A New Lease On Un-Life

    An eternity of endless longing, bereavement stalled and a form lost to the veil of the great river of souls. No warmth, nor light would great his wicked eyes or cold heart, nor would he ever feel a longing for such mortal whims. Branded a traitor by those he had served, exiled, and distrusted. The spirit had long ago lost his body in a dead with the same evil forces that now swirled around him captive. One of many who played with the forces of black incantation for their own gain, only to be consumed by it. The soul that was pulled from the swirling waters was one that bristled with unfinished labor, and glowed with the cold repugnance. Plucked from the waters and dragged from his final reward, pure hate flowed.

    The Mad Monk's wispy form caporealized into a rage of anger and the face that met Hades was one of pure malice. Sharp and cracked teeth gritting as a feeling of pure energy swept through him, and a mind once asleep awoke. If his form was ghostly, his eyes were anything but. They seemed to glow with a physical pressure, cruel and frightful in anger. Long tendrals of beard and hair fluttered and fell around his head.

    “Ahhhkkkk...,” His voice, harsh and heavy, rattled through those broken teeth. He didn't dry heave, instead choosing to admit his discomfort through a series of shudders and cracks. One of which sent his head in a full three hundred and eighty degree rotation before it leveled, “Nothin' too it. A nice shot of light vodka, a little sprat of pectroal, and I'll be right...that is, if I had a liver to dissolve in it!”

    Looking around, the one time sorcerer took in his surroundings. This was far different from the hell-like imprisonment he had endured following his plunge into the icy waters of Paris. The memories were fuzzy, and as his mind cleared towards them, the recollection of the Grand Duchess and her continued escape made him feel a sudden resurgence of anger. Those eyes turned to look up and down the figure, even in his ghostly form, it was clear the spirit felt little fear towards the god.

    “Nice robes, you just hop out of a bath?” He retorted, crossing his non-existent arms in front of him. “Let me guess, you're some sort of holy inquisitor, here to judge me for my failures, yadda, yadda...well, carry on!" he waved a bony skeletal fist in front of Zeus' face.  "I have not even the rotten flesh of a corpse to steal.”

    An uncomfortably bushy eyebrow rose as the king of the dead wrapped his arm around his ghostly shoulder. If there was any sort of impression a being introduced to Hades, god of the underworld himself, Rasputin showed little. Although the sight of the glass amulet, it's skull shaped cap and glowing green vessel, incited a little more impact. A boney hand swung up to grab at it, only for Lord Hades to dismiss it back into the immaterial void, inciting a glare from the monk. Just the hint of his prized reliquary was enough to light fire in those eyes, as he was pushed forward by both of his shoulders.

    Fire that turned to a simmering coal as the proposition was layed out before him. Never one to ignore a good opportunity, his hair swirling and fluttering around his head, slender fingers began to stroke his titanic beard. A world at war meant a struggle for power, and the balance of which could be easily manipulated. Rasputin was never one for the responsibilities of leadership. Oh no, better ways to sacrifice one's sanity, and that was coming from a man who had no problem selling his soul for a grudge. He preferred to have power of those who longed for such sadistic pleasures. All of the glory, and none of the gore. Perhaps, he could even complete his old curse, or even set upon the royal bloodlines a new one.

    “My mortality is greatly exaggerated,” He laughed the deity off, brushing off his supernatural garments as if the cloth was real. The once-a-man began paced back and forth, one hand held behind his back while he motioned in the air above him. “The holy are always slandered, and perhaps rightly so. I give you my already rotten soul, which honestly you must have issues of your own to want...and in return I get to wander to mortal plain once again.”

    He swung around and lowered his hands to his sides, eyebrows fully raised and scowl cracking across his face. “Chush' sobach'ya! What in return shall I expect for this freedom from that wretched toilet bowl? I imagine the lord of darkness wouldn't offer such without expectations.”

