02-18-2017, 02:41 AM
The blade penetrated the plagued knight's helmet as a streak of lightning snaked through the gloomy sky. A pungent clear fluid leaked out of the wound, running down the length of Illidan's weapon. A moment passed, and the undead moved his head to face the night elf more directly. The night elf's heart skipped a beat.
"You think a blade ... will halt my advance? Dracula's pets are ... amusing. And misinformed," the plagued knight croaked.
Illidan struggled to extrude his warglaive, but it was stuck fast. His arms burned with fatigue, yearning to droop by his sides, and refused to add any more strength no matter how much his will insisted. His mind dominated his body unquestioningly, but he was finally at the point where such fortitude meant nothing. The night elf's final strike had done nothing but sap the last ounce of strength from him, and leave him in easy range for his foe to end him.
A shout sounded from behind. Illidan's magical sight spread behind him, sensing the cloaked warrior on his feet, charging forward. Splashes of water burst from his mud-encrusted boots as they disrupted the numerous puddles that collected the rain. His sword struck out before him like a thin battering ram.
"This is where it ends!" he shouted, closing the last gap between his prey.
The plagued knight reached out putrescent hands to ensnare the demon hunter.
There was nowhere to go, and no endurance to take him there.
Still, in that last second, as the tip of the sword quested for his flesh, instincts honed over thousands of years kicked in, helming his mind as if he were in the midst of a training session.
The cloaked warrior thrust. Illidan dropped to hands and knees, his fingers squelching in the mud, and threw himself forward. Metal greaves cracked against his ribs, incandescent agony echoing through his side, but his movement knocked the charging warrior off-target.
As the cloaked warrior stumbled forward, desperately searching for footing in the slick mud, his sword punctured the plagued knight's chest and exploded out the other side.
Illidan's eyes widened as an excruciating second lumbered past. The cloaked warrior froze, watching the helmeted visage of his ally, perhaps searching for some clue that he survived. The night elf hoped against hope that he had truly slain him, but with his warglaive still protruding from the plagued knight's skull, he assumed another stabbing would be of little note.
And yet, as cold and musty air stilled in Illidan's lungs, the plagued knight's shoulders slumped, and he tumbled wordlessly onto his back, the sword embedded in his chest.
"No!" the cloaked night said. "Oh no, no! What have I done?"
"What?" Illidan shouted. "Demon steel penetrates your brain and you live, but a sword through the chest seals it? What kind of undead are you?"
Even in his angry disbelief, Illidan recognised the chance laid out before him. A certain defeat had been stalled, and could be prevented completely if he moved fast. He knew he couldn't duel the cloaked warrior, not with his stinging wounds and numbing body. Yet one more spell, cast from the fatigues and pains of his flesh, could save his life.
The warglaive burst from the fallen knight's cranium and sailed back to Illidan's hand. He speared one end into the pliable mud, leaving the other curved spike displaying proudly. An emerald light bathed his palms as dark magic flooded into an orb hovering within.
"You think you'll take advantage of this?" the cloaked warrior yelled. "Your end is here!"
Leaping atop the plagued knight's unmoving corpse, the last enemy grasped the hilt of his stuck blade and pulled. Inches of steel gradually rose from putrid flesh, but it was in deep; Illidan had more time than he needed. The night elf launched a small orb of pale green forward. It connected with the cloaked warrior, lines of lime energy swirling around his body, solidifying him in place. Illidan smiled as he heard the unintelligible grunts from his target's frozen lips.
Lifting his hands, Illidan elevated the cloaked warrior into the air, slowly drawing him closer. His dark fel magic thrived on the stings and blows of his wounded body, enabling him to cast the spell at all, but it drained him fast.
"Your service in honour of Count Dracula and the Pale Moors is noted and appreciated," Illidan said as the cloaked warrior hovered above the point of the warglaive standing in the soil. "But we aren't taking new recruits right now."
Illidan thrust his hands down and the cloaked soldier careened downwards. As had happened to the plagued knight moments ago, blood-drenched steel burst through the soldier's torso, the wicked point clawing out of his back. His limbs twitched uselessly, a wet gargle flowing from his lips, and his body sagged over his impalement.
The night elf collapsed to hands and knees and vomited into the mud. Victory he had, but it had come at a dangerous cost. He would soon succumb to his wounds, intensified by his reckless usage of fel magic, if he didn't get out of the battle soon.
