Snakes and Ladders

[Illidan Stormrage]

A cracked column of rock shattered into pieces and dust as a meaty fist ploughed through it. There was barely any pain, only a dull thudding where the impact occurred. He turned, teeth bared like a wild dog, saliva slinking from the corners of his mouth, growling deeply. He spotted an old statue; a stone human, clad in stone armour, triumphantly raising a stone sword. Snarling, he lunged at the heroic sculpture, his feet slapping the grimy floor with tremendous force. Clasping his clawed hands together above his head, he swung them down like a meaty sledgehammer. The stone statue burst into rubble.
 
He stood, back hunched, breathing deeply and fast. Such fury, such primal rage. It flowed through him like his own blood, as if it were a natural extension of his existence. A film of dust shrouded a worn painting on the wall, concealing the image of some human aristocrat that was no doubt worthless. Another pang of anger ruptured in his brain and he slashed four long gashes down the length of the painstakingly painted artwork. No matter how he unfurled it, no matter how many times, it simply didn't bleed away. If anything, each action of irrational violence strengthened and reinforced the need to repeat it.
 
Thoughts were growing cumbersome. Each one that took form that didn't advocate malice and destruction only irritated him more. All he wanted to do was to tear the entire room to shreds, and then move on to more pudgy targets that would coat his claws in crimson.
 
Yes ... rampaging around an empty room full of human relics is such a bore. Imagine the coppery tang of blood on your tongue, of the heat of that red juice slopping down your chin! The screams and shrieks as you maul the helpless!
 
"Lord Illidan?"
 
His neck snapped to the sound of his name. Another night elf, eyes bound behind a strip of cloth, stood with arms behind his back, a sour expression on his face. He had a name ... what was it? Those ebony horns, jutting out of his forehead and curving inwards, seemed to challenge him, to coax him into mortal combat.
 
"Is ... this a bad time, my lord?"
 
Kill him. He stinks of corruption, of life. Can't you hear the thud-thud-thud of his disgusting heart beat? How dare he present himself before you like this! Rip out his throat! Sake your thirst on his blood and flesh!
 
"How dare you interrupt me, you cur!" he roared, spittle ejecting from his chewed and bleeding lips. "You tempt my wrath!"
 
"Lord Illidan, you asked me to see you. I received message only moments ago, and I rushed here as soon as I could." The horned night elf had taken a step back, his posture more rigid, his arms bent by his sides, no longer clasped calmly behind him.
 
Yes. See how he acts around you? He's preparing to strike. Eviscerate him! Before he does it to you first!
 
His groan rumbled like thunder, but his lips sheathed his ferocious grimace. A single thought scrubbed of malevolence arose out of the mire of hatred.
 
Torandril.
 
Kill him! Dismember him and paint the walls with his blood!
 
"Torandril," Illidan grumbled, his voice in a deep, freakish register. "I ... am still getting used to this new form. Unlike my demon transformation, this one is full of mindless rage."
 
Torandril nodded curtly and straightened his stance, though still wound up and ready to defend himself if he needed to. "Yes, my lord. I knew other demon hunters who took on the Vengeance form. Powerful and almost impervious to pain, but harder to control the Legion's whisperings, especially with the mindset of the form. At least in the early stages, until they're properly conditioned."
 
No! Don't listen to him! Stop talking and attack him! Murder him!
 
Taking a deep breath, Illidan centred himself. He focused on the fel energy within that pumped his muscles to ridiculous proportions, and released the gates that held them within his body. The foul magic poured from his soul like air from a loosened balloon. HIs curved horns disintegrated into black dust and fell away. The unholy voices receded, still scratching at the edge of his mind as they always did and would always do, but to a volume that Illidan could safely and reliably ignore. In mere moments, he had returned to his normal night elf self.
 
"So, to the matter at hand."
 
Illidan walked out of the room with Torandril the Felslayer, his second-in-command. Torandril was part of the first group that believed in Stormrage's ideals and fled Kalimdor with him when Illidan was banished by his brother. Among that first band, Torandril stood head and shoulders above his contemporaries and quickly mastered the art of the fel without succumbing to their dark temptations. Once the Betrayer had established himself in the Black Temple in Outland, Torandril was the natural choice for his right hand. In fact, the last time Illidan had seen the horned night elf, he was sending him through the nether portals to Mardum to retrieve the Sargerite keystone, a magical rock that could unlock all portals to all of the Burning Legion's worlds. An item that could open every avenue of assault on the demon horde, and eventually paving the way to the final assault on the planet Argus itself.
 
