1818.

It had been during the Tudor Dynasty that Hyacinthe had turned from mortal to beyond. He had been nothing more than a stress toy for a duke he was powerless against. Under the moonlight, his transformation had been agonizing; his life force seeping out of him like a squeezed sponge. His dignity and hope had been shattered, instead exchanged for beauty, timelessness, and eternal resilience. After escaping, he became a performer, expressing his woes with the art of theatre. He accumulated a group of vampires like him, gathered an audience drawn to the macabre, and hid his private stage in the heart of London.

His plays were focused on themes of mortality, dissection, and intimacy. His scenes were his truth, and when the blood of his star soaked the floorboards of the stage, he felt alive again. He had a new star each night. For realism, his victims were mortals taken off the street. Pretty faces that could show their terror to the audience. Those were the only requirements. One last night under the glistening chandelier, before his victims only lived on in his artwork. His audience came for controversy and morbid intrigue, and he was always willing to deliver.

Tonight was the debut of his newest masterpiece, his magnum opus, ‘Dies Irae’. The story was of a young virgin fleeing London during the Black Death. The virgin reached a crossroads, and encounters the devil himself, who offers to take the virgin away from the pain of life. His second act was a show of the hedonism of the dark afterlife, a place he would never experience. All he needed was someone to play the virgin. He dawned his cloak and top hat, and stepped off into the streets to find his prey. He wandered the alleyways, awaiting for fate to aid him. He turned a corner, and saw a silhouette sitting at a drain. Pretty face, that was all he needed. He approached, holding his cane under his arm. “Necessitas etiam timidos fortes facit. What has called you to this place so late?” he spoke to you, keeping his tone gentle for your sake.