    Skeletal fingers interlaced and cracked, the hands being wrung as the former adviser to Tsar Nickolas listened intently to the proposal being placed out before him. His eyes peered at the god, reading his moves and silently judging his motivations as the ghostly spirit slowly drifted towards the ruler of the dead. At face value, this was a sweet deal. The kind that come around only once in a lifetime (and a lifetime that had long ago rung-up at that!) So what if it meant he had to make sure a bunch of lunatics who wanted to kill each other got their desire. It wouldn't be the first time he incited a revolution. Cursed Thorns, Bolsheviks, what difference did it make? He had nothing to loose, and stood to gain.

    Rasputin's lips curled up in a wicked smile, and his fingers danced together as Hades sweetened the deal further...the return of his body would be a handsome reward indeed. His brow furrowed, and his eyes lit up once more with a burning fire.

    “Fine sir, if that is the rewards offered before me,” His spirit slid back as he gave a great and dramatic bow that boosted his apparitional feet off the stone floor in a ghostly hover. One of his slender hands pressing against his chest, while the other was raised above his head, and circled energetically in the air. “Then, consider me your most humble of all servants.”

    He then popped upright, and the hand that was formally in the air came down to grasp the god's own outreached palm and clutch hard. Long finger nails curling as the spirit practically bobbed in mid-air; “Never let it be said, that Grigori Rasputin would ever pass up as generous a deal as this. If it is blood you want, then blood you shall have!”

    His head snapped back as a wave of fiery energy swept up his arm to engulf his body. His mouth twisted into a sadistic grin among waves of hair as his body twisted and cracked into flesh. Around his ghostly form first grew the bones and snires of a skeleton. It's bony feet landing solidly on the floor as another flash overwhelmed him, bringing forth flesh to hang atop the new foundation. Suddenly, the man could feel the most basic of sensations, heat, cold, touch, and the cold weight of gravity. All of which was just as quickly obscured by a cloud of smoke and black haze, and the sensation of his body falling though space. “Oh, what power! Yes, I can feel it!”

    As the demigod let go, he stumbled back onto solid ground and looked around, his head whipping side to side in quick realization of where he was. His was now in solid form, albeit a limited form as a reanimated corpse, a lich. He held his hands out on front of him, gaze snapping to each one as he wiggled his fingers. Feeling for the first time in what seemed like eons the reaction of physical limbs. Of course, they cracked with the laudable sound of stiff flesh, however this was far preferable then the incorporeal form swirling around in an unending river.

    He looked up at the buildings and the streets, and a shudder of disgust rippled though him. Paris, the city where he finally found defeat at the hands of Anya. “Wretched place,” He spat, mostly to himself, but noting the direction that Hade's thumb pointed. “The old cathedral, how appropriate.”

    However, he could care less about his past connection. Instead, focusing on the fact he was solid again. Oh, how he could dance! To which, he seemed to be doing, as much kicking and hopping as he was doing to get a feel for this new form. Stopping only when Hades produced that glass artifact again. The monk's eyes suddenly glued to it, and the corners of his mouth twisting into a grimace. He practically snatched it from the lord's hand, feeling it's power ebb through him as it pulsated a eerie green glow. In this form, Rasputin would live beyond death. His soul stored for eternity in that phylactery.

    “Hello, old friend,” His eyes burned anew, brow furrowed as he held the Reliquary in his snarled fingers and examined the artifact. From it's skull emblazoned cap and it's snake wrapped glass vial, to the chain that allowed him to slip in over his neck and fall down his robes. Patting the spot where the talisman lay hidden, “Let's make sure you never wander astray, shall we.”

    He turned to Hades, and gave an exaggerated bow of thanks, before starting the walk down the cobblestone streets towards Notre Dame. Bringing his hands up before him, lacing his fingers, he couldn't help but give a wide and toothy grin. A fresh start in a fresh world. There was so many possibilities and opportunities ahead.