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Chapters
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
 
 
 

The Ante - REVIEW THIS STORY

Written by Lucia de’Medici
Last updated: 05/11/2007 10:19:38 PM

Chapter 12

Chapter XII: Down the Street

---

Destiny’s garden is a rich collusion of waxen leaves and heavy blooms that tangle around the ankles and cross over the flagstone path, waiting to ensnare those who remain unsure of their footing. She walks the maze of undergrowth with ease, though she is blind and the Garden District home is still foreign to her after so many years spent in Caldecott County.

These are trivialities.

She is here this morning to enjoy it for the last time.

Like the shadows that frequently pass over her dulled retinas, pressing inwards to form shaded pictures of those she cares for, has cared for, and has dreamed of, the visions are nondescript shapes that make little sense to anyone but her alone.

The garden is different.

She can imagine what it must look like - those heavy vines, the coiling creepers and faintly sighing blossoms that open with the humidity and darkness when the sun dips beneath the horizon. Night blooming jasmine, myrtle, bougainvillea - the soft, velveteen press of dewy roses beneath her fingertips, and the lush green canopy overhead, twisted from the latticework of the old Victorian mansion behind her - she smells their rich perfume, and she can touch them to know their shape.

Destiny can imagine the garden, holding it in her mind’s eye as clear as anything, but she does not require it. She has seen this garden only once before. She has dreamed it. On this early morning in New Orleans, it becomes reality.

As it were, Destiny’s path ends here, tonight.

Such is the course of fortune, weaved skillfully by the fates — an intricate journey that must conclude for other futures to catalyze.

Feeling her long cane beside her, Destiny carefully compacts her possession, leaving it on the stone entablature beneath an overhanging banyan tree for Raven when she returns from her mission in the Quarter. Destiny has not said goodbye, has not lingered on the chaste kiss that she pressed to Raven’s temple that morning, though there is no more time for regrets.

Already, she can smell her death approaching.

It is three blocks due north and moving swiftly.

For the future to become reality, Raven must mourn her lover’s loss in her own way. Such is the nature of their alliance, indeed, of their affections.

She will understand even without reading the books that Destiny has kept in her possession for decades.

Those tomes contain too many possibilities. Raven will take note of many, but in the end, she will only urge one into desperate reality.

This satisfies. It fulfils her purpose.

Folding her weathered hands before her gracefully, Destiny inhales the deep, rich, earthen scent of the garden.

Her thoughts rest on Rogue, and Destiny smiles. The image of the auburn-haired girl, her face framed by two unusual white stripes of hair, rises to the forefront of Destiny’s mind. It is clearer than any photograph and brighter than any memory wrested from the vice-like grip of old age.

As the two men descend from the rooftops, skilful killers that she has paid well to ensure that their act is flawless, Destiny enjoys the simple act of breathing - knowing that with the stilled rise and fall of her own chest, her daughter will achieve something that she and Raven have only imagined.

The scent of copper registers, thin and metallic, before Destiny even feels the blade against her throat. She does not hear the patter of blood hitting the ivy, twined about the lattice, but she can see that rich red speckling against the green foliage. She has seen it before, after all.

The feeble limbs of those leaves shudder with it, as does Destiny, though it is not out of fear - the sound is clouted, unrecognizable, and unclear amidst the rapidly passing flashes of memory that speed before her unseeing eyes. One image remains constant as the rest fade: Rogue.

The sound of victory is a roar, and at the same time, as quiet as Irene Adler’s last, thinly drawn breath.

---

In the pre-dawn light that slid between the gables and dipped down into the blue-hazed streets of the French Quarter, two mutants emerged from the corner of Rue Royal after concealing their transport in a dingy alleyway behind a dumpster. It was growing steadily lighter out, and although no one would venture out on a Thursday at such an ungodly hour, it was best to be cautious. Even the late-night revelers from the Calle de Bourbon seemed to have stilled in their festivities - the sounds were distant echoes.

Steadily, the sun slipped its fingers over the walls of the broken stucco as the gaslights petered out to make way for the morning. Rogue was entranced. Albeit, it was an exhausted sort of enchantment with the city; but nonetheless, even with the humidity and the uncomfortable clinging of her uniform to her sticky limbs, she’d never seen anything quite like it. It seemed as if the morning brought with it the promise of something new - something like expectation. It made her pulse speed up a little.

