“And lo I beheld a messenger, with wings of gold upon his back and a crown of death upon his brow…!”

April 10th, 1956

          The Romanovs had fallen, the third Reich has failed, the Ark was lost, Rasputin is dead, as was the cause. The elder, bent on failed memories and dashed hopes lay in darkness. The wings of shadow shrouded about him, hiding him from mortal eyes. Yet the greatness of yon glory days had dissipated, leaving only ashes behind. A phoenix did not rise.

          He was an imprint, the ghost of a god. One who held the world in his hands and toyed with the fabrics of time the fate of men. Yet all that remains now of him was a wrinkled and shrunk memory. Hiding in the shadows, he mused of his past, fantasizing of what he could have done. His mind had long since departed him; insanity had seized his essence, his being.

          Who was he? Where was he? Why did he remain in such a desolate predicament while others would have long departed? Simple, he had been robbed and the thief was ever before him.