Siege of Darkshire - Spearhead [PvP - Great]

[Illidan Stormrage]

Red and blue blended together in one column, boring into Illidan's hell-forged warglaives. His arms shook with the impact; he hadn't the time to evade the intense spell, and defending with his blades was a delay at best. Injuries and taxed muscles screamed in defiance, demanding he collapse and succumb to the pain and fatigue, but Stormrage would not buckle. No master ruled over him except himself, not even his own traitorous body.
 
Yet this was a situation he had no say in.
 
The night elf's warglaives buckled outwards and the magical beam slammed into his chest. Flung from his feet, Illidan tore up the mud as he careened through the ground. Chest smoking, lungs empty and burning, clumps of mud clinging to his body, the demon hunter lay still and registered the falling drops of water assailing his skin. His cursed sight took in the undead risen at the behest of the plagued knight, all shambling towards him. The cloaked warrior had reclaimed his sword and skulked towards Illidan, his robe whipping about him in the winds.
 
It's all over, Stormrage. Give in to us, grant us agency over your weak flesh, and feel renewed power manifest within you! We shall raise you to godhood in mortal form!
 
Without us, you are destroyed. All your machinations grind to a halt in the rubble and mud. Victory will be yours to claim ... just rescind control, permit us entry into the world of blood and bone! Oh, what macabre songs we will sing as we rend sinew and bathe ourselves in scarlet!
 
Needles scratched at the back of his mind, scraping at his thoughts like the head of a record player. The demons sensed his weakness, the blood slinking from numerous wounds, the throbbing of worn muscles, and saw their chance. They whispered dreams of domination, of annihilating all that stood in Illidan's path, of unholy strength otherwise unattainable ... if only he surrender his will to the Twisting Nether. Their demands never abated, always subtly coercing the night elf in relinquishing his soul, but Illidan knew their promises meant the end to his campaign against their kind.
 
Illidan coughed as air flooded back into surprised lungs. Licking lips, he let himself imagine what nightmarish vengeance he would wreak if the Burning Legion's unfettered magic drowned him ... and then returned to his senses. "You ... you think this is the opportune moment ... to bribe me ... for my free will?"
 
Darkness in death ... or darkness in life, triumphant and invincible!
 
You choose to be slaughtered if you ignore our generous offer this time, night elf. There is no way out for you.
 
Illidan croaked a chuckle. His chest hummed with dull pain. "I spent ... ten ... thousand ... years ... listening to this bravado ... and arrogance. Never ... did I give in ... to escape my prison. If I die here ... it will be ... on my terms."
 
"Have you lost ... your mind, wretch, now at the end of your miserable existence?" the plagued knight barked. "Talking to the air ... fear has strangled your sanity."
 
Then you die here, night elf.
 
Your frail body will be food for the worms, nothing more.
 
Illidan bolted upright. His entire body weighed more than he remembered, yearning to kiss the muddied earth again, but he would not appease it.
 
"Oh, so that wasn't enough to put you down for good?" the robed warrior said, blade glinting in the moonlight with Stormrage's own blood. "I can fix that."
 
Struggling to a knee, Illidan summoned his warglaives to his hands. He pressed the curved crescents into the mud and hauled his weight upon them. Legs wobbled as he willed the strength into them that had fled long ago. Feet slipped in the mud, toes clawing for purchase, and with one final exertion of his calves, the demon hunter stood once more.
 
"Death ... will come whether you will it or not," the plagued knight gurgled, gripping his rusted sword in rotting fingers. "On your feet ... on your back ... it matters not."
 
Illidan flashed his teeth and snarled. The cultists formed a tight perimeter around him, and they reached . With every muscle aflame, the night elf crouched and jumped into the air, extending his arms and twisting. A whirlwind of demon-forged steel surrounded him, slashing and severing limbs that clambered for him, all falling wetly into the sucking mud.
 
Many of the plagued knight's devotees barely recognised their missing appendages, and lumbered forward. Illidan charged forward, legs threatening to snap and crumple with every stride, and separated the first cultist he encountered from shoulder to hip. With molten lava churning deep within his muscles, Stormrage squatted and leapt onto the shoulders of another cultist, cleaving his skull vertically before bounding off and decapitating several others as he touched down before the cloaked soldier.
 
Steel clashed amidst a bloom of sparks, their intentions wordless but crystal clear. Illidan landed a wobbly kick to the foe's chestplate,  dislodging their stalemate. Dashing, Stormrage reached for the cloaked warrior's side, but his clunky movement left his flank exposed. The sword swept over his side, marking the night elf with a new stinging line of blood. Roaring at the pain, Illidan barrelled forward and sliced the unguarded inner elbow of his foe. The cloaked warrior cried out in surprise, dropping his sword.
 
Illidan drove his naked shoulder into him, knocking him to the mud, the impact rattling the teeth in his skull. Still he pressed on, the rapid decay of his body spurring him onto the final victory before all went black.
 
The plagued knight, perhaps recognising the temerity of his foe, attacked. Steel collided; though Illidan was the speedier of the two, wounds reduced them to near even levels.
 
One shot, or it's over.
 
Illidan screamed at his solidifying body as he threw an immense effort into deflecting the plagued knight's blade, and plunged the warglaive through his skull.