Assault on Darkshire [Staging]

[Sarah Kerrigan]

Kerrigan had to resist the urge to bend something quite different from her knee - Illidan's skull came to mind - for the smallest fraction of a second, at least. Stormrage had made it quite clear what he thought of the dissent occurring within his ranks, and though Kerrigan had already expected this reaction - indeed, in some ways she was simply trying to speed up the process she'd already seen in action - it still rankled her to be spoken to so.


Still, Kerrigan had both expected it and wished for it - Speed was key, here. She had no wish to engage in politics longer than necessary, at least not among these other primes, while Darkshire stood growing and changing. Her more animalistic nature did not have control over her intellect, and her intellect knew that for now, serving this night elf warlord was necessary. Of course, if and when this army evaporated, she may just expect to be spoken to as an equal, rather than as a servant.


So instead of a show of anger or defiance, the Queen of Blades instead did quite literally as Illidan asked, Bending her knee, bowing her head, her wings spreading towards the floor as she did so. Of course, her erstwhile ally - Skeletor, he said his name was - instead showed his more foolish side as he took it a step past subservient and towards utter buffoonery - at this point, even as she heard the other primes leave, she didn't bother hiding her disdain.


Part of her doubted the being, and yet, given his comments, he actually did know how to play the game, even if his skill hardly matched her own. He was a useful ally - and from the looks of things, he was one third of the primes in this standing force now.

Sarah looked up at the Fierce, blazing face of the night elf, and part of her desperately wished to see past that blindfold. Misshapen, firey eyes or not, it was harder to read his moods as he was. The man was volatile, and while Sarah didn't doubt his conviction, she did doubt his faith in his new "allies". Still, she could see the difficulty of this situation was slowly increasing, and she would have to choose her words carefully - offering assistance, without looking like she was trying to usurp Illidan's authority.

Thus, it took the infested terran a moment to gather her thoughts.

"Lord Illidan. I shall march on your word, at a moment's notice, and follow the orders you give. Your experience in combat is obvious." Kerrigan stated, and in this case she did mean it - the night elf had clear experience both in personal combat and command. "However... in my own world, I was known as a strategist." she stated simply, and if she'd not needed to take this so seriously, it might have brought a smile to her face.
Strategist was certainly a new way to state "galactic conquerer".

"If your aim is truly to break the walls themselves, and the plan is straightforward assault, I shall make every preparation and use every resource I have at my disposal to make it so. However..." Kerrigan paused, giving herself a brief fraction of a second to plan her next words. Hopefully, Skeletor didn't feel the need to hinder her in this regard - at the moment, what she needed to do is convince Illidan to actually make use of her mental faculties, as well. The politics of the moment were little factor.
"My own experience and intellect is also utterly at your disposal, and there are other ways to bring down a city such as Darkshire. If we were to take our forces and begin a less... traditional approach, we may be able to rob them of their advantages before the battle begins." Kerrigan states. "I can think of ways to weaken the defenders before the battle truly begins, body and soul, if you make use of me. I've defeated entire empires with a handful of forces before. Allow me to do so again under your command."

Kerrigan finished her statement with a smirk. At some point through this discussion, Kerrigan could finally feel it - the familiar pressure. The need to plan around her opponents. The feeling that her brain was once again the only thing standing between her and certain death. It had been so omni-present, and yet, Kerrigan realized that she missed this. A true challenge, one that could test her mettle, and her courage. At some point, she realized that even if Illidan reneged on his offer, if this assault fell apart, Kerrigan might have waged this war regardless. As she had before, when she'd let the protoss and terrans continue to exist instead of crushing them like the insects they'd became to her, she realized that she'd been looking to test her mettle once again. Certainly, this was the strangest situation that she'd ever found herself planning around, and yet... she couldn't be more excited to see what lay ahead. even her psionic energy started to thrum with the steady hum of excitement, her body taking on a barely-visible glow of sickly yellow energy.

With Stormrage or without, Kerrigan now knew that she'd make the Defenders of Darkshire fear the wrath of the queen of blades, in all of it's unholy wrath and scornful fury

[Illidan Stormrage]

Pathetic. Half of the assembled officers that had responded to his call had already turned tail and fled at the sound of his voice. What did they expect? To run around mindlessly, doing as they please, while assaulting a fortified town? That would be an excellent way to get slaughtered and have the entire scheme fall to pieces. Were those morons simply insane, bending to whatever whim passed through their hollow heads, rather than having any mental acuity? Especially that small human child. As soon as her commander made clear the terms of the engagement, she fled under pretence of protecting her forces. What in the Twisting Nether would she do with her forces otherwise? A tea party?
 
Illidan craned his head, taking in the peons of his army for their reactions. Most appeared unperturbed by the exodus; they knew who they served, and the absence of a handful of Primes wouldn't change that fact. The floating wraiths were bound by Cornelius' sorcery, tethered to his potent necromancy, though he knew they had been moulded with their original minds intact. He briefly pondered how the gaggle of human ghosts must be perceiving the night elven commander, if these humans had ever encountered one of his kind before. Still, they showed unwavering allegiance to Cornelius, and that was enough for Illidan.
 
Yet as the chaff blew uselessly into the winds of the Pale Moors, the wheat was revealed. Skeletor, the initially abrasive warlock, had remained. Even more pleasing, he lowered himself to one knee, holding his impressive staff, and declared loyalty. He attempted to drum up support for the night elf, rousing an affectation for Stormrage that he knew did not exist, and the result was largely expected. In any case, Illidan didn't begrudge the skull faced sorcerer for the effort; while brazen, it came from a respectful place. And Illidan himself was nothing if not brazen.
 
Skeletor then spoke what no doubt circulated through the minds of his troops - would the assault still go ahead as planned? Illidan already had an answer for that before the warlock had even formulated the question in his mind.
 
"Of course," Illidan's steely tone sprang from his violet lips. "The departure of two dilapidated skeletons and a human child are hardly cause to cancel a military campaign." He shot Skeletor the briefest of withering looks, as if to suggest the idea of such losses would affect their stride at all was a stupid one. Yet he kept it swift, since the question wasn't entirely invalid, and his declaration of fealty had pleased him. "The attack will continue as planned. However - " Stormrage cast his eyeless sight over the courtyard of Poenari Castle, quickly counting their forces - "we may need more recruits."
 
Not Primes - if no others had arrived, then it was likely there were no extra candidates on their way. Even if there were, the kaldorei doubted they would be of useful stock; only two of the five original Primes had kept their word to stay on. No, Primes didn't matter. Yet his knowledge of summoning objects and even living creatures with omnilium had stuck with him. The very evidence of its power prowled around the courtyard, its scaly muzzle sniffing at the cracked earth, black tentacles hunched as if staring directly at the ground. His felhunter had been brought to this wretched dimension through willpower and a slight exertion. It stood to reason that more could be coerced through the veil, though how many was unknown.
 
Would certain creatures take longer, take more effort to summon? Could he invite an army of demonic imps for the same cost as a Doomguard? Would a commander of his Illidari, like Prince Kael'thas or Lady Vashj, be even costlier? Too many unanswered questions for something so important.
 
Kerrigan followed Skeletor's lead, physically demonstrating her obedience to Illidan's command, though her movements were more measured and, dare he say, regal. This creature's mind was sharper than most; though it could just be flair and pompous self-aggrandisement, all of the carapaced human's actions so far indicated an intelligence testing the waters. She was aware of Stormrage's will, and while others may poke blindly at the bear simply because they don't like the way it roars, Kerrigan took a nuanced approach. Illidan appreciated that recognition, but also realised that she may be a greater danger than Darkshire if he let his guard down around her.
 
I miss the naga. When they prostrate, I know it's not ceremony.
 
As if desiring to confirm the night elf's suspicions, Kerrigan spoke and revealed if not her cunning, then at least her initiative. Illidan knew very few stupid pro-active people.
 
She proposed using subterfuge, thought not in those exact words. The demon hunter wondered what a terrifying insect-woman thought stealth meant, but as his vision trailed past her and to her predatory entourage, ideas swam in his mind. Claws wielded by her pets looked as if they'd blast through earth as easily as they would flesh, and the slack jawed humans, pulsating purple flesh clinging to their bodies like a throbbing network of cysts, may have once been settlers of Darkshire caught out on a ill-advised stroll.
 
"I am all for ideas, Kerrigan," Illidan said. "A victory with fewer casualties and hardships is always welcome."
 
Little did she know that the entire impetus of this assault was to empty Poenari Castle of Cornelius White and his collection of spirit friends. If Illidan was fortunate, the wraiths would perish in the ensuing battle, as would the jaded necromancer. If unfortunate, he'd have to cut the old fool down himself to dissipate the wraiths' ties to the Pale Moors. Either way, the outcome largely didn't matter to him, but crushing the only bastion of resistance to Count Dracula's regime would reflect favourably on him. Besides, Kerrigan and Skeletor may even become trusted allies in the dark days ahead. No sense burning bridges when there's nothing to gain from doing so.
 
"Let us hear your plans. If they involve the use of your mutated horrors, all the better." He took a moment to picture the sheer terror on the faces of the humans as those indentured monsters slithered towards them. Their intimidation factor alone secured Illidan's support for their use.
 
"Skeletor," he said, speaking to the faceless sorcerer. "Feel free to offer any advice you may have, also. War is not far away."

