Geier Reach spread like a scar across the length and breadth of Stensia, splitting the mist-cloaked countryside in half. The vast ridges of the ranges bit the sky, like dark fangs seeking to devour the crimson heavens. To stare into the ever present overcast, in the shadow of those monumental peaks, it would be quite easy to imagine the land savaging the bloody vault of the sky and drinking its fill. In the barren crevasses, wrapped in fog, humanity does its best to eke out their anxious lives in meager villages, herding sheep and keeping a stubbornly watchful eye upon the towering mountains around them. The people of Stensia watch the crags because they are all too aware that those tor gaze back upon them with hungry eyes.

Overlooking Gettander Pass, an enormous gothic castle loomed. It soared high into the clouds, a jagged black edifice of excess and predation surrounded by dozens of smaller manors scattered down the sides of the mountain. The parapets of the ancient castle clawed the haze above with serrated spires and palisades. Buttresses arched from one soaring steeple to another, stitching the building together into a grotesquely beautiful work of art. The sickening stench of spilled blood stained everything down to the very stones, but to the vampires that lived inside, it was a heady bouquet. Castle Falkenrath stood as a monument to a decadence that eternally plotted from its high perch, always watching the chattel far below.

Thunder pealed in the valleys outside, echoing ceaselessly through the range, but it was dwarfed by the raucous celebration within the Castle proper. Laughter and gossip filled the grand hall as vampires from all four provinces milled about. They talked amongst each other, dining upon the innocents captured just for this occasion. Those unfortunate individuals were equally terrified and entranced by the beauty and savagery around them. Many of the vampires had found their way to the dance floor, the music thrumming like the steady beat of a heart as they danced with perfect inhuman grace. Some couples rose, waltzing into thin air across the gorgeously appointed hall, dancing through brilliant patterns cast by the great windows of intricate stained glass. They were revelers in the night, dark beautiful beings, gathered again to celebrate their baleful whims and deathly desires. Vampires thought of themselves as the indisputable nobility of Innistrad, able to do as they please and there are few who can prove them wrong.

The great double doors of the ball room crashed open all at once with a mighty boom and the room fell into an immediate and ominous silence, the music screeching to a halt as the guests turned towards the commotion. The crowd milled nervously and Jana Falkenrath, the host of this particular soiree rose from her seat upon the dais.

“Who dares?!” she spat in a towering rage. Those words dripped venom as she balled her fists tightly, talons piercing her blood soaked skin.

The doors hung open, limp and broken, and the only response the mistress received was the steady legato beat of footsteps as the interloper entered the room. Despite her aggravation, the continued silence of her kin began to worry her. There were very few beings that would inspire such complete silence after an insult this grave. The man who strode through the crowd was tall and ruggedly handsome. His dusky skin was far darker than the pale skin of those he passed, his hair having more in common with their pallor. Broad shoulders were swathed in a black great coat that billowed behind him, and the glitter of silver plates beneath spoke a great deal. He very calmly made his way deeper into the throng, a hand casually perched upon the great sword on his hip. All around, the vampires fell back against the press of their kin and they fought to get as far from him as possible. Finally, Sorin Markov came to a halt at the foot of the steps where Jana stood. A sardonic smile sat lightly upon his lips, but it did not reach his dark eyes as he gazed up at her.

“I believe I dare. I dare a great deal, in fact, so you must be a bit more specific what I dare at right this moment.” Sorin drawled, his deep voice rolling out across the crowd and finally breaking the spell of silence his presence had caused. Murmurs erupted all across the assembled horde, punctuated by hissing and curses. Sorin ignored it all, staring directly at Jana. “Do you mean, perhaps, that I am intruding? My apologies, but I believe my invitation must have been lost in the post. Luckily, I have no interest in staying long.”

“Lord Markov.” Jana growled flatly. Outrage and fear warred behind the mask of her features, but Sorin seemed perfectly at ease and she could not afford to show any of the tumult that raged inside. Instead, she cracked a small malicious smile, baring her fangs more than showing any pleasantry. “How is your Grandfather?”

“I worried that you might be too besotted with fear to play the game.” Sorin barked a laugh and applauded. Abruptly, he stopped smiling and his gaze burnt into hers. “But I don’t have time for games. Now, I suggest you and I go somewhere private to discuss affairs that have arisen since my last appearance, unless you’d prefer I embarrass you further in front of your guests. I assure you, it makes no difference to me.”

“You want to know something?” She narrowed her eyes, lips forming a thin line. “What is it worth to you?”

Slowly the smile crept to Sorin’s lips again, but his eyes were colder than ever. “Your life. A fairly cheap price, but I’d be all too happy to renegotiate.” Sorin said. Jana blanched at that simple statement.

“What do you want?” Jana shrieked as soon as Sorin had shut the door. He quirked an eyebrow at her and casually made his way to a cabinet where decanters rested, opening and very purposefully pouring two fingers of wine into a glass.

“What I want is for this farce to end. I saw the kine out there Jana. Hanging in cages and being snacked upon, it’s demeaning.” Sorin sipped at the wine and spread his coat as he sat upon the nearest sofa. “Death not for survival, but for vanity and pleasure? That is the decadence I sought to curb."

Jana sneered and stalked to the cabinet to prepare a glass for herself, staining the crystal with crimson hands as she paced by him, the bloody trail of her pristine dress dragging across the exquisite carpet. She settled herself lightly in the chair furthest from him and glared. He sipped the wine, unconcerned by her disapproval.

“Do not lecture me on how we treat our ingénue. You are a traitor to the blood, you’ve the death of countless of our kind on your hands-“

Sorin laughed once more and took another quaff of his wine. “My dear, you’ve no idea how much blood I have upon my hands and how truly little it concerns me. I have much larger visions to occupy myself with and whatever ghosts haunt me, I can live with. Innistrad preserves them all for me, after all.”

“Do not act familiar with me, Lord Markov.” She growled. “You are a bane to your proud lineage and to all vampires. I should throw you from this estate and have you flayed slowly by that damnable church of yours.”Jana’s talons glowed briefly, growing slightly as her magic reacted to her fury. Sorin looked at her and suddenly his jovial façade dropped away.

“Do not presume that you are even capable of such a thing. Do not even think of crossing me or you shall find out exactly how unwise that is!” Sorin’s voice boomed, becoming deeper and sharper. It hurt Jana’s ears to even listen and she realized that at some point the glass she was holding had shattered.

“Just tell me what you want to know so you can finally be off.” she grimaced.

“It is painfully clear things are not as I left them. Avacyn has vanished, the balance I strove to perfect has been upset, and I want to know what transpired in my absence.” Sorin stated flatly.

“Why come here then?” Jana shook her head. “What could I, of all people, possibly tell you?”

“The Falkenrath are the most numerous family left and parties are such ideal opportunities for gossip. Grudges and betrayals are as much a source of amusement to you as they are serious matters, and keeping track of the trysts and enmities is an all consuming occupation for creatures such as yourself. Word spreads at parties and I want to know what you’ve heard.” Sorin finished his wine and set the glass aside. “To be clear, I did not come for you. You were merely the only one throwing a party tonight.” He favored her with a smile once more. Several long moments of silence followed before Jana closed her eyes and answered.

“Thraben is where she was last seen. It’s where you should have started in the first place with your precious church…” she snarled.

“I suspected as much.” He sighed melodramatically and stood. “But humans are far more bothersome to deal with than our kind... And I wouldn’t have had the chance to ruin your soiree.” He winked at her and chuckled, leaving the small sitting room behind.

Jana sat alone for several minutes more, picking bits of glass from her bloodied hand and staring at the floor. The sting of her wounds added injury to the sting of her humiliation and as she sat fostering her hatred, she swore this was not yet over.

The capital city of Thraben hung far above the shimmering Lake of Herons, the brilliant glitter of the sun reflected in the massive lake. Bridges stretched across the rushing waters of the River Kirch that surrounded the enormous city, making it seem as if it were a tremendous spider perched overlooking the lake. The waters crashed over the edge of the cliff on which the city rested and a perpetual mist drifted out across the waters. Upon the furthest edge of the city, the mighty Cathedral of Avacyn gazed out at the magnificent vista.

Sorin had absolutely no intention of going anywhere near the edge of that cliff. He had the creeping suspicion his path would eventually draw to that precipice anyways, but he’d be further damned than he already was if he didn’t exhaust every option he had before he was forced to that ledge. Sorin shook his head and turned his attention back to where he was going. It had been ages since he’d had any need to visit Thraben and the city had grown into a civil labyrinth in the interim.

Getting through the concentric bulwarks that made up the inner city would have normally been difficult for someone of Sorin’s condition, but he was hardly worth noticing at the moment. Less than a week ago, the city walls had been breached, the city lit aflame, and chaos had shattered the peaceful lives of the populace. The city was still tense and grieving, but the citizens forced a feigned sense of normalcy. It was all they had to rely on since Avacyn’s wards had begun to fail. Sorin felt for them, as callous as he was. There were limits to the suffering he could see people endure before some remnant of his sympathy stirred to life. He effortlessly pushed those feelings aside, however, and wrapped himself in a glamer that would hide his true nature. He didn’t think it would be necessary, but he wasn’t willing to take the chance.

