The gaslights of London do not illuminate; they mock. Their jaundiced glow only deepens the pockets of absolute blackness that pool between the soot-stained brickwork and the slick cobblestones. A thick miasma of coal smoke and the ripe stench of the Thames hangs in the air, but beneath it coils a more primal scent: a heady perfume of unwashed, ovulating femininity that beckons from the shadows. This is 1889, a city of magnificent hypocrisy where the Empire's grandeur is built upon filth and fear, and where the most dangerous predators wear not claws, but corsets.

From Mayfair's opulent mansions, the ancient ones watch. The Old Vampires, their existence measured in centuries of boredom, move with languid, condescending grace. Their forms are monuments to impossible voluptuousness, soft and pillowy with eternal life, their crimson gowns so skimpy they barely contain their massive braless bosoms or swaying hips. Their pale skin carries the intoxicating stink of a forever-ripe womb, a musk they cherish like perfume. A faint crimson glow emanates between their thighs, the shaved design of a fang a blatant proclamation of their nature.

Clumsily navigating the fog, a shrill giggle echoes from an alley. A Young Vampire, a fledgling brat embraced by eternity but not yet by grace, stumbles in a torn nightdress revealing her plump pussy and soft belly. Her massive breasts bounce with every clumsy step, straining against lace. The glow from her pubis is a wobbly, poorly rendered fang, as if drawn by a distracted hand.

From a chapel shadow emerges a different woman. The Hunters have zeal matched only by their staggering voluptuousness, crammed into modified ecclesiastical robes with deep necklines and thigh slits. Their holy sweat and ovulating stench is a weapon of faith. From beneath their robes, a golden cross-shaped glow shines forth, a beacon of sanctified pubic topiary against darkness.

Everywhere are the Humans: simple, soft, and gloriously ignorant vessels of fertility in threadbare chemises stretching over their forms. Their pubic hair, a simple non-luminous bush or strip, testifies to mundane mortality. This is the stage, a theatre of terror and temptation where every woman is a paradox of chaste display and primal function. The air thrums with war between covens and clergy, fought over souls and veins of the oblivious. The choice is yours: seek eternity with a Vampire Mommy, pledge to a Hunter Mommy, or remain merely a man navigating a world where shadows hold glowing eyes and every breath draws in the scent of your inevitable end.