The brace of daggers whistled through the air where Rogan's head was moments before, slamming into the hovel's wall. Rogan rolled of the left, eyes scanning the dark street for his assailant, hands reflexively activating the spring sheathes on his forearms.

As the fine steel daggers slipped into his palms, Rogan once again cursed the events of the last several hours. <Has it really only been hours? Twice dead, and close to thrice.. whoa!> Rogan's thought was interrupted by the slice of another pair of daggers through the loose sleeve of his tunic. <Sitting still too long... I wish I could see the guy! Wait a minute...> Dashing around a nearby corner, Rogan fumbles through a belt pouch for a small, fragile box. Hurriedly unwrapping it, he listens carefully for any sign of the attacker. <Come on, come on! Where are you? For that matter, *what* are you, and why are you after *me*. I'm in no hurry to die *again*....>

The scuff of metal on stone sounds from above Rogan, startling him. Catching the now-unwrapped box as he fumbles it, Rogan dives forward. The alley is briefly lit as a small bolt of blue energy streaks down from above, scattering into sparks as it strikes the street. Acting on instinct, Rogan hurls the box to the roof edge, while boosting his own aim. <I know he's there; I know I can make this throw; Luck take you, I've got you now!>

The tiny porcelin box flies unerringly, striking the black-leather armored figure square in the chest. The box explodes in a flash of light, as the Fire Trap sets off the smokepowder contained inside. Rogan can't help but flinch, as much from the blast as from knowing that bomb's price. Standing from his crouch, Rogan gazes up at his foe. <Ha! Gotcha, you .... um ... shit! He's just standing there.> Rogan watches in horrow as the figure's form wavers in the flames of the burning armor. The flames burn out moments after, leaving the impression of skeletal wings and a horned head. <Time to leave....unh!>

Dispensing with mere steel, the creature follows up the Shock Volt with more realiable Magic Missiles. The target is thrown back against a wall as the three green bolts strike across its chest. Extending its wings, the creature drops gracefully into the alley to finish the job. ]>> FOOLISH HUMAN. YOU CAN NOT CRAWL AWAY FROM ME. YOUR FRIENDS ARE NOWHERE TO BE FOUND. BUT FEAR NOT; I WILL ELIMINATE THEM AS WELL. MY BROTHER-HUNTER WILL BE AVENGED<<[ Drawing a hand back, the creature pauses to drink in its target's fear before the final rending stroke. With its free hand, rolls the target face up...

... AVENGED.<<[ The demon's eerie, scratching mental voice echoes in Rogan's mind as he tries to crawl away. <I don't think so, asshole. I've already betrayed my *friends*; you'll have to stand in line.> Feeling the creature's icy talons penetrating his shoulder as it turns him over, Rogan grabs the rest of the pouch. <Damn.... three in one day... >

The demon rolls Rogan over to discover its prey quite conscious, if wounded. Smiling, in fact. "Time to join brother-dear, demon!" yells the target as it swings its arms wide. The demon reacts with all its centuries of honed speed, the raised arm sweeping down, ripping out the target's throat (and most of the back of Rogan's neck as well). As the spark of life winks out in its target's eyes, the demon realizes it has made a mistake....

Seven more carefully wrapped boxes are crushed together as Rogan's arms finish their course. Only three break intially, but the blast easily ignites the others. The explosion echoes deafeningly down the narrow alley, the fireball engulfing both the demon and Rogan's lifeless form. Shredded by the small metal shavings in each box, the demon screams in pain. It tries vainly to regain the heights, to escape the pain and the flames. Its tattered wings catch the fires' thermals, bu the air passes cleanly through the rents torn by the explosions. Still burning, the demon's body finally succumbs; the life force within is released in a flush of cold wind which rushes down the alley and disperses into the night. Two forms smolder on into the night....

Sitting up with a gasp, Rogan reflexively gulps down several lungfuls of air, then chokes. As the coughs subside, he unconsciously wipes the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. His scream of pain echoes loudly in his newly healed ears as the burnt nerve endings in his face and arms are rubbed together. He collapses once more, the agony sending him spiralling gratefully into the welcoming black depths.

