I am mostly putting this here for easier reference for me. This was a little brainfart that I had, then typed it out in a few seconds and promptly forgot about. Now, I run across it every so often and wonder if i will ever add more to it at all.
I will admit that I had most of this idea when I saw a russian orthodox priest in full vestments - they are rather impressive and speak to a different time. Everything else just sprang up about that central scene of 'Sly Theron Salazar' (Salazar Slytherin) crushing a gangster and straightening the dead priest's robes. Anyway, enough blather.

The small church on the nearly forgotten lane off a nearly unused street was old, very old. It had been rebuilt four times according to the old man who took care of it. He said that the last time had been when the Czar still ruled Kiev. The communists had left this church alone, never going near it, and the old man said that he had inherited the position of caretaker from his uncle, and that the position had been in the family for centuries. But then, the old man was getting on in years, and liked to natter at any of the young who would listen. Some would listen to humor the old man, who seemed so utterly harmless, and obviously wasn't much longer for this world. Indeed, some even took to coming to check up on him as he grew older.
So, it was a sad day that three young men found him sprawled on the floor of the church, the back of his head caved in due to a fall from a ladder. Most of the blood had seeped down in between the cracks of the stones that made the floor, but the young men didn't notice this as they notified the priest, then arranged for him to be moved to his last resting place before the grave. It was a small but sad funeral as the few who knew him laid out their flowers and remembered the cheerful, wise man with no family.

With no one more to look after the church, it was soon deconsecrated, and sold. Soon the area came to the attention of a developer, who saw potential, and began buying land in the area. The last parcel of land was the church, and when he had that, construction began. The foundations were to be dug in deep, and would take three weeks to dig. The digging went on for three days, before the great vault under where the church had stood was discovered. Each stone was carved with latin, greek, russian and other languages, carved crosses and other signs and symbols, and the workers stood uneasy in its presence. First, people wished to call in archeologists and historians, but the owner had a great deal of money invested in his project, and wished to make more. Several bribes later, and no official notice was taken of the vault; the owner ordered his men to demolish it and continue with the work. Many of the workers were uneasy, and the owner called in others to work the equipment to destroy it. But, the destruction did not happen three priests showed up to examine the vault, and two stood in the path of the machines as the third took pictures of all that was written on the many blocks of stone that made up the vault.

Even the specially hired workers hesitated to attack the priests as they stood their in their full vestments and loudly condemned any who would disturb it. However, this did not last forever, and the owner was growing impatient. He talked to a cousin, who knew some people of the rougher sort, and the next day as the priests stood there, the rough ones went to work. The workers stood to the side, appalled, as the three priests were attacked with pipes. Then it got out of hand when one of the younger criminals, nearly out of his mind on drugs and vodka swung his pipe at a priest on his knees as he begged to be be let go. The pipe swung a perfect arc and hit the priests head, and it split his skull. All saw the spray of blood, and most saw it hit the wall of stone, right on top of another blood stain, where the last blood of the old caretaker had dripped to almost a year before. Almost imperceptibly, the blood sank into the stone, spreading out along the deeply carved symbols as it did.

As the blood spread, at times seeming to defy gravity to follow the curves, everybody on the work site had frozen at the sight of the dead young priest with his head crushed down one side and his vestments covered in blood laying on the ground. In the crowd of workers, many crossed themselves, and a few picked up their hammers and shovels. Seeing this, some of the wiser of the hired thugs began to back away, almost running. However, the one with the bloody pipe which had already taken one life that day, just turned and screamed imprecations at the crowd. As he screamed he grabbed another of the priests and pulled him forward and raised his pipe high, clearly intending to crush his head as all the workers watched.

As he stood there, just about to swing the pipe down, a voice began to be heard. It started as an eerie moan, but slowly grew into an awful shriek that drove everyone to knees. All that is, except for the thug with the pipe who turned to the vault and stared, slack-jawed. Slowly he began to stagger his way towards the vault, dropping his pipe and holding his arms up before him. He dropped to his knees a pace before the wall, and placed his palms upon it, and stared, entranced. Suddenly a hand seemed to grow from the stone and grasp the thug's throat, and rip it from his neck. The gangster's mouth flapped as he spurted blood from the gaping hole in his neck and tried to bring his hands back to grasp his throat, but they were stuck to the stone so securely that they didn't even budge.

The hand grew out of the stone further, going past a shoulder, and a body seemed to struggle through the stone as above it a vague shape gave form to an angry face. Slowly the person in the stone pushed through, and stepped over the dead punk lying on ground before the wall. Just before he stepped completely from the stone, the last of the stone slipped from his features, flowing back to the rest of the wall. The man who stood there was not particularly tall, nor exceedingly muscled, but danger and menace seemed to roll off him in waves as he knelt and picked up the dead body by the head. Slowly he adjusted his grip to hold the dead man's head to face him, a hand each side with his thumbs just touching the edge of the blank, empty eyes. He stared deep into the eyes of the dead man, and breathed words into the slack mouth and then laughed as the body jerk as though someone had attached a live wire to it. He laughed as he moved his hands away and laughed as the dead man knelt before him on one knee and held his clasped hands above his down turned head. He laughed louder as people began fleeing and whispered to himself in a singsong as he waved his hands before the kneeling dead man, who began to burn. He waved his hand and the body spasmed and it's back arched, looking to be screaming, but no sound came from it's missing throat. The mage laughed long and hard as he watched the dead man burn, before turning to the dead priest and carefully straightening his body, laying his hands one on top of the other, and gently pulling his vestments into order. He turned and looked at the two other priests laying near insensate and badly beaten. He walked over and rested a hand on the forehead of each. He spoke in a slow solemn voice, and his eyes began to glow with terrible light, and the injuries began to heal rapidly.

After a few moments, he raised his hands from the two priests, turned and walked away. One of the priests, by now mostly lucid, called out "Wait! Wait! What are you? Who are you?" The main stopped and turned to the priest and grinned. "Me? I am one who was bound but is now free. I am one who was betrayed and wishes for justice. One who was decieved and imprisoned, and now, I can call for vengeance. Now, priest, I am what I should have been all those years ago, before they entombed me..." The priest watched as he turned around twice and then shook his head, grinned, turned once more and vanished.