Remy stilled against the wall of a ramshackle building, settling against the cracked façade and lighting a cigarette with the tip of his finger. They alley was a tight squeeze, large enough to fit a garbage can or two, the mound of trash that they’d rolled over at the entrance, and two bodies uncomfortably, but that was it.

"Why are we stopping?" she asked, as Remy blocked her way out of the alley by setting his foot against the wall opposite.

His attention was focused, though he puffed airily - sending up bluish tendrils of heavy smoke. The water in the air seemed to make it even denser.

Rogue waved it away tiredly. "Those things’ll kill ya," she murmured under her breath.

"Dey will, too." He nodded his head, barely glancing at the rooftops across the street.

Rogue had to shuffle a little closer to him to peer around the jutting edge of the building at her back, but sure enough, two darkened figures were sprinting over the rooftops lightly. They barely made a sound as they leapt from gable to gable without pause.

When she turned back to him, Gambit’s eyes were lowered. From the ever-clinging shadows of the alley, they glowed faintly, watching her.

"S’ clear," he murmured out of the corner of his mouth, tipping his head to the cross street.

Rogue turned back to Rue St. Anne quickly. Sure enough, the two men had vanished as fast as they’d come.

"Were they...?"

"Assassins. Heading back t’ base, probably; first North t’ drop de trail if anyone follows, den South - to de bayous."

He pointed lazily overhead, drawing a jagged crescent with his index finger in the air.

"How do ya know that?" she asked quietly. "Ah mean, how can ya predict which way they’re headed?"

Remy tapped the ash from his cigarette, and pressed a thumb to his temple. "S’ all up here, chére. Y’ live in dese conditions as long as I have, and y’ start t’inking of dese t’ings like a game of chess."

She chuckled, sizing him up without pretence. "Ah get it."

He quirked an eyebrow. "Do y’?" Lifting himself off the wall and rolling his shoulders, he ditched the cigarette with a mournful look, flicking it into the street so that it hit the cobblestone and burst into a scattering of red embers against the curb. "Y’ gonna have t’ tell me ’bout it sometime."

"Ya been anticipating their movements; that’s not so hard," she muttered, keeping her voice low despite his assurance that the street was clear. "If ya been watching them long enough ta know them, that is," she added dryly, all too aware that she was throwing Remy’s words back at him.

She stepped into the street, and he followed silently, forgoing any comments about her sardonic quip.

"Which way?" she asked.

Remy merely nodded in the direction they were headed and meandered to the spot beside her - just far enough that the sleeve of his coat could brush her arm if he leaned an inch to the right. He didn’t. Rogue tucked her elbows into her sides anyway.

"But Ah don’t think ya can know everything, even if ya been living right under their noses." She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. Remy’s expression remained impassive, though Rogue thought she caught the barest twitch of his fingers before his hands slid into the deep pockets of the trench he wore.

His cards, she realized, grinning a little to herself. So he had a tell, too. He reached for them when he was nervous. That could only mean she’d struck the right vein, and satisfied, she pushed a little harder to coax out the information he withheld.

"What happens when something unexpected happens? Something ya can’t predict?" she pressed, deciding to leave the question open to his interpretation.

"Everyt’ing’s a gamble," he replied, his voice pitched equally low. "Sometimes y’ win, and sometimes y’ don’t. It’s de element of surprise dat makes de risk worthwhile."

"Don’t ya mean ’entertaining’?"

Remy grinned to himself, affording her a sidelong look.

"Dere’s a difference. But y’ right, y’ can’t know all de angles t’ de game — not chess, not cards, not life. Y’ just gotta take it as it comes - and de t’ings y’ can’t see f’ y’self?" Gracing her with a careless, sly smirk, he stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. "Sometimes y’ gotta wait f’ de right person t’ point ’em out."

Rogue raised an eyebrow. "If Ah didn’t know better, Ah’d say ya almost sounded humble for a minute, Cajun."

He shrugged and sidestepped her as they approached a worn iron gate nestled in between two buildings. "Just working de table," he tossed over his shoulder.

Chuckling, Rogue watched as Remy lifted the rusted padlock holding the gates closed. He bounced it in his palm while sweeping into a back pocket and producing a slim lock pick and tension wrench with one fluid motion.

