Of all places to frequent, romanticist and writer, Arthur Kirkland, had a death-wish when entering the back-alley gin-shop. For it was not a gin-shop at all - more of a Bohemian hideout. The year was 1880, and he was itching for new experiences.

He had sought out the legendary Vampyres of London for years, with no such luck, and it was only at the precise moment he walked in through the gin-shop entrance with not a single thought of what may be lurking inside - not even a smidgeon of hope that he may have found his vampires - that he finally found one.

Or three. Or five. Or six.

Arthur froze in his designated corner at the realisation that typical to his renowned ill fate, just as he had given up the 'hunt', he now found himself surrounded. Swallowing his fear and keeping his dignity (because there was no way in Dante's seven hells he was leaving now), Kirkland approached the bar and - as crisply and cleanly as he could utter among the bloodthirsty rabble ensnaring his mind - he ordered a tall glass of absinthe.

Alas, he had asked for a new experience, and becoming tippled with La Fee in a den full of vampires seemed like the perfect recipe for a new poem or novella. It appealed to the Romantic within him, and already, without his drink even so much as being in his hand, he spotted his muse, reclined like Botticelli's Mars over an emerald, velvet chaise.

And he was stunning.

This man was tall and slender, with chest-length flaxen hair which was cast an incandescent gold under the radiance of the dim light overhead, as if the ghost of Midas had taken each fair lock upon his head and kissed it. His clothes were fine, an explosion of rich, Mediterranean blues and travelling golds, regal purples and purest whites; whites, which almost matched his flawless skin as his silken, paisley scarf draped over his knee, his upper chest freed from the restrictions of his shirt. The contrast in colour was most striking, as his gossamer hair of spun gold curled delicately around a nude, velvety nipple. How very scandalous, in our Queen's prudent society. How rebelliously charming...

In one, clawed hand, adorned with gold, the muse clutched his own glass of absinthe, although it appeared more yellow in colour than Arthur's own, as it was slid across the mahogany towards him. He couldn't help but stare, attempting to figure out exactly what beverage had painted the golden man in such a state of bliss, with his eyes resting closed, and his lips ever so slightly parted... Arthur wondered what colour his eyes were, whether he would open them to bless him with an exotic lilac gaze, a reptilian green, or even a fabled crimson-

"Francois regularly drinks the Chartreuse." The barmaid sighed, bringing Arthur out of his reverie for now.

"Pardon?" He blurted out, having not entirely caught what she had said, other than 'Chartreuse'.

"Francois. The man on the chaise, basking under the light like some sort of serpent."

Arthur felt second-hand offense, taking the insult for Francois, turning his head to regard the barmaid sternly. She was beautiful too, with long, dark blonde hair and peridot green eyes. Her accent sounded foreign, too.

"I'm Hungarian," She responded, boredly, "And his eyes are blue."

Arthur frowned, his eyes darting in a tell-tale manner to her teeth.

"Please don't read my thoughts. I'm not a book." He responded firmly but politely, being sure to present the vampire with significant respect, wanting to avoid getting his throat ripped out.

"You might as well be, with that imagination of yours." To his relief, she smiled, and he took a comforted sip of his drink, the strong, herbal taste of the absinthe perfectly combined with the melted sugar. "How is it?" The Hungarian vampire asked, resting her chin on the palm of her hand.

"It's delightful, thank you." Arthur set the glass back down.

"I couldn't help but notice that you were craving new experiences..." She started again, after a moment of silence, setting the writer on edge again, "And you're wanting to write about our kind."

Arthur passed her a cautious look, "Forgive me; I know that it can be a taboo."

"Not at all. In fact, you could not have picked a better place. The vampires in here have many stories to tell. We bohemians are writers, just like you, and since 'normal' people wouldn't take kindly to hearing them, we come here to tell one another, instead. Although, there is a fine line between telling a story, and bragging; that is where dear Francois gets a little... confused."

The Englishman listened carefully.

"By all means, talk to him," the barmaid warned, "But you may not be able to get rid of him if you do. He is stubborn and persistent in every sense of the word. You may be better off talking to the artist, Antonio, or better yet, the musician, Gilbert. They are Francois' allies, but know when to drop a chase. Just be weary of their fledglings."

"Who are their fledglings?" Arthur asked, his curiosity sparking again after another mouthful of absinthe.

"Antonio's fledgling is a young Italian boy named Lovino. He deeply resents being turned at such a young age, although Antonio reassures him that with such a youthful face, feeding is much easier. That being said, he is extremely protective of his master and will not tolerate anyone getting too close for comfort. Antonio has stated numerous times before that Lovino has an issue with attachment. As for Gilbert?" the Hungarian smirked, "His 'fledgling' is twice the size of him and acts more like a bodyguard than a child. His name is Ludwig, and he is Gilbert's younger brother."

"German?" Arthur inquired.

"Prussian."

"Ah." Arthur grimaced, aware of the reputation the Prussians have for themselves.

"Actually," The vampiress tilted her head, "I think you would find Ludwig easy to talk to. You remind me of him, in a way. So serious," A chuckle, "So handsome."

At that, the writer scoffed, taking a considerable sized mouthful of absinthe.

"Me? Handsome? I believe not, taking into account that I am almost thirty and still very much unmarried."

The Hungarian halted, before laughing softly, "I was talking about Ludwig, my dear. But you're not too bad looking, I suppose. Perhaps if you tidied up your hair and plucked those unruly eyebrows-"

"Yes, yes, that is quite enough, thank you." Arthur snipped, straightening up, "My eyebrows are staying just as they are."

"Hmm."

There was a moment of silence between them before the Englishman slid the empty glass back across the bar.

"He's awake now. You should seize your chance before he spots something pretty in a corset."