[center][h3][color=000000]The Impenitent Thieves[/color][/h3][/center]

Shuffling noises were all Volkimir's sharp ears could detect from the other side of the heavy, wooden door, and so he continued to stand about impatiently. He tapped what was left of his ragged boot against the soggy brickwork, and winced at the wet sound that it made. Volkimir had been in worse squalor than this in his travels, but the key difference was the overriding feeling of despair that this city held. In the streets of Prajatantra, half a world away, beggars sat shoulder to shoulder, and holy men prostrated and immolated themselves publicly. Human corpses and waste choked their sacred river, and even so pilgrims bathed and drank from it piously. Those people were destitute, but they were gloriously alive, as opposed to the stagnant half-life that the urban filth of this city seemed to occupy.

Volkimir's reminiscence was broken by the door to "Mister Locke's" chambers opening loudly. From within emerged the man which Volkimir could only assume was the leader of this band of thieves. An old man, leaning heavily on a crutch, looked Volkimir over with coolly intelligent eyes. In most ways he looked no different from a simple, elderly commoner. However, inscribed upon the man's flesh were tattoos of incredible intricacy. Runes and scriptures of a text from ages past were etched into every inch of his aged, pallid flesh, covering even his bald scalp. These were not mere prisoner tattoos, Volkimir knew. He recognized these symbols, but he could not lower his guard to sink into the depths of his impossibly long memory to search for their meaning.

"So," the old man said, "It is you. I knew I felt a cold wind pass through here."

Volkimir raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. The mustachioed doorman spoke for him, "Boss, you know this creep?"

Locke furrowed his thin brows, his mood clearly conflicted. "I don't know his face." A gnarled finger pointed at the Bound Blade, still wedged into the slick floor. "I know that weapon. It was stolen from the Basilica of Saint Traft in the fifty-third century." The same finger then pointed to Volkimir himself, his gold eyes glinting with curiosity. "I know his eyes. I know his curse." A whisper rose up among the gathered criminals, apparently emboldened by the presence of their venerated leader. "Am I wrong, son of Sturmkirk?" The old man asked, his eyes clouded with age and confusion.

Volkimir laughed, a sound like a coffin being pulled open by a hasty graverobber. "[color=000000][b]I'm surprised that the Empyrial Cult survives to this day. Just as surprising, that a holy man should keep a den of thieves.[/b][/color]" He knew he recognized those symbols. The traditional religion of the Shadowlands had all but gone extinct after the Fall of House Sturmkirk, but this man bore the markings of one of its monks.

The old man nodded. "After the Shadowlands were reclaimed, the Old Faith returned. We took back the old chapels and monasteries. You have been gone for a long time, Mortifier. Though it seems you never truly left."

"[color=000000][b]My name is still spoken in this age? With that pathetic epitet?[/b][/color]" Volkimir inquired. Finally, answers at last.

"Not by daylight. The vampires that survived the purges still scorn your name. They lurk down here, among the rats and thieves. Some of my former brothers leave unspoken offerings for the Dark Angel with their daily tributes. Not canonized, but not heresy."

Volkimir laughed again, this time only a dark thundering in his chest. A demon like himself called an angel by monks. The irony was sharp and bitter. "[color=000000][b]Former brothers, you say?[/b][/color]"

This time it was Locke that laughed bitterly. "Excommunication is a small price to pay, compared to gambling debts. Holy relics fetch a fair price to certain collectors."

Now the pieces were coming together. A rogue monk. A band of thieves. And a "Dark Angel" dropped into the midst of it all. The ordinary scum that filled the common area seemed thoroughly confused by the cryptic conversation that had been held between their leader and this ominous stranger. Some stayed silent, watching on in confusion and fear, while others muttered nervously among themselves. Locke invited Volkimir into his humble quarters to continue their discussion more privately. Volkimir seated himself in a wooden chair that was slightly less decrepit than those in the common area, while the old monk sat on his small, dry cot.

It seemed that their small band had fallen on difficult times as of late, and were planning to move their operations into the capital city. This tidbit of information spawned a host of questions from Volkimir, which Locke answered amiably. The nation of Ansus had apparently grown to dominate the majority of the continent, bringing its faith to all corners of the land. This interested Volkimir greatly, spawning more queries for the old man to satisfy. Once Volkimir felt decently satisfied with the amount of information he had gleaned from Locke regarding the history that he had missed, the two continued their discussion of Locke's plans. The capital of Kolantis was home to the Royal Treasury, the greatest vault of wealth in the entirety of the empire. Locke planned for nothing less than to plunder the treasury itself. For his plan, however, he required a diversionary force, which was what he had sent his underlings out into the streets in search of. Essentially marks that would take most the fall for the heist. However, they had not found some idiotic beggar to condemn to the dungeons. They had found Volkimir.

The ancient vampire was offered a place in their endeavor, which he accepted after some deliberation. He would assist in their scheme, as repayment for Locke's hospitality, as well as the condition that he be allowed first pick of the treasures hidden away by the royal family. Locke planned to waste no time, and they would leave the following day. In the meantime, Volkimir requisitioned a few creature comforts. A hot bath was able to be arranged, as well as a fresh set of mostly-intact clothes. A decent pair of boots were also found, and a belt and sheath from which to hang Elbrus had also been scrounged up. Volkimir found it odd that thieves would be so generous to a man they had just met, but he reconciled the thought as he remembered that their leader was a man of faith. A man who had put his faith in Volkimir.

