"How do I look," asks Swan, pinning up the back of her gold and silver hair.

She is overdressed - way overdressed actually, for her appointment at the Bottle and Jug. But her friends are back in the Cage and she wants to look her best regardless of the circumstances.

"For the Hive where you're headed? Like a gully ripe to be peeled, that's how'" replies Rojas. He does nothing to conceal his petulance. What good would it do anyway since Swan could read his emotions.

"Don't be jealous, Roj. I hate it when you get that way. They pay you well, same as me, but not to be my lover. I told you how I feel about that." Swan turns her milky eyes toward the tiefling. Even though she cannot see through them she knows that it will get his attention. "I like you and all but..."

"Yeah, yeah. No need to shake your bone-box about it again," Roj lets his anger rise. "I'm the one minding you, I read the signs and letters to you, I make sure you don't get hipped in the blinds, or peeled by every basher with an eye for a lady. Yet as soon as the Fivers hit the Cage you're off to bang around with them like they was your long lost cousins."

"Oh for... pike off. I'll meet you around front in five." The fighter recoils at the intensity of the rebuke, turns on his armored heel, and leaves.

She hates it when Rojas lets go with this same screed over and over again every time her friends return. The "Fivers" he calls them, short for "The Company of Five". It is the appellation commonly used by the cutters in the Lower Ward and the Hive who know of her friends. It refers to the five factions represented in their fellowship - Doomguard, Athar, Xaositect, Indep, and Fated. She does not care for the name, although she admits that she finds some satisfaction from banging around with a party with a reputation.

She makes some final adjustments to her dress. It is a tight fitting sheath of satiny white with a tall collar embroidered with gold and silver. It prohibits moving very quickly, but her disability precludes that anyway.

She assures that her necklace is centered between her breasts and, pausing for a moment, decides to give her bodice one more tug down. Never mind that this will only infuriate Rojas all the more. And never mind that exposing a little more of herself will not tweak the interest of her first choice, who now has eyes only for another of the Fivers. There are other cutters in the Cage. Some of them might be worth a closer look, and maybe some worth basher might be a lot closer than some others...

It is noisy and the air is greasy at the Bottle and Jug. It is not the kind of place where a body goes who doesn't know the dark of it. Rojas would have preferred to slip in and mix with the other patrons. That, however, was proving impossible.

"Move yer tail," he snarls at a dog-headed humanoid. Swan has her arm linked through his as he tries to pick his way among the tables. In her tight sheath dress she would not be able to step over dog-head's tail even if she could see - which she can't.

Dog-head turns at him and bars its teeth. Recognizing him it decides that discretion is the better course and it moves its tail.

Rojas pulls Swan through the gap between the tables and cranes his head for a better view of the commons.

"Are you sure?" he asks Swan.

"Yes," I can see Rogan. He should be over your right shoulder somewhere."

Swan often refers to her psychic ability in terms of "sight." It never has quite set right with Rojas. He looks more carefully in the direction his charge indicated. Sure enough, he sees the blood. No wonder though that Rojas had not seen him initially. The barmy sod's skin was as blue as a sapphire.

He leads Swan towards the merchant.

"Hey Sweetmeat!" comes a catcall from behind them. Rojas recognizes the voice. It belongs to a Ta'nari, a vrock. Funny how terms of endearment can have a completely different shade of meaning when utterred by a fiend.

Rojas ignores it. It is something he can afford to do here, where he and Swan are now more or less recognized regulars. He makes his way to Rogan's table.

The merchant is engrossed in conversation with a comely lass and does not notice their approach until the girls ruby lips tighten into a slight pout. Rogan turns to see what has displeased his company.

"Ahhh," Rogan sighs. He notes with chagrin that many others in the common room have suffered the same effect from Swan. He stands to greet her.

"Good evening, my dear," he says, his lips parting into a slim smile. "I don't suppose you could have worn something that would have drawn less attention? Like, say, a multicolored feathered boa with the cockatrice still attached?"

"I am soo glad that you like you Rogan," says Swan, returning the sarcasm. Rojas pulls a seat for her and gently directs her toward it.

