2020-0906 – Storyteller


He descends from the deck of the ship into the lower levels, flanked by a lean and wiry woman of deceptively frail appearance beneath her black suit. There had been several Thinblooded announced upon their entrance; the decision had been made to check all of them now for compliance. The misbehavior of one, reflecting upon the rest.

They might have been lenient, if not for the scalpel. They had already chosen to ignore the high collars hiding the marks. But the Camarilla’s rules were made to protect all; and Rook believes in them. These rules, a path to follow, to keep themselves safer in the nights. He has seen things which make him believe.

Approaching the Thinblooded man, one “Puck,” bleach-haired and dressed in some unlikely conglomeration of garments which by virtue of their poor taste transcend any notion of the scale of formality at all, Rook pauses a few paces away.

“Puck Borisov of the Thinbloods,” Rook greets smoothly, “you are required to openly display your brand in token of your membership in the Tower.”

A gesture, and the security agent with Rook steps forward and, ignoring Puck’s companion entirely after a single sharp stare which says silently do not interfere, immobilizes Puck in a grapple hold; and Rook reaches out to tug at the man’s collar and reveal his neck and throat. No brand. A pause, and he checks the man’s hands and forearms also. Still no brand.

Rook shakes his head. “Oh, dear. This won’t be quite pleasant, I’m afraid. Unbranded, and at Elysium?” He looks at the woman. “Bring him.”

The woman nods and hauls Puck to his feet, dragging the man inexorably away and making him vanish somewhere in the dark bowels of the ship, where no guests mingle and socialize. Rook follows, shaking his head almost mournfully.

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