[center][h3][color=000000]Perchance, To Dream[/color][/h3][/center]

Volkimir's servant seemed up to the task to which it had been appointed. The vampire had felt woefully ill-equipped since he had left his tomb, and sought to rectify that issue. If he had been as well armed as he was in his prime in his duel with Ansur, it may have ended very differently. However, Volkimir inwardly chastised himself for using such logic. That was hubris talking; he was trying to comfort himself for being defeated. His defeat was the result of Ansur's superior power, and nothing less. As  Volkimir continued to darkly reflect on the evening's battle, anger burned his his gut like a bed of coals. As he had many times before, he felt the black seed of vengeance taking root in his heart.

He shook himself, breaking away from his current train of thought. Those were unnecessary thoughts, as he had a far greater enemy at hand. Volkimir returned to room connecting to the forge as the undead blacksmith carried out his orders. He picked up one of the cultists' robes, now devoid of a corpse, and felt its material. Simple wool, strongly woven and heavy. Cautiously he took the cloth to his face, smelling it for whatever the scent the garment might still carry. It carried the scent of blood overwhelmingly, clouding the scent of the wearer. However, Volkimir could not detect the scent of dye on it in any way. Such a strong color would demand a potent and expensive dye, surely. Volkimir concluded that this was the natural color of the wool, which could only be shorn from black merino sheep: common to the north-western reaches of Ansus.

Volkimir discarded the robe, and again seated himself in the blacksmith's chair. Leaning on his hands, he pondered the evidence currently in his possession. All he had just learned was where these men obtained their clothes. It did not necessarily indicate that they were from the region with these particular sheep; such wool was valuable and frequently traded. Or was he rationalizing again? Unholy steel meant that they had contact with demons. Such a quantity of them meant that it was far more than a single demon. Volkimir knew where both these sheep and this quantity of demons could be found. He had purged the Shadowlands of demonic taint to the best of his ability after the War, but they were strange and elusive monsters. They could easily have feigned death and returned to the many cairnes and caverns in the mountains to regain their strength. Volkimir gritted his teeth. He knew that he was being irrational, but he still did not want to believe where this evidence was leading. He assured himself that the evidence was circumstantial and so far inconclusive, and that he was biased in his recognition of it. Though he could not deny that this was so far the most logical conclusion. Volkimir's brow furrowed, and he ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. Was this the result of his last, greatest work? Had he cleansed his homeland of corruption, only to allow a greater evil to take hold there?

The rune. He remembered the rune branded into the chest of the cultists. This was the most important evidence. Volkimir's anxieties eased as he thought over this. Yes, this was the most compelling discovery; he knew this in both his heart and his mind, without having to lie or deceive himself. If he could divine the origin of this rune, he could put at ease the fears that had arisen over his homeland. To start, Volkimir would search the archive most readily available to him; his own memory. Thousands of years of experience, bottled up within a single mind. Constant recollection of such a voluminous history would put undue strain on his mind, and so his memories condensed in his subconscious like the sediments in the foundation of a castle. Only in deep meditation, techniques Volkimir learned from the Newa peoples in their mountaintop monasteries, could he pry into his own, ancient memories.

Volkimir cleared the floor of weapons, robes and whatnot, allowing himself a clear space. The robe about his shoulders was thrown over the splintered, wooden floor to give him a decent place to sit. Volkimir lit the few torches and candles in the room with fires from the forge in the other room. The room was bathed in steady, orange light, and filled with heat that was a mild, constant discomfort on Volkimir's half-living flesh. He shut the doors to the room, and blocked the spaces beneath them with the cultists' robes. The room already began to fill with smoke, slowly drifting out through the smallest cracks in the walls. Good, this would do.

Stripping out of his clothes and armor, Volkimir took up a seated position atop of the cloak on the floor. He crossed his legs over themselves in a position of concentration, his hands folded in his lap. He breathed slowly and strongly, as he had been taught many years ago. He remembered those years distinctly; the sharp, cold air of the highest mountains in the world. The stars at night, seeming so close that he could reach out and touch them. Those mountains were holy to the Newa people, not because of any belief in the gods that Ansur had brought with steel and fire to Ansus, but because of the austerity it brought to them. To live on their slopes and peaks was a hard, merciless existence, but it had made the Newa strong of both body and mind. Their warriors were cunning and ferocious, and Volkimir spent many hours sparring them with naught but their strange, curved knives. He seemed to recall receiving such a blade as a memento on his parting, but its location was lost to him. Another treasure buried by his years.