"Do you KNOW HER?," asks Rogan's companion, "and is SHE going to sit HERE?"

"I'm afraid that is correct, Miss.... um.... er..... I don't believe I caught your name?"

"I'm leaving," she says, pushing away from the table in a huff. "I don't sit with whores. You never know what a body might catch."

Rojas bristles at this.

"Really Roj," says Swan gently. "You shouldn't pop a nerve every time someone calls me that. After all it is , or was, true. Besides, Miss Leaving had no higher intentions herself."

Rogan finds his chair and sighs. He suspected the girl was after his jink, but he was still enjoying flirting with her. He so rarely gets that opportunity. He contents himself for now with an eyeful of Swan.

After a few moments, she interrupts him. "That's enough for now, Rogan. Give me the chant."

Rogan waits for several minutes before Swan remembers to buy him a drink.

"OK? Now, give it up."

"It seems a certain half-undead mutual friend of ours, one that has a weakness for black feathered birds, if you get my meaning - "

[Rogan is fond of such indirection in conversation. He fancies that it throws eavesdroppers off of the track. Ah well, patience.]

" - has found a way to restore his dead flesh to living. The waters of a certain lake in an outer plane that can remain nameless has imparted certain healing processes which have . . ."

"By the dead gods! Is he cured?" she whispers with astonishment. "Can it be?" [Oh Rogan, you do not know what that would mean . . .]

"No, not quite. It seems that the curative lake could not fully restore the shape of his new flesh and certain, um , missing appendages."

"Thanks be," she says, half aloud. "He still looks, um, defiled?"

"Well, yes," says Rogan, his eyebrow arching. "But the chant is that it will soon be taken care of after he and Lilah get a restoration spell . . "

The news is upsetting enough without the mention of HER name. Adding Lilah to the stew brings it to a boil. She frowns.

"And you KNOW something. Yes? Am I right? Do you?" Rogan smiles like a cat with the canary in its mouth. "I would have thought YOU of all people would be pleased for our mutual friend."

Swan swiftly gets her expression back under control. It is so easy to slip with Rogan. Able as she is to directly sense the emotions of others she forgets that Rogan is dangerously adept at picking up other more subtle cues.

"First of all, I am pleased for Killraven. He has a strong . . . motivation for restoring his appearance." She fights to hide her distaste for this "motivation" since it involves HER. "But yes, I do no something and yes it does concern me and no I won't tell you about it."

Rogan contemplates for a moment. How much should he give up for the information.? He wants to satisfy his idle curiousity but more importantly, he detected a distinct concern for safety in her tone. And, since his own safety is bound closely with his business partner, that makes the information worth something. Hmmmm. Rogan settles on a scheme.

"Rogan, don't even try to pry it from me," she cautions. "I am not even certain of its importance."

"Oh, really, I wouldn't dream of it," smiles Rogan. "And you needn't worry because whatever it is couldn't possibly effect you since I am sending you and Rojas away for a vacation."

"What??" interjects Swan.

"Really!!!" smiles Rojas, happy at an opportunity to be with Swan without the pesky Fivers.

"Yes. It seems business is, ummm, heating up. Our aforementioned mutual friend seriously rattled the cage of a certain fat bastard, who is certain to tell a certain ogreish businessman who is certain to want to get some leverage back. Since that leverage could be you, and since you are central to our future plans, I want you gone. Tonight."

Swan senses that Rogan really means this.

"I can't go. I don't want to go. Rogan . . ." Swan squirms and her head turns absently from one direction to another as her thoughts scramble. There is no way she is going to leave Killraven alone with that smiling tiefling Lilah. Not in his condition, where she could easily take advantage. And especially not cured of deformity.

"Killraven will never agree to that!" she says defensively.

"Of course he will. He defers to me in all matters of business. As he should."

"He doesn't know the difference between business and personal."

"That may be so," replies Rogan, mindful of Killraven's treatment of a certain fat bastard over the matter of personal finances. But it matters not. He has set the verbal sword. Now he twists. "But what ever gives you the idea that having you near is a "personal" matter to our mutual friend?"

