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Post by Armand on Jan 2, 2009 1:44:15 GMT -5
No need to be jealous. You'll always retain a special place in my heart. Now isn't that frightening?
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Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on Jan 2, 2009 16:39:20 GMT -5
Eh. I'm sure you have worse organs. I shouldn't like for you to retain me in your small intestine. I only hope you have room for me - how many little vampires have been tricked into residing there over the decades?
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Post by Armand on Jan 2, 2009 19:20:45 GMT -5
Not as many as you might think. I destroy little vampires more often than I treasure them.
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Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on Jan 3, 2009 14:12:20 GMT -5
Ah, so it's just they that treasure you. I'm sure you were near and dear to many in that old cemetery, weren't you? Who can hold a torch to your loveliness?
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Post by Armand on Jan 3, 2009 16:04:12 GMT -5
Nicolas, you are too modest. Vampire or human, you were always very beautiful. How was it that Lestat put it, so shockingly direct- taut flesh through the torn lace, the scent, the heat? Those dizzy verses on the sweat staining your belt and your desperate futile rage- believe me when I say that anyone who read his book could not have resisted you.
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Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on Jan 3, 2009 16:15:13 GMT -5
I think of that less as beauty and more as a very odd fetish. Still, if my torn-lace-wearing raving has earned Lestat's paeans of praise - and lord knows what sorts of things Lestat likes - I truly think he has outdone himself in his prose poems about you. It sends me into violent laughter when you walk into the church and he momentarily thinks that you are me. Not even close. Choirboy, doesn't he call you? - well, I can see it.
I told you, I read.
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Post by Armand on Jan 3, 2009 16:21:23 GMT -5
Does he confuse me for you? I don't remember that. Then again, I skipped the majority of it when he began to wax poetic on a candleflame or his own jacket or my hair. Lestat's dramatics wear tiresome very shortly after they begin.
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Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on Jan 3, 2009 16:30:51 GMT -5
I suppose it's different, when you knew him. He was always like that. I can only imagine how the loss of sunlight must have pained him. The sunlight on the violin board, on velvet, on Gabrielle's jewels, in his eyes - he never tired of it. If he goes to excesses now, I should think it's only because he tries in vain to reclaim the effect of the sunlight.
Oh, dear Armand, certainly you must have skipped all that. I would have, too, when there are so many more interesting things to read about - like what a little bitch you are. What a tragic mistake. Almost as great a disaster as I apparently was!
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Post by Armand on Jan 4, 2009 16:55:39 GMT -5
Oh, I know what you're referring to now. Ouch. That was...how do the mortals say it?...a "low blow?" But Nicolas, it's not the reference that pains me- haven't you any respect? Your sharp words, they hurt me. If anything, we should cleave together...you were denied the blood and maddened by the mystery, abandoned, left, locked up and starved and taken from you was the most precious thing until you were fanatical and enraged. Just like me.
Except without the hand thing. No one ever wants to mar the beauty. Oh, and the bit where you lost your mind and have never since seemed to regain it- I don't think I've ever lost my composure quite like you. Actually, the longer I think on it the less sensible it seems- we're not at all alike.
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Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on Jan 4, 2009 18:09:16 GMT -5
Oh, my dear, you mustn't ask me. I never know what they're saying. I haven't even got the faintest idea what "low blow" means.
I do believe your composure - if that is what you're calling it; I might be inclined to use "repression" myself - is precisely the thing that sets you apart from me. Though I think that, try as you might, you have always understood my worldview and Weltschmerz more than you have grasped Lestat's optimism and belief in the goodness of the world. Had it been me with the preternatural blood in my veins, driven into your cemetery, I would have submitted entirely to your Old Ways. You know it's true. It's why you've always wanted him, I fancy, because he's found you so resistable. Beyond the brief moments in which your witchery worked. You've never done that to me, have you? If so, perhaps I shouldn't ask. It's sort of embarrassing to think I've never noticed.
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Post by Armand on Jan 4, 2009 18:16:31 GMT -5
There's never been the slightest reason for me to do so to you. Whatever I wanted from you, I could take- or be given.
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Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on Jan 4, 2009 18:21:03 GMT -5
Oh, good. Fabo, as they say. Do they say? I was beginning to be worried that I was particularly easy to beguile. Positively refreshed the screen every few moments waiting for your response.
I'm not that generous, am I?
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Post by Armand on Jan 4, 2009 18:33:33 GMT -5
As we've already established, tone is so difficult to judge over a computer. Although I think that was sarcasm, it's interesting to find that I could believe such a thing of you. It seems like such a intense, manic thing to do, that is, sitting with your nose to the computer refreshing over and over and over again...
I really couldn't say. There's never been anything about you I might want.
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Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on Jan 4, 2009 19:33:05 GMT -5
I'm overjoyed you could think so. I wasn't sarcastic. But my nose was hardly touching the screen. I'm not quite such an idiot as to imagine I could see on the other side if only I squinted hard enough.
That's really what I was thinking. And your attempts to enforce a code of rules have always come to naught. Though I believe I have given you things, now that you have brought it up, I can't think that any of them were things you wanted. Perhaps they were. Your desires are particularly difficult for me to judge.
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Post by Armand on Jan 4, 2009 19:50:07 GMT -5
If I did tell you what I desired, doubtless you'd have something biting to say about it, or would feel obligated to change my mind.
Case in point; this conversation.
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