Rogue slid behind him as silently as she could as he worked, slipping the instruments into the keyhole and picking it with a speed she doubted even Quicksilver could match. Raising herself to the balls of her feet, she whispered into his ear, "So ya sayin’ ya tryin’ ta play a game where ya don’t know all the rules?"

The lock dropped open in his hand.

"Oui, sorta," he replied lightly, glancing at her, not at all perturbed by her close proximity. "But m’ hoping y’ gonna figure out eventually dat it’s not a game... not nearly."

He leaned in a little closer, invading her space. "It goes both ways, y’ know."

"How’s that?" She raised her chin defiantly, only to shrink back a little when she saw his eyes lined up so close to hers. Rogue’s gaze dropped to his mouth, that slow smirk spreading as his irises flared into a slow, rolling glow of red on black.

Remy grinned as she leapt backwards, his arm snaking out and drawing her against him so that he spun with her - pressing her shoulders back against the ironwork. The gate creaked with the extra weight, and Rogue, shocked at the light touch against the small of her back and curving against her ribs where his arm supported her, couldn’t find the strength or the speed to shove him off. Instead, she rolled her wrists against his arms and tried to remember to breathe.

Damnit, he smelled good. For two days without a shower... oh gawd did he ever... that wasn’t right. That wasn’t possible. But he did.

This was his element of surprise?

"Y’ playing f’ somet’ing else entirely," he murmured against her hair. The warmth of it, that smooth, narcotic lull of the heat from his body made her tingle. "F’ de t’ings y’ want, but can’t have. F’ de t’ings y’ missed, but didn’t take when y’ had de chance. F’ de t’ings dat could be, but y’ won’t have. Dese are high stakes." She froze against him, acutely aware that her heart rate had escalated to the point where it was hammering erratically in her chest. "Y’ been looking at me trying t’ figure out de trick, but y’ forget, y’ pulled de Joker from m’ sleeve. Y’ already know, Rogue."

"Ah don’t know..." she gasped.

Remy pulled her closer, her hips pressing against his thighs, and for a moment, Rogue stopped breathing. It wasn’t worth it, a tiny, stern voice yelled at her from the very depths of her mind. The risk, the gamble, whatever the hell he was playing at... Gawd, he was warm... so warm beneath that trench coat. This little game of his - it wasn’t worth it. Wasn’t worth the risk of hurting him because he couldn’t restrain himself from the temptation - but she... what was she doing? Rogue’s eyes snapped open, her gaze fixed directly on his collarbone.

"Dere’s no trick. Dere’s only de obvious, and y’ don’t let y’self near it f’ fear dat it’ll swallow y’ whole," he murmured.

She wasn’t a temptation, she realized suddenly. She was something much worse.

"Ya got a big mouth for all the shit ya keep spitting out, but ya not swallowing anything about me," she tried to hiss despite her hitching breath.

"Ain’t dat de truth," he murmured wryly. "Y’ miss dis, Rogue? Or d’ ya not know what it’s like t’ be dis near someone?" His voice lowered a notch, and he continued, his fingers tracing a light pattern up her spine. "It’s a gamble f’ you. Dis - it makes y’ uncomfortable because y’ afraid of what y’ll do, y’ afraid of what y’ve already done." And again, a little lower, a little slower, "But m’ not afraid of y’."

"Let me go." It came out as a muffled whimper against his chest. Her breath, stale from the lack of sleep, returned to her - making the embrace unpleasant. "Let me go," she tried again, this time, no more than a croak.

She was a weapon, a means to an end. She always was and always would be - inflicting as much damage onto others as she did onto herself. If she couldn’t trust herself, then how could she trust anyone else?

He was right. These were high stakes, and damn him for calling her on them.

Behind her, something slid against the metal, and Remy walked them through the gates, Rogue’s heels dragging a little as he lifted her up. He wasn’t forcing her, she realized, swallowing the heavy lump that was forming in her throat. It effectively hampered her objections from being voiced with full vitriol. He was carrying her. In the depths of her mind, something sparkled - a glimmer of a memory - fighting towards the surface though she forced it back down into the darkened depths where it could be restrained, shackled back into the niche where it was safe from her own examination.

"Not a chance, chérie," he murmured into her hair. Again, he was holding her loosely around the waist, leaving enough room for her to pull back from him. Instead, Rogue sagged a little against his chest. "Not like dat, an’ not again," he assured her quietly.

