After learning much under the tutelage of Dracula, Son Of Dragon, even if many things were still to be mastered, Loimos was taught much through the specialties of the noble gravelord, Unacunerra had praised the vampire lord on many things, but there had still been things Loimos had not known about him.
Such as his immaculate skill with the sword, it was not the preferred method of combat of Dracula, but it was a skill he had learned and perfected during his time as a living noble.
In any case, Loimos had immediately gone for the sunken monument, afterwards, treading through the frozen mountain tops once more, not meeting with the frost dragon again, the path to here had been much less tumultuous, the terrain and inhabitants much more agreeable, his time spent travelling the outrageous distance separating the two places, as well as trying to locate the old crypt amidst the bustling vegetation, Loimos had not gotten much luck in this second endeavour.
Thankfully, the very nice death hunters had assisted him in this mission, something for which they would receive no compensation, the undead stepped into the resting room of a gravelord, Nosferatu, Of The Foetid Blood.
Nosferatu was neither famed for his military mind, for his cunning or for ethereal abilities that none could counter, it was much simpler than that.
Amongst all of the gravelords, he alone stands at the top, as the strongest, even said to stand on the same level as the king himself, it was all by himself that he once fought and pushed back The First Death Hunter and a following of many heroes and champions of life, it ended into a stalemate between the two powerhouses, neither managing to put the other down.
Without hesitation, Loimos pushed the lid of the coffin away, even with his enhanced strength, finding it difficult to do so, it was unclear what this had been made off, but this rock was especially dense and heavy, but once it was halfway pushed, gravity aided the undead, the lid falling the ground with resounding thud.
Inside, laying cross armed, the gravelord was unmoving, still stuck in a state of dormancy, Dracula had called Nosferatu a meathead, although this was an insult to his honed battle intelligence, it seemed true that the strongest gravelord sought battles after battles without stop, endlessly growing stronger, overcoming the dire limitations the foetid blood imposed upon those in possession of it.
So, upon receiving the order of laying low, rather than standing around, he retreated to this grand tomb, alongside many undeads, entered a deep sleep in wait for the return of the undead king, awakening him should be rather simple.
Loimos had prepared for it, with the assistance of One, who had been on cloud nine the entire time, he had devised a specific way of transforming his putrid blood, in a way that it could be consumed by vampires, those efforts had been looked over by Dracula as well, allowing for the creation of a very nourishing blood.
The creation of a single drop of it took a while, but the five scouts were a bit busy struggling against the crushing weight of the fear of death right now, even without even being aware of it, without even meaning to, their sheer proximity to Nosferatu was making them instinctively submit, one could wonder if the gravelord could kill them with just a look.
Compressing this single drop, the skeleton carefully gave it to Nosferatu, this was not necessary however, the blood naturally attracted to the gravelord, hastily consumed by the inert vampire.
The five vampire hunters were struck by the true, natural presence of the strongest gravelord, but they were not allowed to pass out, their bodies moving on their own, foreheads against the ground, prostrated in worship of what was essentially the image of a god to ants such as themselves.
Without changing his posture in the least, the gravelord stiffly rose to his feet, uncrossing his arms, each of his movements causing cracks to sound out, each of them forcing the heads of the hunters to push harder against the stone floor.
Lanterns and torches on the ground lit up the opened doors to the circular room like a theatre's scene, and out of the suffocating darkness, a vampire came out, hovering, his facial features familiar to the hunters as they were made to look up.
Skin on their forehead bloodied from the merciless grinding, they recognised the familiar aspects of the nosferatu vampires, filled with the certainty that they were not staring at a mere vampireling.
Be it a god, be it a devil, be it an existence beyond the confines of this word, or simply an illustrious figure of great strength, they could not tell the difference, only knowing that doom was imminent, this supernatural poise, this aura, this presence, there was no doubt about it, even the others outside should be able of feeling the dread.
But hunters until the end, they analysed the undead before them with great attention.
Nosferatu, Of The Foetid Blood had long, knife-shaped ears, lingering presence of his heritage as a beautiful elf, nothing but his might was alluring now, fingernails arranged like claws, surely capable of slashing them all apart without touching them.
Hands and fingers, too big, too long, simply too large to be natural, proportionally abnormal, but somehow still within bounds, simply moulded to be greater at crushing and tearing.
His head was not of a normal shape, like that of a misshapen statue, lacking any sort of her on the skull, but somehow, in possession of a long eyebrow that collected the dust hanging in the air.
His skin was some sort of grey, unlike the pale white of draculas and sunwalkers, almost seeming sick green under shadings, his eyes however, were definitely a plague-like green, glowing intensely at all times.
But that was not all, the gravelord was imposingly tall, his shoulders seeming too large, too high to be comfortable, his back appearing slightly humped as well, somehow, it all seemed to fit perfectly, this was how it was meant to be, this was the ideal form of Nosferatu.
Grinning mockingly, a sassy expression formed on the monstrous vampire's face, the living trembled, as though the temperature had suddenly dropped well below zero.
The fangs to be found inside of the gravelord's maw were also singular in appearance, all sharp and pointy, more than two of them being longer than the rest.
Dropping down the floor, appearing like nothing but a tall shadow, garbed in a dark mantle sewn together especially for him, the hunters could not be called as such any longer, teeths chattering, legs weak.
"Stand up" speaking in the pale tongue, he beamed a bright smile at them, which could not be pleasant no matter the intention.
"Hunters must hunt, right? Well, am I not your prey? Come on, attack, I am wide open" releasing his crushing presence, he walked up to the closest hunter, arms stretched to the side, leaving a clear path straight to his heart.
And this vampire hunter, with nothing else to grasp onto, steeled his resolve for one strike, an easy strike, his target was not even a meter away from him, he did not even have to move.
It was an easy strike.
It was an easy strike.
It was an easy strike.
'This is an easy strike!'