[Sarah Kerrigan]

Kerrigan’s face twitched in excitement as she heard Illidan’s words. the time for vocal squabbles had finally ended, and now Kerrigan was back in a familiar setting, organizing a plan to destroy a formidable force...
and like every army before it, she would crush them with superior strategy, and superior forces. Thankfully, it appeared that Stormrage's pride was not at risk of blinding him, at least in this instance. Kerrigan made sure to remember that for later - On her side or against, she realized, Illidan was a formidable force, and one she'd have to carefully control her dealings with. Against her better judgement, 


“The defenders of Darkshire are formidable in their own right.” Kerrigan stated, realizing she’d need to say her plan quickly - Stormrage was not one for long explanations. “Yet unlike our forces, their men are mortal. They have simple compulsions that override reason. In particular…” Kerrigan continued, before motioning to the castle gates with a look of derision. “Their primes have the same problem our would-be comrades had - Independent thought. The need to direct themselves at any cost.” Kerrigan stated with a smirk. “And for many of the men in darkshire, or the defenders that may gather, it would be far too horrifying if they were to let innocent people die.”

Kerrigan took a breath, noticing Illidan’s growing look of thoughtfulness. She would have killed to have managed to break his iron-faced Visage, seen what he was thinking, but she’d played her hand a little too well, he realized. Illidan knew well who he was talking to. A mistake, if a necessary one for this assault to go smoothly.

“There are villages, mines, and outposts surrounding darkshire. Many of them hold people who believe in their need to defend these hovels to the last, and quite a few of them supply darkshire with vital resources.” Kerrigan explained. “We attack them with a small fraction of our forces. Not enough to overwhelm them completely… and we let some escape alive to the walls. A small enough fraction to lay credit to our bloodshed, but a large enough group to garner attention.” Kerrigan said with a grin. “Some of those I could potentially infect with a toxin…” Kerrigan continued. “Similar, but lesser to, what happened to these unfortunate souls.”

Almost as though in response, one of the infested behind her began to twitch, it’s eye slowly growing in size, before turning a bright green.
“These ones were modified more extensively…” Kerrigan added. “But basic infestation can be added quite quickly and easily to human beings… the problem is it’s shorter half-life, of course, but it would merely be for effect. To create rage against us, and fear of what we could do. Concerns over what our contagion might brew...”

Illidan’s glare grew sharp, and Kerrigan already knew that he was considering both this idea and her own capabilities. She was no fool, and it appeared that Illidan knew that well, already.
“And this is how we divide them. Certain people have very unique moral codes, and in an army that’s close to irregular, the best way to break down command is to create a moral quandary. Defend those living outside the walls, some of which they may know? Or leave them to die and continue vigilance over the walls of Darkshire. It’s unlikely any of them are truly pragmatic. And for those brave men and women who go to rescue their kin…
Before continuing, Kerrigan sent a brief telepathic message to the hydralisk nearest her, and it’s head jerked suddenly as it’s claws set to work on the earth. It’s claws moved at a rapid pace, and within seconds the creature was concealed underground, the markings of it’s presence barely visible as it displaced itself through the earth.

“We’ll be ready as a vanguard. My zerglings will work as advance scouts.” Kerrigan stated, a hand straying to caress her nearest pet as it lumbered forward with a low, unearthly growl. “They will run until they expire, if need be, once they spot a threat. And when they spot our prey…” Kerrigan continued, “Our strongest commanders and warriors will be informed, and ready to ride to meet them in combat. Taking them apart piece by piece.”

Kerrigan’s eyes filled with anticipation. “Of course, even if their forces don’t ride out to meet our own, we will have created agitators, even if the walls are closed to those refugees. Their Morale will be impacted, those who cling to heroic ideals will be forced to fight with regrets, and we will have cut off any supply lines or reinforcements that might have become problematic in the future.” Kerrigan finished. “All for a little extra time and slaughter.” Kerrigan stated.

“Of course, as for the siege itself…” Kerrigan continued, before motioning to one of her infested.

The creature walked on it’s slow, mishapen limbs, seemingly never reaching a consistent gait, as Kerrigan waited for what felt like half a minute for the creature to actually reach it's targeted destination. Illidan started tapping his fingers against his arm, and Kerrigan knew his patience was coming close to an end.

Fortunately, the agonizing wait eventually came to an end, as the creature finally hobbled far away enough to keep Illidan's army and structures out of the blast Radius, wandering to an empty area of the courtyard.

Kerrigan made a fist, her trademark smirk present on her features, and suddenly, her hearing - and, she assumed,  everyone else's hearing that dwelt within the castle - was assaulted by the sudden explosion and gore as the shambling infested detonated, creating a sizable “boom” as the fireball rocketed up, and then transformed to vapor.

“Bestow upon me a cart with a false bottom, and a pair of humans to… convince of their role as disguised saboteurs.” Kerrigan stated. “And I will deliver to you a smashed gatehouse before the battle truly begins, lord Stormrage.”

[Skeletor]

Skeletor listened as the Brood queen described her plan. He supposed it could work, though it felt unnecessarily complicated. The mere presence of such terrible villains would serve to terrify the defenders of darkshire just as well as the vandalism she was describing. He watched with the others as the lumbering crustacean staggered its way towards an untended portion of the courtyard. The creature was painfully slow and Skeletor couldn’t imagine how they could be at all useful in a combat situation. The Warlock turned and began tracing in the dirt nearby with the butt of his Havoc Staff while Kerrigan outlined a convoluted explanation about carts and ‘hired’ help.

He continued scratching until his design was finished, then turned back to face the two remaining villains. “You’re not trying hard enough, you Bony-winged Witch!” he announced with a cackle. “Darkshire knows that we are coming, just like Stormrage wants! Your plan will make one hole in their wall, and that’s only if they don’t see it coming!” Skeletor waved a finger as he continued to rant, “Heroes are infuriating bunglers, but they usually know a trap when they see one. What we need is something that will chew threw their defenses like wet paper!” Turning, Skeletor aimed the smallest of beams towards the drawing he had scratched, the magic blot racing through the lines and illuminating the design.

The other two primes turned to look. Traced on the ground was a war machine structure of some kind with a large corkscrew affixed to the front. Kerrigan’s brow furrowed at the structure, and Illidan cocked his head to one side with a perplexed expression, “What is that infernal machine? It looks like something goblins would come up with.”

Skeletor either didn’t register Illidan’s statement as disparaging or simply chose to ignore his slight, plowing on ahead with an explanation. “That, Stormrage, is the Doom-drill, A rare glimpse of my true brilliance! With this machine I was able to drill to the very center of Eternia in less than a day! Even with my powers weakened by that Smiling Simian I should have no trouble creating a machine that will tear Darkshire’s walls to smithereens!” Skeletor released his havoc staff to float once again and his arms retreated back within his cloak. “They may see the Doom-drill coming, but there is no chance they could stop it in time! And once my machine has utterly dismantled their defenses, there will be nothing stopping us from conquering Darkshire once and for all!”

Skeletor threw his head back, a bout of maniacal laughter bursting forth from his bony visiage. It was all so simple. Now that he had an army and allies for himself, Darkshire stood no chance of surviving after denying his rule. The haunting echoes of his laughter sounded out amidst the monster-infested courtyard of Poenari Castle, rising up its twisting towers and into the darkening sky.

[Illidan Stormrage]

Illidan sucked in a hefty dose of Pale Moorian air and jetted it out his nose. The two plans that Kerrigan and Skeletor proposed were not altogether horrible. Kerrigan's harrying tactics would place pressure on the Darkshire defenders to protect those outside their walls, or at least have their morale drained by watching their farms and livelihoods burn. She didn't command many of her insectoid predators but even their drooling, sharp-mawed visages would strike terror into the enemy's feeble heart.
 
In the same vein, Skeletor's giant underground drill held merit. Literally undermining the enemy's efforts, especially from such an unexpected avenue of attack, would not only give them the element of surprise, but also create a path for his forces to invade without having to scale walls or endure the swings of swords. The wraiths didn't have that worry, but his flesh and blood soldiers would benefit immensely from it.
 
"Excellent plans," Illidan said. "You will both have the resources you need to carry out your respective roles. I will lead the charge with the remainder of my forces, ensuring all eyes stay on me as you two carry out your functions." He cast his eyeless gaze to the zenith of Poenari Castle, where a papery-skinned man in a faded robe peered over the crennelated wall of the balcony.  Not to mention, I want to keep that necromancer right where I can see him. In fact ...
 
"Stay here. I need to talk to White." The night elf spun on his heel and bounded into the air, soaring an incredible distance. Wind whipped at his long black hair as he briefly latched onto the side of the outer wall, then thrust himself with another leap. Another two forceful launches and the kaldorei alighted next to Cornelius. It had been some time since he had traversed such a distance without his bat-like wings. There was something rewarding about it.
 
"We're almost ready to march?" White said, eyes drooping. "Like you've said every other time?"
 
"Yes, we are," Illidan said. "But before we do, I need to ask a favour."
 
"Speak."
 
Illidan grasped a cracked skull that hung from his belt and held it up for the old man's rheumy eyes. "Do you see this? Can you sense the power inside it?"
 
Cornelius tilted his head. "Hmm. Yes, yes there is a remarkable energy to this skull. But I also sense that much of it has been siphoned out."
 
