The succubus' wings flared violently, threatening to take Deleaduindill with them - wherever she should attemt to fly - though they wavered, losing the fluid grace of flight for the pained struggle for life - they dipped lower, moment by moment. Even as one of her claws slid beneath his vambraces and through the maille there-beneath, Deleaduindill held fastly, watching the violet fire before him in her eyes slowly culled. The great black blade drank deeply, he knew, and perhaps, perhaps now it would rest - sated. In a final tremble, the black blade claimed yet another creature in its cruel embrace, growing in might, in its terrible dark power. the Feyborn ripped the blade free, dropping the she-demon unceremoniously to the black, obsidion-flagged floor in time to see a demon stepping through a portal of blood not ever so far off. A tingling sensation, subtle, though deep, welled within his breast, clawing its way up to his mind. Indeed - the blade hungered yet.

-//-

In the darkness, the roar of the sea and the clensing, pure smell of the ocean's spray was perhaps one of the most peaceful things that Deleaduindill could remember - could remember from his youth, even - that did not make him try to cheat his reverie for sleep. Long had he done so - nearly two centuries to the night, staying awake for as long as his body would allow until he all but collapsed - and now he did so yet. The Feyborn hated it, passionately perhaps, though even nearly two-hundred years past, his last reverie had nearly been too much - or it was too much - in earnest, he did not know. His reverie; it was one of the exceptionally few things that he found frightening. In a long exhale, Deleaduindil turned, regarding the black blade as it lay within the silvery lines and runes of Iwendari's summoning circle. It had poisoned his mind - weakened his resolve - in ways that he admitted, he might not even know as of yet; it was awesome in its power - so subtle, yet inexorably overpowering.

Within the protective confines of the pentagram on the floor, he was cut off from its whispers, its sweet moans, its wooing song. As if an addict, a part of him longed for its presence though it lay only a few paces away, a part of him burned, nearly, in the denial that he forced upon himself in the blade's stead. Deleaduindill's golden gaze narrowed dangerously - he was still the master of his own will - though he felt as if the eight-hundred years that he had lived in Ravenloft were somehow undone, and his resolve was as it was before even...the mists had taken him that one time. The Feyborn exhaled softly once more, turning lightly again to look upon the distant bay that served Tel'Ruid. In a moment of exhaustion he closed his eyes softly, almost at once seeming to stand upon the razor-sharp cliffs of the archipelego of Melnibone', the roaring though distant sea kissing his ears with its beautiful simplicity...its power...its finesse...

Deleaduindil's eyes flashed open, reigning his will sharply - now was not the time to rest - his enemy - the only enemy that he had known in several decades to be worth his effort lay nigh; again his gaze went to the shadow-black blade. He longed for it, inly. "You are careful in your persual." The Feyborn spoke to the blade, expecting to get a response of some kind from all appearance - and would one be onlooking - he might seem to think that he did. "You are a weapon, and from what I have seen, you cannot be unmade by any small means; you are a weapon, though how do you defeat an instrument of victory?" His thoughts were carried aloud - though at this time he spoke as much to the blade as to himself. At his side restd the second greatsword he had come upon, an equally black, equally fine weapon that by all rights nearly mirrored the one laying before him; the many smiths whom he had sought on this matter all exclaimed them to be sister blades. Such was an uncanny cooencidence, though Deleaduindill acknowledged that the one - the intelligent one - would want its mate and so set that into happening in its own...insidious...way. "Nothing is unassailable." The words were nearly a rebuke to the blade that lay silent within the pentagram. "Every suit of armor has its niche, every fortress its imperfection, however slight - a breach in either would bleed forth destruction - the kind that follows an enemy within one's gates." Still, the black blade lay silent - though in a long moments' pause, Deleaduindill nearly stumbled in his epiphony.

A dark smile spread across his slender lips, simply looking about himself - his armor, his other blade that held power over the creatures of the undeath - though in so doing, had to exist on more than one plane of existance - the way that Iwedari's writings had explained it, anyway. His armor was of the same stock of thing - for it could protect against far more than simple swords or arrows - but attacks of the mind, spells...even incorpearial assailants - that by definition would be upon another plane of being whilst they attacked... Even his cloak, made of pure Shadowstuff, existed certainly within the Demiplane of shadow, Ravenloft itself, the Second world...as a whole even.

