Vanarus Sallein, the ancient known for his unquenchable blood-thirst, made a characteristically brutal and messy entrance. Appearing from nothing, the magic of his cloaking spell fading suddenly, he rammed his clawed hand directly into the Elf-maiden's neck before she could react. She fell with a gurgling sigh, her death was quick and clean, Vanarus had matters to attend to that prevented him from indulging quite yet.

The Vampire lord tasted the blood on his claws, delicious. However his next thoughts were distaste and irritation, the light baring down on him was distressing at best, downright unhealthy at worst. Feeling weaker than normal, a feeling the vampire was particularly unhappy with, he drew himself to full height and observed the chaos in the room. He had appeared from apparent nothingness to those around him at the far end of the room from the conflict, and immediately he knew that some form of melee was afoot. It was paramount that he seek out and slay a foe quickly, but his love of duelling would not allow him to simply assassinate an engaged foe. 

Swirling his dark cape back from his nobleman’s attire he drew the rapier, The Chalice, with one fluid motion. Waving it in his right hand, he swept his long black hair away with his free hand and surveyed the scene more precisely, deciding on his opponent to be. If one looked particularly closely at the vampire they would probably notice that he was squinting ever-so-slightly, despite the fact that the light in the room was not particularly bright or blinding… at least to a human.

His eyes settled on a large opponent, being pestered by some agile opponent up above. Vanarus could cut him down with sword or claw, but the bigger man seemed like he would be more of a challenge, and the vampire was eager to bleed him dry.

“Large fellow, prepare yourself if you would, I’d quite like to cut you to, bloody, ribbons.” Vanarus called with a cruel smile, striding across the floor to meet him, keeping his eyes on the other conflicts around him with a casual ease. He eyed up his foe’s gargantuan weapon with an experienced eye. At roughly eight feet, with enough open space around him to suit his particular style of fighting, he entered the generic fencing stance of the Spanish duelists, his sword arm fully extended, his body turned appropriately but strangely loose in regards to foot work, it would be clear to any expert that Vanarus was anything but traditional.