Movement awakens him this time. Cautiously opening his eyes, Rogan looks around. <Deja vu. Maybe I could get a lifetime membership to this place.> Chuckling to himself, Rogan sits up and swings his legs over the edge of the beir. <At least this time it wasn't so clo.... Ow!> The renewed pain of his blistered skin pushes through the fog in his mind, nearly blacking him out again. Concentrating, Rogan tries to boost himself enough to get up and away... to no effect. He can feel the power there, but he just can't seem to reach it.... <Okay, so this is going to hurt even more... Damn, they really stripped me this time.> Holding up his arms, Rogan glances down at his naked, burnt body. <This has got to be the worst day I've had since... since... well, I can't remember. I wonder what today's bill is going to finally add up to?>

The door swings open, breaking into Rogan's thoughts. Four zombies shuffle in, with a fifth figure just out of sight in the corridor. Rogan climbs of the beir stiffly, trying to hold back the gasps of pain as his charred flesh protests the treatment. Staggering out of the way, into the welcoming shadows of one corner of the room, Rogan colapses into a crouch. The four zombies move in slowly, taking up positions to either side of the beir on which Rogan had so recently lain. They pick up the platform, and begin to move out of the room.

"Wait! Where is the, oh nevermind." The fifth figure pushes past the zombies, and enters the room. Dropping back his hood, the newcomer reveals himself to be at least human in appearance. He gazes around the room, looking for any evidence of a secret entry or exit. Finally, he throws up his hands, and stalks out of the room. "When I catch that brat, he's gonna get Sensate duty for a month. When will he learn to repect those who've embraced death more fully than we? I'll..." The Dustman's words are lost as he carefully closes and locks the door to the crypt, sealing it shut. Rogan hardly notices, rolling on to one side (the least burned one) and falling asleep once more.

Images of flames and flying grinning skulls chase Rogan from slumber back into the still-burning reality of wakefulness. Staggering to an upright position, Rogan discovers that he is still in the crypt. the only light is a flickering line of torchlight from under the door. < Apparently the Dustmen don't mind the scent of a half dozen corpses rotting away in here. Come to think of it, the place is empty; must be a holding cell. Well... I wonder Luck has in store for me today?> Concentrating, Rogan attempt to push back the pain witha bit of Courage... to no avail. Unbidden, springs up, but not Card-caused. <No bad effect... Okay Loki, God of Fire. Was last night enough of an offering?> In answer, the inky black oval of a Disc opens in front of Rogan. <It seems my Luck has turned. Or maybe I just reached flat bottom...> Shrugging (and wincing in pain), Rogan steps through the Disc.

Ducking his head, Rogan steps out of the Disc, through the window and into his room at the Club. Moving carefully, he walks over to the small safe he installed in the room. Touching the door to deactivate the first (magical) lock, he spins the combination wheel-locks to the correct setting, then gently pushes them into the door. Releasing both the door and the locks, he slides his left hand down the back of the safe, and trips the last catch. The steel door swings slowly open on lovingly maintained hinges, revealing an orderly interior.

Rogan pulls out a velvet-sheathed case from one shelf, and carefully sets it on the bed. Kneeling in front of the bed, he pops the catch and lifs the case's lid, revealing a row of glass vials. "Cheers," he jokes to the empty room as he takes the first vial and swllows it down. Letting the warm glow soothe the fires caused by the rough clothes touching his ravaged skin, Rogan rocks back, lost in thought.

<What a day. It started so promisingly, with my investment in the Brown Eyes finally bearing fruit. Guess you can't even trust the fruit on the Planes. Well, for that matter, you can't trust me...> Rogan pauses, then shakes his head as if to clear away the self-pity. Popping another vial, he turns around to sit with his back against the bed, staring at the open safe.

<Just look at that. The finest safe money can buy. And it took a lot of money to buy it, too. And here I am, alone with my money.> Reaching forward, Rogan pulls out a sack from the bottom of the safe. Up-ending it, he stares glumly at the gold coins as they pour into his hand. Turning his hand to the side, he lets the coins drop to the floor. One rolls out of sight under the bed, another into an unseen crack. Rogan continues to stare, this time at his empty hand.