Soon enough, Sorin found himself in one of the myriad well manicured courtyards of the cathedral, staring up at an enormous marble statue of his errant creation. She stared far out into the sky, a serene and searching look etched across her features and he had to shake his head. He doubted she could even make that expression. When he’d forged her essence, he’d had need of a warrior, a hard being whose very core was wrapped in the cold judgment the world required of her. People had deified her in more ways than one, and he hoped her quarters wouldn’t be full of the same softness he saw displayed so prominently. With a sneer he passed the statue and continued towards the cathedral proper to search for his goal.

The damages around the structure were far less grievous than those in the outer city, though it was possible that they’d repaired the damage here before paying any attention to the areas in more need of it. This was one of the reasons he resented religions, even if they served a purpose. He supposed he had nobody to blame but himself for this one though. The irony of that brought a smile to his face again as he passed under the great arches of the entrance.

The cathedral was well appointed and as Sorin strolled its length, he was quickly dismayed by how serpentine it actually turned out to be. After nearly an hour of wandering the high ceilinged chapels and avoiding the unwanted complications of being seen by the clergy, Sorin swore loudly and collapsed heavily on a flight of stairs.

“Cracks and shards! How many bloody floors did this place need?” he snarled. He’d been in smaller villages than this. Hells, most villages were smaller than the cathedral. “Hmph, for that matter I’ve been in smaller planes altogether.”

Sorin chose to ignore that his sense of direction was perhaps flawed to begin with, but in all his years, there were few complexes he’d been in more overcomplicated than that of the Church of Avacyn. Three enormous chapels, offices, dormitories, schools, forges, and courtyards, cloisters, and gardens by the dozens made up the cathedral complex. He’d only been through a handful of the buildings and already wished the damn place had been burnt down in the siege. Unfortunately, as cathartic as it would be, it wouldn’t solve the problem at hand.

He could feel Avacyn’s presence everywhere, but he had to search for the strongest sources if he was to find what he needed. He grunted and got back to his feet, deciding that stealth had its place, but sometimes the direct approach was best. He climbed the stairs to the nearest window and snapped the lock off, tossing it away with a casual disregard. The window glided open silently and he stepped out onto the roof, getting his bearings for a moment and making a cursory glance to make sure nobody happened to look up at that moment. He tensed and then leapt.

The wind roared in his ears as he catapulted up to the next level and landed with a heavy crash, he straightened his coat and then casually walked along the spine of the roof, shielded from sight by the parapets at each side. One by one, Sorin hopped from building to building, drawn to the strongest source of mana he could feel. At last, he landed lightly on the highest point below the belfries and steadied himself, suddenly pensive about being on the rickety looking tiles. The roof was cracked and broken, huge holes like weeping wounds hanging into the hall below. He kept his attention firmly fixed in front of him and did his best to ignore how high off the ground he was. Carefully, he neared the closest hole in the building and dropped lightly through it.

At one time, the Lofts were the holiest site of the Thraben Cathedral. Avacyn dwelling with her hosts inside the halls. From the outside, the Lofts appeared to be nothing more than a long attic tucked under the eaves, but inside, the space was much larger than it appeared. None but the angels were normally permitted to enter the Lofts. Sorin knew that much, and he thought, it was for the best the rest of the church didn’t see the state it had fallen to. The deterioration of the quarters during Avacyn's absence was dramatic. At one time, it had obviously been an elegant hall in pristine condition, but the hall had literally crumbled without his archangel, and now the rubble covered the flagstones and rain had fallen through the gaping holes in the roof.

Sorin could feel the despair that echoed in the empty halls and as he walked he could hear the occasional sob from some distant room. The angels were obviously not faring well without his creation and it seemed many had vanished, just as she had, without the faith needed to sustain their existence. Still, there was no need to be rash and he cautiously crept through the dilapidated ruins, following the shadow of the magic he’d cast into his creation. At last, he came to the stone doors that bore the sigil of Avacyn’s spear.

The vault opened slowly, Sorin’s boots creaking loudly in the silence as he descended the stairs leading into the vestibule. Light streamed from ports carved into the curve of the ceiling, and a warm light illuminated the room around him. A thick layer of dust covered virtually everything in the room, stirred to brief life by the vampire’s passing. Two enormous chests sat to each side of the room, wedged into alcoves and out of the way. Candles and chalices were scattered about the spartan room, the only splash of color in the drab scenery. Ornate portraits were carved across the ceiling and below a mosaic darkened the floor, the silhouette of Avacyn herself.

He glanced around as he walked into Avacyn’s private quarters. A dull glow lit the small living space and a glimmer upon the weapons rack against the far wall caught his attention first. Three spears more finely wrought than any weapon Sorin had seen in years rested snugly in it. Their entire length was hewn from a single piece of silver each, from tip to haft and they glittered exquisitely, untouched by the thick layer of dust everywhere else. As superb as the weapons were, the absence of the fourth spear the rack had been made to hold was far more telling. Whatever had become of her, Avacyn had been armed for it.

Sadly, the rest of the room proved a great deal less informative. A mantelpiece displayed a number of metallic scrolls, each shimmering in their stands, and beside them hung a mask. Sorin lifted it and felt the wards etched into its surface. The face was carefully styled with twin herons facing each other, their wings spread to each side. He casually slipped it into the breast of his coat and turned to look over the rest of the room. A daybed and garderobe were the only other things in the parlor. Well, not quite, he thought. Sorin could feel the mana vibrating in the walls of the vault.

Sorin closed his eyes and reached into that well of power, connecting to the energy that pulsed there. Centuries of life coursed through these walls, mundane, but significant. He called more mana, trying to coax the secrets from her room, to find some sort of answer. The reverberations of his own magic echoed back, spells he recognized, magic that had formed part of who Avacyn was. A guardian of life and a dealer of death. However, for all the life soaked into the walls, none of it answered the pressing question of where she was or what had become of her.

Annoyed, Sorin severed the link and dismissed the power he’d tapped. The ancient vampire exhaled and collapsed carelessly onto the chaise longue, throwing up a cloud of dust that set him to coughing. When he could breathe again he shook his head and swore vehemently.

“Something, anything, would have been nice...” Sorin growled. With no leads, he was left at the mercy of whatever else he could find. “I suppose if there had been anything useful, the priests would have already tracked her down.” He sighed and hoisted himself back up. “I suppose it’s time to learn what the priests actually know, then.”

Sorin had spent a few days tracking the most prominent bishops he could find. His first impulse was to confront the Lunarch of the church and coerce what answers he could from him, but apparently the last person to hold the position, a nobleman named Mikaeus, had died mysteriously during the siege. That was just as well, because Sorin found the adage about dead men telling tales was usually wrong. He had a great deal less trouble coaxing answers from a corpse than from the living. Unfortunately, it seems someone else had questions of their own.

The evening following Sorin’s expedition to the Loft, he’d trekked into the Cathedral Catacombs, the resting place of the highest officials of the church. With a blazing torch to light his way, he’d wound through the miles of tight shelves packed with bones and finely wrought sarcophagi laying at the junctures. Thick webbing drooped from the walls and clung to his face and clothes no matter how much he tried to skirt them. It was extremely unpleasant and hours of searching finally brought him to the most recently interred. He did not expect what he discovered though. Someone had set fire to more than one corpse and scorch marks still marred the walls. The ash wasn’t that old, so whatever had happened, had happened after the siege broke. It was curious, but he pushed it aside. It was not what he was looking for. He finally located Mikaeus’ tomb and frowned. The wall bearing the Lunarch’s visage had been cracked wide open, sundered from floor to ceiling, and was utterly empty inside.

Someone had beaten him to it, very recently it appeared, for reasons he could only fathom at with extreme frustration. It was a substantial setback, which is what brought him to the honorable bishops and the next step left to him in his investigation. As closely as he could tell, these men were amongst the highest remaining members of the church, and if anybody could provide him with answers that he could work with, it should be one of them and he knew precisely which one to start with.

He slipped silently into the bishop’s office later that day. The plaque upon the door bore the name Kristoff and he filed that away for later. He’d tracked the man’s movements along with the others and for some reason the man preferred to work at night. Sorin suspected that was the main reason he’d chosen him first, but he chose to ignore such trivialities.

The vampire slowly worked his way around the opulent office, picking up tiny, fragile curios and running his hands across the myriad leather bound tomes stacked on the shelves. He pulled one out at random and flipped through it, reading the notes scrawled in the side margins by a practiced hand. He placed it back on the shelf when it did not offer any astounding insight. Trying to stay occupied, Sorin turned his attention to the bishop’s desk and began rifling through the drawers, all the while waiting for Kristoff to make his nightly appearance. Placing himself in the bishop’s chair, Sorin kicked back and rested his feet upon the desk, flipping through what appeared to be Kristoff’s personal journal. Some time passed while Sorin scanned the notes, actually learning quite a lot about how long Avacyn had been missing and feeling a growing dread settle upon his shoulders. As he went further and further back, he began to feel that her disappearance might have been far too long ago to have any hope of finding her without a great deal more work. Sorin very much didn’t want to search that hard, but his obligation to his creation and his home compelled him. He feared that things were going to grow much darker before he found his precious angel though, and the world seemed bleak enough in her absence. It could not afford the time it would take to locate his wayward daughter. The bells rang out the hour while he pondered the time and Sorin glanced up, tossing the journal casually to the floor.

