lestat de lioncourt (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
flanerie) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
singillatim2023-12-18 05:42 pm
flanerie) wrote in singillatim2023-12-18 05:42 pm
(no subject)
Who: Lestat de Lioncourt and open
What: Exploring town, exploring caves
When: December
Where: Milton, Misty Falls Cave
Content Warnings: Vampirism and associated blood thirst, animal hunting and consumption, claustrophobia, caving
misty falls cave
Unlike many of the explorers seeking the cave, Lestat did not receive directions from the old man of the forest. His guide to the falls came in the form of others’ boot prints trekking to and from the falls, a sight which couldn’t fail to incite his curiosity.
The trail brings him to the falls some hours after sunset. He had his trap-line to attend to first, where he took his small dinner from a gamey rabbit that now hangs dressed and butchered in his growing larder. Hunger blunted, if not sated, he can admire the tumult of icy water as it deserves to be admired.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” He calls over his shoulder as soon as he picks up the sound of newly approaching footsteps, perhaps sooner than whoever comes might expect. “A chandelier hung by winter itself.”
He turns gracefully even in his heavy winter layers, smiling at the newcomer as if they are already in accord. Warm acquaintances at the least, if not yet friends, on the cusp of embarking into a thrilling secret together.
“What do you think is inside?”
vampire about town
The evening Lestat walks into the grubby little town is unremarkable except for the fact of his arrival, a fact which perversely delights him. There have been no letters sent ahead, no lodgings arranged, no quantities of money moved by the firms of quiet professionals who attend to such things on his behalf. There’s only Lestat in secondhand winter layers, gliding between the huddled houses to the center of the community.
He’s always a little excited by novelty. It’s a quality one must cultivate to survive the interminable span of immortality, and it’s one of many such qualities he possesses in surplus of necessity.
So his anonymity has its charm, as fleeting as it will be. His mark will be made soon enough, beginning with crossing the threshold of the town’s gathering place.
Once inside, he takes in his surroundings with evident approval before he crosses to a table near the fireplace. He undoes the bundled canvas strapped to his back and lays it down, unfolding it to reveal the choicest cuts of venison he’d been able to harvest from last night’s hunt. Its blood is only a pleasant memory, but sufficient to keep him clear-headed and convivial.
He turns to the nearest party who happens to catch his attention with a modest smile, plucking his gloves from his hands a finger at a time.
“Good evening,” he says, warmly, “I thought this might make a decent supper. You wouldn’t happen to be a cook?”
What: Exploring town, exploring caves
When: December
Where: Milton, Misty Falls Cave
Content Warnings: Vampirism and associated blood thirst, animal hunting and consumption, claustrophobia, caving
misty falls cave
Unlike many of the explorers seeking the cave, Lestat did not receive directions from the old man of the forest. His guide to the falls came in the form of others’ boot prints trekking to and from the falls, a sight which couldn’t fail to incite his curiosity.
The trail brings him to the falls some hours after sunset. He had his trap-line to attend to first, where he took his small dinner from a gamey rabbit that now hangs dressed and butchered in his growing larder. Hunger blunted, if not sated, he can admire the tumult of icy water as it deserves to be admired.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” He calls over his shoulder as soon as he picks up the sound of newly approaching footsteps, perhaps sooner than whoever comes might expect. “A chandelier hung by winter itself.”
He turns gracefully even in his heavy winter layers, smiling at the newcomer as if they are already in accord. Warm acquaintances at the least, if not yet friends, on the cusp of embarking into a thrilling secret together.
“What do you think is inside?”
vampire about town
The evening Lestat walks into the grubby little town is unremarkable except for the fact of his arrival, a fact which perversely delights him. There have been no letters sent ahead, no lodgings arranged, no quantities of money moved by the firms of quiet professionals who attend to such things on his behalf. There’s only Lestat in secondhand winter layers, gliding between the huddled houses to the center of the community.
He’s always a little excited by novelty. It’s a quality one must cultivate to survive the interminable span of immortality, and it’s one of many such qualities he possesses in surplus of necessity.
So his anonymity has its charm, as fleeting as it will be. His mark will be made soon enough, beginning with crossing the threshold of the town’s gathering place.
Once inside, he takes in his surroundings with evident approval before he crosses to a table near the fireplace. He undoes the bundled canvas strapped to his back and lays it down, unfolding it to reveal the choicest cuts of venison he’d been able to harvest from last night’s hunt. Its blood is only a pleasant memory, but sufficient to keep him clear-headed and convivial.
