An old man with iron gray hair sits on an old chair, at an old table, in a room with an old, dilapidated bed. He stares out of the window, watching, watching. Winter is ending, and it is almost springtime… He mutters to himself in a thick accent, hailing from somewhere in Eastern Europe. He is talking to nobody in particular, yet it seems, to someone.

"I am Czernobog… yes, Czernobog, the Slavic dark god. Here I live with the Zorya… Zorya Utrennyaya, Zorya Vechernyaya and Zorya Polunochnaya. Zorya Polunochnaya, the Midnight Sister, she is always sleeping. The other two take care of the house and brew the coffee, black as night, and sweet as sin…. They keep this room tidy for when Bielebog returns…"

He pauses and his eyes become misty, as if remembering something far-off and long forgotten

"I dreamed I was Bielebog…"

He stands up and sighs, stretching old muscles and cracking old bones. He is tired, tired of life, and tired of waiting.

"I dreamed I was Bielebog… my brother, Bielebog… the white god…

Are he and I one and the same?

Even now, I feel less desire to knock his brains out with my hammer. I have one swing, one swing with to kill Shadow and the desire is less…."

"I must speak with Wednesday. "