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[b]"No need to destroy its arms,"[/b] Ilena spoke, favoring the [i]younger[/i] vampire with a sideways glance. [b]"Removing its sword is enough, if it has lost its divine magics."[/b]

Past that point, a paladin would be nothing more than a brute of considerable strength, one packed in an unfitting frame. To some, it would have been impressive, but to the shadow-witch? It would be food to fit her belly. She exchanged a nod with Luna, the bewitching priestess's words carrying a weight that suited not their present circumstances, nor their present capabilities, but [i]some[/i] would yet be emboldened, encouraged, by her flattery. Ilena herself stalked off, feeling yet the children that writhed beneath her flesh. It would be good to collect more. It would be good too, if she had the chance to [i]consume[/i] that Est and her own hoard.

There was no true benefit, after all, in defeating an undead paladin. She would have to make up the loss elsewhere.

It was doubtful, of course, that any loss could be made up for at the gatehouse, not when more creatures of putrefied and dessicated flesh laid beyond, and shriek of the undying paladin sounded only to call forth even more of those ragged bones towards them. Her amethyst eyes flickered from one companion to another, before Ilena made her decision.

[b]"Excuse me."[/b]

Dragan was a necromancer himself. Luna's wiles permeated through any obstructions. Akyasha's bloody flora could drain nothing from emptied veins. So it would be Giselle and the 'Rime-Winged Vermillion Angel', both of whom could feel Ilena's hand rest against the back of their necks. Could hear that once-inaudible whining grow louder and louder, before...

...two sets of translucent insectoid wings burst out from the shadow-witch's back, their crystalline veins almost beautiful if not for the black viscera still staining them. They twitched, flexed, shaking off the fluids of mutant-birth, and then buzzed at maximum speed, launching all three vampires up to the top of the gatehouse in mere seconds, where Ilena deposited them afterwards.

There was a vantage point now. The high ground, so to speak.

And from that high ground, the shadow-witch began to allow her shadow to seep downwards, a slow-crawling mud that was so much less picky than herself, a Black Tide that would be jubilant for even bones dry of marrow, after so many centuries of neglect. Down, down, down it crept, living darkness that pulled all into the witch's swamp.