He turns to the nearest party who happens to catch his attention with a modest smile, plucking his gloves from his hands a finger at a time.
“Good evening,” he says, warmly, “I thought this might make a decent supper. You wouldn’t happen to be a cook?”
no subject
"Lestat de Lioncourt, pleased to make such a well-read acquaintance." His teeth shine in his smile, his head angled quite naturally to catch the firelight at the most flattering angle. "I'd offer you my hand, but -"
He shows off a reddened palm with good-humoured ruefulness.
"A city mouse is much cleaner than a country mouse, don't you think?" He cocks his head, still smiling. "I'll owe you that handshake the next time we meet."
no subject
But he withdrew, mentally if not physically, when Louis mentioned shaking hands. He was thankful Louis hadn't attempted to do it. That might have ended with him breaking one of the man's fingers. "Put a raincheck on it indefinitely," he said gruffly. Rorschach did not like being touched by others for any reason. Which was a paradox because at the same time he was touched starved because, though he pretended otherwise, he was still a human being who craved contact.
no subject
"If you prefer," he says, as though he isn't instantly and vociferously intrigued by the refusal. Of course it makes him want to touch all the more, a passing courtesy transformed into an active desire. It's not unlike the urge he sometimes has to touch any red hot metal.
But he can be patient. They've only just met. If this one takes a little seduction, all the better.
"But I would like very much to see your library. I miss my own hideously." If not for his own sake, which he'd be loathe to admit.
no subject
Fortunately, turning the topic back to books made him feel a little less off-balance. "Town library. Not mine," Rorschach corrected. "Just keep an eye on it." Claiming it as his own made him feel as if he was some sort of book dragon, hoarding all the books there without sharing.
no subject
"So where does this town keep its library?" Lestat asks, quite casually, as if he hasn't decided in this very instant that it will become a haunt of his as well. He can only hope it's not some musty, dank cave. "And would that make you the one responsible for granting borrowing privileges?"
no subject
"Cabin I found. Fixed it up, organized it, had some bookshelves made." He nodded at the question of if he was the one running it. He was the self-appointed librarian now for the town. "There most afternoons." Granted, he was usually using that time to catch up on sleep in a cot he'd fixed up if no one was stopping by since it wasn't a terribly busy place. But he had to do something to make up up for the time he was missing out on, since he usually slept until late afternoons given he was on a nocturnal schedule.
no subject
But if Rorschach allows himself to read anything into the innocuous statement said in that particular teasing tone, then Lestat learns more about the sort of man he is. Offence, intrigue, or any interplay of the two are revealing.
"I do most of my hunting at night. The moon shines so brightly here, you'd hardly notice a difference," he adds, lightly, as if he never allowed a pause to hang between question and explanation.
cw: undercurrents of homophobia
Still, his body language became more closed-off as if he wished for nothing to get past his mental armor any longer. His arms were crossed and his shoulders hunched. Though it was impossible to see, he was no longer making eye contact with Lestat either.
cw: undercurrents of homophobia (reverse uno)
It doesn't necessarily mean that Rorschach finds him attractive, but in his experience most people do. Even the most straight-laced of upstanding gentlemen sometimes find themselves unsettled by the draw he has on them. It doesn't even have to do with his handsomeness, although of course that is quite an asset.
Anything so caged craves freedom. He offers it. It's as simple as that.
"Ah, a shame," he says, as lightly as if he hasn't noticed Rorschach's reaction as more than a polite denial of a bit of scheduling, "I couldn't persuade you? I'd gladly make it worth your time."
cw: mentions of sex work, sex work shaming, internalized homophobia
He was beginning to feel like he was haggling with a prostitute here. Not the ones that he encountered far too often on the streets of New York, broken-down, worn-out, and drug-addicted sluts who would blow a man for three dollars. More like one of those high-priced escorts that knew which wine went with which meal and wore designer clothes. Had this been what his mother did all the time with her clients? He couldn't remember, having shoved most of those memories away and purposefully doing his best to completely forget about them.
But anything that reminded him of his mother was likely to get his hackles up and so right now Lestat was bugging the shit out of him, more than anything because, of course, he was an attractive man and Rorschach was not immune. He was madder at himself right now than the blonde for being so human and weak. He'd thought he'd gotten these urges out of him long ago but apparently not.
no subject
But that may not hold true under unusual circumstances, and there's something to be said for the pull of curiosity that can't be answered by rifling through whatever vitriolic thoughts must be scrabbling at the swollen interior of Rorschach's skull.