Yet Illidan didn't live long enough to see the fruits of that expedition.
 
They passed through hallways and large, spacious rooms. New cressets had been installed by the hoard of naga and elves, both night and blood, that had arrived at the castle in recent weeks. Many of them had been set to restoring Poenari Castle; fixing structural issues, restoring magical wards, refurnishing the rooms, mending windows, sweeping floors, cleaning carpets. He also allowed time for his people to train and battle in the bailey, to forget about the mundane chores necessary to restore Illidan's seat of power. Unlike the monsters of Dracula, he did not begrudge them their time to train. Still, the night and blood elves had pledged themselves to Stormrage willingly, and the ones still remaining had gone through the unholy trials of the demon hunter. It stood to reason that their loyalty would be as hard as iron. The naga similarly followed Lady Vashj's orders to the letter, and she was the staunchest of allies, keen to see the Burning Legion perish at any cost.
 
"You have seen how my forces have returned to me," Illidan said. "Some were scattered amongst the Pale Moors, though truth be told, the vast majority were summoned here by me. It was an exhausting endeavour, one I hope not to repeat any time soon."
 
"Yes, Lord Illidan," Torandril said. Illidan knew that his commander didn't understand the omnilium magic, nor could he, being a product of the process himself. Still he had been informed about all that had befallen the Betrayer since his arrival in the Omniverse.
 
"Repairs have gone exceedingly well, I see. The fervour of my forces cannot be praised enough." He couldn't contain his pleasure. After dealing with Dracula's taciturn creatures, the elves and naga were a godsend. "How much longer until the castle is fully restored to its past glory?"
 
"It will be some time yet, my lord," the Felslayer said as a wash of orange light passed over his face, a cresset in the wall fading behind them. "The castle has been left in a terrible state. It may be weeks, it may be months."
 
As expected. "And how go the troops? Are they battle ready?"
 
"They have been the moment you brought them under your service once more, my lord."
 
"Good."
 
Torandril turned his head to face Illidan as they walked down another hallway. Sconces of flame were the only things that broke up the monotony of the path. "Do you plan to strike a target soon, my lord?"
 
"No. I simply wish to have a standing army in case ... " A skeleton lumbered past, sword lugged on its bony shoulder. " ... complications arise. Also, I'm considering another expedition."
 
"But I thought you said you weren't ..."
 
"A solo expedition, Torandril." Illidan cleared his throat before two naga, engaged in their native, hissing tongue, who parted in surprise. "The Assault on Darkshire taught me a great number of things, namely that there are others in this realm that share formidable power. I must journey beyond the reach of the Moors and learn what I can. The establishment of the demon hunters and naga mean I can make this journey knowing that Poenari Castle is protected."
 
Torandril nodded, though his face spoke of uneasiness. "Yes, of course my lord."
 
"Do not fret. I shan't be gone long. It will be an intelligence mission, nothing more."
 
"In that case, we could send one of the demon hunters to-"
 
"This is something I must do on my own, not hear about it vicariously through another." They came to the open gates of the castle, and a thick, swirling cloud of fog greeted them in the bailey. "I have every confidence I will be fine."
 
"Yes, my lord."
 
"You will be in charge during my absence. Ensure that Lady Vashj continues preparing the naga, and see that the castle repairs are not neglected."
 
Torandril cleared his throat. "My lord, while I appreciate and accept the offer, aren't you concerned about ..."
 
Out from the mists, an old and bored man hobbled, a faded green hood over his thinning, almost bald head. His papery hand gripped the gnarled apex of a crude wooden staff, the top only reaching his waist, which he seemed to place much of his weight upon.
 
"Regis," Illidan said.
 
The necromancer's watery eyes shifted from Stormrage to his night elf companion, and then back. "Lord Illidan, I would appreciate a word."
 
"Go," Illidan said to Torandril. The demon hunter bowed swiftly and departed. "What is it, Regis?"
 
"My lord, I would appreciate a quiet word."
 
"Look around you," Illidan said, though the dreary cloak of fog prevented the elder's human eyes from observing what he already knew was there. "The elven and naga forces are everywhere. There is scant room that isn't occupied by idle ears."
 
Regis frowned slightly, adding an extra couple of sagging lines to a brow already riddled with them. He rose a hand to chest height and clicked his slender fingers. A barely perceptible wave rippled around them before settling and fading. Illidan's magic sight, however, saw the sound blocking spell that engulfed them.
 
Illidan stared at the necromancer until he spoke. "You must know what I come to speak to you about."
 
"The same thing we always discuss, Regis. The topic is beginning to bore me."
 