“Showtime.” He smiled.

Several minutes went by before Sorin heard the latch on the door twist and a tall tawny haired man came into the office. He shut the door carefully and turned, catching his first sight of Sorin and dropping the folio he’d been carrying.

“Monster!” he cried, a fierce look leaping to his eyes.

“Sticks and stones.” Sorin drawled boredly. “You know things that I need to know and then I can be on my way.”

“I won’t tell a filthy bloodspawn like you a damned thing.” Kristoff answered defiantly. He gathered himself up and Sorin felt a pull on the mana from the cathedral around him. Sorin opened his mouth and spat a few words. They shook the air, a deep and resounding lyrical flow of syllables painful to listen to. Kristoff fell to the ground immediately, coughing a black mist, gripping himself tightly and shivering. “c-cold…”

Sorin nonchalantly rose from the chair and made his way around the desk. The mist wafting off Kristoff’s body twisted fluidly in the air as he approached, gathering ethereally around Sorin’s outstretched hand. "You clerics brag about your strength of spirit, yet I take the tiniest fragment, and you crumple like a rag doll. Tsk." The vampire squatted over the bishop and watched Kristoff as his seizures dwindled to naught. “Now, we can do this the easy way or the hard way. Which would you prefer?” Kristoff simply spat on him. “Right. Hard way then.”

Sorin’s hand shot out and gripped the bishop by the face, swinging him into the air and slamming him up against the wall in one smooth motion. He slammed the man with another shuddering blow for good measure and adjusted his grip to the man’s throat as he pushed the bishop further up the wall, reaching into his coat for a pocket that wasn’t there a moment ago and pulling a silk handkerchief from inside. He mopped his face calmly while the bishop grabbed at his other arm, choking and kicking wildly, his feet clattering against the wall.

“So, where were we?” Sorin asked. He slowly lowered Kristoff until his feet rested on the ground once more, though his hand remained gripped around the man’s throat. To Sorin’s surprise the bishop maintained his defiance instead of being cowed. He mentally raised his estimation of the man, but continued on. “What do you know of Avacyn’s disappearance?”

“Why would you want to know?” Kristoff shot back.

“No. You’re not following the rules.” Sorin’s hand snapped back to the bishop’s face, gripping his cheeks tightly as he leaned forward to stare directly into the man’s eyes, his own shimmering gold as he snarled. “I ask the questions, you do not. You answer the questions. Now I’ll repeat, what do you know of Avacyn’s disappearance?”

The man remained silent for several moments and Sorin began to squeeze with his vampiric strength. Kristoff hissed as his jaw began to creak and began babbling. “She’s dead!”

“I can assure you that’s impossible.” Sorin laughed. “Tell me, why would you think that?”

“She fell fighting the Master.”

“The Master?” Sorin asked incredulously. His eyebrow shot up and he leaned back. He shook Kristoff lightly as he stared. “That wasn’t rhetorical, whose dog are you?”

“G-Griselbrand. He challenged the archangel shortly before she vanished. It was the last any of us saw of her.”

Sorin waited several beats and then released the bishop, causing him to fall abruptly to the ground. “You’re one of those filthy demon cultists, aren’t you?” Sorin asked as he stared down at the man.

“I am a proud member of the Skirsdag Cult under our lord and master Griselbrand.” Kristoff said stubbornly, pushing himself up the wall and staring hatefully at the vampire. “His strength is shared amongst his followers and he has such sights to show us. The pleas of the church fall on deaf ears, but ours do not. It is by his hand that we will finally be able to wipe the scourge of your kind from the land.”

“And a damned hypocrite on top of that! By the blood, I thought you fools were wiped out centuries ago.” Sorin groaned. He turned his back to Kristoff and rested both hands upon the smooth surface of the man’s desk. “I assure you that your master is utterly incapable of killing Avacyn.”

“Griselbrand is the most powerful demon lord on the face of Innistrad, how could she possibly have survived?” Kristoff demanded.

“Because she cannot be destroyed. I went to great lengths to ensure that when I made her.”

“You… I… what?”

“I. Made. Avacyn.” Sorin answered carefully as he faced Kristoff again. “Damage her as much as you like, but I made it so that she could never be destroyed, unlike your pathetic tyrants.” He walked back to Kristoff, looming over the smaller man and leaned down close. “Whatever you think happened, I can assure you, your lord did little against my creation. In fact… where is your lord now?”

Kristoff blanched and tried his best to shy further away, but his back was pressed tightly against the wall. Sorin smiled darkly and the room seemed to flicker to stygian blackness behind him. The light fled from Sorin as he leaned in close, as if terrified to see what was about to transpire. Kristoff’s breath caught as the vampire leaned in and his vision swam as the Sorin’s face seemed to melt into a death’s head grin. "Tell me, what do vermin cling to when hope is lost?"

Sorin’s magic tore at the edges of Kristoff’s mind as shadowy claws ripped everything the bishop knew about the cult from his mind. The only sound Kristoff made was a high pitched keening and tears streamed down his cheeks. His legs gave out and he collapsed onto his knees, staring blankly into the distance as he felt his mind violated. At length, the deed was done and a true scream rose to Kristoff’s lips. He sobbed while Sorin sifted through the effects of his spell. He’d actually learned quite a lot, but none of it had been what he’d wanted. It did, however, give him a new place to start, and that was a boon he was thankful for.

“I’ll tell everyone what you told me you bastard.” Kristoff stammered as he pulled himself shakily to his feet. “I’ll see this church torn down when the people learn what Avacyn is. When I tell them that a filthy vampire created their false idol…” he choked again and shot a baleful stare at Sorin, who just stood adjusting the cuff of his coat. “They’ll tear it all down…”

“Honestly, I knew you were a fool, but I couldn’t possibly have fathomed the depths of your idiocy. You, my dear fool, will not be telling anybody a thing.” Sorin sneered at the bishop as he faced the panting figure before him. Sorin drew the greatsword strapped to his hip in one smooth pull and the darkness of the Parasite Blade stood out even amongst the shadows of the room. "Cherish these last moments. Your miserable life might have come to nothing, but I will give it a magnificent end."

With that, the sword bit into the shocked priest’s flesh. Crimson ran down the length of dark steel and the sword began to feed.

Sorin strolled out of the building, polishing the blood from his sword. He slotted it back into its scabbard as he walked and tucked the handkerchief back into the void of his coat. He aimlessly made his way through the cloisters outside, wandering into the main courtyard nestled between the three chapels. The crisp air was refreshing after being cooped up for so long, a small relief for all the grief he’d had to endure to get to this point. He leaned against one of the gnarled trees that stood in the gardens and listened to the dull roar of the falls nearby. The massive chunk of silver that the church revered for some reason stood sentinel in the distance, vigilantly staring out over the lake. Sorin groaned with a sudden case of vertigo and closed his eyes. He bloody hated heights, loathed them in fact.

Sorin considered what his next move should be to take his mind off that unpleasantness. Whatever had happened to Avacyn had something to do with the Skirsdag. He had pulled several names and places out of Kristoff’s mind before he’d finished the man. For all his pomp, the bishop hadn’t actually been very highly ranked and disturbingly several of the people he’d known were within the very walls of the cathedral itself. He thought of paying them a visit and doing the church a favor, but that wouldn’t actually bring him any closer to finding Avacyn. Maybe afterwards he’d deal with their treachery, but for now there were bigger beasts to hunt. For the answers he needed, he’d have to find the highest disciples of the Skirsdag and it looked like the search for those august bodies would drag him to Nephalia.

“Why’d it have to be Nephalia?” Sorin growled. He wasn’t particularly looking forward to the trip for a number of reasons. That corner of the world was rarely anything but a pain in the ass, but maybe things would actually go smoothly for a change. “Who knows, maybe it’ll be pleasant. And maybe a Phelddagrif will fly out of the damned moon.”

The sky above Selhoff crackled as lightning flashed through the heavens for the hundredth time, the storm drenching the land in a steely sheet of cold gray. Such storms were common in Nephalia, but among the moors and bays of Selhoff, more than rain blew in from the oceans. The wail of the wind was matched, if not drowned out by the screams of the geists stirred to life by the Nebelgast, the spirit-mists. The waves crashed upon the columns of rock jutting from the bay, tossing spray high into the air to dance with the mad spirits of the drowned drawn to the storm. Few, if any of the merchants or fishermen of the port town would be crazy enough to step outside on a night like this.

However, sometimes the worst monsters aren’t those that wail in nocturnal storms.

Sven had made the very unfortunate choice to be out when the storm had blown in. Slowly, geists had swirled around him, gathering nearer and nearer as he dashed for any shelter he could find. Chill, ethereal claws had iced his flesh as they raked at his body and soaked clothing, a fine frost formed with their every touch, and then at last, salvation had fallen open before him. A voice called for him to come in, and he’d rushed into the golden glow of that warm light. He’d stood panting, bent double and gasping for air when the door locked shut.