Much to Volkimir's relief, the plans had already been made to travel by night, and to avoid major roads. This had been done naturally to avoid the attention of patrolling guards. Locke had invested the last of the band's capital into decent horses and wagons with which to move those among their number that would carry out the heist. Volkimir himself shared a wagon with Locke and his few lieutenants, and over their few days of travel, they discussed their revised plans. The scheme had become far simpler: Locke's men would crack the vault, while Volkimir killed anyone that got in their way. After that, a simple retreat to the sewer systems (to which they had acquired schematics) would be sufficient for their escape. Far from subtle, but Volkimir assured the thieves that his prowess in killing would be so overwhelming that the surviving treasury guards would not dare chase after them.

However, by the time their caravan had arrived at the gates of Kolandis, their plans already needed revision. They had come prepared with falsified paperwork and considerable bribes to smuggle their equipment into the city, but it seemed that those were wasted efforts. The gates had been broken through, and the standing guards had been slaughtered. The thieves cautiously ventured into the city, finding more of the same. Corpses filled the streets in droves, swarming with flies and vermin. Rot had not yet taken them; they had been dead for scarcely days. The sight of the carnage was too much for many of the supposedly hardened criminals of their band, and Locke himself found his strength leaving him by the minute.

Volkimir, however, hardened his heart as he had done many times before. His thoughts were not of, "why," but of, "who," and, "how." What was supposed to be the most densely-populated city in Ansus (according to Locke) now seemed to merely be a capital for crows. Plague had not taken them, this much was obvious. Too many dead, too quickly. Signs of violence were also readily apparent: broken and burned buildings, homes turned to husks. The bodies that had not yet been devoured told of their bloody demise. As he prowled the putrid streets, Volkimir happened occasionally upon corpses that had been rent completely in half. He scoured his memories for any idea of what could have caused destruction on this scale, and with this level of brutality.

He found his answers deeper in the city, alongside the survivors. He watched them from the shadows, as they were too wary and battle-worn to allow him close. Black-robed corpses replaced those of the civilians in these reaches, armed with weapons that piqued his curiosity greatly. They were of superb quality, holding razor edges even after days of exposure and disuse. However, their quantity and construction confused him. They were of strange and disturbing make, and there were far too many of them for such a seemingly small and disorganized force. He wondered what could possibly have made such weapons, and armed these apparent fanatics.

[i]"You know very well, vampire."[/i] The demon of the blade mocked him, and it was right. He did know what could have made these weapons. He did not find this revelation comforting.

Volkimir returned to the thieves, who seemed yet still stunned by the carnage. It was not to say that the vampire had not been affected by what they had discovered; he was merely more experienced at distancing himself from such tragedies. Even so, he still had a debt to repay, and a fortune to claim. The fat Heartland kings had grown wealthy by conquering the continent. This could not have been done if the Shadowlands were still a pit of damnation, meaning that Volkimir had contributed to whatever riches the treasury held. Finding this reasoning sufficient, Volkimir was determined to withdraw what he was owed.

The Royal Palace had been abandoned, it seemed. Only a token force of guards had been left to dissuade looters. They were easily dispatched, as they were unprepared for a looter such as Volkimir. The palace halls were devoid of life, but also bore no traces of struggle. It seemed that the royal family had been spirited away at some point. It seemed logical, as the location was ill-suited to defend against an invasive force of this magnitude and ferocity. Did they escape the slaughter? Or did they anticipate it? Questions for another day. Volkimir lead Locke's hand-picked team of brigands through the empty palace, as they directed him to the treasury vault with their stolen maps.

The vault itself was inconspicuous, which surprised Volkimir. He half expected the absentee royals to flaunt their wealth more openly. But it was of little consequence, as the safecrackers went about their task with quiet efficiency. The vault was of superb construction, and was taking longer than hey had anticipated to open. Volkimir grew bored, and exerted his dark power over the base metal. Steel mottled away to brown rust before the very eyes of the thieves, and lead melted to dark, cold pools on the floor. The vault was opened not long after that. Within, the treasury resembled a mausoleum more than, say, a dragon's horde. Riches were carefully categorized and stored away, and it spoke to the professionalism of Locke's elite that they searched the treasury for only the treasures that were worth the most for their weight, size and ease of fencing.

In the meantime, Volkimir perused the treasury at his leisure. Ever a connoisseur of ancient treasures and artifacts, Volkimir had a keen eye for items of interest and value to him personally. A ruby to replace the bloodstone that he had lost with his last suit of armor. A gilded sheath suitable for his legendary sword. A lion skin cloak, already carefully preserved, but blackened by Volkimir's touch. In the treasury's deepest reaches, he found the most sacred relics to the royalty of Ansus. Particularly, the ancient armors of the warrior-kings of ages past. Volkimir studied them as though he was choosing a new pair of breeches. At last, he found a suit that matched his proportions. A bit of contortion with strength and sangromancy made it a perfect fit, and a touch of induced entropy stripped the royal colors from the steel, enamel and dragonscale.

Once armored in his stolen regalia, Volkimir felt himself again. It wasn't perfect, but it was far better than the pathetic vestments that he had been parading around in since his resurrection. He clenched a steely fist, enjoying the weight of the armor on his body. He felt more real, more alive like this. This would be the end of his hiding and stalking. No longer was Volkimir Sturmkirk a ghost, but was now truly alive again. The Dark Prince had returned.