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((Hurrah for excessive subject lines!))



Ah...it had been long, very long now. When had he lost fought? No, nothing as simple as that question. When had he last truly fought, as an equal to his opponent, evenly matched with balance?
"How the millenia pass...well, when you're having fun, I suppose. But crushing enemies underfoot has grown to be a...vexing task, in it's monotony. This will be diffirent."
With those words, the clouds let the moon free from their grasp, illuminating the seen. High atop a massive, rotting ruin, no doubt the defiled and broken ruins of some ancient cathedral, now but a few soaring towers left above the jumble of stone. And yet, it seemed that the place still stood, for the remaining towers showed none of the delapidation that had wrought the rest down to the foundations. Someone yet lived here, and kept these ruins well.
Who was it? Well, one might chance to catch the glint of moonlight on white bone as he grinned, standing loosely atop one of the towers, his left arm draped about a banner, not part of the ancient stones, but well secured to them. The man had the restful, thretening aire(sp?) of a panther, calmly hanging there as he surveyed the grounds he considered his own. His brilliant white teeth shone in the dull moonlight, glinting along the elongated curves of his canines. Aye, a vampire this man, one too powerful for such, among vampires, youth. A hand slowly curved up, adjusting the glossy black mop of silken hair atop his head, uncovering his face some. The typical, pale skin, and dark, bottomless eyes, knowing and full of hatred for everything he knew. As the wind grew stronger, his cloak billowed out behind him, a dark and tattered mockery of the banner he hung from, two simplistic and finely made silver clasps sown into the side of it, identical to the third which bound it at his throat. The man wore but black silk, excluding his lily-white shirt, worn under a loose silekn jacket. Nothing marred the image of decayed elegance, not even the huge, ugly bulk of the military style boots he wore, all coverred in silver clasps, with an iron framework on the soles.


((<.< >.> How's that, Torment?))

Enline grinned at the display, shaking his head ever so slightly. Aye, once he had been known for such displays of power and grandeur, but no more. A wasted effort, such introduction.
"Pah, you are one to speak of abomination, my friend. The willing dead are not abominable, for it is our choice to betray the light of day. If you must call't abomination, find one that was forced into it, and you will speak the truth. No abomination am I, sir. One cannot marr((sp?)) perfection."
His teeth glinted as he flasheda quick grin as he straightened his hair once more. Reaching down with silvery gloved hand, he pulled at the hilt of his blade, a rapier like item with three edges, a pyramid elongated beyond reason. Satisfied that it slid from the sheat with ease, he looked back to Nusradai, bracing himself for a sudden movement.
"As such...you think to challenge the Lord de Merus in his own manor?"

"Beyond anything that I know? I should like to meet them some day, and amuse myself with the sound they make underfoot. Do not eb so sure of yourself, my friend, for the undead would not exist if they were for another realm. How do YOU explain the massive forces that suddenly find themselves held in check when the dead walk? No one makes them hold still, you know, these primal forces of nature? They do it quite well on their own. I am one who was meant to die in fallacy, I am of those undead intended for this world. No mage nor sire held the forces that govern death still for me, they passed me over and released me, a diffirent being. I suppose, in the end, I must be some sort of tool. To what end would that be?"
His eyes focusing on the mans hands for but a moment, Ebline's arm suddenly unwound from around the banner, moving like a snake as he slid off the tower, vanishing into the shadows below. The quiet shnk of metal on metal floated up from below, and was swallowed in silence...

Silent, Ebline waited well outside the light, masked by the shadows of an altar long ago defiled. He would bide his time for now, carefully looking over the links of Tor's magic, learning as much about it as he could in the time given him. With luck, he would find the binding links of these spells, and with that knowledge tear them free in a light twisting of energy, releasing the arcane energies they held in check.
And then, with a simple spell of his own design, he would be free of all restriction, of the carefully wound rope that bound his rage. His hunger would work for itself, and he would feast upon the blood of this man until the sun rose, glistening on the blood soaked stones of this terrible landscape.