An Uncommonly Droll Night in the White Wolf Universe

In the shadow-draped alleys of London, where the fog clings as tenaciously as a lingering doubt, there
resided a vampire of such impeccable dryness, he could make a desert seem positively damp. His name
was Reginald Aloysius Bartholomew III, a name he bore with the sort of stoicism only a centuries-old
vampire could muster.

Reginald, or Reggie to absolutely no one, was a creature of habit. Each night, as the sun begrudgingly
made its exit, stage west, he would rise from his antique coffin with the enthusiasm of a civil servant
approaching paperwork.

This particular evening, a Thursday (not that days of the week held much significance to a vampire),
Reginald decided to partake in what he called 'The Hunt.' This, of course, was a rather grandiose term for
his nightly stroll to the local blood bank. He found the whole biting business terribly gauche and much
preferred a neatly labeled packet of O-negative.

As he ambled through the cobblestone streets, his thoughts were interrupted by a ruckus in a nearby
alley. A group of fledgling vampires, no doubt American by their brashness, were attempting to
intimidate a local. They were doing it all wrong – too much hissing, not enough lurking in the shadows.

Reginald sighed, a sound like a draft through a keyhole. He felt it his duty to intervene. After all, one
must uphold certain standards.

"Excuse me," he interjected, his voice as dry as a Martini at the Savoy. "Might I suggest less theatrics?
One does not want to appear desperate."

The fledglings turned, surprised. One, a particularly audacious chap with a leather jacket and an
overabundance of hair gel, sneered. "And who are you, the vampire etiquette police?"

Reginald raised an eyebrow, a skill he had perfected over several lifetimes. "Merely a connoisseur of
subtlety. Carry on."
With a swirl of his cape – an affectation he allowed himself – Reginald continued on his way. The
fledglings, somewhat bemused, resumed their attempt at intimidation, albeit with noticeably less
hissing.

At the blood bank, Reginald greeted the night shift nurse, a pleasant woman who had long since stopped
asking questions. He collected his packet of O-negative and made his way home.

Back in his crypt, as he sipped his blood from a fine china cup, Reginald reflected on the night's events.
The fledglings had much to learn, but then, didn't everyone? He chuckled softly, the sound almost lost in
the vast emptiness of his crypt.

"Ah, the youth of today," he mused, with the sort of wry amusement one reserves for garden parties and
cricket matches. "So much enthusiasm, so little finesse."

And with that, Reginald Aloysius Bartholomew III, vampire and connoisseur of the understated, settled in
for the day, the corners of his mouth turned up in the faintest of smiles.