She wanted to believe him, wanted to trust him this time. And because she wanted to, just like everything else, she couldn’t. She couldn’t even trust herself not to bleed him dry with her powers.

Better this way, her tired mind reassured her. Still, she didn’t move away.

"Ya can’t do this ta me," she breathed.

"I told y’ I’d show y’," Remy countered, still maintaining that infuriating neutral tone.

Better this way, but still, she bowed her head, curling her arms against herself even as she heard the muted ping of a grappling hook being latched onto the eaves of the ramshackle apartment; even as Remy tucked her against him, and held her there, his hand resting lightly between her shoulder blades, and she trembled, fighting desperately for some semblance of control.

"Ya can’t make me take that chance," she insisted. "Ah won’t."

"But y’ want to."

"It doesn’t matter what Ah want," she bit back.

"I t’ink it does."

"Well Ah don’t care what ya think!" she nearly sobbed. She couldn’t look at him, and he didn’t force her, though his hold tightened around her waist.

Better this way, just because it staved off the hurt and the hunger for something more a little longer. But still, her mind protested as they sailed through the air to a small landing on an even smaller balcony above. Still, it felt... No! She swore at herself. She didn’t want to feel anything. Already, it was fading - that sensation, that warmth.

"Sure y’ don’t."

Remy set her against the rail, swinging his own legs over and pulling her after him gently, one hand beneath her elbow as her boots touched the rickety wooden slats below.

Damnit, why did he have to be right?

"If..."

Remy dipped his head, pulling her off the wrought iron so she wouldn’t topple over to the flags and the little unkempt backyard garden below.

"If there was a chance," she rasped, looking at the toes of her boots, at the weathered paint peeling off the balcony, "that whatever happened to ya could work on me... And that ya could make that happen... ya could fix this?"

She bobbed her head, her throat closing against her struggle. She would not cry in front of him. She never cried and most definitely not for herself. Instead, she brought her hands in front of her face, flexing the leather of her gloves and stretching it against her knuckles as she balled them into fists. They quivered a little, her tired muscles and mind protesting the exertion with vehemence.

Remy smiled a little, though Rogue missed it - too concentrated on keeping her vision clear of that burning wetness that threatened to spill over her cheeks.

She was so tired.

She raised her head to look at him; her mouth was set in a grim line, though her chin quivered fractionally.

"Ah’d bet on ya too, swamp rat," she bit out.

He nodded once, just a languorous inclination of his head, the flash of a subdued grin making Rogue’s chest clench before he turned to the door and produced an old, brass key from one of his many pockets.

Rogue let out a shaky breath. Game’s on, she thought sullenly, trying carefully to avoid nursing the small, budding blossom of hope that had somehow started flowering in her mind where there had once been so much clutter.

She wouldn’t let herself believe it. Not yet. But Gambit’s touch lingered - a warmth that settled her spine, making her limbs loose and light so that she sagged against the handrail.

So warm... Rogue shut her eyes, trying to wall herself off and grow cold once again.

That way, if everything failed, and she was really, truly destined to live with the skin like strychnine and the unforgivable, "Untouchable" moniker, she wouldn’t hate herself anymore than she already did for giving in - if only for a little while.

Hope never won any battles — none of hers, at least.

Remy opened the door, holding it open for her and stepping back. Rogue barely noticed the titanium plating that slid back like a second skin and into the wall behind the first door. She ignored the flashing numeric panel and digital security display, and the tiny, near-imperceptible wires that slipped beneath the crown molding and out of sight. The floors creaked beneath her feet as she walked into the space. The apartment was a fair size and impeccably clean despite its outside appearance. It had no walls to separate the rooms, save a few doors, one that undoubtedly led to an adjoining bathroom.

It was warm, though she did not notice. She’d already begun peeling off her boots, staggering towards the one large bed against the wall opposite, the floor creaking below her with belabored sighs and groans.

"Chérie?"

Rogue was already pulling back the gauzy mosquito netting around the bed as Remy secured the drapes, effectively cutting off the feeble dawn light that crept into the room from the narrow slats in the shutters.

Rogue peeked over her shoulder wearily, and then turned to sit down on the corner of the bed.

