There’s a certain sadness to a vampire’s mastery of a favored art: Jason’s been tickling piano keys longer than he can remember, Sebastian could build himself a new home out of his finished canvases, and Louis has whittled his way through God knows how many forests. Even Jasper, long past the desperate need to keep himself busy day after day, still turns to embroidery during his more stressful evenings.

Acelin considers his photography an art form of the highest caliber, though if pressed about his shadow’s own hobby, he’ll disparage it as mere imitation. Never mind that they have a tendency to take pictures of the same subject matter, just at different times of day.

And of course, Millicent Sybil Weaverside’s quilts are just legendary, dearie, why the lovely President Lincoln himself kept one tucked on his bed, don’t you know. He came to her personally to request it and she’s certain he stayed warm and cozy all throughout that messy war, why, pride may be a sin, but excuse a poor, sinful woman for taking pride in her world-renowned skills - haven’t you heard that Claude Monet, bless his heart, painted her a lovely portrait in exchange for one of her knitted scarves? Begged for a little spritz of her very own perfume, too, but oh, isn’t that just scandalous. She won’t bring up the dress she made dear Mrs. Lincoln for her wedding, no, no, now that would be saying just too much, just far, far too much. But if anyone were to ask...

Nicola’s been summoning demons for so many years that it might as well be an art by now, though he’d explain - for many, many hours - every reason why it’s not.

Still, sometimes Jason finds himself playing the same song again and again, stuck in a loop of decades past and a tune he can’t knock out of his head. Sebastian will fall into a rut and paint the same painting he did the week before, which was the one he did the week before that, the very same scene, trying it from different angles and different lighting but ultimately ending up with an identical product that he inevitably breaks over his knee. Louis could carve crosses in his sleep, if he really truly slept anymore. Jasper has too many handkerchiefs stowed away that neither he nor anyone will ever use - the initials AV + JE are embroidered on the sides of each and every one. He’ll never get rid of them.

Acelin mails Nicola photos of places he’s already been to, shots he’s already seen. Weaverside conjures up designs and whips together clothing for people long-passed, people who’ll never get to wear them, but you know, dearie, her imagination just gets away from her sometimes, you know how it is with these things, she just wonders.