As Sven lay upon the cold metal of the rack, sobbing and feeling the alien caress of chill air against the exposed muscles of his stomach, he would have rather been left with the safety of the geists. A figure suddenly popped back into his vision, a delighted smile painted upon the diabolic face.

“How are we, Sven? Comfortable?” the man cackled, brushing the greasy mop of hair out of his face and behind the curve of the horns upon his brow. Sven whimpered and with sinking dread he heard a chorus of mirth from the shadows all around. The torturer theatrically walked around Sven’s prone form, twirling a small dagger between his fingers merrily as he went. He grabbed a chair and dragged it in front of the flayed man. Sitting backwards in the chair, the crimson skinned sadist rested his arms across its back and watched his victim. He ran a finger lightly across the inside of the skin that had been peeled back and nailed to the table. Sven let out a piteous moan and the other man simply shook his head. “I do my best to open my home to you, and this is the thanks I get.”

That statement was met with another round of high pitched cackling and the crashing of valuable glasswork. That caused an even greater reaction as the mysterious figures capered in the shadows beyond the harsh light in which Sven laid. The seated figure ignored it all and slowly spun the knife about its tip, the point pressed lightly against his finger as he watched the fishermen with jaundiced eyes. Another disturbance sounded outside the spear of light and the man turned to see what caused it this time. From the shadows, a stunted figure loped forward. The sight brought another squeal of panic from Sven’s throat.

The devil was a small twisted thing, a grotesquely swollen belly over skeletally gaunt limbs. Its entire body was wrapped in glossy red scales and thick black claws topped its spindly fingers and toes. The creature’s skull was hideously elongated and it flicked a lengthy ear while giving both the victim and craftsman a lipless and simpleminded grin. It was horrible to behold, but that was nothing to what it sounded like.

“We’ve seen him! We’ve seen him! News from Thraben, just like you heard!” It hissed, its voice an airy and dry croak as it did a small jig, clapping its hands at having delivered the message.

“Well isn’t that fascinating?” the man asked Sven. “I suppose the rumors were true.”

“And he’s coming to Nephalia,” the devil added.

“You had my interest, but now you have my attention.” Tibalt exclaimed, stroking his goatee lightly. Then his gaze wandered down to Sven once more. “Which is unfortunate for you. I’m sorry to say that other demands have come up. Still, I’m sure I’ll find some time somewhere along the line so you’ll just have to do your best to be patient.” He said with a smirk. He slid the dagger back into the sheath on his belt and snuffed the light with bare fingers as he left the room, leaving Sven strapped to the table and screaming.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Nephalia. As charming as I remember it.” Sorin sneered.

He’d arrived in Drunau only a few hours ago, but he’d long since had his fill of the entire province. A week being ferried up the River Kirch, more or less trapped with little to occupy his thoughts but his own reservations about his mission was enough to sour even his normally blithe demeanor. Then there was the simple fact that he loathed the destination to start with. Nephalia was a den of illusions and the worst scum humanity had to offer.

When Sorin had disembarked from the barge, the overcast skies were bleeding a weak light through the clouds and the air was pregnant with the promise of a storm. With his temper as frayed as it was, he decided it best to find somewhere to get out of the rain. He chose a tasteful two story house off the main avenue, a traditional house of little regard in the interior of the city. Getting in was simple, and dealing with the house’s occupant was only a trifle more difficult. After he’d sated himself, he was happy enough to take his leisure exploring the lodgings. A brief inspection later found it suitable enough for his needs. A place to stay while he tracked down the cultists to ask them pointed questions, probably with pointed objects.

He looked out the window as the rain began to pour outside. The view wasn’t much to look at, just the ugly darkness of an alley that sank into the Erdwal trenches at the far end. Away from the view of the main avenue, the neighboring houses showed their festering underside. Rotting, misshapen timber was skillfully masked by the illusion of craftsmanship and wealth. It was an apt metaphor for the entire province really. As pious as Gavony was, Nephalia stank of corruption, veiled behind riches. The church of Avacyn wasn’t even exempt from the wiles of wealth and the merchant class grew fat off the sales of things that the rest of Innistrad would be shocked to learn existed. A great deal of the riches flowed from the patronage of the Stromkirks and his journey had drawn him directly into the shadow of Stromkirk manor, the very seat of power for the entire bloodline.

Among the vampire lineages, the Stromkirks were the only ones Sorin felt deserved their faux nobility. They protected their kine in a rare show of prudence, even if it was for totally selfish reasons. He had to admit he bore a grudging respect for Runo Stromkirk and his spawn, but for all that, he trusted them even less than his own sire. The Stromkirks had no interest in the social machinations of the other bloodlines and virtually ignored the games they played. They were dispassionate and utterly sure of the grip they had on their own holdings. The Stromkirk lineage were not given to great excess and showed a cunning that chilled even Sorin’s dark soul. In more ways than he was comfortable admitting, they reminded him a great deal of himself, and for that he absolutely hated them. He preferred to simply ignore his faults, but he found it hard to do so when the Stromkirks were present.

With the rain crashing down outside, Sorin decided it wasn’t worth trying to get out. He was tired and could stand to have a decent night’s rest after sleeping on a barge for over a week. Things might be dire, but it had already been months since Avacyn vanished, things couldn’t possibly get any worse in the few hours he’d take for himself. He might as well try to get some sleep, he’d start his hunt in the morning. The walker made his way to the bedroom, tossing his coat upon a nearby chair when he reached the room. Peeling his shirt off and kicking his boots to the side, Sorin luxuriated in finally sleeping in a real bed again. It was the little things in life you learned to appreciate the most.

***

The acrid tang of smoke pulled Sorin from a dreamless sleep as he jerked awake. He inhaled deeply by reflex and immediately began coughing, the stink of soot and ash clawing at his throat as he winced. Smoke wafted from the cracks in the floorboards and the dull crackle of embers consuming the house drowned out the sound of rain outside. The room was a furnace and Sorin tossed the blankets off the bed with a single heave, grabbing his boots with a single move. He strapped them on hastily, grabbing his shirt and belt afterwards, and throwing on his jacket over his bare torso with a quick roll of his shoulders.

He kicked the bedroom door open and shot a look down the burning hallway. There at the end, next to the window, a horrible pig faced monstrosity sat playing with the curtains. The delicate lace was quickly eaten by the tongues of flame lapping from the torch it held. The bang of the door slamming against the wall finally drew the scaly red things attention and it wheeled about, catching sight of Sorin. It made a wretched squeal and scrabbled at the latch to the window, ignoring the flaming curtains as it pulled at the window jamb.

Sorin stood, his thoughts somewhere between puzzled and irate. Cracks and shards… what in the hells was a devil doing burning down his house? His face was pulled into a scowl as anger quickly won out over the confusion. He pulled his sword from the scabbard in his other hand and began to stalk forward. At this point, he quite frankly could do without answers so long as he could get blood. The devil glanced back and jumped, scrabbling even harder to open the window. Sorin reared back and drove the sword directly at the devil, missing at the last second as the hideous porcine thing gave up and just jumped through the window, sending a spray of glass out into alleyway below.

Sorin stood at the window, wrenching the Parasite Blade from the wall as he looked down at the devil below. It

stared back up with a slimy smile. It gave Sorin an obscene gesture and scuttled away down towards the trench at the far end of the alley.

A roof timber abruptly crashed behind him, pulling Sorin’s attention back to his immediate danger. He began coughing again as the inferno chewed into the walls. Sorin let out a roar of frustration and jumped from the window, calmly landing in the alley amid the shattered glass. He sheathed his sword angrily and looked back up at the flaming edifice behind him. He rubbed at his tired, smoke bitten eyes and groaned.

He’d really been looking forward to a sound night’s sleep for a change. Standing in the rain, the alley looming around him and his soft bed going up in flames, Sorin damned the fates and began slogging towards Main Street, away from the burning building and the ugly creature that had set it alight.

The rain bore on, ceaselessly, for the rest of the night and by the time Sorin woke, he was soaked through by the constant deluge despite the meager shelter he’d found wedged in a narrow doorway. His hair was matted and his mood exceedingly foul as he trudged towards the offices of the first being he needed to find. The cultist was a wealthy business owner, a shipping magnate, and his men had a tendency to go missing at sea far more than what could be considered natural. Even with that risk, his business was more successful than ever, with men lining up to replace those who had supposedly “fallen over board.” He was well respected and wealthy, a state which, very likely, he owed to this “Griselbrand” in one way or another.

Unfortunately, by the time Sorin finally managed to locate the office, he couldn’t get into the warehouse. He’d overslept by a rather large margin, and by mid-morning, it was impossible to sneak into the bustling waterfront building. Sailor and dockworkers alike poured in and out at a constant stream, and even with the cover of the crowd to mask his entry, Sorin doubted they would so easily ignore him. His garb was a great deal different than that of the usual occupants and he got the distinct impression they’d notice, and worse, very likely remember him. This early on in stalking his targets, he didn’t want to tip his hand so brazenly. He was wanton and given to dramatics, but he wasn’t a complete idiot. He would need to follow the man, and get his answers when the opportunity presented itself.