"Indeed," Illidan said. "I was the one who took that energy. Yet traces of it remain, and I can use it to bind other creatures to my will, namely demons and blood elves."
 
"So why show a vengeful old man some old relic?"
 
Illidan stretched his arms wide. "There is an open door into my powers, and it has been used against me already. Can you feel it?"
 
White furrowed his brow, creasing his already wrinkled skin. His eyes stared through the night elf. "Yes ... yes. You have the taint of vampirism about you, yet you haven't embraced it. You suppress it, ignore the urge to feed on blood." His eyebrows lifted in acknowledgement. "That is quite impressive."
 
Even as it was mentioned, the demon hunter struggled down a thirst that bit at the back of his throat. He focused until it drowned into his stomach and out of his mind. "Yes, and I assume that this suppression has caused some form of magical chink in my armour. Ronaldo sniffed it out and immobilised me earlier. That's how he brought me to you as a prisoner. But if we are to attack Darkshire, I must be certain that no such exploits can be taken advantage of in the heat of battle. I don't know what manner of sorcerers or mages they may have, and I can't discount a member of my own forces seeking to ... further their own prestige by supplanting me."
 
"Hmm," Cornelius murmured. "A true concern."
 
Illidan brought the Skull of Gul'dan before his chest. "So can this hole be plugged? Can I prevent another mage from using it against me? Can this object of power be used as a prison for that weakness, or at least be used in its eradication?"
 
The old necromancer hobbled a step back, his body shuddering from the unusual movement. Leaning against his staff, his white irises travelled the length of Illidan's muscular body. It was in that moment that the night elf realised Cornelius' physical state. The skin that hung from his face had collected in saggy rolls. The frame draped by the dark robe had shrunk since their original meeting. Hair had drifted from his liver-spotted head, leaving only a few tufts behind. The necromancy is accelerating his journey to the grave. Perhaps the strain of our battle exacerbated it. No wonder he's been so impatient to begin the campaign. He won't be able to support the wraith army if we tarry much longer.
 
"I think so," White finally said. "The vampirism in your blood hasn't fully taken hold. There is another curse that rages against it, intertwines with it that makes it hard to integrate with your body. Seems ... demonic in origin."
 
"Yes," Illidan said flatly. He had no desire to elucidate.
 
"And it's because of this demonic curse that I think I can remove it. Not completely, however; there is some form of spiritual resonance with this vampirism curse, as if the one who bit you can see through your eyes, feel through your skin ... that type of sorcery runs too deeply for me to affect. But I can remove the need to sap blood from others, and ... yes ..." White's eyes focused on the old orc skull. "I may be able to change it to something more palatable for you."
 
"In what way?" Illidan said.
 
"I will draw the vampiric curse free, but because it's so mixed with the demonic taint, extracting it will combine it into a new object of strength. It is difficult to explain, so I will show you."
 
Cornelius touched the top of his staff to the Skull of Gul'dan in the night elf's grasp, and a yellow light shone at its tip. That light dribbled in ribbons through the skull's empty sockets and swirled around Stormrage's hand. The savage strength of the Twisting Nether rose in Illidan's chest, igniting his tattoos. He tried to force it back down, having not drawn upon it himself, but White's spell overrode his own will and continued to bring it out.
 
"What are you doing?!" Illidan almost shouted. His fingers stuck to the orc skull, he found his entire skeleton locked in place. "Stop this at once!"
 
"Do you want this fixed or not?" Cornelius snapped, as if the demon hunter's outburst had broken his concentration. "This is the best way to go about it, so shut up!"
 
Illidan grit his teeth and let the necromancer do his work. The stubborn old fool wasn't about to listen to him, and the kaldorei wasn't in a position to argue. It unnerved him how easily White had disabled him, and he wondered how much of his true power lay dormant beneath that bony exterior.
 
In a few seconds, the process halted. Stormrage blinked a handful of times as control of his body resumed. Cornelius held the orc skull in his hand, but a strange black and green smoke billowed from the eye sockets.
 
"Your vampirism is gone, Stormrage. It has gelled with your demon curse inside this relic, and if you absorb it back into your body, you will gain strength unlike that you have been able to harness before." The necromancer gingerly handed the skull back over.
 
Illidan sniffed the dark steam and felt giddy. The seductive lure of Burning Legion magic was definitely present within the concoction, but it pulsed in a way he hadn't sensed before. It was more brutal and bestial, without the cunning or deviousness that usually accompanied such power.
 
"And if I take this new power into me, my weakness will still be gone?"
 
"Once mixed with your demonic magic in that skull, it vanished completely." Cornelius smiled, and the sight made the night elf wish he hadn't. "I've turned your greatest weakness into a strength. But can I make a suggestion?"
 
Illidan frowned, but nodded.
 
"If you do imbibe it, do it during battle. I promise it will be much more satisfying."
 
The night elf probed the Skull of Gul'dan with his magical sight. Was this a trap? What sort of consequences would unveil if he drank this mixture? It seemed unlikely that White wished him ill. He snagged the skull on his belt, deciding to put his faith in the necromancer.
 
"Get your wraiths ready. We will be marching in five minutes."
 
Illidan hurled himself from the balcony and dropped back into the courtyard without letting Cornelius reply.

[Sarah Kerrigan]

Skeletor. How the skull-faced warlock had ever gotten this far, Kerrigan didn't know. Perhaps he had some miraculous form of regeneration on his home planet... or perhaps his allies and enemies both were simply too incompetent to put down the boisterous fool. Kerrigan would have felt nothing but anger for the warlock's eager needling, if not for the fact that the man had proven useful if nothing else. Perhaps he'd been an unknowing pawn? Or had he died quite early indeed, his enemies disposing of him only for him to find himself regenerating within the omniverse.


Perhaps one day Kerrigan would ask him, as she slowly ripped his body apart, piece by tiny piece. She'd even offer to give him the sweet release of death that much quicker, if his tale was sufficiently amusing. If nothing else, she was sure the ridiculous wizard would grant her something funny, even in death.

That day was clearly far in the future, though, and while his disrespect rankled kerrigan, she had to admit his plan had some merit… though, Kerrigan mused, that was relative to their options. In truth, Kerrigan didn’t doubt that she’d have been able to create something of similar worth to the assault, in time… but that would have left her drained, and she required every bit of energy she could keep in her weakened state since coming to this new realm.


Even now, Kerrigan mused, she’d been forced to rely on others, such as Illidan and Skeletor, to assault a simple walled city that could have been destroyed by a few dozen zerglings.
If only she could create a stable hive cluster! Since coming to this place, while she’d been able to create zerglings and hydralisks with effort, something like an ultralisk or guardian was completely outside her grasp. Even with the new physics instituted by this realm, she was quite certain that even if she had a fraction of her previous creatures, Darkshire would have been taken by the time Stormrage had finished posturing with his army.

Instead, she was forced to rely on an elf who she was forced to work under as a subordinate, and a magician with the sense of a twelve-year old.

Nonetheless, Illidan had taken her strategy to heart, and began working unknowingly towards Kerrigan’s own plans for Darkshire. The plan was hardly without use to Illidan, of course - using the refugee streams, and planting her infested suicide bombers within them, she was certain she could make Darkshire’s life much harder; However, the main goal was to cripple Darkshire's outlying territories, and undermine the confidence their people had in the new military build-up that they had worked so tirelessly to create.


Smiling, she turned to Skeletor, as the faceless wizard began to work on his new construction. His disrespect was displeasing… but for now, he was willing assistance and even reasonably powerful. Perhaps, Kerrigan mused, she might make use of his services in the future.

“Skeletor, was it?” Kerrigan asked, only to get a hostile glance from the being. Clearly, the dislike was at least partly mutual.
“I compliment you on your design.” Kerrigan continued, only to find out that, despite being without skin or flesh, Skeletor could somehow manage to put a smug look on his bony face. Kerrigan kept her inner disgust to herself as she continued. “But I see a single issue… should you be intercepted, or attacked in your initial landing, most of these soldiers clearly aren’t built for tunnel fighting. they're more likely to be in your way than assistance underground.” She stated, pointing at some of the bulky demons and other horrors around them.

“And your point is?” the undead magician asked with undisguised exasperation.
“My forces are much more suited for the job. Tunnel fighting is a specialty of mine, and theirs.  allow me to send some of my brood with you, and regardless of what Darkshire might attempt, they’ll be slaughtered before they can so much as touch your tunneling war machine.” Kerrigan stated with a grin.

A few moments later, Illidan came back to the courtyard, and the focused look on his face implied they were now now moving from planning to action. Kerrigan flashed a sadistic smile. “I take it we’re ready to commence?” Kerrigan asked with undisguised eagerness. The assault on Darkshire was advantageous to Kerrigan for many reasons: Improved reputation within the empire, A unique weapons test for her patchwork new swarm, grading these potential assets she called “Allies” in this conflict, and a potential way to gain favor with this "Dracula".
But the simplest reason was also the most pressing one: Kerrigan's own sadistic personality had long ago been further enhanced by the primal will of the zerg swarm, a need to kill, slaughter, and grow stronger in the process.
The death and destruction wrought by this devilish crusade would serve to strengthen Kerrigan’s powers, and satisfy the sadistic hunger within her soul.
For a while at least.

