. Little by little as he had marched over the past two days, Illidan noticed that tickle in his throat intensify, and each day saw it grow bolder and more obnoxious. At this rate, he feared the thirst would take over his sense, much like Ronaldo had prophesised. How long he had until then, he wasn't sure, but he would struggle and battle it until there was nothing left of him.
 
The tan ribbon of magic that wended through the marshes widened as the fog thinned. Even in the gloom, the proud edges of Poenari Castle came into view. The rushing of a nearby river reached Illidan's ears, though he couldn't see the waters; it must run on the opposite side of the fortress. Grey clouds swirled about its highest spire in its centre. Cracks and fissures ran through the defensive walls of the castle, born no doubt from the final siege on the fortress, and occasionally wedged gaps provided easy ingress, their stone and mortar collapsed in a pile outside. The portcullis spikes hung above the entrance, flakes of orange rust dappling them. Parapets had crumbled, ramparts were blocked by fallen debris, and spider webs and dust clung in many places that had not succumbed to damage. All in all the castle stood, defiant to the years and abuse it had suffered through, though not unblemished for its resiliency.
 
Illidan came to a halt and raised his hand. Dozens of obedient feet stopped.
 
"Regis."
 
The necromancer appeared almost without a sound. "My lord."
 
"Tell the scouts to fly over the castle. If they see nothing, tell them to fly closer until we know why this castle is so suspiciously silent. I want them to see what the threat is, or be exposed to it."
 
"Yes, my lord."
 
The night elf folded his arms over his naked chest and waited. Archimonde sat by his feet, though he jostled and shook as if he fought an irresistible urge to charge heedlessly into the fortress. Soon enough, several man-sized bats winged into the air and soared with purpose towards Poenari Castle. They circled it high at first, furry fox-like faces scanning the courtyards. They flew closer to the ground, wheeling around the spires, and dove again. Illidan focused, patiently waiting for the trap to spring.
 
He didn't have to wait long. One of the bats flashed white for the briefest of moments, like a piece of shattered glass glinting in the sunlight, and its wings stiffened. The creature plummeted into the courtyard of the castle, its limp body vanishing behind the walls.
 
Illidan cursed. The distance was too great. Something had definitely happened, something of a magical nature, but his spectral sight didn't pick it up from his vantage point. At the very least, he knew Ronaldo's story wasn't a lie.
 
The next two bats fell in quick order. Ambiguous chatter mumbled from his army of the damned.
 
Regis folded his hands before his waist and peered dispassionately from beneath his black cowl. "What would you have your forces do, Lord Illidan?"
 
The night elf commander spun and faced his army. Some stood stoically, their thoughts cryptic. Others prepared themselves for whatever awaited them behind the walls, twirling weapons, gnashing teeth, summoning balls of magic. A small subsection with more than a hint of self preservation slinked deeper into the throng, hoping their lord would select someone else who was in better view for the suicidal task. The undead swayed on decaying legs, the concept of independent thought as dead and rotting as their flesh.
 
He could order them to charge, but he'd likely watch a repeat of the man-bats' demise except on a greater scale. Marching an army into certain death wouldn't improve his standing with Count Dracula either, and he'd be no closer to claiming the keep for his own.
 
"Regis, watch the troops," Illidan said, turning to face Poenari Castle. "I will find out what curse is afoot here, return, and issue my next orders accordingly."
 
"As you will, Lord Illidan."
 
Archimonde yelped and trotted after the night elf, but Illidan turned on his heel. "No. Wait with Regis. You will have your fill shortly."
 
The felhunter's cocked tendrils drooped and he slinked back to the necromancer.
 
Illidan crouched low and stepped quickly towards the ruined outer walls. His spectral sight was bombarded by shining magical residue blanketing the castle, so much so that he reined in his senses. Wispy tendrils of fog grew out of the ground like weeds, and they parted as Illidan dashed through them. His back slapped against the outer wall as he reached it and he peered through a rent in the brick.
 
An empty courtyard. Discarded swords and spears, scattered haphazardly over the yard, wore a deep rusted orange. Not much else of note. 

A flash of light caught his attention. He turned as a pulsing white figure skated over the misty ground, zigzagging towards him. The night elf leapt backwards as the spirit phased through the outer wall and screamed. Any plans of defence crumbled as the psychic shriek pierced Illidan's mind, forcing him to his knees. He gripped his ears uselessly as the excruciating noise echoed within his skull.
 
Illidan managed to look up, and the glowing phantom lunged.