The vampire found another doorway to sink into, one from which he could watch the warehouse. The alcove was deeper than the one he had slept in the previous night and just the thought of the injustice of it all made him growl low in his throat. Between the damnable demon spawn burning down his house and having to stoop so low as to waste most of his day pointlessly watching the building, his irritation flared for the dozenth time since he’d been explosively

evicted from his roost.

Towards the evening, the rain eased to a light drizzle and finally stopped, giving Sorin a chance to dry out at last. Shortly afterwards, the cultist finally showed his face, presumably heading for home. If there were to ever be a time to take advantage of the lengthening shadows, it was likely now. Sorin strode from one pool of darkness to another, casually sinking into the concealing gloom as he kept an eye on his target. All around, the night sought to claim its own, and in a desperate attempt to keep it from its prize, the lamplighters hurried from post to post, turning the street into a flickering ghost of warmth and comfort.

Sorin found following the cultist about as enthralling as standing outside the warehouse, but it was necessary, though he wished the man would foolishly stumble down a deserted alley, just so he could end this farce and get on with his business. Sorin rolled his eyes at that prospect though, but halfway through his breath caught as the man, amazingly, slipped into the darkness of two buildings. Sorin briefly wished he’d made a more substantial plea, but this was the first piece of good fortune he’d been handed since he’d returned to Innistrad and he would be damned further if he was going to let it slip by.

The vampire raced across the thoroughfare, gaining several shouted curses from carriages and spooking several of the slow trotting horses. He pressed his back against the building next to the alleyway and silently vanished into the mouth of the alley. The cultist was nowhere to be seen, but the alley continued on, wrapping around the buildings’ backs. A large stone wall edged the pathway in the back and Sorin found his way back to it. The stench of rotted fish and emptied chamber pots did much to kill Sorin’s sense of smell, but the businessman’s scent was fresh and gave Sorin everything he needed to track the man, though he’d disappeared into the labyrinth of backways.

Wherever he was going, Sorin could only guess at, but they were well away from the crowds now, and there would be nothing stopping Sorin from getting answers now, if he could just catch up to the man. As if in response, he turned the corner into a dead end copse and found the man standing there. More than anything though, Sorin was suddenly distracted by the smell of fresh blood. The figure before him stood awkwardly and the vampire had a sudden grim premonition, a sneaking suspicion that he was very likely going to rue this encounter.

“Oh no! A vampire!” The man suddenly squawked, his arms rising floppily. His head flopped back listlessly and Sorin saw the crimson line drawn across his gaping neck. He growled and his knuckles popped as he clenched his fists. “Oh no! He’ll kill me!” the obvious corpse said in a second voice, a pair of laughter erupting as the man shook in seeming mirth. The gyrations inevitably caused the dead man to slide out of his coat, slumping face first into a puddle of grime and rain.

Sorin couldn’t believe it. Standing there, one on top of the shoulders of another, and wearing the oversized jacket, were two devils, both of whom suddenly realizing that their cover was gone. They shot bolt upright, staring directly at Sorin before the one on bottom broke into hysterics. They both fell over, their harsh laughter echoing in the confined space.

Sorin hacked the head cleanly off one of them, not even realizing he’d drawn the Parasite Blade until it was draining the blood from the misshapen fiend. The other couldn’t stop laughing at that and died messily as Sorin finished him. He was wroth, stunned and confused, at the misfortune that had befallen him. It left him in a towering rage, but the inauspicious coincidence nagged at him. Devils were given to this sort of malice, but the chances of it happening to him twice in as many days was… hard to stomach. Something was going on, but he wasn’t sure if he was being singled out or if the devils had become so unwieldy in Avacyn’s absence that the entire province had become their playground.

He sheathed his sword and grimaced. There was one way to find out and quite frankly, he could use a drink.

***

The tavern was full despite the danger brought on by the church’s wards starting to untwine, workers packed in trying to drown their sorrows and complain about their lives. It was true of every world, that a man would always find some reason to get drunk and nag about something. Sorin walked in unnoticed by the patrons and tipped one particularly sodden individual out of his seat. The mood inside the common room was tense, the drinking a little too prolific, and the laughter a bit too forced. Sailors, dock-workers, and every other tradesman in the place were drinking to blot out the constant terror that hovered at their shoulders. Once again, Sorin observed, people retreated into routine, trying to find some sense of normalcy in a world gone mad that mostly seemed to want them to simply die.

It might actually take some work to get these poor sots to talk about their troubles, or at least the kind that ran around with claws and fangs. They didn’t want to think about it right now, but Sorin needed to hear the gossip about what lurked in the alleys and if he could expect the diabolic attention to continue being a nuisance… or if he was just the special recipient of their interest. He scowled at the thought and looked at the leftover grog already sitting on the table.

“Not very encouraging is it?”

Sorin froze, sudden liquid fear making him draw mana from the deep fens. When no attack came, his gaze traveled over to the source of his embarrassment. A fair skinned and quite beautiful man had somehow managed to slip into the seat opposite him without his notice, which was worrying in and of itself. When his eyes met those of the effete being before him, it was exactly as he expected. Brilliant sapphire eyes rimmed in black, not a trace of white within them, just like Sorin’s own. As rugged as Sorin was, this vampire was just the opposite. He lounged with obvious grace and his every move spoke of carefully maintained poise. He smiled prettily at Sorin, an obvious attempt at being charming. Sorin straightened his coat and leaned forward, regarding the other man cautiously.

“I must say Lord Markov, this place is rather low rent for a man of your pedigree. What brings you here?”

“Trying to avoid prying eyes mostly.” Sorin rumbled back, narrowing his eyes at the interloper. “How exactly did you manage to sneak up on me?” The question was said fairly casually, but the dangerous undertone was unmistakable.

“I have my ways. Do forgive my manners, though, my name is Theo Stromkirk, and I come bearing Runo’s greetings and if necessary, his reproach. We were quite interested to learn you’d chosen to visit our humble estate, but it was scandalous when you did not appear to proffer your intentions.” Sorin raised his eyebrow, a sneer just starting to form on his lip before Theo continued. “Just as a courtesy, of course.”

“I was frankly not planning on staying long enough to bother doing so. My presence would surely cause a stir after all.”

“Too true Lord Markov. Still, the question remains, what has drawn you here… particularly this place of any?” Theo said with a glance around the room, confusion and awkward distaste competing for his expression. It gave Sorin a small chuckle, which in turn made Theo smile, seemingly genuinely, if a bit formally.

“I’ve come to this dive for gossip. Taverns are always good for that, even if not much else.” He pushed the mug away with his elbow. “I’ve had strange encounters with devils since I arrived, and I’m curious if it’s just me or if there is a plague of the horrid creatures in Nephalia right now.” Sorin explained with surprising candor.

“Their activity has been extremely peculiar lately.” Theo said, leaning against the table as if their conversation weren’t anything more outlandish than that of the weather. “It’s something several of us have noticed, but we cannot speculate what is causing it. There have been rumors, but there always are. It seems inexplicable. Still, you’ve yet to answer the more pressing question Lord Markov, why are you in Nephalia?”

Sorin stared at the man, wondering how much he should tell him and what repercussions it might cause. Runo had chosen his envoy well, and the man seemed exceptionally informed, obviously willing to help or hinder him as the situation dictates. He shrugged and decided to throw caution to the wind, if nothing else to see what the Stromkirks might do.

“I’m looking for members of the Skirsdag cult who might know what has happened to my angel.” Sorin gave Theo a confident grin, eagerly waiting to see what he would do. For his credit the other man covered well, but he stiffened noticeably and his smile dropped completely. The pair sat in silence for several long moments before Theo nodded.

“Most of the Stromkirks, Runo included, know your purpose behind her creation, but I am not sure how many approve of such an action. I’m sure they’re ecstatic to see your angel missing, but there is no denying that things have become… strained as of late. The humans have been victim to ghouls and geist far too often in the past months. That doesn’t even begin to address what the humans do to each other and the rumors we’ve heard…” Theo shook his head. “Runo has decreed we defend the population as much as possible, a prospect many of our soldiery are unaccustomed to. If he were here… I believe Runo might wish you luck Lord Markov.”

“Well, he always was a pious man.” Sorin laughed to himself as Theo stirred uncomfortably. “Sorry, a joke from before your time, I’m sure.” He chuckled again. His mirth died abruptly though, as screams started to come from outside. Theo and he both immediately turned to the door, tense and waiting as windows began to shatter inwards. A gang of devils erupted into the room, ugly brutes harassing each other almost as much as the crowd. The people gathered inside the tavern were abruptly sober with fear and fell back, pushing each other down as they tried to give the brazen gang as much room as possible. Some of the more courageous or perhaps more besotted patrons grabbed whatever weapon they could and tried their best to contain the devils with little success.

The devils eventually laid their hands on the oil lamps decorating the tables and incredibly managed to set themselves on fire, the oil catching almost as soon as they began to sling the fluid around, hitting each other with the flames as much as the furniture around them. One of their number finally seemed to come to its senses and pointed directly at Sorin, screeching out an ugly command as the grinning beasts all turned to the vampire. Their intent was crystal clear and Sorin’s voice swelled into a thrumming growl. It pulsed in the air, but whatever spell he was preparing never came to pass. With the devils distracted, the drunken defenders screwed up their courage and managed to spear one of the devils. The grotesque thing’s body began to hiss, a higher and higher pitched noise coming from the wound. Sorin’s eyes widened just a moment before the things entire body burst into a fireball, the foul gasses igniting on the burning oil.