[Skeletor]

The Warlock considered Kerrigan’s proposal, pondering the ramifications of adding some of her forces to his own. He couldn’t deny that having her tunnel focused brood could be extremely useful should their plan be spotted too early. He did not know exactly how well he could trust Kerrigan’s forces, they were allies in the attack, but Kerrigan’s disdain for the warlock was barely hidden behind her piercing yellowed eyes. He did not think that she was so confident in their abilities that she would risk a betrayal amidst the fight itself, but he couldn’t be certain from her tone. If the Zerglings she offered did betray him, he would be facing them almost entirely on his own; he doubted that Illidan’s monstrosities would understand what was happening or care enough to get involved. It occurred to Skeletor for perhaps the first time that none of the forces he would be leading owed him any sort of personal loyalty. Only Panthor had his best interests in mind…

Skeletor turned back to face the Queen of Blades, “I will take them!” he declared shortly, “If you could see your way to lending me some of those explosive ones as well, we can make a bit of a dent in Darkshire’s day… and their walls.”

Kerrigan response was as difficult to read as always, “I don’t see a problem with that, but make sure the banelings know where the wall is, If we want to bring the towers of Darkshire down, then they will have to detonate close to the surface.”

Skeletor nodded, “Good! One other thing. I want you to take Panthor with you. He won’t be much help in a tunnel, and I’d like to think he’s near you if… something were to happen.” This gesture was little more than a deterrent, and Kerrigan was quite clearly aware of it. Skeletor was less than certain that the large cat would be enough to defeat the Zerg queen on his own, but he might prove enough of a factor to prevent her from trying to do anything troublesome while the battle was still underway.

Kerrigan’s eyes flashed and she turned and strode away without saying anything further. She was certainly not one accustomed to having commands given back to her. Skeletor chuckled to himself, and went back to the construction of his Doom-drill. The thing was larger than he had first remembered, and the scintillating rainbow bubble was proving quite taxing to keep in existence. Skeletor grunted, grinding his teeth as the metal vehicle slowly began to solidify within the orb.

Eventually, finally, the Doom-drill sat before him, its polished steel a stark contrast to the decrepit courtyard of Poenari castle. Skeletor grinned, leaning heavily on his Havoc staff. Darkshire, and their Ro-man would pay for their treatment of him. None could deny Skeletor forever, and there would be nothing within Darkshire’s walls that could possibly stand up to his power.

[Illidan Stormrage]

The clouds drifted lazily across the night sky. Starlight filtered through the gaps they occasionally left, though the thin veil could not hide the luminosity of the moon, full and ripe, its light bright even through the grey. A clap of thunder boomed through the courtyard, though none of his focused warriors flinched. Humanoid man-bats flapped noisily around the courtyard, hissing and baying for blood. Wraiths of all colours swirled with them, sensing their master's excitement at the coming events.
 
A peal of lightning lit up Poenari Castle in all of its terrible, ramshackle glory, and rain fell at its beckoning.
 
Illidan breathed deep. The cold, frigid air of the Moors inflated his lungs and focused his mind. The icy rain sloshed down in sheets and rose goosebumps on his dampening skin. His toes clawed at the soft earth, raking tiny trenches in it, gritty and wet. Miles and miles of swaying grass rolled out before him like a carpet of blue-grey, bending to the whims of the precipitation hammering over the plains.
 
Drink it in, Illidan thought to himself, unconsciously flexing his calloused hands. The anticipation before battle. The adrenaline rush before the violence.
 
He smirked. The calm before the storm.
 
Cornelius shuffled to his side, staff tip glowing with yellow light. Spirits hovered closer. "Great. You finally decide to start the march, and it's raining! I could catch a cold in this weather, you know!"
 
Illidan clenched his jaw. Soon the castle will be mine. "Military campaigns cannot be rushed, White. Save your breath for the trek to Darkshire."
 
Clawfang, his hair matted down, prowled to his master. "Lord Illidan, your forces have been marshalled. We await your command."
 
The night elf nodded. He thought a speech might be in order, but many of those following him did not believe in his cause. Some barely tolerated his authority. Yet, it seemed cruelly unfair to allow himself the pleasure.
 
Stormrage vaulted onto a broken column of the outer wall. His eyeless gaze spread over his forces; wraiths, werewolves, sword-wielding skeletons, zombies, vampires, warlocks, man-bats ... they all felt their commander's movement, and all eyes fell upon him. His head necromancer Regis, assigning squadrons further in the back, turned his bored gaze towards him. The burly werewolf Clawfang stared at him like a dog would a fresh steak. Even Kerrigan and Skeletor, his newly anointed officers, recognised a speech forthcoming.
 
Illidan folded his arms and set his spine straight. "My army ... a great and disgusting blight blemishes what would otherwise be a perfect realm for our Count Dracula to rule. One tiny pocket of human resistance remains, thumbing its nose at its great host. They do not bow, for they believe they are better than he is, than we are. They hunt our kind down like diseased vermin, bulking at the sight of us, using their misguided and self-entitled morality as their justification. They would see all of you wiped clean from the face of the Pale Moors!"
 
The kaldorei commander paused, hearing his voice echo over the courtyard. Many eyes, blinking from the rain, remained trained on him. "Yet they fail to realise that this is not their home. They exist only to strike fear into us, to attempt to cow us. They may seem like a small force now, but if we continue to abide their presence ... one day Camelot will recognise the threat of our people, and Darkshire will be their launching pad into our realm." He turned his face to Cornelius. "And to those who have already been wronged, who have been abandoned and damned to a fate worse than death ... their waiting has come to an end! Vengeance shall be theirs! Today is the day that we eradicate the human filth that would stand against us!"
 
"Today ..." A bolt of lightning shattered the grey sky, illuminating Illidan in brilliant white. "Today they shall see the storm rage!"
 
A great cheer blended from many varied voices flooded the night elf's ears; roars and screeches of bestial creatures, the haunted hisses of the undead, the croaked shouts of the dark sorcerers. Even Cornelius' white eyes grew sharper, a thin smirk creasing his face.
 
Illidan hurled himself off his podium and to the front of his forces. "Skeletor, Kerrigan ... take what forces you need for your roles. Clawfang, you and Regis will protect Cornelius until I say otherwise."
 
His werewolf officer turned to find Regis, but paused a moment and turned his snout. "And you, my lord?"
 
The kaldorei's flaming eye sockets shone through his blindfold. "I will spearhead the main attack myself."
 
In a huge, booming voice amplified by a quick spell, Stormrage's command issued over his army. "NOW, FORCES OF THE DAMNED ...MARCH ON DARKSHIRE!"

[Hiro Protagonist]

It had started raining, cold wet droplets that stung when they landed on bare skin like tiny icicles. The noise and the furor of soldiers prepping for battle, and the constant backslaps of encouragement from the rank and file militiamen he was stationed with had finally knocked the worst of the inebriation from his head. He was ready. Okor was stationed somewhere else along the battlefield, Kelly in another place. He wasn't aware of the other Primes assisting in the defense, but he was told to expect reinforcement should his battalion fall back. The hacker's muscles were loose and supple, his reflexes keen and ready. He was in the state of no-mind, his head empty like a mirror, ready to reflect anything that came at him and then empty itself once more. The warrior of the Metaverse unleashed, with no fetters, no compunctions about right and wrong or the temptation to slip into ignominious slaughter. They were facing an existential threat like no other, legions of the screaming dead and other ghouls from fables marching on the town of Darkshire. Looking down at his kit, he prepared himself for battle.

Hiro Protagonist, the Digital Daimyo, was dressed in his signature outfit. A long blue and black kimono jacket, made of a hydrophobic material that sent raindrops spraying all around him whenever he moved. A spandex workout shirt underneath that, wth black jeans adorning his legs. Black leather riding boots were on his feet, with two gray anitgrav disks strapped to the outside of those. His belt kept the pants up, holding a compartment with extra databoard for his wristcomp. The lessons of Dante's Abyss were responsible for the awkward bulge nar his groin, a molded athletic cup to protect his fellows from unscrupulous combatants. On his hands, arachnoweave gloves that interfaced with the virtual HUD overlaid over his vision by his prize goggles. Those same goggles covered his brow and pushed his dreadlocks up, making him look spiky haired as they flickered to bright blue life, the hacker waving his hands in the air in front of him. On his left wrist was the rectangular mini-computer, no more than 7 inches long, with waterproof rubber buttons and screen. 

He was armed with his katana, a long blade made of volcanic glass and transparent aluminum for structure. It was sheathed inside a titanium vibroweave scabbard outfitted with a microforge for quickly repairing nicks and breaks, and if needed, reforging the blade in astounding time. It was on his left hip. Under his right arm, in a shoulder holster hidden under his coat was the Eldar Shuriken Pistol Okor had given him, ready to be drawn quickly and snap fired, unleashing a torrent of micro flechettes that would cut through rotten tissue and fatty sinews like butter. On his back, behind each of his shoulders were the simple tanto he'd claimed as reward from his first kill in the Omniverse, a big fat enforcer for a Coruscant smuggler. He was ready for this. The fight with the Sage had made him ready for this by waking him up.

Hiro was stationed with the main force, close to the wall but not so close as to be pressed against them. They had reinforcements and room to maneuver, so that if the hammer of the undead came too swiftly they would not be crushed against the walls they had sworn to defend. Then, a loud authoritative voice from the battlements. The Spartan Atelos stood high on the wall, dressed for war in helmet and cape. The soldiers on the ground half turned to face him as he spoke.

