**Name**: Truant Redbook **Sect**: Hollow Ones **Faction**: Union Underground/Disparates **Apparent Age**: 28 (Elder Goth/Punk, do not mention this if you like being safe) **Demeanor**: Benefactor **Role in NYC**: Union Underground Bartender, Record Keeper ==== Vital Information ==== His early history isn’t well known, but up until the Event, it’s understood that he was a guerilla fighter for the Hollowers. His magickal style, focused on Forces and Entropy, lends itself well to daring escapades and vicious back alley fighting, drawing from the stories of the Welsh fae, the dark myths of Sleepy Hollow, and the urban legends of New York herself. In the mortal world, he still occasionally surfaces to do poetry readings, promote his books, and organize activism, but there was a time when his writing was his dream, and he’s never really forgiven the Technocracy, or the Traditions, for sidelining that for saving the world (not that he’d claim to have done a good job there). He’s a NYC native, and he shows it, college educated, punk as hell, and it’s difficult to estimate how many cabal-mates he’s buried, or how many scars he’s slowly and painfully removed with hedge magic. But he remains generous and kind, if entirely vulgar and crass, and the Underground, while not strictly his, runs smoothly in large part because of his ongoing dedication. If you want to contact another Awakened in town, regardless of their allegiance, he knows how. If you want a line on helpful mortals, he’s got it. If you need a safehouse or medical care, he can hook you up. Just don’t ask him about music, and for fuck’s sake don’t insult Killing Joke’s albums in his presence. ==== Physical Description ==== Truant is very, very conspicuous. He doesn’t always look like himself, but he never looks boring. If he can avoid disguises or other nonsense, he’s a tall, lanky, pallid and scruffy punk, hair cut so close it’s just spray-paint outlining his skull. Always chewing on a cigarette. A leather jacket covered in strange, arcane patches with pins marching along the zipper on either side is almost never far from him, and dark SWAT issue fatigues with smiley faces on the knee pads do for pants, while his footwear is either weird and whimsical (ever seen a punk bartender dude in Hello Kitty sneakers?) or brutally engineered, steel-toed, and blood-stained. He’s almost never found without the ‘red book’ that gives him his name, and speculation on its value is rampant. Inspection with Prime reveals that it is something, but all other investigative magick falls short of conclusive results so far.