[center][h3][color=000000]We shall not abandon you.[/color][/h3][/center]

Stone shuddered and sediment rained down from above. The entire castle was shaking from the bombardment of catapults and the march of invaders. Volkimir Sturmkirk looked up as dust descended onto him from the low ceiling. Good, it seemed that his soldiers had taken the castle. Victory was assured. He sighed in relief, but with it came a cough of blood. He clutched the stake in his heart as blood seeped through his fingers, ensuring that it did not travel any deeper into his breast. Normally he would have yanked out the obstruction and sealed the wound with magic, but not now. The day was won, and he was so very tired.

With a grunt and more spilled blood, he opened one of the stone coffins that lined the walls of the crypt. His sword clattered to the stone floor, as he would no longer need it. This is where his ancestors laid, and now he would join them. His duty to his ancient bloodline was finished; the curse had been lifted, and all traces of it destroyed. Except for himself, that was. He crawled into his tomb, as heavy blows continued to rain down on his ancestral home above him. His armor, cracked. His body, broken. He was so very, very tired. Volkimir could not remember when he had last slept; some thousands of years ago, he suspected. Now he would join his family in slumber.


[i]The dream lasted forever, but at the same time it ended in an instant. Stars burned away the shadows of time that had crept over his memories. Volkimir saw shades the future that was, and the past that never could be. His ancestors were there; dead, and yet had not abandoned him. They urged him to remember his purpose, as these were fallen times. He must return to fight. Sing the battle songs again.[/i]


Volkimir awoke to the sight of a stone coffin lid. The sight of it perplexed him, as did the feeling of raw metal edges against his bare chest. With a single, mighty shove, he threw the stone slab off of himself, and moved to crawl out of his tomb. He immediately became aware of the sharp edges of his broken armor digging into him. He threw away what remained of his breastplate, the rusted metal clattering on the dusty floor. Where was he? He felt as though he had just awoken from a lengthy dream, and like any dream he could not remember what it had been. His golden eyes quickly adjusted to the pitch darkness, and he saw the dusty crypt for all that it was worth. Dust and cobwebs hung thick in the air; this place had been undisturbed for centuries, at least.

Now he remembered. This place was his home. More accurately, it was his tomb. The ancient burial grounds of his Sturmkirk ancestors, which he had joined in his final moments. He looked to his hands, flexing them to feel his own strength. Had he not died? Merely slumbered and healed? For how long had he slept among the dead and forgotten? So many questions, and none of them were in this place. He moved closer to the chamber door, but accidentally kicked something that had been obscured by fallen rubble. The sound of it against stone was clear and sharp, as well as all too familiar to Volkimir. Pushing away the debris, he felt the familiar weight of Elbrus in his hands once more.

“[i]Just when I thought I was rid of you,[/i]” the demon of the blade greeted him after untold years, “[i]May you die a thousand more deaths, vampire.[/i]”

Volkimir smiled, his fangs pushing out over his bottom lip. Some things never changed, no matter how long he was away. The crypt’s stone door was not far away, and upon reaching it Volkimir was not surprised to find it obstructed. This explained the solitude of his reprieve, and Elbrus having waited in the exact spot that he had left it. With an exertion of unholy strength, the stones that had dropped before the door were pushed away, and Volkimir stepped out into the twilight of evening. The sun was in its final moments of life before the dark of night set in. Perfect timing. The vampire smiled again.

The caves that had once held the undercroft of Castle Sturmkirk were exposed to the outside world. A small village was nestled into the nearby glen where he had run and played as a boy, and killed and conquered as a man. This land had changed much since he last beheld it. Volkimir took note of how well he was currently equipped. Not well, by all appearances. His clothes had mostly rotted away to rags and threads, and his armor was broken and rusted. He no longer had a sheath to his sword, and his chest was bare save for a few stray strands of musty cloth. Volkimir breathed deeply, smelling fresh air for the first time in years innumerable. And on the air, of course, was the scent of prey. He slung his sword up onto his shoulders and set out to the nearby hamlet. There was much to learn of the world that he had awakened into. And he had a thirst of more than a thousand years to quench.