"You are a bastard, Rogan," Swan bites hard. Killraven's coolness to her since he bought out her contract from the bordello was a matter that hit very close to home. Until now she had been resigned to let things sit and try and win his affection back later. That was before Lilah, but even then she thought it was only a passing infatuation, and although she had respected the privacy of Lilah's feelings, she had never imagined that a seeing woman would ever be able to get past Killraven's deformities. Her rationalization crumbles without the deformity. And, there is this other possible problem.

Rogan takes a pull from his mug and waits. Any time now.

"Rogan, I have a proposal. I'll give you what I have about Killraven if you don't make us go."

"Oh, very well," Rogan says with feigned disinterest. It never pays to let the bird know her wings have been clipped.

Swan sighs. "It is probably not very interesting to you.," she begins . . .

[Rogan -- Meaning, it is very interesting to me]

"Remember the fight here a few weeks ago, right after we set up business? A high-up prime lady and her escort of knights pay you a decent purse to have her minders take a turn with Killraven?"

Rogan does indeed remember. How could anyone forget? That witch had tried to break the rules by using spells and KR had done in three seasoned fighters just barely dodging the nip himself.

"Well, didn't you wonder why? Why would a rich lady from a prime world come here of all places? Don't you think there are only about a million other places where she could stage a fight?"

Actually, Rogan never had considered the why of it. She had paid up. The end.

"Rogan . . . it is because of Killraven. I had a little research done. On Athas, the most powerful beings are powers known as sorceror kings. If they are not gods, they rival them in power."

"So? Killraven is not one of those things. "

"Don't be cute Rogan. The dark is that these kings worry about only two things cutting in on their little domains, each other, and . . ."

"Gladiators?" inquires an incredulous Rogan.

"Renegade mul gladiators."

"This is ridiculous. Killraven is only a fighter. A real good fighter who could kick my ass every day to Sunday, but just a fighter. Why would some power worry about a body like that?"

"I don't know, Rogan. But you figure it out. Sorceror kings worry about renegade mul gladiators. Killraven, a mul gladiator, is cursed and poisoned and near killed by one."

"And now, he is undoing the sorceror king's handiwork," Rogan finishes. "Well now, that IS interesting."

"He will be in danger, Rogan. Whatever got him in thick with the powers on Athas is going to get him into it here."

"Poo poo. You have no way of knowing that," Rogan replies, feigning levity.

There is a fluttering of feathers and a loud "CAWK" as moc settles on the rim of Rogan's mug.

"I guess we'll know soon enough though," he adds.

Swan's ears pick up the sound of heavy booted footfalls over the quieting noise of the Bottle and Jug. There are a few disjointed "Caws" voiced by the small knot of boosters here that have followed Killraven's carreer. It is a dispirited cheer. Then, Swan hears a much lighter footfall approaching also. She opens her mind and finds the familiar territory of Killraven's emotions, and then, as she touches the other mind, there is annoying music.

"Hi, guys. What's the chant?"

Lilah looks at the group seated at the table, turns a chair around and plops down. Surveying the group, she gets the feeling from the absence of conversation that they stumbled in on a bit of dark not meant for their ears. Not to be deterred, she tries to begin conversation again, drawing attention to another body besides herself. Truly intending to flatter, "You look great tonight Swan." The Tiefling had noticed the care Swan had taken to get ready for the gathering. "That dress is beautiful on you." She pauses making sure all those gathered were taking a closer look. "Too bad we're at the B & J, though. You'd sure be a smash at the Sensate dance hall." Lilah furrows her brow for a second in thought, she hadn't ever really gotten a chance to make too many close female friends here in Sigil since they were always running out-of-town. And now since Nim had left, she didn't have any. Swan seemed nice, Killraven and Rogan sure liked her, perhaps... She grins when she reaches her decision, "Would you like to go dancing with me tonight after dinner? It's a lot of fun, and there is some really great music..." She looks at Swan expectantly, hoping...

Rojas clutches the back of Swan's chair. Sensates? Would that be dangerous to an empath? Or maybe . . .

