Assault on Darkshire [Staging]

[Skeletor]

The looming towers of Poenari soared above Skeletor as he neared the port bailey. The architecture seemed frightfully dull in his opinion, only a few stone gargoyles were present to give the building even the slightest bit of character. It was depressing. Panthor bounded through the main gate and into the war camp with ease. A vast array of strange and ghoulish beings milled about, either preparing for the conflict or simply standing around with the empty existence of the lowest forms of undead. Skeletor guided Panthor towards an unsuspecting acolyte, who was bent over double sharping a wickedly curved dagger on a whetstone.
 
With clear enjoyment, Panthor uttered a sharp growl making the hapless man jump and cut his hand slightly. The poor acolyte whirled around in surprise, “W-Who?” he stammered, attempting to maintain control while desperately clutching at his bleeding hand. He stared into the leering face of a large purple feline, and his already pale face took on an even deathlier sheen.
 
“Only Your worst nightmare, fool.” Skeletor intoned with relish. This was what he was looking for, true minion material. Now he just had to hope they were half-way competent. “I seek the one known as Stormrage. He and I have… much to discuss.”
 
The acolyte nodded excessively and pointed the way towards one edge of the war camp, where a particularly nice tent had been erected. Skeletor turned Panthor to go, and the feline obeyed, taking one last playful snap at the cowering man, who shrieked and fled into a nearby tent, likely to bandage his bleeding arm. Skeletor rode through the rest of the war camp, it was slightly smaller than he had been expecting, without additional forces they would have to rely on surprise and secrecy over pure strength. If this Illidan did not know enough of the tactics of warfare, then the assault was certainly doomed.
 
As he neared the tent Skeletor dismounted and travelled the rest of the way on foot. If he was to learn just how dangerous Stormrage was it would do him little good to advertise his own power overly much. The large Panther loped away lazily to lounge in the shade of the tent. Panthor’s rest was short-lived however, as a red- scaled quadruped galloped towards the feline with cry somewhere between a growl and a bark. The large feline leapt to its feet, back arching and fangs bared as it hissed. The Felhunter did not pause its rush, and the feline turned tail and fled.
 
Ignorant of the chase, Skeletor approached, dark cloak drawn about his body and havoc staff clearly visible as he rounded the corner. Two beings stood before him, one a shriveled and bandaged corpse, motions slow and deliberate, the other a horned and tattooed being that reminded Skeletor vaguely of the Gar race he had once belonged to. “Which of you has the rage of a storm? Who dares to summon the Master of Evil?” he demanded as he neared.