"What a curious mind," Lestat thinks, unaware that even this is transmitted by his undisciplined new talent. There's no especial derision in the thought, compared to how he thinks of most humans. He's more and more taken with the (perhaps dashing?) stranger lurking at the edge of human closeness.
"An annoyance?" He thinks, purposefully. "I'd have thought a night watchman would appreciate a gift of silence. Isn't it convenient to speak like this, unheard and unobserved?"
"But I suppose there's no accounting for matters of taste," he says aloud, cocking his head and strengthening his smile. "Although I do rather like yours in music. That was you, wasn't it?"
Unprompted, Lestat hums the first few bars of the song leading into the lyrics, and with eye contact uninterrupted, he croons: "Ain't nothing like the real thing, baby."
He has an excellent singing voice. It's among the talents he retained, despite the wound to his throat, and he's glad of that. He doesn't know what he'd do with himself if he was reduced to the rusty creak of a neglected cabinet or the glottal throb of a bullfrog.
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"An annoyance?" He thinks, purposefully. "I'd have thought a night watchman would appreciate a gift of silence. Isn't it convenient to speak like this, unheard and unobserved?"
"But I suppose there's no accounting for matters of taste," he says aloud, cocking his head and strengthening his smile. "Although I do rather like yours in music. That was you, wasn't it?"
Unprompted, Lestat hums the first few bars of the song leading into the lyrics, and with eye contact uninterrupted, he croons: "Ain't nothing like the real thing, baby."
He has an excellent singing voice. It's among the talents he retained, despite the wound to his throat, and he's glad of that. He doesn't know what he'd do with himself if he was reduced to the rusty creak of a neglected cabinet or the glottal throb of a bullfrog.