"Ah don’t have anything else ta say to ya, swamp rat," she said wearily. "Ya won. Ya satisfied?"

He crossed the room silently, the floorboards making no noise despite his weight. Each step was sure, as if he’d memorized the exact path across the room that wouldn’t give away his location. She barely paid attention, too caught up with the sickening sense of self-defeat that was settling in her chest. Remy held out a long sleeved tee shirt and a pair of boxers like a peace offering; his own clothes, probably.

Rogue merely nodded, accepting the small bundle but not trusting her voice enough at that moment to thank him.

"Get some sleep," he murmured quietly, crossing to the bathroom without a backward glance.

Rogue fingered the fabric absently for a moment, setting her elbows on her knees. The bathroom light winked on, and in a moment she heard the splutter of water from the shower. She blew out a breath and peeled off her gloves to rub her eyes. They stung a little, too dry now that her emotional lapse had passed. Mostly, she was just tired - and it went beyond the physical need for sleep.

He didn’t even acknowledge it. Damn him.

Hope. She wanted to laugh. Instead she pressed her fingers to her temples and inhaled heavily, settling as she peeled off her uniform and pulled on the shirt and shorts, not bothering to lift herself from Remy’s bed. They smelled clean, like laundry detergent and the lingering scent of cologne embedded too deep in the fibers to be washed out.

Rogue rubbed her forehead and pondered that for a moment, listening for even the barest whisper of something familiar lingering in the depths of her mind. Apart from the sound of the running shower, silence returned to her - a disturbing hollow that had not been filled with chatter since Apocalypse had purged her of the personalities she’d absorbed.

Where was Gambit’s psyche?

At first, it had been a welcome relief. Despite the fact that she’d despised herself for giving Apocalypse power and bringing him back, the calm of the aftermath had been comforting for a time. Once in a while, she’d caught wisps of the lingering personalities, the shy laughter of Dorian’s psyche flitting just out of her conscious reach, but after a while, even that had ceased. There had been silence, and she’d come to rely on her own strength without her powers.

In some ways, she had missed the constant chatter - the din of psyches disagreeing with each other or interjecting their opinions at the worst possible opportunity. It had been irritating, frightening at times, but just the same, they had kept her company.

Now there was only the resounding echo of her own thoughts.

Rogue turned, crawling over the bed, and slid beneath the sheets.

In some ways, the emptiness in her head was worse than the constant pandemonium she’d grown used to. Rogue shut her eyes, pulling the linens to her chin and balling her bare hands into them. It was disconcerting, especially now, since it shouldn’t have been empty.

Remy’s psyche should have been tucked away in her mind with her. She should have figured out his angle by now.

It bothered her more than she was willing to admit, but what Rogue couldn’t sort out was whether or not it was because she wanted to find him settled somewhere in her mind, or because he should have been.

She pressed her face into the pillow beneath her head, muffling a low growl.

In the bathroom, the shower shut off. Rogue kept her eyes shut, realizing for the first time that she’d crawled into his bed. She stiffened. Where would he sleep? Surely he wasn’t planning on joining her.

"Rogue?"

Swallowing thickly, Rogue tried to regulate her breathing. She couldn’t handle this right now. Really, she didn’t want to even think of him. She kept her eyes shut, trying to give off the illusion that she’d already nodded off.

"I know y’ awake," he said with an audible grin.

Sighing, she peered up at him blearily. Remy squatted near a bedside table she hadn’t noticed before, one elbow on the oak surface, the other propped casually on his knee. He was covered, thankfully, by a pair of striped pajamas on his lower half. Remy’s hair hung in wet strands around his face, dripping water down his neck and onto the undershirt he’d slipped on.

"M’ gonna take de couch," he said after a moment, tipping his head to the wall opposite. Rogue nodded, the flutter in her chest settling. "We’re safe here."

Keeping his gaze downcast, he stared at his fingers. He flipped a card absently between them.

"Y’ know why I left y’ dat card?" he said tightly.

Rogue shook her head slowly, the motion burying her head deeper into the pillows.

Remy held up the Joker, inspecting it. He met her weary gaze as her breaths lengthened, turning their staring contest into a struggle where Rogue was forcing herself to stay awake.

With a whisper of his fingers, he pulled back the light netting that surrounded the bed. Rogue swallowed, curling around herself and shifting the sheets until she was tucked into a neat ball.

