As it happens, a girl wandering the streets of York with little direction or aim can truly find herself in a world of trouble. Robyn Lee’s background is as shrouded with mystery as it is riddled with intrigue, and her disappearance for an entire year (purportedly into the criminal-laden far reaches of the outback of Australia, though she’ll claim otherwise), only adds to the perplexity of the story of Robyn Lee....Read More

Seemingly out of the clear blue, she appeared on the scene, a girl of sixteen haphazardly scribing those she met in the alleyways and gambling dens that littered the underbelly of Hogtown. Half Chinese, half German-Ukranian, she would swill steins of beer and whilst taking the hardest of mah-jong players down and loudly espousing the tenets of Marx in a mildly audible Russian accent. Who was she? From whom did she learn the mysterious art of tattoo? And what was the meaning of that cryptic mark that peered out from her laced boot?

She claimed to be an acrobat of sorts when drinking port wine, then, on long absinthe binges, she would spin sagas about her time with the traveling theatre and learning from the masters of that art at the University at Ryerson. Robyn  Lee would declare in one breath that she had extensive training in the field of medicine and, with a laugh, shift gears to talk of her short stint running a petting zoo in Kartoum. But the nights would inevitably end in discussion and execution of symbols and signets etched into the skin of her cagey and sketchy companions.Then…suddenly…she disappeared.

Rumours spread amongst those who could only loosely call themselves friends to the secretive young woman who never let a soul near enough to truly ascertain the truth about who she was, and what it was she really was up to. Political assassination was insinuated by some. Was she a spy? For whom did she work and where did she go during her long sabbaticals? Letters would arrive randomly from Sydney, Melbourne and Cairns, all in different handwriting, claiming that she was studying and working under masters of tattoo from the likes of Electric Ink, Fox Body Art, and Obsession ink, respectively. An entire year went by. Suddenly, she returned…but with an entirely different gate and demeanour.

Reticent as ever regarding her own life and experiences, the woman who asked to be referred to only as Ms. Lee now spoke solely of a Society with whom she’d come into contact. “They have taken me in, and accepted me into the fold, for which I am forever in their debt. They spent long hours indoctrinating me on their manifestos and methods, and they, of course helped me immensely after my escape to…I meeeeaannn my trriiipp…” Her eyes sharpened on her audience that evening, the elusive Robyn Lee, and she surveyed the room carefully. “Let me just tell you this, my friends,” she said, with a palpable sarcastic tone. “IFFFF one were to be in a bind, and IFFFF one were to seek asylum, one could do a whole lot worse than to come across the members of the Society. And IFFF they chose to take you in, you’d be wise to accept their help, and careful to keep your tongue at bay. And raccoon meat is more tender than you could ever imagine.”And with that bizarre revelation, she wandered up Yonge Street, past Eglinton Avenue, and up the stairs into the foreboding hallway that gave way to the Society of the Seven Crowns.