Swan shifts uncomfortably. This was totally unexpected. Her instincts tell her that the offer is not sincere, but that could be the jealous god talking from her heart, not her head. She decides, for the first time, to sample the tieflings' emotions.

Killraven turns his head ever so slowly to get his good ear closer to Lilah. Dancing again? The jaw beneath his leather mask clenches as he feels that familiar anger gnaw at his gut. It is not fair, not right. There can, naturally, be no thought of dancing in this condition. The Sensates would likely try to kill him before he scared off the patrons. No wonder she never asks.

"Twig that, Lilah," replies Swan. The tiefling is just trying to be friendly, well so can I, for now. But I'm not going to get bobbed and let down my guard with her. I can't.

Rojas suppresses a smile. If Swan goes, so does he. And she'll probably need a dance partner. <Grin>

Rogan places dinner orders with a waitress, who asks all (except Killraven) what they would like. Killraven gets his usual. Hash. It is one of the few things he can eat without the need for demeaning assistance.

"Well, ladies, I'd be happy to accompany the two of you to the dance, if you'd like." Rogan smiles his best 'you're- going-to-buy' smile at the two of them... which dies quickly upon reaching KillRaven. "On second thought, perhaps this evening isn't the time for it." <Not if KR's going to stomp me into the ground, it isn't. The sad part is, I'd probably survive to excruciating pain, eventually forget, and then make a similar mistake. Blam, stomped again. Perhaps immortality isn't *that* great...>

Sensing the mood has droped again, Rogan returns his mind to the conversation. "As I was just telling Swan and Rojas, KillRaven, your little visit to a certain fat bastard has prompted me look into some outliying interests for awhile. I was thinking of sending these two paragons of employee virtue on a scouting trip, somewhere far from Sigil for awhile. If the fat bastard and runetooth decide to lay off the business, we'll have expanded..." Glancing around, Rogan trails off. "Sorry about that. I can tell you aren't interested in this right now."

One more try, thinks Rogan. "Okay, now that I've sobered the mood, let me make amends. Ladies, gentlemen, drinks are on me! Rojas, Swan, your dinners are also on my tab."

< Let them ponder that one. I know they all think I'm a tightwad; this sort of largesse is *why*. Generosity is not as undeveloped a trait as they might think; it's hard to buy things for others when you're broke. I've done that bit; I've no intention of doing it again. Maybe Swan'll favor me with another smile...>

A tall dark figure enters the door to the Bottle + Jug. A few patrons turn their heads towards him, but from the glint of a dozen obvious weapons decide that it is better to leave the Doomguard alone. As he moves through the crowd towards the back table, most patrons grudgingly move out of his way, while others make no effort to move.

"Cha-kan? It's not Anti-Peak yet! I thought you only crawled out of your hole when no one could see you face! *squak*"

Chakan looks over the Vrock, who has been drinking and is looking for a fight. (Not tonite, fiend. Your entropy will come later...) He shrugs off the comment, continuiing to walk back towards the table. Over the past couple of weeks he has earned a reputation as one of the "Fivers", and now every berk who learns of it has to see whether this Doomguard is all talk or truly a cutter. It wears thin on him at times. Especially since he's gone down in combat more than any other of the fivers. (Simply entropy's will.) He thinks. Regardless, he looks around and does not see his friends. He closes his eyes and thinks about Rogan. (He should be here. Nothing...nothing...contact.)

At the table, Rogan is about to finish his order when he gets an odd look on his face. He finishes ordering Killraven's hash, and then states, "Oh yes, and a bottle of Bloodwine for our other companion who will be joining us shortly." The waitress's shoulders slump a little, knowing full well who the bottle is for. (Doomguard always tip in rusting infernals. Gets all over your hands, they do...) She turns around and leaves.

"Chakan should be here soon." Rogan states. Killraven looks up at Rojas and then smiles. "Good." Rojas doesn't look pleased by this at all, tensing his muscles a little. Swan cocks her head, obviously thinking of something, and Lilah furrows her brow a little.