"Soldiers of Darkshire! Today, the enemy is at our doorstep! We have beaten them back before, and Darkshire still stands. Diablo's army marched through the Moors, burning all in their path. Darkshire still stands! Dracula's forces assault us, time and time again. Darkshire still stands!" The Spartan lowered his voice, still enough to be heard. "Today some will die. Some will be injured. It will be a hard battle. The forces we face are larger than any we have weathered before without the help of the kingdom. But we have trained for this! We have LIVED this life! The enemy shall fall upon our walls and break on our might! And come tomorrow, when the undead forces run skittering back to their lairs of dark to hide and spit and curse? DARKSHIRE STILL STAAAAAAANDS!!!"

A roar went up from the massed army, and Hiro found himself lending his voice to the raucous battle cry. Goddamn, that man was inspiring.

BBWWWWOOOOOOOUUUUUUMMMMMM

BBWWWOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUMMMM

BBWWOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUMMMMM

The army turned as one as the warning horn sounded. From the trees and paths, the army of Dracula appeared, shrieking, baying, and moaning for blood and meat.

Atelos hefted his spear and roared. "THEY ARE UPON US! DEATH AND GLORY, WE ARE THE LAST BASTION!"

It had begun.

[Revan Noctis]

Revan still stood on the wall beside the other archers in the unit he had forced himself into as it seemed.
Surprisingly the army of the undead had arrived with unexpected speed which he supposed was to be expected considering their supernatural abilities.
He looked out as the rain fell across his field of vision as grotesque forms marched closer to the city of Darkshire many assuredly carrying an equally horrific smell though some such as the wraiths were almost beautiful in the dark rain glowing many different colours.
For a moment he wondered how the city had truly lasted as long as it had but as he did so he drew his bow with the other Darkshire archers and prepared to fire upon the hordes that were now lining up to fight their front line.

The spartan General of the Darkshire army gave one short but inspiring speech before the undead began to rush toward them some running others floating to their intended prey. Revan waited for just a moment wondering if their arrows would even be suitable for damaging their targets.

"Fire!" shouted Revan to his unit making sure they remained focused for the battle that would determine the fate of the city

Arrows fired from all along the large aging stone wall that had along with its defenders wared countless battles before as they swept across the sky becoming one with the rain as they poured upon the lead undead forces.
The skeletons, zombies and other forces that still had remains of their former mortal bodies were cut down easily enough as arrows entered flesh and bone.
The Wraiths and Ghosts and other apparitions that lit up the battle field with their alluring light seemed to in some cases absorb the arrows and though some damage was done it was obvious to Revan that they were a fair bit stronger then the average undead troops.
As they fired again some of the wraiths finally seemingly dissipated into what he presumed was non existence but it was soon after that the undead army had begun to reach the infantry units placed out in the fieldit was there that the true clash began mortal and immortal was now occuring.

More arrows fired as Revan continued to fire in unison at the encroaching relentless swarm that seemed devoted to tearing every last non dead foe to pieces. He felt bad for all of the Darkshire inhabitants that they supposedly had to deal with these unnatural horrors. He knew that most here were fighting not for themselves but family and other loved ones that even now were hiding within the city hoping for the battle to end as quickly as possible.
With that saidmany other primes here were to an extent cherishing the fight which he also understood in truth this battle was a good way to continue to home his skills however he had no intention of allowing the people of this city to suffer if he could help it.
He let loose another arrow which from what he could tell soon found its mark in the head of one of the many shuffling zombies that were being used as light infantry to weakin their front line.
Both sides surprisingly seemed to be equal for the moment magic, sword and shield against claws, arms, bone and other forms of deadly energy mixing causing flashes of light throughout the darkended wet muddy battlefield.

The number of bodies quickly began to grow the mud clearly having an effect on the ability of both sides that used legs to fight the ghosts and wraiths had neither legs nor felt the wet rain that seemingly fell through them the damage they took from the defenders weapons the only reminder they existed in their world at all.
Revan kept his legs spaced as he focused his fire on some of the vicious bloodthirsty werewolves as well as the ghosts and wraiths who from far away had looked pretty but now that they were getting closer he could see the nightmarish distorted faces of pure evil that they wore as they coldly claimed more lives reaching out as if they themselves craved the life energy of many that bravely stood against them.
The skeleton units fell easily enough to the more capable living soldiers though soon more wraith arrived many glowing blue in half existence as they floated across the muddy ground with what seemed like chains around their lower halves.
Many wraiths wore hoods and the ones that did he was partially thankful for as every wriath held another face that seemed to be the image of death itself.

"Focus fire on the wraiths!" yelled Revan knowing that for the moment the wraiths posed the more larger threat to their frontlines

[Okor]

The infection moved quickly, carried along the backstreets and darkened alleys of Darkshire, tainted travellers speaking in hushed whispers of war, and the strength to survive it. Fingernails chewed to a fine point split open veins, the blighted benediction spreading to those desperate enough to accept its agonies. Sidelined soldiers rose to rag-wrapped feet, the crippling injuries that had held them back no longer hindering them, thin tendrils of corruption slowly knitting failing flesh back together.

The beggars and broken men marched, slinking along shattered stones, towards the darkened heart of the dilapidation, a siren call bringing the newly infected to the birthplace of their disease, each step paved with good intentions. They looked to each other in fear, feeling the sickness seeping through their veins, unsure if the price they paid for their promised salvation was too much.

The weeping-sored warlord stood atop a heap of debris and detritus, defiled digits conducting a shimmering symphony of Omnillium. Its iridescence coalesced into brutally simple weapons that fell from the riotous ribbons of power, into the awaiting hands of his followers. Ragged robes swaddled them, stained with filth, the stability of the steel pressed into their palms providing comfort in this time of turmoil.

Fear. Its rank stench rose above the aromatic assault of the scum surrounding him, a toxic taint in what should have been a blood-sworn brotherhood of warriors. The original trio of converts stood at his side, their flesh already jaundiced, eyes bloodshot as they grasped weapons with fevered certainty. Keith wielded a rusted blacksmith’s maul in one hand, his newfound constant companions wriggling beneath his scarred skin, his prior life of isolation already forgotten. The daring Damien watched with unblinking eyes, a well-worn crossbow clasped between bloodied fingers, the tip of the loaded bolt dripping with disease and death. Jess beamed, the all-consuming corruption having overtaken the demands of her addiction, allowing her to stand among the others as an equal, rather than a weakling waif to be protected, the knives festooning her roughspun rags a testament to her newfound confidence.

The pestilential pilgrims kneeled before him, speaking in hushed whispers of their divine saviour. They said his single eye saw into your soul, that his gaze annihilated the lies of fear and pain, that the blood of gods flowed through is venomous veins. Looking at the gangrenous giant, atop his throne of filth, Omni’s power suffusing him, it was difficult to disbelieve these rumours.

The eye opened, red with infection and a madness shackled by an unholy will. There might come a day when that will failed, when Okor’s psyche was left to tear itself apart in a self-destructive attempt to cleanse himself of corruption. But that day was most certainly not today. He rose from his seat, a tattered tabard bearing the same mark that now laid upon his flock’s souls.

”My… Children. The reckoning draws near.” He looked over the huddled mob, each one of them clutching improvised weapons in dying fingers. Knives, stones, and the jagged edges of shattered bottles were to be set against the living dead.

”The Dead march to take your lives. Darkshire has never even considered you as living.”

He hefted the sword from his side, driving the much-abused blade into the cobblestone, its length vibrating slightly as flakes of rust and dried blood fell from it.

”That changes. You are the Lost and Damned, fated to die.”

He pulled his plagueblade free, wresting it from the embrace of stone, slicing it across the throat of the towering half-Orc at his side.

The crowd collectively gasped, watching the translucent blood slowly seep down Keith’s torso, waiting for the bruiser to fall.

They were left wanting. The sanguine stream was stemmed, his rotting teeth baring themselves in a grin as he slammed the head of his hammer against the stone, a beat quickly taken up by the sickness wrapped around the heart of every contagion-ridden cultist.

Okor shouted, screaming to be heard over the bubonic beat. ”But not today! You are prey, and the predator! You are beggars and broken men, united in suffering!”

”You are heroes!” He howled, raising his blood-slick blade to the darkened sky, the cheers and maddened chants of his Cult rebounding off of the stones of the slum. He raised a claw to his gorget, plunging the digit into the chink in his armour, slicing through his own flesh, demonstrating the near-immortality of Nurgle’s Chosen warriors.

”Now… Let’s all get our damned throats cut.”

[Deadpool]

* Hey, thanks for letting me borrow some of your Syntech employees to renovate my base. I don't know how else I would've gotten Retane's pungent scent of snail ass out of here. *

* Just don't make this a common occurrence, Wade. *

* Yeah, yeah. Anyways, I gotta go. Apparently, somethings going down in Darkshire, so I'm gonna see if there's any work. *

* Whoring yourself out again? I thought we were exclusive partners. *

* You're still my number 1 daddy, Karlito. But sugarbaby needs OM to get that power cap. Toodles. *

From atop his crimson mount, Deadpool swept a gaze over the skyline of Darkshire—it looked just as eerie as before. Late evening bruised the sky purple and blue, while a thick fog enveloped the city like smog gripping an industrial metropolis.  The orang hue of torches and oil lamps danced across the sides or buildings.