A quavering index finger alighted on his throat. A mote of magic pulsed into his voice box, an effort that rose bile at the back of his tongue, but he swallowed it down. In a booming voice that cut over the chaotic din of the battlefield, he yelled. "CLAWFANG! REGIS! TO ME!"
He slumped forward, his forehead ploughing into mud, the acrid stench of his own vomit assailing his nostrils. How he hated that his life hung in the hands of his two officers.
"Well well ... what do we have here?"
Illidan left his sagging head soak in the mud, but his all-seeing eyes knew what stood over him. A knight clad in full plate armour loomed at his side, sword streaked with red. A successful defender of Darkshire, by the looks of it.
"This wouldn't be the great leader of the enemy force now, would it?" he asked, the smarminess in his tone setting Illidan's jaw. "I wonder what would happen if I killed you?"
His luck had run out. At least he could parry with his tongue, if not with a weapon. "The same thing that happened to all of your friends as I eviscerated them, drew their innards to spill out like snakes cut from a cloth bag ... nothing. I will fall into the earth, festering and decomposing in the filth and the muck, forgotten to all but the carrion, an unremarkable and futile end ... the same as your unremarkable and worthless friends."
The soldier grimaced. The nerve was struck. The final blow would be swift. "You bastard! You cheapen the sacrifice of my friends?! Enjoy your permanent stay in hell!"
"Lord Illidan!"
A mass of fur flew over the night elf's prone body and descended on the knight. Primal screams and chunks of flesh separated from their host as a hulking werewolf tore into his prey. In an impressively short time, the knight had fallen silent and the shaggy beast kneeled before his commander.
"We heard your summons, lord," Clawfang rasped. "What is your will?"
"Where is Regis?"
A shriek sounded nearby as a human body, skin drained of all fluid, collapsed to the ground, flesh puffing away like dandelion spores. A bored old man ambled over. "Here, my lord. Werewolf limbs are much better suited for fast travel."
"Get me to the back of the army. Back with White. I need time to recoup."
"Indeed," Regis said, casting lazy eyes over him. "You've been busy. I hope my lord hasn't strained himself too much?"
"Not as much as those two," Illidan said, bobbing his head in the direction of his murdered enemies. "Now enough chatter. Get me to safety!"
Clawfang bent down and hoisted Illidan over his furry shoulder. "At once, my lord!"
"You think a blade ... will halt my advance? Dracula's pets are ... amusing. And misinformed," the plagued knight croaked.
Illidan struggled to extrude his warglaive, but it was stuck fast. His arms burned with fatigue, yearning to droop by his sides, and refused to add any more strength no matter how much his will insisted. His mind dominated his body unquestioningly, but he was finally at the point where such fortitude meant nothing. The night elf's final strike had done nothing but sap the last ounce of strength from him, and leave him in easy range for his foe to end him.
A shout sounded from behind. Illidan's magical sight spread behind him, sensing the cloaked warrior on his feet, charging forward. Splashes of water burst from his mud-encrusted boots as they disrupted the numerous puddles that collected the rain. His sword struck out before him like a thin battering ram.
"This is where it ends!" he shouted, closing the last gap between his prey.
The plagued knight reached out putrescent hands to ensnare the demon hunter.
There was nowhere to go, and no endurance to take him there.
Still, in that last second, as the tip of the sword quested for his flesh, instincts honed over thousands of years kicked in, helming his mind as if he were in the midst of a training session.
The cloaked warrior thrust. Illidan dropped to hands and knees, his fingers squelching in the mud, and threw himself forward. Metal greaves cracked against his ribs, incandescent agony echoing through his side, but his movement knocked the charging warrior off-target.
As the cloaked warrior stumbled forward, desperately searching for footing in the slick mud, his sword punctured the plagued knight's chest and exploded out the other side.
Illidan's eyes widened as an excruciating second lumbered past. The cloaked warrior froze, watching the helmeted visage of his ally, perhaps searching for some clue that he survived. The night elf hoped against hope that he had truly slain him, but with his warglaive still protruding from the plagued knight's skull, he assumed another stabbing would be of little note.
And yet, as cold and musty air stilled in Illidan's lungs, the plagued knight's shoulders slumped, and he tumbled wordlessly onto his back, the sword embedded in his chest.
"No!" the cloaked night said. "Oh no, no! What have I done?"
"What?" Illidan shouted. "Demon steel penetrates your brain and you live, but a sword through the chest seals it? What kind of undead are you?"
