As more days passed, he regained some feeling in his hands, able to move his fingers and toes. As weeks passed, he had surfaced like some wretched nightmare, nothing of the former valor and beauty he had before. He had nearly lost all hope, thought to float in this swamp until whatever God it was that had damned him to this life would finally end this torture and take it, when he managed his first kill since his ‘death.’ It was a small alligator with skin that was thick and hard to pierce and Lestat was astounded with the strength he showed wrestling the creature, using his sharp, glass-like nails to rip and tear at it’s scaly flesh until hope! Blood, rich and thick and the most delicious of any he had remembered in centuries and he left not a drop in the creature, letting it’s vile essence fill his veins.
More days passed like this, waiting and ambushing swamp animals and as strength began to return to him, so did his mind. He had died in that swamp, however long ago it was now. He had been savagely murdered by the two things he loved more than anything on this earth; more than himself. Perhaps the God he cursed every hour, minute, second of his torturous life in the swamp had graced him with this—a rebirth. Oh, and papa wasn’t happy.
He managed to gather enough strength to return himself to the rue, bewitching a human to help him which was probably the hardest task since he left the swamp. He did not look as he had before. Weeks and weeks in the dirty water had made his skin a sicklier shade of white than it usually did with bulging blue veins that covered nearly every inch of him and he was horrified at the grotesque nature of his image. But this was a stepping stone, he was concerned with getting his affairs in order and of all the phone calls he made, the first was to a dear, old friend. After all, Lestat was not stupid. He was well aware where a creature of habit goes, and a creature of habit returns to whence it came and the creature of habit he had in mind was, beyond a reasonable doubt, in Paris.
Armand was not willing, either. Lestat, in a fit of self-proclaimed lunacy practically begged on knee for Armand to help him; he was not strong enough, he had been wronged, Armand knew the rules. They were not allowed to kill each other. Claudia had broken many rules. She herself was a broken rule and above all the she-devil would pay for taking him away; Lestat's most prized possession and he was no more than that. A stolen thing. A poor misguided puppy, deluded with treats and attention— Louis… Louis could be forgiven. He had not held the knife, he had not commanded Claudia to slice his master’s throat. Louis was a poor, pitiful tool. Beautiful, broken, desperate. Lestat understood this, or so he thought and make him suffer in the same way he had. He would watch the thing he held most dear taken away by a foreign devil. He would watch as Claudia met her demise before his eyes.
This was the perfect plan. Like God was merciful to him, he would appear merciful to Louis. He was removing the one thing that stood between his love and him. This reborn Lestat, birthed from the murky bowels of the swamp Louis and Claudia damned him to, he would show them. He’d show them and they’d love him. They’d finally fucking love him.
(third person sample taken from an old Polychromatic app I wrote in 07 :|;;)
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More days passed like this, waiting and ambushing swamp animals and as strength began to return to him, so did his mind. He had died in that swamp, however long ago it was now. He had been savagely murdered by the two things he loved more than anything on this earth; more than himself. Perhaps the God he cursed every hour, minute, second of his torturous life in the swamp had graced him with this—a rebirth. Oh, and papa wasn’t happy.
He managed to gather enough strength to return himself to the rue, bewitching a human to help him which was probably the hardest task since he left the swamp. He did not look as he had before. Weeks and weeks in the dirty water had made his skin a sicklier shade of white than it usually did with bulging blue veins that covered nearly every inch of him and he was horrified at the grotesque nature of his image. But this was a stepping stone, he was concerned with getting his affairs in order and of all the phone calls he made, the first was to a dear, old friend. After all, Lestat was not stupid. He was well aware where a creature of habit goes, and a creature of habit returns to whence it came and the creature of habit he had in mind was, beyond a reasonable doubt, in Paris.
Armand was not willing, either. Lestat, in a fit of self-proclaimed lunacy practically begged on knee for Armand to help him; he was not strong enough, he had been wronged, Armand knew the rules. They were not allowed to kill each other. Claudia had broken many rules. She herself was a broken rule and above all the she-devil would pay for taking him away; Lestat's most prized possession and he was no more than that. A stolen thing. A poor misguided puppy, deluded with treats and attention— Louis… Louis could be forgiven. He had not held the knife, he had not commanded Claudia to slice his master’s throat. Louis was a poor, pitiful tool. Beautiful, broken, desperate. Lestat understood this, or so he thought and make him suffer in the same way he had. He would watch the thing he held most dear taken away by a foreign devil. He would watch as Claudia met her demise before his eyes.
This was the perfect plan. Like God was merciful to him, he would appear merciful to Louis. He was removing the one thing that stood between his love and him. This reborn Lestat, birthed from the murky bowels of the swamp Louis and Claudia damned him to, he would show them. He’d show them and they’d love him. They’d finally fucking love him.
(third person sample taken from an old Polychromatic app I wrote in 07 :|;;)
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