”That's our destination, Deadpony. Where there's unrest, there's mercenary work.”

“It's funny that I've existed for over a year and a half, but only now am I getting screen-time . . . without colored text, might I add.”

”I could have started my adventure already inside of Darkshire, instead of wasting words on giving you an entrance.”

“Good point.”

The mercenary tightened his hold on the reins, and sent his heel into the horse's side. ”Ya!” he roared.

His steed let out a squeal as it rose on its hind-legs, forefeet wildly jabbing the air; Deadpool imitated an over-the-top portrait of Napoleon he saw in a textbook once, striking a magnificent pose. Then pulled his horse in by the reins, and galloped towards Darkshire.

When the mercenary neared the city gates, a deep voice rolled down from the one of the guard towers on either side of the main gates: “HALT!”

Deadpool yanked the reins to his horse, coming to an abrupt stop. He peered towards guard tower, eyes running up each step before reaching the crow's nest. Two scruffy men locked sight with him. Their faces were only partially visible in the splashing light of a jittery lamp attached to the nest's ceiling.

“Who goes there?” the man to the right questioned.

”I'm here for the party,” the mercenary answered. ”I heard the festivities have brought out the finest Primes across the land—big, small, Portuguese—and I heard some of them can throw fireballs from their eyes, and shoot bolts of lightning from their asses.”

The roar of a confident crowd erupted from within Darkshire's walls.

”That must be one of the Portuguese Primes—lemme guess, Nurgle jargon?”

Neither guard responded.

”I know many Primes, and many Primes know me,” Deadpool said. ”If you question my accolades then I implore both of you to catch up on the popular Dante's Abyss competitions. I'm the guy that makes a lot of obscene jokes, and parades around nude . . . sometimes.”

The guards shared a glance, then turned back to the mercenary; the one on the right spoke: “Do you know of Okor, or the honorable Shang Tsung?”

Deadpony turned his head as far back as he could to speak to his owner without the guards hearing him. “Isn't Okor the guy that Gilgamesh manipulated into allegiance, then betrayed him?”

Yeah, with some 4th Wall help from me,” Deadpool replied. ”Did you ever hear the story about how basically I carried Sasuke and Gilgamesh into the Top10?”

“Don't care,” Deadpony retorted.

The mercenary looked back at the guards and nodded. ”Yes, he answered, ”I know the walking plague of Karposi's Sarcoma well—we fought together while escaping the last Dante's Abyss. He's a lumbering guy—about 7-foot-too-goddamn-big—and smells like spoiled milk mixed with Indian shit.”

The guards spoke amongst themselves, only audible enough for the mercenary to hear faint grumblings.  Then one of them looked over the backside of their nest and gave a thumbs-up.

The gate groaned open.

[Dave Strider]

Shit, he was gonna be late for this fight too. Then again, when did the cool guys ever show up on time. It was unheard of, unless, that is, they wanted to be on time ironically. Dave, however, wanted to get to this place before anything big happened. He never figured himself to be much of a mercenary, but then again, he never figured he would have to be running his ass off cross a useless empty white landscape that echoed his every footstep. For the occasion, Strider had dressed up a bit, taking on his white bowtie on his blood red tux, complete with pants of a darker shade. Damn these undies giving him a major wedgie, making it all the more uncomfortable to try to haul ass.

Fortunately, Dave jogged at a decent enough pace to get through the portal to the Pale Moors within an hour or so, stopping for a moment to catch his breath and stretch before heading in. He was starting to feel better, but he had felt quite light headed after respawning, but it was fading quickly. He had to be prepared. Who knows what hellhole is breaking lose, like whether or not the armed forces of satan's ass had gone up to battle across his taint to castrate him once and for all. On the other hand, it could just end up like some bar fight where two guys were gawking and hitting on some dude that happened to have long and luscious hair, trying to win over a nonexistent heart. 

But enough of that. Now, the vast dead and gloomy landscape of the Moors laid itself out in front of Dave, the large moon reflecting off of his dark sunglasses. It was times like these that Dave wished he could just jump forward in time and not have to deal with this shit, but as far as he can tell, any kind of timeline in this place was beyond fucked up, lost within the deep confined of Lucifer's well-guarded bellybutton. Dave couldn't exactly pinpoint why his mind was making so many satan comparisons today, might just be the aura of this place.

A long trek followed as Dave found and lost roads, eventually hearing the roar of battle in the far distance, beyond the trees and paths. He wasted no time making his way to the assaulting side, which he assumed was the one with all the spooky fuckers. Why do bad guys always gotta be so fucking creepy? At least he would look good, even though he was kinda fighting with the bad guys. But it wasn't like this was that big of a battle, right? Dave checked his iShades, scrolling through data until he found the news about recent events. Well shit. Too late to change sides now. If he is lucky, he might find one of the many douches from the Nexus there. Either way, who knows, so long as he doesn't go full grimdark or anything he'll be fine. Mostly.

Dave dashed around the field, heading towards the center, attempting to find the primes, leading their army of ghouls and ghosts out to the front of the battle He could've sworn he walked through a few ghosts, sending chills down his spine. Arrows blotted the sky above him as he strayed from the frontlines, he could look ahead to see the arrows flying towards him, but falling short to hit those unfortunate enough to be within the range of the attack. It was pretty chill seeing all these weird fuckers. So this is how it is on the other side. Not too pretty, but chill nonetheless. Now if only he could find another damn Prime. If they are as ugly as their minions, Dave would be better off finding Waldo. 

"Alright, I'm looking for the dudes or chicks that are running this shit, you know where they are?"

Most of the minions ignored him, treading forth into battle, a few looking at him and shaking their heads with grunts, this one dude with bat wings just cackeld and flew off. Little shit. Where was everyone?

[Kelly MacAryn]

The rain tingled as it fell on Kelly's bare arms as he stood in the line, the cold and the wet bringing with it a pleasant, vivid numbness. It saturated his dark hair, a steady stream of water dribbling off the end of his ponytail, and soaked into his shirt, turning the blue cotton almost black with the damp where it hung loose on his athletic form. Dense droplets drummed against the trampled fabric of now-abandoned tents, and beat a somber tattoo on the armor of the troops as they rushed about in a last-minute flurry of activity, checking weapons, tightening straps, forming ranks. The sky opened further, pouring its disappointment upon the soon-to-be-blood-soaked field, and the ground turned to a muddy slurry. It even soaked through the sturdy fabric of his already-dark jeans, bringing the ghost of a frown to Kelly's narrow lips. 

Leaving the issue of chaffing aside, the rain was going to cause problems. The psychic strategist figured he'd be fine, for the most part - his boots were oiled, had hob-nails, and a tread you could use to grind meat - but the footwear of the men and women assembling around him wasn't anywhere near as formidable. They'd get bogged down in the mud. Of course, so would their enemies, but all that meant was that both sides would lose fighters to otherwise-avoidable stumbling. 

Kelly adjusted his grip on his quarterstaff and put the mud out of his mind. There was, unfortunately, absolutely nothing he could do about it. The only things in the coming battle that the psychic had the power to control were himself and his immediate surroundings, and he would do that to the best of his not-inconsiderable ability. Other than taking note of the potential tactical applications of the change in the weather, and some basic preparatory discussion with the soldiers in whose unit he'd been stationed, there was little more to plan for. The fight would happen, and he would form small strategies based on prevailing conditions. 

In theory, the traveler could use the small amount of time remaining to turn his thoughts to his long-term plans, to Coruscant and Camelot. Alternatively, he could look inward, and use the overwhelming familiarity of this frantic scene as a probe to dredge the mire of his clouded memories. Somehow, though, in this place and at this time, it just didn't seem appropriate. He'd hang onto that feeling of deja-vu, and make use of it later, but not here, surrounded by soldiers, some of whom wouldn't have the luxury of a 'later'.

Besides, now wasn't the time to be splitting his focus. 

Instead, Kelly focused on the falling rain. It had, he found, a strangely calming affect on him - as though the drops were passing right through his body, carrying away the tension and the noise, and the questions, and leaving only a blissful sense of hyper-aware clarity. His skin, otherwise nearly senseless from the chill, tingled. Every physical sensation, every sound, was heightened - but not to the point of distraction. It all flowed together, somehow, infusing the otherwise fraught scene with a sense of tranquility. 

Somewhere on the walls behind him, a booming voice, tiny from distance but still audible even over the clamor and the rain, began to give a rousing pre-battle speech. 

Atelos.

The gathered troops moving around the traveler grew quiet and turned to listen, soaking in the Spartan's words as he spoke of the difficulties ahead, urging them to victory. When he was finished, they erupted in a cheer. 

Kelly raised his weapon in salute alongside everyone else, but remained silent, the roar passing through him like a wave through still water, there and gone without a trace. He admired the guard-commander's presence, and his command of rhetoric, but remained unmoved by the man's words. The psychic understood too well the truth that hid behind those sentiments - the things that a general knew, but couldn't say to his army if he wanted them to actually fight. He was certain he'd given that speech himself, in one form or another, at some distant battlefield in another time.  

A horn sounded from atop the walls: three lingering blasts, deep and loud and mournful, echoing across the moors like the death cry of some great and melancholy beast. It could only mean one thing - the enemy was near. As one man, the army turned and faced the moors, squinting into the mist and the rain and the dark. From the wall, Atelos made a final rousing cry of defiance. 