Even in his angry disbelief, Illidan recognised the chance laid out before him. A certain defeat had been stalled, and could be prevented completely if he moved fast. He knew he couldn't duel the cloaked warrior, not with his stinging wounds and numbing body. Yet one more spell, cast from the fatigues and pains of his flesh, could save his life.
The warglaive burst from the fallen knight's cranium and sailed back to Illidan's hand. He speared one end into the pliable mud, leaving the other curved spike displaying proudly. An emerald light bathed his palms as dark magic flooded into an orb hovering within.
"You think you'll take advantage of this?" the cloaked warrior yelled. "Your end is here!"
Leaping atop the plagued knight's unmoving corpse, the last enemy grasped the hilt of his stuck blade and pulled. Inches of steel gradually rose from putrid flesh, but it was in deep; Illidan had more time than he needed. The night elf launched a small orb of pale green forward. It connected with the cloaked warrior, lines of lime energy swirling around his body, solidifying him in place. Illidan smiled as he heard the unintelligible grunts from his target's frozen lips.
Lifting his hands, Illidan elevated the cloaked warrior into the air, slowly drawing him closer. His dark fel magic thrived on the stings and blows of his wounded body, enabling him to cast the spell at all, but it drained him fast.
"Your service in honour of Count Dracula and the Pale Moors is noted and appreciated," Illidan said as the cloaked warrior hovered above the point of the warglaive standing in the soil. "But we aren't taking new recruits right now."
Illidan thrust his hands down and the cloaked soldier careened downwards. As had happened to the plagued knight moments ago, blood-drenched steel burst through the soldier's torso, the wicked point clawing out of his back. His limbs twitched uselessly, a wet gargle flowing from his lips, and his body sagged over his impalement.
The night elf collapsed to hands and knees and vomited into the mud. Victory he had, but it had come at a dangerous cost. He would soon succumb to his wounds, intensified by his reckless usage of fel magic, if he didn't get out of the battle soon.
A quavering index finger alighted on his throat. A mote of magic pulsed into his voice box, an effort that rose bile at the back of his tongue, but he swallowed it down. In a booming voice that cut over the chaotic din of the battlefield, he yelled. "CLAWFANG! REGIS! TO ME!"
He slumped forward, his forehead ploughing into mud, the acrid stench of his own vomit assailing his nostrils. How he hated that his life hung in the hands of his two officers.
"Well well ... what do we have here?"
Illidan left his sagging head soak in the mud, but his all-seeing eyes knew what stood over him. A knight clad in full plate armour loomed at his side, sword streaked with red. A successful defender of Darkshire, by the looks of it.
"This wouldn't be the great leader of the enemy force now, would it?" he asked, the smarminess in his tone setting Illidan's jaw. "I wonder what would happen if I killed you?"
His luck had run out. At least he could parry with his tongue, if not with a weapon. "The same thing that happened to all of your friends as I eviscerated them, drew their innards to spill out like snakes cut from a cloth bag ... nothing. I will fall into the earth, festering and decomposing in the filth and the muck, forgotten to all but the carrion, an unremarkable and futile end ... the same as your unremarkable and worthless friends."
The soldier grimaced. The nerve was struck. The final blow would be swift. "You bastard! You cheapen the sacrifice of my friends?! Enjoy your permanent stay in hell!"
"Lord Illidan!"
A mass of fur flew over the night elf's prone body and descended on the knight. Primal screams and chunks of flesh separated from their host as a hulking werewolf tore into his prey. In an impressively short time, the knight had fallen silent and the shaggy beast kneeled before his commander.
"We heard your summons, lord," Clawfang rasped. "What is your will?"
"Where is Regis?"
A shriek sounded nearby as a human body, skin drained of all fluid, collapsed to the ground, flesh puffing away like dandelion spores. A bored old man ambled over. "Here, my lord. Werewolf limbs are much better suited for fast travel."
"Get me to the back of the army. Back with White. I need time to recoup."
"Indeed," Regis said, casting lazy eyes over him. "You've been busy. I hope my lord hasn't strained himself too much?"
"Not as much as those two," Illidan said, bobbing his head in the direction of his murdered enemies. "Now enough chatter. Get me to safety!"
Clawfang bent down and hoisted Illidan over his furry shoulder. "At once, my lord!"
![[Image: illidansig2.jpg]](http://www.cytokineindustries.com/chevereto/images/2017/07/07/illidansig2.jpg)