Volkimir's breathing reached its desired regularity. The air in the room was thinning from the fires, a poor replacement for the air of the Newa Mountains, but it would do. He sweltered against the heat of the flames, his skin prickling and contracting as he could not sweat. Volkimir slipped in and out of consciousness as his trance began to take hold. He could not sleep as humans could, but such a trance allowed him respite from his eternal life. In time past, he had spent months at a time in ascetic meditation, if only to allow his mind a reprieve from the constant stresses of his ever-vigilant immortality. Visions came to Volkimir; voices and people long lost to this world. He could not direct what he saw, as his mind paged through the ponderous length of his life and experiences as his subconscious dictated. Not truly dreams, but as close as Volkimir could achieve to them.

[i]"...A terrible thing; for a child to outlive his parents..."

Black and silver. The provider and the protector.

"...What troubles you, Volkimir? Fear not, I will listen as I always have..."

The warmth of light, forever lost to him.

"...He who calls himself, 'Heir to Sturmkirk.' Such boldness..."

Blood and betrayal, entwined eternally.

"...This was not our agreement, demon! Enough have died in suffering..."

The mouth of hell, overflowing with the void above and below.

"...Hush, Vova. Won't you trust him? We are his blood..."

Mother.[/i]

Volkimir's eyes shot open. The room was dark, choked with thick, black smoke. He coughed, rising from his seated position to the door leading outside. He kicked away the insulating robe, and found no light trickling in from under the door. It seemed that night had fallen as he meditated. Volkimir opened the door, letting in fresh air as the smoke billowed out. He thought back to his meditation, and the answers (if any) it brought him. Unfortunately, it seemed that he had never known the meaning of the rune. Perhaps he had glanced upon it in some ancient tome or another, but he never learned its true purpose. However, he was able to eliminate all doubt that this symbol was demonic in origin. A superior demonologist could possibly identify it. Glancing to where his sword rested against the wall, Volkimir silently admitted that a demon could also know the answers. However, they were often far from forthcoming.

Volkimir picked up Elbrus, and the demon of the blade responded to his silent query, [i]"Yes, I know of this rune."[/i] It said, surprising even Volkimir, [i]"Release me and you will have the answers you seek. After that, I will pick my teeth with your spine."[/i] Futile as ever to try to discuss anything with it, Volkimir noted.

Most of the smoke had cleared from the room at this point, and so Volkimir returned to his clothes and dressed. Of the armor that he had stolen from the royal treasury, he chose to don only the vambraces, greaves and sabatons. The breastplate and plackart were worthless to him at this point. He again took up Ansur's cloak, noting with some amusement that it would make a good funeral shroud for the Forefather when they next met.

The vampire remembered the zombie that he had raised in the other room, and returned to him. He found that the undead blacksmith had completing his task, and presented to Volkimir a fine weapon. A clawed gauntlet, forged of unholy steel. Volkimir took the offering and fitted it over his left hand, giving the claws a few experimental flicks. An interesting offhand weapon, and a welcome addition to Volkimir's meagre arsenal. Volkimir placed one of the bladed fingertips on the forehead of the ghoul and channeled a sangromantic spell through the demonic metal. The gauntlet carried the spell well through the claws, saving Volkimir the effort of having to transmit the spell remotely. Starting from where Volkimir laid his claw upon his head, the blacksmith turned to fine, white ash, and disintegrated where he stood. After a few moments, all that remained was a neat pile of chalky ash on the floor where there had just been a man. Volkimir considered this to be due payment; he had given the blacksmith the gift of blessed sleep.

With that, Volkimir set out back into the streets of Kolanis. He needed to get moving again, he had spent too long in this dead city. Forces from the other cities in the empire would be rallying to retake the city from the perceived threat, and Volkimir did not wish to be present when they arrived. However, upon walking a fair distance into the north-west quarter, he caught the distinct smell of smoke. At first he believed that it was merely the smell of the fires he had meditated in clinging to his clothes. This was not the case, as he could distinctly smell charcoal and pine ash some distance away. Had there been a forest fire during the day? Part of him wished to investigate, while another part knew that nothing good could possibly come of it. Volkimir decided to travel in the opposite direction from where he smelled the burned remains, just to avoid the trouble.

Volkimir's thoughts raced as he walked, eventually leaving the city. He had purpose, but not direction. He needed the expertise of a knowledgeable demonologist, or at the very least a linguist or historian of some variety. If Kolandis still stood, this would have been his destination, and as such Volkimir was now at a loss. That left another alternative, however. If Volkimir could summon and bind a demon, he would have all of the answers that he needed. However, this was a terrible task to undergo, as not any demon would do. Some imp or another would likely have no knowledge of the forbidden lore which Volkimir sought. He needed to gain the attention of an archdemon. Luckily, Volkimir knew of one such demon. This did not please him, however.

His grim task set in mind, Volkimir set out into the wilderness of midnight. Twin moons, like eyes, looked down on the last Son of Sturmkirk. Demonkind had plagued him near-on his entire life. It was they who cursed him, and led his family and homeland into ruin. They had brought on this new scourge. And now, they would answer to Volkimir. The destructors of Ansus would also be its deliverers.