An unspoken air of conviction passes between the two opposing vampires. Their bodies tense, their eyes flare. The final battle has begun.
Soren and Azrael circle each other like vultures going in for the kill, their eyes darting, teeth flashing, snarls ripping from their throats as they prowl to decide which one of them will be going away with the prize of their life.
Upon first glance, one might presume that the dark haired king with mighty horns halloing his head as the upper hand: his immaculate, marble body is unscathed, barely a ruffle in his clothes and for the most part is unperturbed by the creature that faces him. His aura gleams with darkness, lashing out with talons and coiling whips of darkness that hunger for the flesh and blood of his opponent to be spilt onto the frigid stone floor before him.