Shapes were moving out there, flapping in sky and charging across the fields in great disorganized columns. Lightning flashed, and arrows arced from the city walls, whispering far overhead in a vast hissing swarm before vanishing amidst the onrushing horde of wraiths, ghouls, monsters and marauders that pounded towards the massed defenders of Darkshire like a vast and vicious flood. 

Kelly hefted his staff in both hands and took his stance, calling to mind the names of the people who stood beside him, learned scant hours before and now locked forever in his remarkable memory. 

...how many times have I done this? Whose dead are lost behind the fog in my head? 

There was no time to wonder. The psychic allowed the thought to wash away in the rain, pooling alongside the names and the faces, to be recalled another time. 

The crucial moment when the battle began had crystalized around him, and soon, it would shatter into the unfiltered chaos of war.  

[Skeletor]

Skeletor glanced upwards towards the roof of the tunnel, as the muted thunder of countless footfalls and the echoing war cries of man and monster sounded above him. The clash would be imminent now, the Defenders off Darkshire could see their enemy, and their resolve would hold or it would break. Illidan’s forces were beginning their charge, that sound was distinctive even above the whirring of the Doom-drill he was guiding. The Defenders of Darkshire would likely be about to respond in kind. It was almost time to enact the first stage of his plan.

Skeletor looked back at the forces he had been given, the chittering Zerglings scuttled along behind him, always nipping at the rear of his Doom-drill as it chewed steadily through the softened rock. Their slower brethren followed more ponderously, pestilent sacs bulging and glistening as they forced away the natural carapace of the creature. A safe distance behind those creatures was the bulk of Skeletor’s forces. A large shambling mass of corpses trundled relentlessly forward, interspersed with a slew of werewolves and minor vampyres, servants Illidan had pressed into his service. A cadre of Poenari’s wraiths rounded out the regiment Skeletor had been allotted. All that remained was to put them into action...

A wailing horn echoed down the winding tunnel towards him, one blast, and then a second. The signal from Illidan. Darkshire’s forces were holding outside of the walls. They intended to meet Illidan’s forces head on, rather than cowering behind their walls of stone. Skeletor’s ever-grin was wide upon his face. The fools, things were working well indeed. A third sounding of the fell horn of death came wafting from the back of his forces. They were charging back? Skeletor wasn’t sure whether to be impressed with the bravery of Darkshire’s forces or to laugh at the foolishness of their commanders. Either way, their plan was clear in this instance The Skull-faced warlock turned to his companion. “Listen up, Phestor, you useless sack of meat! That was the signal horn!”

The rotting corpse that stood behind him turned with a vestigial attempt at propriety, an effort undermined by the body’s clearly disintegrating muscular structure. Skeletor knew very little about the corpse that stood before him, saluting with one degenerated arm, its rotting hand hanging limply in front of a gaunt face, suspended by a few threads of sinew. The torn chainmail and rusted helmet sported the colors and emblem he recognized as belonging to those miserable Camelot soldiers, though the design seemed slightly behind the times. Regardless, the corpse seemed to hold an odd amount of sway with its undead brethren, as Clawfang had explained to Skeletor when their forces were beginning to divide. The Werewolf hadn’t bothered to give Skeletor any further details, and thus the warlock dubbed the shambler Phestor, a name the corpse seemed entirely content to respond to.

Skeletor pointed back towards army “Tell those ghosts that it’s their turn to act! And be quick about it before you decompose on the spot!” Phestor nodded and turned shambling towards the back of the Doomdrill’s open cockpit. Instead of using the ladder to descend, Phestor elected to simply pitch itself over the side, and the was a squelch as it’s form smacked against the metal hull of the drill before landing in the tunnel behind the machine. The Zerglings reacted on instinct, closing in with the clear intent to rend the body to ribbons, but drew up short when they smelled the obvious decay that permeated the body. Phestor slowly straightened and shambled back towards the main bulk of the horde, a long low moan escaping its parched lips.

In short order the unit of wraiths divided, shifting incorporeally through the walls of the tunnel and up. It was all part of their plan. As the armies clashed on the ground outside Darkshire, the defender’s charge would be thrown into disarray as wraiths burst from the ground beneath their feet, even as other spirits assaulted them from the sky and the more bodily ghouls charged screaming into their ranks. If things went according to plan the defender’s counter assault would be disrupted, and Illidan would rout their forces, slaughtering them by the droves as they struggled to regroup outside the fortifications of Darkshire itself.

The Doom drill churned inevitably forward. In what seemed like little time at all, the tip screeched as it made contact with the foundational stone of Darkshire’s wall. Skeletor twisted a dial on the dashboard and shifted the drill into a higher frequency. The motor revved, and shards of rock spewed out, glancing of the Doomdrill’s wind shield. Skeletor telekinetically called his Havoc staff into his hand, and the image of Kerrigan appeared with the crystal ball.

“Kerrigan! We’ve reached the wall. Tell your Banelings to burrow up until they're just below the surface. The tunnel I am creating will weaken the substructure, and once we are through your critters will bring the whole wall out from under them.” Kerrigan did not respond to him, but the Zerglings and Banelings began to fan out, burrowing into the walls of the tunnel on either side of the drill. Skeletor watched them go with the slightest twinge of trepidation, if Kerrigan decided to trigger the Zerg before Skeletor and his forces were entirely through the wall, their assault would be doomed even before they began.

The Drill’s tip burst through the hard stone, and began chewing through packed earth once again. Soon enough the hole was made, and Skeletor’s shambling horde marched steadily onwards right past the stalwart defenders of Darkshire. Skeletor glanced backwards as the drill churned steadily onwards. If they were detected too soon his forces would be absolutely slaughtered, he needed to finish the tunnel quickly, to give his men room to maneuver.  He thought that most of the forces were through, and his questioning glance met with the face of Phestor amongst the crowd of corpses and monsters. The former soldier held up his arm, the dangling hand hanging limp with thumb extended and fingers tucked. That was all the confirmation Skeletor needed. If the others weren’t through yet, then they were too slow to be of any use in the upcoming battle any way. He turned back to visage of Kerrigan, her scaled face staring up at him from the Havoc Staff. “Bring Darkshire's defenses crumbling to their knees!”

[Ash Williams]

Ash stands guard outside of the walls with the gate security checking in on anyone that is coming by just in case if there's any suspicious activity. His chainsaw hand was equipped while his boomstick was in the holster. A prime appeared at the gate on a horse is wearing a red and black pattern ninja outfit or a super hero costume with dual katanas on his back. The mouth on him was a joker which Ash thought he had a good sense of humor but the guards remained serious towards this character. They let him enter the city where they can hear the clamorous crowd within the city that were moved by Atelos's speech. Soon after, rain begins falling with abrupt thunder that came from lightning filling the clouds. Everyone who wasn't in sheltered places were now getting drenched from the rain especially Ash who had to stand at the gate. Trenches were finishing being made out further from the walls with the militia having shovels that were hurrying to get the job done before the enemy arrives. They were soon made and the soldiers who were assigned for the front line hasten to their positions with weapons in their hands.

After being assigned with the gate keeping job for a while, Ash eases up and leans his back against the wall next to the entrance. The soldiers though were still at full attention as they were trained that way. Word started to get out that their enemies were approaching towards the city. A feeling is upon Ash which was the same he had for the fight on the west wall but this one felt to be a bigger scale compared to the last one. Clouds did grew dark in the atmosphere crackling with thunder above the city. Soldiers still were moving to get to their posts and setting up catapults holding rounded stones that were deadly enough in size. The teams made sure that everything was ready to go for their stations and for any buffers.

The walls were still filled with chatter going on with the militia but the outside consisted silence except the steady drops hitting the ground and every structure. Thunder still went off above them and wind started to pick up a little then before. This weather was making Ash feel cooled from being wet and the wind but at least he usually wears his blue long sleeve button up shirt and his long brown pants that does cover most of his body. More of the militia started to come out of the city and onto the battlefield after Atelos's speech. Ash heard the horn sounding off for the battle that's about to unfold which everyone started to pick up speed and not waste anymore time. Guards at the gate were given orders to withdraw in the city due to not being part of infantry. The evil dead slayer still stays outside of the walls due to the orders given.

As Illidan's army comes closer, the odor becomes death and decomposed due to the undead soldiers coming within the vicinity. From the wet weather happening, fog engulfs the battlegrounds but it wasn't too thick. Ash looks forward at the moors, anxiously waiting for the creeps of the Moors to show up so he could kick ass and help save the day with the others. Part of ground beneath him shook for a moment but lightning hit the surface close to where he was standing that made a loud booming noise go off. This made him think that's what cause the ground to shake but didn't notice anything digging beneath him. Ash moves away from the wall and rushes over to the line of defense for Darkshire.

[Strazio Rockwell]

A series of distant explosions rumbled throughout Darkshire’s capital building. Strazio stood still, his accusatory finger still pointing at his adversary, Shang Tsung. The rage-mage cursed under his breath and glanced outside through a window. It was hard to see Darkshire’s main gate from this angle, but telltale fingers of smoke reached towards the sky. The battle had begun. Strazio stepped closer to Shang, bringing himself to eye level with the sorcerer. “This isn’t over,” he fumed, his voice that of a wood-chip grinder, “I expect you to have my journal waiting for me when I get back from saving your town.” With that he kept eye contact for another second before spinning around and storming away. As he passed his apprentice, Gamzee, he barked, “let’s go, we’ve got heads to crack.”

