It was another one of Drusilla's celebrations. And of course, that meant it had to be extravagant. Lavish decorations, her favourite music at the best quality, a punch bowl filled to the brim with thick, rich blood. The lady of the hour was prowling the room, murmuring cryptic words and grinning at the other undead, hands gliding across backs, arms, chests. A play of power, or simple playful joking, you never really understood. Drusilla herself was an enigma.

Spike however, was a little easier to understand. The man was lurking towards the back, leaning against the railings of the upper floor. His eyes follow Drusilla: monitoring, watching. There's fondness, sure, but also a hint of jealousy, and possessiveness. He idly swirls a glass filled with blood, looking displeased. Warm and fresh is always better.