Deftly, Deleaduindill paced over to the greatsword that lay silent, still upon the icy-blue marble of Iwendari's arcanum, circumscribed within the silvery lines and runes of the pentagram that she had commissioned long ago to be made by the faeries that lived nearby. Such a potent tool would be needed, Deleaduindill thought. Slowly, softly, the whispers came to the Feyborn as he stepped within the circle, feeling the nearly unstable magics waiting to be invoked, be they spells or summonings - all kept at bay behind the delicate silver inlay upon the floor - save for the whispers, the song of the greatsword that lay at his feet, Nightsong. "My dear friend," he began, kneeling, his hands taking the haft into their grasp, feeling the surging pleasure and familiarity behind the weapon, feeling it nearly float within his hands. "This night, you will sing your last." At once, the Feyborn felt the blade dampen, a sort of purring question, an uncertainty within the weapon - though always seductive, always deceptive - it moaned softly in his hands, trying to coax him out of such thoughts. With an uninterrupted method, Deleaduindill put the point of the blade to the topmost lame of his breastplate, feeling the fell enchantments of the leading edge even through his armor; a small adjustment set the tip of the blade beneath the interlocking plates, resting only upon the maille beneath. Without word, his hands flexed powerfully around the weapon, his golden slitted eyes looking with triumph upon the dread greatsword in his grasp. "An enemy within one's gates," he whispered, then drove the weapon home, feeling at first the resistance of his maille armor, then the biting warmth of the blade diving into his flesh - his soul. He felt nothing of pain, simply the warmth of his own blood at the back of his tongue, and the sweet taste of victory it was. The Feyborn fell, and did not move.

-//-

Hazily, Deleaduindill felt himself falling, or climbing just as swiftly - he could not tell. The world was a swirl of blackness, of grey, that seemed to get deeper in one place, though no matter where he tried to go - he drew nearer to it. In a brilliant flash, he felt more of his senses, though the deepening grays had changed to a deep, dark red, that seemed to grow brighter. At once, he realized that he was indeed falling, far below there seeming to be a glow - a fire - that chilled his bones with its stark and baneful flames. His golden eyes adjusted to the changing light, and far below he made out what seemed to be a city, with buildings of some sort that lay more or less organized about a central tower. At once, a deafening howl shook his mind, and softly, he could hear screaming, not cries of agony, but of anger, laden with bloodlust and ire. Thousands upon thousands of little specks of black began to mar the vision of the slowly broadening city-scape, and these - for many moments - were confusing at first to Deleaduindill - though the cries - of battle, yes! - rose higher and higher. At last, the growing black shapes became clear to the Feyborn, the deafening, thundering roar of death itself behind a thousand thousand foes a painful din that nearly made his head swim - they were those that the blade had claimed as its own - who had been denied death for the half-hell that the mightiest creatures trapped within had formed. They all came at him - some perhaps remembering his face, his...armor...

Quickly Deleaduindill latched his helm into place, a spark of inspiration leaping into his breast as his hand touched the familiar, shadowed hilt of the sister-blade at his side - he remembered. As though he were witnessing an unholy consumation, the countless flecks of black rose still, all unerringly seeking him as he fell haphazardly, hardly able to control his decent, his cloak - his cloak! - whipping about him violently. Through broken glimpses he saw all manner of creatures, of peoples, of entities and living things hurling toward him - many without wings - though they flew at him as might a raven seek its carrion.

Suddenly, Deleaduindill's decent stopped...because he willed it to. With a sobering smile, Deleaduindill looked far below him at the innumerable foes that surged - all - to claim him. This was his deliverance. For so long he had sought death in the face of the aimless existance he held - though could never embrace such a thing without fighting with every ounce of strength he had or could lay claim to - for to do such he would in effect - if not, then in concept - have made worthless all that he had ever done in his life. To lead a race, though then not finish it because one is sure of victory...was no victory at all. "Thank you, Arioch," the Feyborn whispered, a thousand feelings - for once, not threatening to him - all flared quietly, giving him resolve, certainty. In the moment of pause that held Deleaduindill before he rushed headlong into the melee, he smiled softly, remembering Xathgarian - Iwendari's father - and the last time that they had said 'Namaarie,' so long ago.