"I never said you were a stray, I said you were like a little stray. It's a simile," there was a noncommittal shrug, as if that answered everything. "Did your sire tell you why they turned you?" Tristian glanced at the slightly younger Kindred, watching for any change in his reaction. "Because I think I know. I'd have to confirm my clan of course, but I think I know."
So many emotions were writing beneath the surface of Rhys' countenance, like worms in a bucket. Wasn't that what they all were going to be, eventually? Well, except the ones on this path, except them, but they were made of the same stuff, just the same.
"You have the most cherubic little face, serene like a millpond. And those big, wide eyes make you look like such an innocent, precious and shy, but that's not who you really are, is it?" Tristian leaned in again, not quite as close this time, but enough to make sure that his whisper carried. "Sometimes the worst of us hide behind the most mundane of disguises. Think about that."
And then he simply carried on as if nothing had ever happened. "You never did tell me the name of your mentor, Rhysie."