<I can't believe that. I was willing to break my own thumb just to look more impressive, but I still sold out my *friends*. Hah! Some friend I turned out to be. Not even a good Fated; if that, I should have at least come out of it with a profit.> Clenching his fist, Rogan drops his head back on to the bed and gazes at the ceiling. <Half- hearted friend, Half-hearted Fated. Just half-hearted, I guess. I don't even known where Sioran is; a failure as a brother, too...>

Suddenly, Rogan jerks his head up. <What was that last thought? friend... Fated... ... ... No, it's gone. Just part of that past I can't recall.> Rogan sighs again, popping a third cork and downing the vial's contents. He lets his head drop to the bed once more. He closes his eyes and tries to just empty his mind. Unbidden, the images of two ornate Cards spin into being against the black landscape of his mind. The foggy outlines of two more spin hazily to the side, as if seen out of the corner of his mind's eye. <Thanks for the reminder, Loki. Count in failure as a tactitian, and as a gatherer. Two more Cards in my hands, and gone again.> Another large sigh escapes him as he grabs for the fourth vial. After pulling out the cork with his teeth, Rogan aims for the open safe. Breathing in deeply to better spit the cork, he gasps suddenly. The cork drops from his mouth as a sharp pain shoots through the still incompletely healed puncture wound of Dirkaly's blow. Chugging the contents, Rogan starts to hurl the vial but changes his mind and sets it down. <Frugal to the end. Well, Rogan, what are you going to do now? Dirkaly thinks I'm dead; Chakan and the rest probably wish I was. I suppose I could amuse myself counting enemies. Dirkaly, Chakan, KillRaven, Lilah, Valas, Estevan, Shemeska(?), the Succubus in the tower, Lord Psyon, 18 other Cards, the Lady, the Illuminati. Allies: ... ... ... ... Gauntwing. Lovely.>

As if summoned by the though, a cloud of dust billows up from under the door. Reforming itself in a swirl of grey, Gauntwing finishes entering the room. As the dust settles on everything in reach, he flys over to Rogan's prostrate form. "Master! Oh, I am so happy to see you! I have been searching everywhere for you! Oh, you look, so tired, so grey! Are you preparing to shuffle off this mortal coil? Oh, please, let me go with you! I've always told you how futile it all is! I'm so flattered you listened. Those vials, they must be poison, right? Oh, here, let me help - Urk!" Gauntwing's exclamation is cut off suddenly as he skitters quickly out of the way of the next open vial, liquid sloshing over the side. "Anyway, Master, I wanted you to know I have diligently finished the grueling and demeaning task you so viciously and lovingly set for me. There were exactly eight billion, three hundred and sixty four million, five hundred and thirty three thousand four hundred and twenty six motes of dust in the bag! I know you are just exstatic to learn this wonderful example of how the world is all coming to ruin and how - Urk!" Gauntwing is again stopped in his rambling, this time by Rogan's hand around his throat. Rogan pulls him in, heedless of the thick coating of dust being drawn to his tender new skin.

"Listen, mephit. I've had a bad day. I've caused five bad days. I've killed three friends and died three times. I've..." Rogan's voice drops off in the middle of the sentence. "That's right. Once for each friend, and once for the group. That demon spawn was obviously after us all..." Throwing Gauntwing aside ("Whaaaa, yes Master! Cast me aside like the worthless trash I am! Vent your anger on me and feel better!"), Rogan stands up with renewed purpose. Closing the case against further dust, Rogan looks through the rest of his supplies for his disguise kit. <First, replacement potions, as well as a few more. Second, Dirkaly. I've paid my debt to the Fivers, one life for each I betrayed, and once more for the group's betrayal. Now to move on.... Hmm....>

Spinning suddenly to face Gauntwing, a predatory grin crosses Rogan's face. "Gauntwing, old *friend*. I need you to do something for me..."