"I repeat it because it bears repeating if not taken on board," he said, pulling the sleeves back on his robe in a huff. The sleeves, heavy and droopy, slid back down to his liver spotted wrists the moment he lowered his arms. "Your drastic additions to your forces have already got chins wagging. Everyone is wondering where they are coming from and what allegiance they hold to you, Count Dracula and the cause. Your actions are fermenting more distrust with each passing day. You must realise this."
 
"Regis. You've no doubt been observing the naga, correct?" Illidan asked, arms folded over his chest.
 
"I've been observing everything. I always am."
 
"Tell me this. Do the naga appear to be built for repairing masonry? Reattaching doors to hinges? Retiling rooves?"
 
One of the reptilian creatures slithered out of the fog and passed by. Its thick, bulging torso rippled with scaly teal muscle, balanced on a broad, snake-like waist and tail that trailed behind. A series of dorsal fins ran down the length of its hunched back, terminating at the base of its skull. It turned its red, slitted eyes on Regis for a moment, its predatory teeth housed in a stout snout bared in nonchalance, and then glided onwards, back into the grey cloak of the fog.
 
"No, they do not. They appear suited for tearing apart marine life with animalistic savagery."
 
"As do many of those filthy beasts that call Count Dracula their lord," Illidan said. "Except many of their victims are sapient."
 
"What is your point, Lord Illidan?" Regis asked.
 
"My point," Illidan said, lowering his voice to showcase his distaste for Regis' curtness, "is that the naga have taken upon them the tasks that I have assigned them, regardless of their natural affinity or personal opinion. They understand that there must be order or else we would achieve nothing and our alliance would be worth less than the dirt beneath our feet. Yet the creatures of Count Dracula complain that they're bored and can no longer prey on brainless villagers who venture too far from their tiny hovel."
 
"The difference between the naga and the monsters is that the naga voluntarily entered an agreement with you to realise a specific outcome," Regis said, placing both frail hands on the knob of his cane.
 
"Your implication of the monsters' desire to rebel against Count Dracula's will is most surprising," Illidan said. "I wouldn't have thought you would make such an admission."
 
"Guarding a dilapidated ruin while the living continue to exist in Count Dracula's realm is counter to his will," Regis replied, a touch of passion entering his listless tone. "No one is coming to this pile of forgotten rubble to exact vengeance. We are sitting on our hands when our enemies are still licking their wounds. All any of Count Dracula's minions want to do is return to Darkshire and finish what was started."
 
"And perhaps that is why they have achieved nothing of import until I took the reins of command." Illidan lowered his head, keeping his flaming gaze on his chief advisor. "They lack direction and focus. They stumble aimlessly from one kill to the next, seeking only a fresh human jugular. By living by their base instincts, they are no better than animals, thinking only of their next meal. How can such self-serving and restless creatures benefit Count Dracula's bid for total hegemony of the Pale Moors? The notion is ridiculous."
 
Regis went quiet for a moment, his bottom lip couched tightly beneath the top. "Assuming that you are correct, you are still ignoring a vital aspect of controlling your troops. Their desires, as varied and numerous as the stars, are not being heard or-"
 
"Their desires are of no concern to me," Illidan said, "as I've stated time and time again to you, Regis."
 
"And as I have repeated, my lord, you cannot treat creatures forged of necromancy and other dark curses to behave as your elves and naga do. Not to mention that you have removed Clawfang from his head military position to be replaced by the Vashj newcomer. They -"
 
Stormrage took a large, intimidating step closer to his chief advisor. "I have bound demons and undead alike to my will, and not all were willing. I understand the craft of submission and control.  Since most of these creatures were summoned from their graves or infected with their curse, they are capable of being manipulated. If they have too much free will, that only speaks to the lack of skill of their masters. If they continue to think for themselves without forceful magical coercion, then they best learn to bow their heads before me of their own volition."
 
"And if they choose to mutiny rather than submit?" Regis said. "If they choose to band together and rise up against you?"
 
"In that case, I will find out who instigated the rebellion and slowly torture them while the disgusting rabble learn who wields the true power here." Illidan narrowed his eyes. "And if such a day arrives, Regis, where will you stand? Will you support their self-centred bid for freedom and wastefulness, or will you follow the only lord you've ever known to actually bruise the face of the human resistance?"
 
Regis took a long moment to stare into Stormrage's eyes. "I will stand with the side that represents Count Dracula and his interests."
 
"If such a time comes," Illidan said, turning and striding into the fog, "be sure you can tell the difference."