The explosion shook the entire room, throwing some people back and raining gobbets of fiery devil flesh all around. One of the devils was knocked clear through the wall near the entrance while the other laid smoking in a charred mess, its body starting to swell with its own imminent explosion. Small fires started from the impish gore as it reached pools of spilled liquor and bottles that had tipped over in the chaos. As smoke began to rise in the tavern and the patrons began to flee, Theo turned to Sorin with a blank expression.

“About the devils… I think it’s just you.”

The skies above Nephalia were never welcoming. The sun would only ever shine weakly in the wan skies, but even at its fairest, it was still miserable to anyone who hadn’t been born there. The weather tonight was quite possibly the worst that Sorin had ever seen, which spoke of exactly how terrible it was. The air was thick with something ominous, something more substantial than storms and stress. There was something foul in the air tonight. The heavy clouds hanging low on the horizon were pregnant with menace and somehow stained, discolored with an infernal glow from within.

It was astounding that he was considering his destination as some sort of sanctuary to get out of the bleak conditions.

The abandoned chapel stood alone, far from civilization, an isolated and lonely place forgotten either by the oppression of time or scoured from memory by some darker hand. Once, it had been a refuge, a small place of shelter to weather the storms of the soul and body alike. Whatever it had been built for, it was no longer fit to be called a place of faith.

Twisted trees, their branches gnarled and bare, reached for the churning sky, casting long and horrific shadows across the small building each time a flash lit the sky. The wood and stone had long since fallen to decay, but the precious windows, brilliant color set in their dark frames, had somehow remained untouched. Gravestones were strewn haphazardly around the yard of the chapel, sunken or tipped over into the fetid waters that overran the graf. Sorin didn’t even want to consider what the bloated corpses interred below might look like and cast it from his mind, focusing instead on the doors ahead. They hung open and the shadows shifted within, milling about as if they were alive and waiting for him to step foot into their dark embrace.

Sorin sneered and for the hundredth time, wondered how he’d been drawn to this crossroads and went to the doors, pushing them open with a nerve jangling screech. The fiend stood against the altar, leaned casually against the heavy stone taking his time examining the dark stains that coated very nearly every surface of the floors and walls. Even in the darkness Sorin knew what they were, the sour stink of dried blood pungent over the odd scents of the waters beyond the walls. Whatever had driven people from this place had happened a while ago and this was the aftermath, left forever as a warning to those foolish enough to stumble into this place. The vampire stood and watched the creature across from him and when it finally deigned to notice him, its face split in ecstatic joy.

“Ah! The guest of honor has at last arrived!” He said, and it sounded genuinely mirthful. His casual pose against the altar remained unchanged, and if one could ignore the surroundings, it would seem a joyful reunion between two familiar companions. “You are a bit earlier than I had expected though. How did you find me?”

“By calling in favors that I did not care to pay for from people that I dislike quite a bit.” Sorin said, staring hard at the other man. He was tall and thin in a way only a fever patient could be, but despite that, there was something solid about his frame, wide shoulders and long limbs. A greasy mop of hair fell over his face and a pair of horns curled from the brow beneath it, horns as darkly crimson as the rest of his skin. He was a devil, but so strange that Sorin didn’t know what to make of him. He was far more human than any devil he had seen before, not least because he was actually clothed. Not in rags either, but flamboyant clothing that spoke of careful and precise ministration to his appearance. He wore a waistcoat beneath an overcoat whose tails split to allow the appendage that sprouted from behind free movement. It curled as if it had a mind of its own and Sorin’s gaze was drawn back up. “You are by far one of the strangest things I have ever seen, and that is saying something.”

“Thank you.” The other said, fairly unconcerned with if it was a compliment or not. “Coming from a being of such high repute as Sorin Markov, that is quite the statement.”

“You have the advantage of me, and have for a while I dare say. That displeases me more than you can imagine, so please, be civilized…” Sorin’s voice dropped, power thrumming in his next words, “and tell me who you are.”

“You may call me Tibalt.” Tibalt shivered slightly, almost imperceptibly if his tail’s frantic lashing hadn’t given him away. He appreciated the threat in Sorin’s voice, even if they were feigning geniality at the moment. “I like to think of myself as a student of life. Everything done in service to the joy of discovery.”

“What business do you have with me that you’ve made yourself such a nuisance in my affairs?”

“Now… that would be telling. We shall just say that we have a friend in common, and I simply had to investigate if the rumors about you were true.” Tibalt said with a gesture, and at that point the gleam of metal drew Sorin’s eye. Tibalt was holding an immense knife longer than his hand, pointed straight at Sorin’s chest. It was a thin blade, almost invisible from the side despite its length, and the crosshilt was enormous and ornate, studded with heavy gems and wreathed in gold.

“I hope I didn’t disappoint.” Sorin replied coldly. He was getting tired of the charade, being on the receiving end of it for a change. Is this what it was like when he acted this way? Tibalt stepped forward, carefully holding the blade between the fingers of his other hand and studying Sorin in response to his question.

“Well… let’s just say that I haven’t made my final judgment yet.” The two men stood staring tensely at each other, a scowl on Sorin’s face and a smirk on Tibalt’s. The silent moments stretched on until finally the façade snapped and at once they were both in motion.

Tibalt struck, all languid grace and indolent ease in his movements. Sorin jumped back, his own posture of careful control, weaving around the fiend’s strikes with little room to spare. Tibalt cackled raucously, redoubling his efforts as he drove the vampire back. A growl ripped out of Sorin’s throat and the sudden screech of metal on metal broke the cacophony. Sorin’s own dagger licked out, jarring the knife in Tibalt’s hand. Tibalt smoothly ducked back, suddenly wary now that Sorin had drawn his own dagger.

The curved fang of metal that Sorin held was longer than Tibalt’s straight blade and was all edge while the fiend’s own was hardly anything but point. The combatants circled each other carefully, slipping in and out in a blur of steel, the hiss of air being cut the only noise aside from the heavy steps on the flagstones.

Sorin’s blade bit into the man’s chest, splitting skin and splashing blood down the fine ruffles of Tibalt’s shirt. He was thrown back by Sorin’s inhuman strength and stumbled, somersaulting into a back roll before resting in a crouch, tail writhing in irritation. Tibalt’s unruly mop of hair fell across his face and shadowed one eye, but the other held a sort of manic serenity, the mad glint of satisfaction rather than anger. Sorin growled again, deep voice rumbling within his chest as he stalked forward.

Tibalt jumped back to his feet, straightening his own jacket and carefully avoiding the wound where the dagger had opened his chest. It was virtually all Sorin could stare at, the blood darker than it should be and a scent in the air like nothing he’d smelled before. A threatening smile grew on his face and he watched Tibalt with an air of careful study as he lifted the blade to his lips and tasted the dark liquid. A wave of power rolled off of him as he sampled the other man’s blood and he pulled a face of distinct displeasure.

“Ugh! That is foul…” Sorin spat, wiping the blade off on his pants and resheathing the knife. “By far one of the worst things I’ve ever tasted and I have had my share of experiences.” He complained as he reached to the greatsword at his waist and freed it in one smooth pull. The pure blackness of the sword gleamed strangely in the weak light.

Tibalt rose to his feet, despite his wound, his features broke out into an infuriating smile. When he saw Sorin’s greatsword clear its sheathe, he nodded and stretched, wincing deliciously as the gash on his chest pulled with the movement.

“I see that we’re going to get serious now, are we? Good, I’ve been preparing for just this.” He opened his arms wide, as if master of a carnival and with a diabolic smile on his face, snapped his fingers. Sorin scowled and then the air was rent with the clatter of shattering glass as devils began to stream into the church, shouldering each other as they flung themselves in, hooting and whooping with excitement. Tibalt’s smile grew wider and the mad glint in his eye grew.

Devils of all sizes and shapes gathered to every side, climbing over the shattered pews and pushing to get a look at Sorin as his own gaze took in the precarious position he was in. The devils weren’t alone either, hounds with flayed skulls and burning eyes scattered in the crowd, their skulls wetly shining in the dead light. Tibalt stood on the outside, the scourge of devils crowding him out as they ambled into position around him.

At last, an enormous devil, eyes and mouth burning ferociously with an inner fire rode forward through the doors and Sorin calmly turned as it entered. It was atop a massive hellhound and dragged a collection of chains in his hands. This was the leader of the gang, as much as any of the devils were leaders considering Tibalt’s command over them.

Tibalt tapped his dagger on the altar next to him, standing unevenly on the stairs that led behind it. Sorin turned, ignoring the threats all around as he indulged the devil in his theatrics. Tibalt held the knife aloft, as a conductor would a wand, and with a flick of his wrist, the mayhem began.

The tremendous devil atop his hellish mount leapt forward and the rest of the scourge surged forward. Unholy howls and curses met the air as the ground itself shuddered under the diabolic stamped. A tidal wave of infernal flesh rose for him, to drag him down and tear him to bits.