Lilah's tail flips the ground a little harder than before. (Can't give these two the chant on Chakan, they don't need to know. But Rogan and Killraven should. He's been acting strange, clenching his hands all the time, saying how great he feels, and drinking blood instead of bloodwine at the bar when nobody's looking. he better be alright...)

Swan pries a little into Lilah's obvious discomfort (Concern? for one onther than Killraven? I could use this to my advantage...) She expands her senses to look for Chakan, after all, it isn't hard to find another Psionic. She spots his mind.

(No obvious defenses, what is he thinking of...) She probes his emotions, CAREFULLY, not wanting to make her presence known. (Hmm...nothing new...thoughts of entropy... of weapons...of....darkness?) She suddenly gets a flash of nothing, of numbing coldness, of something dark and intangible, that seeths with pure evil and reaches out to her with dark tendrils... She gasps. Rojas is startled by this, but she quickly regains composure. she coughs. "Must be the smoke"

Chakan has now arrived at the table. He pulls up a chair, moves it to the side of Lilah, and sits down.

He is wearing his normal acoutrament of weapons: two short swords, four stillettoes, a length of chain on his left hip, his Doomspark on his right, and the bandolier of oil flasks and wooden stakes. He looks like he's gained about 10 pounds, and most of it muscle. He is definately a little bulkier than before. He streches his arms, and tilts his hat back so his face is visible. His hair, usually silver, is streaked w/ lines of black. His skin tone is, well, healthly, with a hint of rosy cheeks and a normal skin color. The most striking difference, though, are his eyes. Pure violet, striking and cold at the same time.

"So tell me...", he grins... "What's the chant?"

"Considering my own coloring, um, condition, I hope you don't think me amiss for commenting on the *lovely* shade your eyes have taken. Brings back memories, it does. Perhaps the chant should be your to share." <Please don't be Psion, pretty please. We couldn't defeat you when we were all working together, and now we're minus Karlina and, well, Chakan. Maybe more wine....>

Chakan looks at Rogan with a cocked head, then replies - slowly: "My eyes are amber, as they always have been. Aren't they?" There is no hint of challenge in the voice; but then, it's usually hard to tell with a Doomguard.

Rogan takes a hasty swallow of his remaining drink, and looks about for the waitress. Spying her at last bringing the drinks and meals, he relaxes a tiny bit.

"Well, unless you're wearing the lenses that Karlina preferred, I'd have to say no. The beautiful violet shade goes nicely with the doomguard outfit, though. Quite striking, one might say.... Ah, here's dinner!" Turning from Chakan, but keeping wary until this is resolved, Rogan speaks to Swan. "Here you go, m'dear. I hope you enjoy it; it's a favorite of mine. Of course, I haven't the slightest idea what it's made of, but I've found that that's best in these establishments."

Lilah grows quiet, almost choking on her drink when the topic of Chakan's eye color comes up. Her expression changes to one of confusion as Chakan expresses his ingnorance of the apparent change. It's not unlike Chakan to go for a while without checking his look in the mirror. Maybe he will take notice and wonder more about the other changes and link them together. She shrugs, tuning back in to the conversation at the table, and realizes that the topic has changed several times since she last caught on, all at the hands of Rogan. Her attention is drawn back to the present topic of discussion when she overhears her blue merchant friend offering to buy everyone drinks.

<That's curious... I wonder what he is planning to get out of this latest bit of supposed charity...>

Rogan looks at Lilah and raises an eyebrow to her supicious expression. "What would you like to drink, my beautiful flame-haired companion?"

Lilah can't help but grin, she doesn't always trust Rogan's motives, but he sure knows how to catch a cony when he wants to. Batting her eyelashes, giving him the same treatment, knowing full well that Killraven is going to be a bit jealous, "My usual, oh handsome however discolored merchant of blue." She winks at Killraven seeing hiim react to her flirting, continuing on with her torment of her Fated friend. "Have you been skimming your share off the top of Valas' potions, Rogan, or are you just having social problems like our dear sweet Karlina?"