“Right behind you Strawso,” the troll responded.

The duo stepped out into the open air and were greeted by the sounds of panic and screams. Crowds of civilians surged past the two primes, all of them eager to get as far away from the breach as possible. Strazio thought of checking on Rika, but he dismissed that thought. There was no way Rumford hadn’t already taken care of her. He was a good man, and a damned protective father. Fighting against the panicked stampede was no easy task and more than once Strazio found himself struggling to stay standing. More than once he held back the urge to fire a blast into the air and yell at everyone to make a path. As they crested the final wave of civilians the two froze.

All manner of unrelenting horrors were spilling through cracks in Darkshire’s wall like pus from a wound. Strazio watched with a strange sense of awe at the scale of the attacking forces. Soldiers fought back the coming tide, pressing their armored bodies against the vicious and relentless horde. Blood was spilled. More blood would be spilled. That was unacceptable. Rage, that pernicious and ever-present emotion, boiled over inside Strazio’s gut. His dealings with Shang had left him at the precipice of a cliff and seeing that which he vowed to protect be destroyed, well, that sent him over the edge and into the fiery depths below. His body shuddered as magick coursed through it, sparks nipped at his flesh and lightning crackled in his veins. He unclasped his cloak and threw it into the air, revealing a white tank-top and the silver crest of Darkshire around his neck. Breaking into a steady jog, Strazio’s warpath had begun.

He was many things, an avatar of rage, a teacher, a fighter, a professional wrestler, but above all, he was the goddamned Defender of Darkshire, and so long as his furious heart kept beating he would not allow the darkness to swallow Darkshire.

[Gamzee Makara]

The grey skinned alien plods onward, following his mentor and friend. Friendtor? Mentend? Ah, whatever. There were far more important things to think about; like a terrifying undead army, for example. Hypothetically speaking, of course. As if a demonic army of the dead and the damned could actually show up on their doorste-

Oh. Well, isn't that convenient? Gamzee Makara sighs, the smallest hints of a smile creasing the corners of his lips.

"We uh, we gotta go fight all them evil motherfuckers, huh?" He asks, barely keeping pace with Strazio's jog with noticeable effort. Strazio throws him a silent nod, his rage seething and writhing around his tense form in a righteously malicious aura. Gamzee hasn't ever seen his buddy like this before, not even during that massive brawl in the Nexus when they fought that flamin' motherfucker.

The clown giggles to himself and summons his juggling clubs, twirling and flourishing the weapons in a whimsical fashion. "S'aight. I'm down for a motherfucking scrap. I'll follow your lead, Strazibro."

The Bard smacks right into a motionless, stalwart Rockwell. Slowly, ever so terribly slowly, Strazio's head turns around and stares dead into Gamzee's eyes. It is silent for a few moments. The fool's face visibly fills with comprehension as he realizes his error.

"Eheheh, right brother, sorry 'bout that. Won't happen again. Lead on."

[Sarah Kerrigan]

Kerrigan paused for a moment, suppressing a grin.
She had to admit, she didn’t think the Night elf had a sense of humor, or at least, that he’d beat his chest with such amusing alliteration.

“Today they shall see the Storm rage!” Sarah repeated mockingly to herself. Her reflection on Illidan’s last name and it’s related puns was inaudible, of course. The screams of terrified refugees and the howls  of the demons chasing them down rang far too loudly in everyone’s ears.

The assault on the outlying villages were pitiful skirmishes - the defenders, and the few reinforcements they garnered, had been precious few. Though some secondaries did rise up to defend their homes, the defenders of Darkshire showed a heightened, if not surprising, level of sense. Kerrigan had hoped for a less intelligent defence, but this fell well within her expectations. It would have been nice to catch a prime or two unawares within a honeyed trap, but she was content with removing a dozen or so defenders of Darkshire. Brave soldiers, if allowed, became brave veterans. Besides, the true prize was being herded towards Darkshire’s gates this very instant. A yelling, screaming herd of humans, making their way on foot, by carriage, by coach, or by panicked mule… anything to get away from the hell-fire the demons and specters nipped at their heels with.

Kerrigan smiled. The forces Illidan had lent her had actually exceeded her expectations. The horde of rabble he’d assembled were actually quite competent at listening to orders - for beings without a telepathic link, at least - and held to their assigned roles competently. Given their obvious, unending thirst for bloodshed and warfare, she’d expected a less organized squadron. She wondered if that was due to some natural discipline or because of Stormrage's hold over them.

As a result, things were going exactly according to plan, as dozens of refugees scrambled for the safety of the walls only a few kilometers away. The shining bastion gleamed like a promise from god to the battered survivors, and they ran with a desperate energy only granted to the truly helpless. Kerrigan smiled, before making a swift motion forward with her hand.

The chanting of shrieking banshees and other ghastly apparitions synchronized to form a wailing cacophony of demented chanting. Bright globes of flames appeared in a circlet of flame above the ethereal spellcasters the size of horses, coming to life with the sound of a thunder-clap. The burning balls of death rocketed forward, barraging the Terrified mob of refugees with magical napalm with a barrage of brilliant crimson explosions. The screams of the burned and broken echoed loudly enough that Kerrigan imagined even those waiting in the walls could hear the carnage occurring right outside their walls of stone.

Kerrigan wondered with a smirk if fear or anger was what emanated from that place. Either one would cause the enemy to fall within her waiting grasp.

Kerrigan’s thoughts, however, were interrupted by the last thing she expected to see above-ground: A pale disk reflecting Skeletor’s face (or at least, where Skeletor’s face should have been) hummed to life in front of her without warning. As communications go, he was certainly the ostentatious type, as he relayed what he needed from the zerg monarchs’ forces. Kerrigan silently acceded, her zerglings and banelings all burrowing into the nearby earth.

She thought of replying, but figured it would be far more amusing to simply let the skeletal overlord sweat - her forces augmented Skeletor’s own soldiers, but they followed her orders, and her orders alone. It would be good to let the “Master of Evil” dwell on that fact for himself. Still, the warlock was making better time than Kerrigan expected. At this rate, their plans would synchronize quite well.

The Queen of Blades looked up to the blackened mud in front of her. Some of the men, women and children in front of her were nothing more than blackened, charred sculptures now, frozen in their last moment of desperation. The less lucky ones were crawling forward on whatever limbs still listened, hairless, charred mockeries of a human being, red and black scales of burnt flesh and skin dotting their bodies. Further ahead were the refugees that had escaped the blast well enough to run; Those who had not walked, but instead taken on any carriage or coach they could possibly find in their quest to get away, sped on towards Darkshire’s gates. Here was the home stretch, and the salvation in front of them was only a few meters away.

With a curse and a glare, Kerrigan put up a hand to halt her forces, her face twisting into an ugly glare. Inwardly, however, she was chuckling. As her men paused just outside of the distance where blunderbuss or crossbow could strike them down, the Refugees put out one last disorderly dash for the opening portcullis, confident that they could get through before the oncoming horde pushed in.

They were right, of course. With the lead Kerrigan had allowed the refugees, the Men in the walls had time to spare to welcome the wagons and carts of the dozen or so survivors before the demons could catch them on foot. The Wraiths could dart forward fast enough, of course, but cannonfire, crossbow bolts, and musket blasts would hasten them to a second death long before the small number Kerrigan had gathered ever reached the walls.

Instead, an onslaught of demons howled with anger and frustration at the escaped villagers Kerrigan had allowed to get away with their lives, and the men within who stood ready to receive them. Stout men stepped in front of the portcullis as it began to close, Broad Axes drawn in case the demonic host attempted to use these last precious seconds to push through and past the gates. Thankfully for them, that moment didn’t come, and Kerrigan could see the gradually improving mood of the soldiers who had received the refugees. The soldiers staring down at Kerrigan from the walls above did it with a straighter back, and confident glares.

Kerrigan smiled, even as Skeletor’s image spoke once again beside her.

“Bring Darkshires defences crumbling to their knees!” the otherworldly magician decreed.

“I thought you’d never ask.” Kerrigan quipped back, her rage switching to an even smirk, a telepathic burst of information being released at the same time Kerrigan snapped her fingers.

Kerrigan couldn’t see within the now closed Gates of Darkshire to witness the expression on the faces of the Darkshire civilians, but as the Infested terrans she’d hidden within the carriages and coaches of the Darkshire villagers, hours before the demonic onslaught swept through, metamorphosed into explosive plasma, and set off a series of explosions originating within the gatehouse, and leading up the streets of Darkshire itself, she had to imagine it was quite the spectacle of flame and smoke.

A secondary set of explosions soon followed the first, however, and Kerrigan knew she had far better seats to this spectacle. The dim “thud” of a muffled explosion echoed for a brief second, before the wall in front of Kerrigan began to begin to crack. A terrible rumble could be heard above the din, as the wall shivered and shook. Finally, a great piece of the wall shattered with the sound of a thunderclap, a hail of meteors thrown in every direction as the wall section, and those unfortunate souls still upon it, were flung in every direction.

The new gap in Darkshires wall was filled only with blood and gore that had once been defenders of Darkshire, and the pulverized remnants of the wall they believed would protect them. Kerrigan didn’t wait for either to hit the ground before she urged her forces forward.