Lord Viktor Dace had always tried to be a good man, and a good steward of his lands. He respected the advice of the elders among his serfs, did his best to keep their taxes manageable and the fall harvests and their stomachs full. For without contented people on his lands, none of his family's comfort could have been possible.

This was how one lived a good life, a godly life. It was not their lord who called the drought on the farmers, nor was it he who brought the sickness, spread from the central cities by the trade caravans. Surely they could see that he was doing his best, that he wasn’t a member of the corrupt nobility.

They had still turned on him anger, even as they stood outside his manor gates with pick and pitchfork, he went out to meet them personally, inviting their leaders inside that he might explain the difficulties of the situation, and work with them to mitigate the damage. Yet no sooner had the gates opened then they stormed. Laying fire to his land and slaughtering his family and servants.

Even as his wife's lifeless eyes stared at him from the floor, and his daughter screamed and cried out as the mob raped her, he called out to his God. He did not call for him to smite those who had wronged him, but for a miracle. A miracleto mend his broken arms and the strength to pull the axe from his stomach and rise to protect his daughter. Yet his God remained silent, and he could only watch as she met a horrific end that night, frantically begging the father on the edge of death to save her.

Finally, as his daughter's last choked thrashes went still with hands around her neck, and life gaveway to merciful death, did his faith die… and something dark spoke to him in that moment. It offered him a chance to return a thousand times the pain and misery these ignorant men had inflicted on him. He may not have even answered, for as he saw those smug rotted grins of those standing over him raising their crude truncheons to give the killing blow he did not recall speaking.

He did however remember catching the club’s downward swing in his arm and hand, mended and powerful again.

He remembered look of shock and terror in the man’s face as his fingers clenched, and the wood shattered.

He remembered their screaming for God’s help as they died.

That night was six hundred years ago on this eve… Viktor Dace still was dead. He was dead, yet he did live...

      and there would never be enough           blood to sate his thirst.