Killraven lets his breath hiss out slowly between the teeth of his lipless mouth. The anger boiling in his guts has for now been extinguished by a wink from Lilah. He cocks his good eye toward Chakan, and looks him over closely. He has indeed changed much. There is added thickness to his biceps, and the eyes. . .

Rogan blushes a nice shade of violet, and looks a bit flustered for a second, but only a second. He is about to respond with some witty retort of his own when there is a commotion from behind him.

A figure falls out of the air, clothed in deep crimson, landing hard on the floor of the Bottle and Jug. Valas stands up mutttering to himself and rubbing his back-side. "I thought I had approximately sixteen point 3 seconds remaining before the duration of my spell expired. My posterior informs me otherwise. I suppose I will have to recalculate this error, but..." Valas smiles behind his insulating mask, "it can wait until after I partake of this most generous offer from our Fated associate." He seats himself in mid-air crossing his legs and floating up to the table. "Greetings everyone," he turns to face Rogan "I will have the Flaming Tannar'ri. I have found that beverage in this establishment to be especially pleasing to my palatte."

Rogan groans ever so slightly but keeps his smiling exterior. He motions for the waitress to come over and quickly starts to place the drink order.

The large gladiator looks at Valas, his one eye narrowing. "Where have you been, Valas?"

Valas looks puzzled for a brief moment, but realizes what the confusion the others might hold on his whereabouts. "I was here in advance of the group, and thus finding myself with nothing to do while I waited for your arrival, I requested the motes to form my extradimensional work area, so that I could continue on my computations. Does that satisfy your question?"

The Fivers look hard at Valas, concentrating on what he just spouted off to them, finally grasping what he meant. Lilah, looks amused, her tail resuming its normal bounce, "You mean you crawled up your ropetrick. I twig that."

Killraven is glad for the interruption. Those violet eyes of Chakan have a disturbing familiarity.

Swan decides to act. Despite her trepidation about the tiefling, Lilah shares some concern over Chakan's condition. She may be able to put two and two together and determine if there is danger here. "Lilah, would you do me a favor? I need to .... powder my nose. Would you walk me to the privvy?"

"Sure," she says quickly, wondering if her feelers for friendship with Swan are panning out. She notices Rojas pull out Swan's chair. "As long as I don't have to garnish your minder to stay behind. Some things a body's entitled to keep private, you know?" She smiles at Rojas, hoping to disarm him. It doesn't work.

"Don't be a sod," snaps Rojas, "I've got a job to do. Its not like I'm going to go in with you and wipe your arses!"

The table falls silent. Lilah frowns slightly. Rogan sneaks a disinterested look at Killraven, who has not moved a muscle.

"Really Rojas . . . I think Lilah and I are quite capable of taking care of this one little thing without your capable service. OK?" It is her turn to smile. It is not pointed in exactly the right direction, but it has the desired effect.

"As you say," the minder replies.

Lilah takes Swan's arm and heads for one of the interior doors of the common room. Killraven watches them pass, wondering how he and the other male Fivers, whose looks range from the bizzarre to the hideous, merit the company of two such striking women.

The silence continues at the table for another moment or two. Rogan is puzzled, but relieved, that Killraven has said nothing to Rojas. Chakan knows better and is content to wait.

The waitress and a barboy come with trays laden with food and drink. She sets a huge basket of steaming bread in the center of the table and starts to set the meal.

The food makes Rojas' stomach gurgle. He reaches around Swan's now empty chair and grasps the end of a loaf.

Rogan looks around at the spread, satisfied. "This looks . . ."

He is interrupted by a loud CAW! from Moc, who takes that moment to leap into the air. Then there is the sound of a glass tipping. Odd . . .

Swan's drink has spilled -- tipped over by Killraven who has grabbed Rojas' wrist and caused Rojas' fingers to crush the heel of the loaf he still holds.

"A word with you, Rojas?" says Killraven, in a tone that is clearly not a request.

Chakan cracks a broad smile and takes a deep draught of his bloodwine. Have a little entropy, Rojas . . .

Rogan tries to intervene . . ."Killraven. Killraven."

