Swift

The sharp sound of a sharp metal object falling right on its point against the ground, trembling from the fall for a few more moments, the noise spreading all the way throughout the sunken tomb.

As it turns out, it had been hope speaking its typical nonsense, there was no such thing as an easy strike against a gravelord, but when life found itself cornered, weaving countless webs of self-told lies, coming up with ideas and concept that were clearly false, but the living spirit was an illogical one, allowing itself to be fooled if deemed necessary.

The vampire hunter did not even know what hit him, his metal stake, beloved tool of this particular caste of death hunter, items they considered great artefacts, which method of creation was a steep one, so much so that the greater majority of them only carried a single one with them.