And as one, they crashed against the bright blue dome of light that Sorin threw into place with a single encompassing wave. Light spilled across him and several of the weaker devils groaned and hissed, the harsh sound coming from their flesh sizzling and popping rather than from their tongues. White magic wasn’t Sorin’s specialty, far from it, but he was six millennia old and had learned more than his fair share of tricks. The one great task that he had done for Innistrad had led him to know far more than he otherwise would ever need.

The light faded, but the room of devils was still dazed, the hounds whimpering turning to growls as they recovered as well. The devil that had led the charge seemed far more resilient than his brethren, his infernal mount already climbing back to its claws and the bare tendons and muscles tensed, ready to spring. As mount and rider alike hurled themselves at him, they found it to be a short flight, ending quite suddenly on Sorin’s naked sword. He held it out calmly and the devil atop the hound blinked, agog and stunned from both the light and the rather abrupt end to his life.

With a flick of his wrist and inhuman strength, Sorin slashed across the devil’s body, limbs and blood alike spiraling into the air as he toppled off the hound, which met its own grizzly fate moments later as the sword split bone as Sorin whirled, deep laughter echoing in the ruined church. As they had come at him, he now washed among them like a dark incoming tide, merciless and implacable.

Sorin’s blade rose and spun, delivering punishing blows that split skin into gaping wounds, carving a charnel smile across throats and hacking limbs from their owners’ surprised forms. His coat billowed out as he danced, the shining black sword, his parasite blade, a perfect partner for the grim ballet mastered over eons. In that moment, he was more than a swordsman, he was a baleful force, elegant in its overwhelming violence.

Half the scourge lay butchered and bleeding already, broken bodies and severed limbs alike thrown away from the deadly center of the storm, but despite the casualties, the scourge still had numbers on their side and against a single sword, no matter how special, numbers would always overcome.

A heavy body fell across Sorin’s shoulders and he missed a step as thick claws reached across his face. A tenebrous voice burst from between Sorin’s lips and the flesh simply melted from the clutching hands, but too late, Sorin tried to regain his timing. Another devil, a great hog faced beast, slammed into his shins and sent Sorin sprawling across the heavy wood of a pew. The seat shattered beneath their weight and Sorin groaned as the bones of the rotting devil on his back jabbed him hard from underneath. The ugly thing attacking him began clawing at his pants and the vampire rammed his heavy boot into its face, breaking its neck with preternatural strength and flinging it back away from him.

They came, driven to frenzy by the sight of downed prey. On the ground, he could never win and he wildly swung the blade through the air, scoring the body of an air born devil that had flung itself at him. He rolled away and the body thumped heavily where he’d been laying, impaling itself on the broken bones of its kin. He rose, getting a foot underneath himself as a trio of devils charged him before he could gain his footing.

Dark sorcery ripped the air as Sorin spat foul syllables, his voice shaking the broken glass with its power. Long blades of darkness struck stray opponents, slicing ragged sucking wounds into their bodies as flesh simply fell into the abyss of the spells. Sorin hands flickered out, dark mist wreathing his fingers as the magic lashed at his foes.

A tremendous hound surged towards him from behind the nearest pew and sank its fangs onto his forearm, jerking back and forth and trying to snap bone inside the meat of Sorin’s arm. Sorin’s magic went wide, carving wild blasts from stone and flesh alike. This close, the sword was useless and with little choice, Sorin began punching the ugly thing, hammering its bare, meaty skull over and over with the wet disgusting sound of slaps of flesh on flesh. Each strike drove its jaws tighter and Sorin was forced to kick another devil off his leg, sending the thing arcing over the pew behind him. Sorin’s growl met the hound’s own and he changed his target, punching the thing right in its throat.

It jerked up, wheezing and coughing blood. Sorin rolled to the side as it hacked, coming to his knee and driving his sword through the ugly thing’s eye and out the other side of its skull. Leaping the twitching corpse, he whipped the sword from its grizzly sheath as he finally stood. Sorin spun, lopping the hand off another devil holding a great splinter of wood in its now missing hand. It squawked and gurgled suddenly as Sorin’s sword rammed through its lung. He planted a foot against its pebbled skin and kicked, sending the dying devil sprawling into three of its kin with bone-shattering force.

A gigantic devil, proud horns and tiny gnashing teeth, fell from the rafters, muscular form flowing in the air as its tail lashed the air. Sorin saw it coming a moment too late, but rather than duck, he let it slam into him, grunting under the weight. A gigantic black spine seemed to punch through its back right next to the neat line of barbs that ran all the way down to its tail. It jerked momentarily and then slowly slid off his back. Sorin straightened again and grunted at the bruise already forming on his back. It slapped wetly into a pool of its own blood and the no others came for him.

The broken corpses fell silent and still, flames burning low as the light of their life burnt out. Sorin stood at the center of a circle of carnage, a dark visage of death as the blood soaked slowly into the blackness of his sword’s length. He wasn’t even breathing hard.

There was a strange tension in the air brought on by all that death, something that bothered Sorin, but before he could do anything, he felt a sharp insistent sting in his chest.

“Agh!” He whirled, wincing, and there Tibalt stood outside the messy ring of gore Sorin had made of the floor. The fiend smiled and pulled the needle out of the sackcloth doll he held, shaking the doll as he did, forcing it into a pantomime of a dancer’s jig.

“Aaaah, a blood soaked church.” He sighed happily, turning to the doll he held. “I don’t think there’s anything more delightfully blasphemous, don’t you agree?”

“Sure, it’s great!” The doll answered with Tibalt providing its high pitched voice. He laughed maniacally at his joke and left Sorin staring dumbfounded at him.

“You’re insane….” Sorin shook his head, slack jawed at the man who’d made his life so miserable lately. “Utterly insane.”

“Very probably.” Tibalt admitted, nodding with a shrug. He was obviously not bothered by the accusation. “But you’re missing something else. I may be crazy, very likely so, but I’m also very, very clever.” His maniacal smile suddenly took a sinister edge as he stared at Sorin, and with that, he tossed the stuffed doll into the thick pools of devil’s blood.

Sorin felt a small flair of mana, a spark that ignited the power hanging in the air. The devils had been a distraction all along, just one part of a larger working that Tibalt had been putting together since it had all started. The blood splashed all around burst into sudden flame and the doll lay there in the midst of it. Sorin had scant seconds before he put it all together and then his world exploded into a shock of pain and sweat. It felt as if his skin was being peeled from his flesh as fire licked at the tiny unburning doll and smoke rose from the pair of them.

Sorin gritted his teeth through the agony and pulled a staggering swell of energy from his mana lines. His body radiated with it and the cold touch of the void snuffed the flames nearest him. Sorin threw all that gathered might into a spell, and all the suffering he had endured went into it as well, a web of terrible fury and torment.

Tibalt tensed. Abruptly, the pain mage fell to his knees shrieking as Sorin’s sorcery tore at him, repaying him for every agony he had inflicted in the duel. Blisters and burns erupted over the pain-mage’s body, skin breaking and blackening from third-hand flames. Even as his wounds grew more grievous, Sorin’s own injuries began to vanish. The vampire’s flesh healed rapidly and he rose to his feet, completely restored.

“That. Hurt.” He rumbled, the dark fury shaking the air, the remaining windows rattling with the force of his terrible wrath. “That was clever, I have to applaud that, but I have done this for Millennia! Did you seriously think you could beat me?” Sorin strode over and kicked the younger man hard, sending him flying with a crash into the nearby altar. The stone shook with the impact and he groaned as Sorin towered above him. “You lost the moment I had your blood you pathetic worm. Everything else was just show, but I have lost patience boy! Now…”

Sorin reached down and hauled Tibalt up by his lapels. He held the man clear of the ground, shaking him slightly and leveling his will against Tibalt’s mind, slamming his desires against the bulwark of Tibalt’s own.

“Who set you on my path?!” Sorin screamed, his will beating against Tibalt, compelling him to do as Sorin wished and slowly Tibalt’s mouth opened, a croaking voice spilling out of his throat.

“F-Falk…enrath…” Tibalt choked out against his own volition.

Sorin’s concentration snapped in shock and Tibalt began cackling. A scowl spread over Sorin’s face and he threw the other man over the altar with a dismissive toss. Sorin turned and stalked out of the church, the insane fiend’s laughter ringing in the dead silence of the swamp. Even as he passed through the doors, Sorin reached to the deepest power of the fens. He put some distance between himself and the building, drawing deep from the well of mana below. Finally, he turned and released the spell, the dark power rippling on the air as it went.

An eerie groan filled the swamps as roots emerged from the fetid waters. They rose, creaking and twining together, until they formed a group of enormous hands that reached to the heavens. They stretched, dripping water and detritus, and as one, slammed atop the church, splintering the roof and sundering the aged walls. They continued, tearing at the building as it began to sink, pulled below into the waiting maw of the mire. It sank quickly once it began, the sludge drawing it deeper in minutes until even the steeple sank into the ground, and with a final tug, it was crushed under the weight of the swamp. As it was dragged under, the bell in the tower rang until the murky depths forever silenced its toll. With a deafening gurgle, the last of the air escaped from its watery tomb, offering an ignoble end to the building, perhaps finally offering some peace to the spirits of its dark past.