Rojas awkwardly leans down to the table, apparently under pressure at his wrist. Killraven rises slighly from his seat, bends over to Rojas' lowered head and whispers in to one of Rojas' ears. "There are lots of berks in the Cage, Rojas. Lilah isn't one of them. As a man of honor, I am certain you will not again mistake her for a leatherhead and will speak to her in accordance with her exceptional worth. Yes?"

"KILLRAVEN!" says Rogan, with more authority.

Killraven releases the captive wrist. The loaf Rojas had been holding drops like a rock from his numbed fingers. His anger is as obvious as a the look of a prime passing a portal to the Abyss.

Valas, who had taken an interest in studying the flow pattern of the spilled drink (close to an ellipsoid -- sugesting viscosity), decides that he does not want his drink to suffer the same ( albeit interesting) fate.

"This situation shares some similarities to one we experienced not long ago on our unsheduled expedition to a plane in the Abyss triggered by Ovi's unintentional theft of a container of beverage. During that thankfully short excursion, I had an exchange with a Vrock that lead to an anticipated retaliatory push. This alarmed my steadfast companion Killraven, who leapt to my defense for the perceived offense until I assured him that none was taken."

Rojas blinks twice.

"My point being, an apology cleared up the misunderstanding, although it was I who had to be subrogated to the position of the Vrock in making it."

Blink.

"And, did I mention, that after that encounter, we were able to win the freedom of an archmage when Killraven successfully wrestled two Tanar'i in 28 consequetive matches?"

Rojas understood that part. He rubs his hand, letting the blood return to his digits. "I'll clear with Lilah when she's back."

"Fine," adds Rogan. "You are much too good of an employee to have to add to the dead book."

Chakan's only comment -- dry laughter.

Lilah takes Swan's arm and heads for one of the interior doors of the common room. Killraven watches them pass, wondering how he and the other male Fivers, whose looks range from the bizzarre to the hideous, merit the company of two such striking women.

Lilah walks with Swan, remarking how even though she is blind she does not seem to have much problems maneuvering around people.

"So tell me," asks Swan, "why all of the concern over Chakan's appearance? The doomguard are always changing, something about personal entropy and all that..."

Lilah is glad that Swan cannot see her face, for the expression is not one of friendliness, but one of slight worry. (She doesn't need to know the Chant about Chakan....but it would be nice to have another female friend to talk to...and I'm sick of paying Rogan whenever I want a good gossip session...well maybe just this once....) Lilah gulps...."Weellll...a while back we tangled with this vampire, who had violet eyes and almost put us all in the dead book. He even knocked Chakan down, but didn't kill him. Now, Chakan's eyes are the same kind of violet, and he's getting stronger... I'm sure it's just a coincidence...." (at least I hope so....)

Swan is a little taken aback by this information, that could prove to be very valuable...but was given by Lilah in a small show of friendship. Swan doesn't sense any ulterior motives or brooding plots. Just someone making some interesting small talk...She speaks. "Well it's not like you can't see his reflection in mirrors, or that he drinks blood, right?"

Lilah's brow furrows a little more..."No, heh heh...of course not...."

Swan: (She's lying....) Before they enter the bathroom, Swan stops Lilah and brings her closer so she can whisper in her ear. Lilah begins to freak a little, but calms when she realizes Swan jsut wants to say something privately..."Your doomguard friend has something inside him, something dark and cold and evil that is growing stronger...I can't explain how I know this but I do...I can also tell you that's it's something natural...not a spell or curse...be careful." With that she opens the door to the privy, leaving Lilah looking a little confused and jumpy.

(Maaann....I dont' like this....)

Meanwhile, back at the table, Chakan sits back, drinking his wine, surveying the people around him with a casual glance, his cat-eyes sparkling bright like an animal stalking it's prey. In another corner, Valas is looking around with his lens, and almost drops it when he looks at Chakan..(Hmm...fascinating...a swarm of dark matter motes is creating a symbiotic relationship with this spirit pattern...its psycho-metabolic structure is changing...subtly twisiting with a new influence...there seems to be no conflict between the two, they are merging into what I can only assume to be a new form...I think I will definately have to talk to Chakan about this...It cannot be completely healthy...)