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Image Description: Prince Lettow

The man in the turquoise jewelry watches your approach with a slight smile. Your lobo hesitates for only a moment, his eyes on the eagle. The young-looking man is seated comfortably in a wicker chair next to a small zinc table with an old laptop, a white hat, and a heap of typed and handwritten correspondence. The Nosferatu, standing beside him, only scowls.

"Welcome to Tucson," he says. His accent is foreign, from somewhere in Europe despite the Native American jewelry and the wide-brimmed hat in front of him. "I am Prince Lettow. This is Dove. And you are Cvjo," he says. "The courier. It looks like you had a difficult journey."

A clump of mud falls out of your hair and splats onto the flagstones.

Since an increasingly arrogant Camarilla has little tolerance of Clan Ravnos, you calculate what clan to present yourself as. A savage Gangrel, with a wolf at your heels? Or a Caitiff, one of the Clanless, his only companion a desert wolf? Even the Clanless are known elements, whereas a Ravnos is always a harbinger of trouble ahead. And then you recognize the man in front of you from his jewelry. Brian Lomeyo made that turquoise necklace. At the time, you had no idea the buyer was a vampire, let alone an elder of Clan Gangrel. You don't think you ever spoke to him.

Prince Lettow nods when you recognize him and says, "I am sorry for your loss, Cvjo," as if Brian died last week instead of…God, how long has it been since you last walked the gardens of Ypotryll? Twenty years?

"Yes, a terrible loss. Give us the data, Raven," the Nosferatu snaps. Dove is wearing a silk-screened jacket, kicked-around Converse All-Stars, and a snapback with a local minor league baseball team on it. Driving gloves are tucked into her pocket. Another courier?