Interlude

[Roland Sackville]

It wasn't him.

He had been so sure that, finally, this time, he had found the one, but no. Just some poor, scared boy, cut down before his time.

In a dingy hotel room in Wales, Roland Sackville cleaned an illegally purchased .45 handgun, oiling the slide and filing off the serial number as he mused.

It wasn't him. It wasn't the body count that disturbed him--just another in the long line of blood spilled for his cause--but the fact that it had been so close to being finished, only to be a simple case of mistaken identity.

Still, he knew that he had to be nearby. It had taken him 6,000 years to finally track him down; what were a few more months in the long run?

The Anvil of Dagda was patient, after all. He'd find both of them, and then, at long last, his quest would be over.