It was winter, 1932, France.
The tavern was one of three in the village of Belcastel; my home of twenty years. It was not the cleanest but the beer was unwatered, the prices were steady and best of all Old Tarmas the barkeep would not tolerate an alcoholic, nor would he allow his customers to become one under his roof. He knew his business, he knew
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Is she going to pull out an uzi now?
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And even if they did, vampyr would not descend to their use.
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