Lestat affects an expression of faintly confused contrition, worry stitching up his brows towards one another. He raises a bloody palm as if he's forgotten it's stained, apologetic and appeasing. (That growl, like a dog straining on the chain.)
"Forgive me," he says, softly, "I forget myself. I've spent too along alone - and I don't prefer it. I envy you that."
no subject
"A misfortune, to be so lonely. To rely on others that much." Was that insulting? Rorschach honestly didn't know if it was, atrophied as his skill at basic conversation were.
He certainly couldn't relate to Lestat's situation at all personally. Rorschach preferred to keep a distance from the rest of humanity, to view them as if at the end of a telescope. Up close and personalized, too often they disappointed him. But if he kept them at arm's length, it was easier to sympathize with them, to see them as people in need of protection instead of the corrupt evildoers so often they turned out to be instead.
no subject
"You've caught out my true reason for making my way into town," he confesses, as if it embarrasses him slightly. "Without regular companionship, I become intolerable. To myself, to others," he shrugs, a particular grace to it cultivated on a more civilized continent "To even the beasts of the woods, I imagine. Pity the poor rabbits."
Pity him, the nobly lonely exile, who only wishes to assuage his isolation with even one of Rorschach's dire demeanour. A man who would be friends with anyone, no matter how difficult, if they'd only consent to bear his company.
no subject
"Rabbits dead or alive preferable to some people here. Have the same IQ as lagomorphs." Rorschach clearly did not hold his fellow man in very high esteem. He had no patience for both the general stupidity some people possessed and those that acted like they knew everything on the other end of the spectrum.
Still, Rorschach stuck close to the town, preferring to be within arm's reach if someone needed him instead of fucking off to live in the middle of the woods like Methuselah or this weirdo. If Rorschach became completely detached from humanity, at least moreso than he already was, it would have only left him worse off than before. Having a connection however tenuous to the other Interlopers helped to keep him stable and sane.
no subject
"I don't know if I should be flattered or insulted," he says, honestly, while withholding that either would please him, "I'm not sure if you mean to include or exclude me from that category."
He would imagine 'include', at this moment. That would typically rankle him. He doesn't like to be thought of as stupid. It's only that he suspects that Rorschach might be quite generous with his ladling out of intellectual scorn - and that, of course, Lestat will be able to convince him of his cleverness in time. A few conversations over sufficiently dense books, and there will be no doubt that he'll be received as a peer in that regard.
no subject
Still, Lestat hadn't started bugging the shit out of him the way others in the town had and seemed to know when to back off after pushing, so he got points for that. It was one of the main reasons Rorschach was still talking to him. When he disliked people, he wasn't shy in making that known.
no subject
Strictly speaking untrue, but he is discounting the insults levelled against him in domestic squabbles. He means spoken to this way by a stranger, not a friend or enemy. Someone with no claim to any intimacy that would permit such forwardness. And, of course, he does not count his prey, whose words mean nothing at all.
No. This is different, he decides. He has no interest in sinking his teeth into Rorschach until he's had his fill of his peculiarities first.
"It's bracing," he declares, "But I fear indulging too much might test your patience further, when you've already been so generous with the sharing of your time. Perhaps I should turn myself back to practicalities."
He gestures at his gift of venison: "You're right. How difficult could it be to char some meat? Housewives do it every meal time."
no subject
So far, he hadn't seen that from Lestat, which was an unexpected reaction. He'd thought someone this foppish wouldn't find his company interesting or entertaining at all. Apparently, he'd guessed that one wrong.
He withdrew a little when Lestat pointed out he still had a fair amount of meat to cook up. "Just don't burn down the kitchen." He was serious. They only had the one central cooking area for the entire Community Center and if someone did something stupid it might literally go up in flames.
no subject
"Enjoy your peaceful evening, Mister Rorschach." The implication of solitude in that peace is, he thinks, quite deftly implied. It pairs with the evident sincerity of the wish, and that also even happens to be true. He rarely wishes ill on anyone who hasn't done some thing to deserve it, even if it happens that so many people have done so much to deserve the small and large misfortunes of life that befall them.
He imagines Rorschach might count him as one of those misfortunes. The idea tickles him. Despite the lack of culinary instruction, he'll mark this as an encounter carried off with his typical level of success.
And Louis thinks he isn't charming.