A devout man raised in the suburbs in New England, Clayton's family was wealthy and was able to give him the best education he was on his way to becoming a politician until the fateful day he was on his way to college the next state over and ended up getting in with the wrong crowd at a bar. After finishing up college he stayed at the bar more and more becoming friends and eventually a biker, joining with the group ‘Vampiric Brotherhood’ who would go around and be a general nuisance to the local populace but still be good people to them by hosting blood drives hence the name. All was well and dandy but after a long day of biking and flipping off church goers Clayton rested in his tent and found someone sneaking about outside. Grabbing his sawed off shotgun that all bikers have he told the figure to politely ‘fuck off’ but the man didn’t listen, beginning to stomp towards the lonesome biker. Clayton shot him riddling his chest with buckshot and the figure fell.. then slowly got back up. In pure shock Clayton failed several times to reload before the man grabbed the empty gun out of his hand and whacking him over the head with it. He could hear voices but couldn’t make anything out. Then the sound of shoveling, Clayton’s eyes stayed shut for a few more minutes before the taste of dirt came from to his lips, and something more.. blood? He slowly pried his eyes open and couldn’t see a thing, he was surrounded.. by dirt..? Was he buried alive? His fingers began to shift as his heartbeat picked up. He wasn’t going to die here. His eyes looked back and forth trying to find something but only seeing a body buried next to him. He wasn’t going to die here. He forced his body to start working again as he held what little breath he had left trying to stop the process of hyperventilation. He wasn’t going to die here. He heard voices, people taking bets on who was going to come out first, he began to dig through towards the voices, his breath running out and his vision starting to blur. He wasn’t going to die here. Clayton’s hand burst through the soil and following it was his head. Forcing both arms through the soil he pulled himself out to his lower torso and threw up, vomit mixed with dirt that had escaped down his throat as he began to sob, not noticing the soft clapping coming from one of the figures until he was grabbed by the head and forced to look at the being. “You’ll do” The following events happened in quick succession. First he was as dragged out fully by someone who looked straight out of the Hapsburg bloodline and a strongman, then the figure bit into his neck. Clayton was in shock so there was little he could do in terms of fighting back, his body racked with exhaustion as he was turned. After an hour of waiting more people broke through but only three more in total, the rest stayed buried. With the hiss of an branding iron on his skin Clayton was congratulated into the Sabbat as well as a priest and someone who looked like a former policeman. That day Clayton Green died, and Rook was born. The next few months he was taught the ins and outs. The stupid Anarchs fighting for ‘freedom’ and the tight-ass Camarilla trying to keep everyone goody goody. Then the Sabbat. The Sword of Caine. He didn’t like the idea but what choice did he have, within the next few months he began to learn more about the process and the other factions. Then Clayton alone was sent to Baltimore. “Do whatever you want dog. Don’t fuck with the Prince.. yet.” Getting on his motorcycle Rook rode in the darkness, the brand still aching to this day. Setting up a camp on the outskirts of town and waiting. Debating on what his next move should be. The next day he took what money was left in his former life's bank account and thanks to his allowance up to this point, invested into buying a bar, "Jakes Place." Following the purchase, he quickly renamed it to 'Rooks Place' and ghouled one of the bartenders to make him a deal, he could stay and live at the bar so long as he did his job well. And so far there was no incidents, and after renovating the bar to fit his own personal fashion Clayton wasted no time taking the few firearms he already owned and hiding them around the bar, in front of his office there is a rug that says "come back with a warrant." As extra insurance.