Zone B -- Forest

[Illidan Stormrage]

Sleep came reluctantly to Illidan.
 
It rarely didn't. Slumber was the best time for the demons to trample over his mental walls, and they tormented his dreams. They would plume the depths of his memories, delicately stringing out the darkest and most painful of them, laying them over his consciousness like silk gossamer, layering them so softly and expertly that initially he couldn't tell there was any manipulation at all. Every time he closed his eyes, and even when he sat motionless in his cavernous prison for ten thousand years, he fell into worlds he wish he had never seen.
 
The less cunning or perhaps least patient of the evil phantoms summoned the ravaged, shelled-out worlds that the Burning Legion had already decimated and threw Illidan into the centre of it. Stripping his dream self of his memories, Stormrage would scamper away from an endless horde of demonic monsters, casting the arcane spells of the Highborn, but the magic would splash against their armour, tough hides and rocky skins like water. The demons would surround him, pummelling him, slashing him, until he screamed for mercy and forced himself awake.
 
The most vindictive and skilful of the dream weavers knew the weak spot of Illidan; an emotion buried so deep in his psyche that manipulating it risked driving the night elf insane the more it was played. Yet insanity would only help the demons; a mind lost to incoherence and fear was a mind easily cowed.
 
The thread, when plucked just right, enveloped Illidan in the glory of Suramar, the capital of the night elves in the golden age of their civilisation. It dumped him right before the cyan haired Tyrande Whisperwind, a talented Priestess of Elune and the woman who captured his heart.
 
"You were never the one for me," she would hiss, smiling wickedly at the pain that would cross Illidan's young face. "I love your brother. You could never understand what we have."
 
From the shadows, a looming figure would stalk out. A silver blade then exploded from Tyrande's chest, her mouth agape in a silent scream, the light dulling from her stunning eyes as she collapsed on the ground. A Felguard would stamp on her head, and bone chilling fear would freeze Illidan in place as the blade found its new home in his throat.
 
Over the years, the night elf detected their subtle tweaking, sensed their corruptive influence in the landscapes of his mind. In time, as he came to understand their terrible fel power, he would turn the situation on its head and massacre the intruding spirits, sending them fleeing back to the Twisting Nether where they belonged.
 
Tonight was no different.
 
As he banished the last of the miscreants to their inky black prison, Illidan sat up in his bed, breath heavy and brow damp. He may have learned how to tame his nightmares, but they always left their mark on him.
 
The steady patter of rain drops drummed on the roof. The cool, silky wind crept through the gaps of the logs in the cabin, soothing the demon hunter's warm skin.
 
Crossing his legs and gripping his knees, Illidan breathed out gradually, closing his flaming eyes. There was a good chance his enemies were still resting in the same safehouse as he was, especially since the weather had taken a turn for the worse. He controlled his respiration, finding a calmness neither consciousness nor sleep could grant him. He meditated on the day's events, playing them through his mind's eye, searching for anything that he may have heard but not absorbed during the first day of the death tournament.
 
His eyes bolted open. How had he not given that statement the attention it deserved when he first heard it?
 
Nealapph had boasted of tearing himself free of some hellish prison, having procured knowledge of Diablo. From what he had heard from his soldiers and Regis, Diablo once ruled the Pale Moors. Dracula took over command when the demon lord was forced into another realm called the Underverse. Since then, Dracula's influence had spread to all corners of the verse, and Diablo's name had waned in importance.
 
From Nealapph's booming warning, Diablo was not chained to his cell. His agents travelled between worlds as he built his strength, waiting for the ripest opportunity. Illidan hadn't spoken to Dracula directly about his former master, but there was little doubt in his mind that the Count wanted Diablo out of the picture.
 
Illidan bounded out of his bed and burst outside. The icy rain drops saturated his skin, flattening his thin black hair to his back and shoulders. His omni-directional sight fanned out over the camp, creeping through the log cabins in search of his target. They had once been outside, sitting around the smouldering remains of a campfire, but the rain had chased them away.
 
"There you are," Illidan mumbled to himself, his tone low and fiery.
 
He slammed the door of the next cabin over and stormed inside, dripping water. The middle-aged human who had fled from their battle stood by the one who uttered those terrifying words.
 
"You." Illidan pushed the cane wielding man out of his path and brought his snarling countenance into his target's face. Staring at him, knowing he was a nose away from touching him, boiled the night elf's blood. He desperately wanted to finish the fight, but the gentle weight of his bracelet told him to restrain himself.
 
"Nealapph, is that your name?" Illidan said, showing no sign of curbing his distaste. "So Gildarts tells me. You said something very interesting about Diablo before this whole mess began. And I want to know details."

Moved Sage and Tearen into a cabin, since they were sitting around a fire in the rain; I figured that's what you do when it rains? Sorry if that throws anything off.