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
"I share the same thoughts," he affirms (and isn't it so nice and such a relief, to meet someone whose thinking matches his own? Someone who agrees that each choice is a particular horror? That the world around them is wrong, or that a certain individual madness is to blame; it's a fever-dream discomfort that he's existed in for far too long.)
"It makes it exceedingly difficult to know what to trust. One's own mind, the minds of those around.... I have made it a habit to document everything I am able. What's down in writing is a truth that cannot be altered."
Keeping records will make everything all right, surely!
"I should be happy to record anything you might like to keep accurate and precise, as well."
It's rare that Edward Little allows laughter of his own, but there's a touch of mirth to the corners of his own mouth that perhaps bleeds through into his tone as he walks, forced to keep his head straight the deeper in they go, for the crevice is becoming slimmer.
"Have no fear, sir. If anyone here — American or otherwise — gives you trouble, I'll not hesitate to act. It will not be tolerated."
He'll protect you, Lestat... Isn't that nice...
no subject
The lieutenant is a learned man. He surely knows all the old tales of Hades and the dangers of the paths that lead into it. It would be unkind to broach the subject until they've returned to the surface. He would like to learn his opinions on the restless dead one night or another.
"You're too kind," Lestat demurs, and nearly means it, "And here with me having so little to repay that kindness with. I couldn't possibly ask you to keep a journal for me - although, it might not be such a terrible idea to maintain copies of certain things..."
The modernist faith in letters is misplaced, but almost touching. Lieutenant Little must never have met a decent forger. But then again, what sort of wicked soul would be tempted to tamper with his noble record for no cause but their own amusement? Certainly not Lestat, who has no patience for the art of falsification.
"What will you write of our little expedition so far?" He asks, idly curious, observing the breadth of Edward's shoulders. Watching them rise and level out with confidence is an equally idle pleasure, which is how he knows he truly has been in the woods too long. He's never that tantalized by layers. "Cave, damp - company, surprisingly amicable?"
no subject
Is it wise to offer to share such information with someone he's literally just met? But he's clearly very kind and has a good character, and Little can't imagine that anyone could use them for nefarious purposes. (He would, of course, keep them well away from Cornelius Hickey, but surely that devil of a man is a rare breed...)
He keeps creeping along, now having to use the palms of his gloved hands to help scoot himself past a particularly narrow turn here or there — he is very layered, padded with them — and, again, finds himself allowing a quiet smile.
"You have an apt way of putting things, Mr. de Lioncourt. I shall use those exact words." Is he being playful? Edward Little, playing around a bit? "And you clearly have a skill with socialising." It's a valued trait when and where he's from; knowing how to hold conversation is something kept in regard, and men are scorned for failing at it. So it stands out to him, this light-hearted individual who makes conversation seem so easy, and he is happy to offer praise for it. "Might I ask, what did you do before your arrival here?"