[A lip is still curled up in distaste when the question comes his way, and Alucard’s attention slides in the direction of a young woman seated nearby. As always, observation comes first — he doesn’t know her, doesn’t recognize her. And like all patrons, she must be here to drink the long New Amsterdam night away. Yet there’s a blunt edge to her motions that doesn’t quite align with the rest of crowd here, and Alucard isn’t sure whether to attribute it to an ailing mood or just an inherent character trait of a stranger.

The dhampir is, by contrast, a creature of fluid movement and low tones. Even with one singular motion to her own order — two glasses, leave the bottle — this much is made apparent by the unfurling of loosely curled fingers, the half-arc of a dismissive hand. The way a feline moves when claws have yet to be extended.]

Anything so bright and made to be digested should be considered suspect from the onset.

[So no, not to his taste. But he can say he tried, and eyes instead her choice of vice.]

Hope that your company has a strong stomach, or an unfussy tongue.