“****.” Sorin grimaced. Moments before it had vanished, he’d felt a ripple in the aether. The bastard had been a planeswalker, which meant that final spell had been for nothing but show. He sighed and started to walk away, annoyed, but more sure of himself than he had been in days. It was good to remind himself now and then that there was little, if anything that could stand in his way. Now if he could only, finally, accomplish what he was actually here to do…

Leopold von Straussreich was a man of a precarious position. Despite all that, very few, if any at all of those in Nephalia would dare cross him. He was almost universally reviled, though not for any known dark covenant or twisted experiment against nature, but for the simple fact of what his occupation happened to be. Leopold was a tax collector for the Church of Avacyn, and despite what many of his colleagues might think of the necessity of the noble profession, they still couldn’t bring themselves to like the man. They could hardly stand him, in fact. In part, it was because nobody could quite explain how such a minor functionary could afford to live so decadently on a salary as modest as his own. It was assumed that his opulent lifestyle was funded by the Stromkirks, though it had never been proven. It simply caused more resentment at his office, and it was easy enough to ignore simply for the fact that the assumption was dead on the money. As a tax collector, he made sure the church got their funds, and more importantly that the Stromkirks got their sizable cut in exchange for favors and wealth of his own. It was a satisfactory arrangement that allowed him to ignore all the revulsion aimed in his direction.

What neither the church nor the vampires knew was that despite his duplicitous work, his allegiance belonged to another entity entirely. There was only one being that he would truly bow to, the demon lord Griselbrand. The cult was the truest source of his wealth, and it had served him well as he served in turn. Horrible things happened in the darkness beneath his manor and the place screamed with long forgotten echoes to those who could hear them.

Leopold turned the key, hurrying in from the darkened night and chill drizzle outside. It had been a long and dull day, measuring and weighing gold hour after hour. It bored him, but he was home at last and he looked forward to an evening of fantasy and plotting. It had been some time since the cult had met, and it was overdue for them to prove their loyalty again. He was so consumed with those thoughts that he did not realize the fire was already roaring in the fire place despite the fact he had just arrived home. He shrugged off his coat happily, eager to warm himself next to his hearth, and it was only as he was hanging it upon its stand that it finally dawned on him that something was most certainly amiss.

He calmly turned towards the fire and found a figure lounging on his sofa, watching him with an equal mix of amusement and irritation, rolling a glass tumbler in his hand. Leopold quickly surmised the man sitting before him was a vampire, but it was not panic nor disgust that rose to face. It was confusion.

“The taxes aren’t due for weeks. What’s wrong?”

The man snorted and an eyebrow rose, amusement winning out against his ire. “For a change, I can actually say that there isn’t anything wrong at all. Admittedly, it comes as a surprise to me as much as anyone, but it’s been that sort of day.”

“I don’t understand then, what are you doing here?” Leopold was utterly perplexed and he went to sit opposite this stranger.

“Resting. I’m actually looking forward to sleeping in a soft bed.” He groaned and exhaled, giving the taxman a long suffering look. “It’s been weeks since the last time and I am very eager to never repeat that if I can.”

“Who… who are you?” The cultist had completely lost track of what was going on and he was at last starting to grow genuinely worried and somewhat angry at the intrusion.

“Sorin Markov.” The only part of that name that mattered was the last of it. Markov. The situation had completely changed just with that simple utterance. This was not one of the Stromkirks, not a being he could bargain with.

“Get out.” Leopold demanded, but Sorin just rolled his eyes at the man. When it became clear the vampire had no intention of moving Leopold decided to change tactics. “Fine, if you have no intention of leaving, then at least tell me why you’re here.”

“That would be you, or more accurately the cult.” Sorin replied calmly, clearly not in the least ruffled by the man’s demands. The same could not be said of Leopold. Upon hearing that, the color drained from the cultist’s face. Nobody could know, only others of his order knew who he was and he had worked hard to keep it that way. “You see, I needed to know what you knew of Avacyn’s disappearance, or at least that was true when I arrived, but you’ve been gone all day, and in that time, you became superfluous.”

“What are you talking about?!” Leopold’s agitation had grown with every sentence the other spoke, and now he was as worried as he was confused.

“Well… that’s not entirely true now that I think about it.” Sorin continued as if the other hadn’t spoken. “It’s not so much that you’re no longer useful, it’s that the question is now moot. While I was waiting, and I don’t have any explanation for it at all, but I felt the wards I placed so long ago surge with power, nearly more than I ever designed for them. Avacyn has returned and she has become so much stronger than she was in those early days. I suddenly find myself without purpose, but I couldn’t be happier.” Sorin chuckled and shrugged, quite at ease as he spoke to the cultist. “I told you, it’s been that sort of day. Now that you’re finally home, you can be a magnanimous host and invite me to stay the night.” Sorin suggested pleasantly. Leopold, for his part, simply blustered, words spluttering meaninglessly from his mouth.

“Why in every hell would I do that!?” he finally managed.

“I could just kill you if that makes you feel better. The point is, I’m sleeping in a feather bed tonight, regardless of if I have to end you to do so or not. So, do you intend to leave your guest waiting?”

Leopold stood stunned and fell heavily back into his seat, utterly trampled by the vampire’s manner. He shook his head and stared straight forward. “The bedrooms are upstairs. Go ahead.”

“Excellent.” Sorin smiled, appearing genuinely refreshed by the entire affair. He stood and began to make his way to the stairs, setting his glass to the side. As he began to climb, he stopped and turned back to look down at the tax collector. “Just so you’ll know, I’ve sent a message to the church outlining your involvement in your asinine cult. It should arrive sometime tomorrow, so you have enough time to begin running if you start now. I wouldn’t bother with any of your cultists either. They’re all dead by now. Pleasant dreams Leopold.” Sorin laughed maniacally as he ascended the stairs, leaving Leopold alone as his world crumbled around him.

Jana sat at her desk, lamenting the fact everything had gone wrong. She sighed, and pinched the bridge of her nose, screwing up her tired eyes from the glare of the solitary lamp sitting next to her. The letters had arrived hours ago informing her that her ploy had failed. They bore the crest of House Stromkirk, and she cursed them for the insult they offered, thinly veiled as cordiality, in letting her know that her plan had been obvious and clumsy. And most importantly that it had spectacularly failed.

Leaning her elbows against the hardwood, she pressed her hands to her face, swallowing hard and thinking of what her next move could possibly be. She loathed to admit it, but she had played her entire hand. There was nothing left for her to do except cower or run, but as she considered those options, she dismissed them completely. By the old gods, she had her pride at least. She was a Falkenrath, not some peasant sow ready to run because of a bump in the night. She was mistress of a stronghold, the lady of all she surveyed, she would not surrender because her plans had gone amiss! She would rally those loyal to her and prepare.

He would be coming.

That thought sent chills down her veins, but she would meet him in glorious bloodshed. He had humiliated her once, trampled all over her in her own court in front of members from every family. She would never live that down if she did not fight. Deep within though, she screamed at the necessity. If only that accursed… abomination had just done what she’d wished! It was all his fault, it surely had to be, because she had done nothing but point him to her at the bane of her existence.

He would be coming.

It echoed in her mind and she nearly lost her composure once more. The cold of the thought washed through her again and she reached for the glass of warm blood at her hand, sure it would calm her nerves. Except it wasn’t there. She turned, wondering where she had left it and froze, every muscle going stiff as she saw the golden reflection of his eyes. Upon her couch, he sat, one leg casually crossed over the other and an arm splayed across the back of the cushions. It might have been anybody really, the figure barely illuminated by the desk’s lamp, more shadow than form, except for those eyes. Those golden glittering eyes.

It seemed… he had been there for some time. Jana swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry beyond description. He took a sip of the blood and then delicately sat it on the table in front of him, turning that warm and deceptive smile her way. Inwardly she quailed, but she simply raised her chin, defiance coming quickly to her defense. Despite the bravado, she could find no words.

“You know, I could grow quite fond of doing that. It’s just so damnably amusing watching the way you people react.” He chuckled and took her in. Jana was not as well kept as she had been when last he’d seen her. Oh yes, her clothes were still immaculately cut, but there were lines around her eyes that hadn’t been there before, which, itself was remarkable. “You and I have some unfinished business Jana. As soon as I deal with you, I can return to Thraben and get some long, long overdue answers.”

“What… business is that?” she swallowed, heart in her throat as she stared at the elder vampire across the room from her. He rose, an ugly smile on his face as he approached.

“I treated you quite poorly, but you must understand, urgency drove me my dear. Sacrifices had to be made, and unfortunately your reputation fell victim to necessity. I wish I could apologize, but I don’t really care. If you had simply suffered away in seclusion you wouldn’t have had to ever see me again.”

“I couldn’t.” she grimaced, anger welling up in her chest as fierce tears glazed her eyes.

“No, you couldn’t. So instead you meddled, and chose an absolutely terrible pawn to do so with. So now, I have to sacrifice my time to come and deal with you. I am quite unhappy about that Jana, but here I am.” He came up behind her and she refused to turn to look at him, sitting stiffly as strong hands slipped onto her shoulders and he pulled her gently back.

“After all, we all must make sacrifices for the good of Innistrad."