Back in 1792, France was a land of a lot of ticked-off peasantfolk. And when the peasantfolk get ticked off, two things happen: it gets a lot harder to find somebody to launder your stockings for cheap, and people’s heads start popping up in some very weird places.
But hey, if you’re the peasantfolk, rock on. Who doesn’t wanna slam back some ale before brutally crushing l’ancien régime? So times are busy for the bar wenches of France, especially at the Red Ferret Inn.
Things are a little stickier if you’re a member of the Hordes of Darkness, though. It’s hard enough going about your (un)life on the average night, but now even the sturdiest of covers are being blown by frenzied revolutionaries out to get anybody who wears lots of black and has nice taste.
So what are you going to do? Turn into a bat every time you hear a loud noise? Move back into your sire’s basement in Transylvania? Call Satan collect and cry into the phone?
The vampires of Paris are about to find out…