Leaning over her, Remy placed the Joker on the empty pillow beside her, face-up.

"No one deserves t’ be alone."

He drew back, closing the netting around her, and after a moment when she didn’t respond, he turned and slipped beneath the shadows to the far side of the room.

Rogue heard the springs on the couch groan as he settled himself, and after that, silence.

It took nearly five minutes before she reached over and palmed the card, pulling it to her chest. In another five, she’d fallen to slumber.

Across the room, Remy LeBeau grinned to himself, and shut his eyes.

---

Remy shifted on the couch, trying to find a better, more comfortable position. With his heels propped up on the armrest, and his head sinking into his laced fingers - elbow squashed against the back of the divan - it was a losing battle.

He had slept lightly and long enough to keep him going for the night. But something had woken him; now he was faced with his darkened apartment and the soft sounds of protest coming from across the room.

Rogue whimpered in her sleep for the second time, and Remy had to fight the urge to get up and go to her. They had made... progress, he conceded. Perhaps not in the way that he’d have liked; he had gotten right into her face to prove to her that he could. He shouldn’t have done that, but it was a step in the right direction. She’d fought him the entire time, but surely she had to know by now - if the incentive wasn’t there, then how could a person truly realize what they wanted?

He’d held her. It was something so abysmally simple, and yet, she’d surprised him. She hadn’t reached for him in turn, but she’d lingered in his arms - too tired to fight him, or too disarmed, whichever. She’d stayed for just a little while.

Remy sighed, knowing that when she woke, it would not happen again. Not by his instigation.

It’d be a miracle if she didn’t hate him for it, too.

If she did, it’d probably make this easier on them both. Conflicted, Remy rolled onto his side and tried to shove his feelings down.

Some demons you just had to fight on your own, despite his best inclinations otherwise.

Or at least, that’s what he told himself while staring at the obnoxious, dull gleam of patchy sunlight peeking through the drapes that created synthetic night in the flat.

Rogue whimpered again.

Remy sat upright, straining his ears. Nightmares, he concluded. He had his fair share of them, too. Nothing unusual. Nothing to be troubled over, he berated himself. Why was he concerned in the first place? He had an obligation to fulfill, and he was going to do it regardless. He just hadn’t expected... well, he hadn’t quite expected her to respond so easily under his touch.

He shouldn’t have been surprised. If it was any other woman, they’d have given up and given in to his enticements without this much struggle. Rogue would keep fighting him, much in the same way he suspected that she was fighting herself.

If he were someone else, he wondered idly, would Rogue have responded the same way?

She snuffled, and Remy gave up sleeping entirely as a lost cause. He sat up, fumbling for his pack of cigarettes on the coffee table.

"Genevieve."

Barely discernable, but nonetheless, she’d said it.

"Non," he whispered, standing. The sheet dropped from his midsection, pooling on the floor at his feet, half-tangled between the couch cushions.

It wasn’t possible.

He stepped over the coffee table, his cigarettes forgotten as he slipped through the long shadows of the apartment, making no noise at all as he approached her.

"Etienne."

Remy froze. Nightmares. What did he know of them? He’d lived them all his life. Like ghosts they sometimes clung stubbornly to their makers, and in this city, they returned to the forefront of his memory more frequently than ever. Should he have been surprised?

Rogue groaned and rolled over, her breathing less labored as she spread her arms over her head, knuckles bumping lightly against the headboard.

"Julien."

Almost a sigh this time - a list of past transgressions that haunted him.

Nightmares indeed, but not hers. Remy turned away, unable to listen any longer. He moved silently to his closet, pulling out something that could be worn without attracting attention and that wouldn’t identify him for who he was.

He almost laughed, looking into the dark space of the wardrobe as he dressed.

The skeletons, he decided, he’d leave behind for now, but the boots he’d need.

---

Post Script:

- Down the Street: (Gambling, cards) At another club (which could be a considerable distance away and not necessarily even on the same street). This term is used, rather than naming the establishment, because it’s considered bad form to talk about a club other than the one in which you’re playing.

- Destiny in the Garden: Heavily inspired by "The Sandman: Endless Nights" and countless days from my youth where I all but worshipped Anne Rice’s "Taltos" and "Lasher."

- Dorian: Dorian Leech (Ascension II)

13

 

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