|
Post by Armand on Jan 9, 2009 22:04:44 GMT -5
What an interesting site. One can have as much dripping blood and flying bats and hard-to-read text as one likes.
Also, how do I set this to private? I've had 50 friend requests in the past hour, pretty mortal children who are charming in their enthusiasm but nonetheless not welcome. Thank you, Louis and Lestat, for this small amount of notoriety.
|
|
|
Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on Jan 11, 2009 20:39:26 GMT -5
It doesn't hurt to accept them, not even a prick. [Author's note: Nicolas' got probably a few hundred friends. Just, like, for the record.] Why would The Vampire Armand want a Myspace, if not to encourage such pretty mortal children?
You know, I've come by because I'm in a much more genial mood than I was the other day and had intended to talk of ourselves alone, but I find instead I cannot keep my eyes from the name "Louis" for very long. Do tell me about him. I entreat you.
|
|
|
Post by Armand on Jan 11, 2009 20:57:31 GMT -5
Perhaps I did it for your benefit, Nicolas. It's not very fair of me to be able to drop in on yours whenever I feel like it and not extend the same courtesy, is it.
You said you read, didn't you? What could you want to know of Louis from me when there are so many mentions of him in the novels you can pick up in any bookstore?
|
|
|
Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on Jan 11, 2009 21:48:40 GMT -5
Armand, I want to know your Louis. What he was to you. Not what he thinks he is - he is rather dull in that, you know, and clearly has no idea what a beautiful little monster you are - and certainly not what Lestat thinks. Considering how wrongly he had you down, his Louis is doubtless entirely incorrect. Please tell me. I don't mean it to be rude.
Do you do anything for my benefit? It does please me to hear you suggest it. I wonder how true it is.
|
|
|
Post by Armand on Jan 11, 2009 22:05:06 GMT -5
I wrote of him, once. Or talked of him, to David Talbot, but now I don't remember all that I said. Sweet, dusty Louis, reading Keats by the light of one solitary candle...something like that. He's soft-spoken and gentle, very passive except for that in which he adamently believes, and has the most entrancingly open eyes. He hasn't a notion of the beauty or the power he possesses, or refuses to recognize it, and I don't think you'd be able to resist him were you to meet him, Nicolas, for whatever you say of his dullness.
Why wouldn't I do something for you, Nicolas? I like doing things for you. You should come and see me for that reason alone.
|
|
|
Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on Jan 11, 2009 22:12:16 GMT -5
Armand, I would love to. But you're not just my Armand anymore; you belong to others like this Louis, don't you, on your pretty Island. Can be I quite honest and open with you? I don't want to see any of them. I'm afraid of what they might think of me, of what I will be around them. I like being alone in that I can understand and predict it. And though I can't understand or predict you, you're familiar, and so when I dislike being alone, I like to think of going to you.
If you ever leave them for a weekend, Armand, I'll meet you then.
Besides, I couldn't imagine being unable to resist someone who is really very dull. It would be a terrible thing to acknowledge myself succumbing to. Now, you are not very dull, even if you tease a bit and it gets tiring, and I'm used to giving in, just as I remember giving in when I was a bruised young man in a cage and you were this beautiful cold boy nuzzling against my throat, how even though I thought with each new bruise you made you would kill me, I shivered and let you do it anyway.
My, I'm nostalgic tonight. It's rather enchanting to think nostalgically of you when I haven't seen you for so long and the thought of you existing at the same time as this plastic, magical marvel I am "speaking" to you with makes me laugh.
|
|
|
Post by Armand on Jan 11, 2009 22:40:13 GMT -5
That's simultaneously touching and irritating, Nicolas, that you would feel so. My island is for anyone who would drop by. Curb your jealousy; Louis won't be there, he rarely leaves his books and his house in New Orleans for anyone but Lestat. Are you worried you'll meet Lestat? I can't promise you you won't.
I remember that too. You shivered so deliciously, Nicolas, with such black abandon. And your mind, your soul, so ravaged and bleak- I could taste it.
|
|
|
Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on Jan 12, 2009 15:19:02 GMT -5
And your tastes are strange indeed if my despair and madness are a taste you would now call delicious. But don't be discouraged by that. I wouldn't wish it any other way. You couldn't possibly have known then that the young mortal you drank from would be messaging with you on Myspace, could you, sweet Armand? Does that seem strange to you now, if you reflect on it - do you? Again, mere curiosity, but a burning one.
Nonetheless, I'm hardly jealous. The invitation is becoming tempting. It sounds like a marvelous place. Are there often many lights there? The mortal fondness for light has always endeared me, but they get so colorful, don't they? I am usually more than usually taken with lights.
|
|
|
Post by Armand on Jan 12, 2009 16:12:27 GMT -5
No, I'm not surprised. Anyone could see he would turn you.
Myspace, however, is another matter entirely. The advances mortals have come up with in only a few hundred years are like some strange magic that never ceases to astonish.
Yes, there are lights. The Night Island, from sun-up to sun-down, is flooded with light everywhere. And the sound- televisions broadcast from the walls in dozens of languages, throwing their flashing images into the mix of noise and color from the shops and the people. You could get anything you liked there, Nicolas. If you wanted a new violin, I would get it for you, or a comb, a vase, Persian carpets, clothing. The Night Island stops only at one time, and that is dawn.
Of course, there is one rule which you might have particular trouble following. There is no hunting on Night Island. You must go to Miami or one of the small towns on the coast to feed, or take a boat out to look for smugglers.
|
|
|
Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on Jan 12, 2009 16:41:36 GMT -5
Anyone but me, I suppose. I remember the revelation so clearly, that whatever dark magic he'd gotten into, he'd shared it with the heartless Marquise, and avoided me. As though the jewelry and the clothes made up for his lack. I started going mad then, I think, if I ever went mad at all (and you all seem to think so, don't you?).
Though now I confess, if you suspected that, indeed, Lestat would make me one of you, did that at all affect you when you drank from me? I am being enormously self-centered at the moment; please, please indulge me in it a while.
You are a tempter, aren't you? You're like the devil coming to visit a saint, and I've hardly got a saint's reserve. Of course I want to see it now. I would probably be too overwhelmed to move for an hour or so, but I want. Little brat, aren't you? Such a pretty one, but a brat, if it's all the same to you. And why, may I ask, is there no hunting there?
|
|
|
Post by Armand on Jan 12, 2009 17:02:54 GMT -5
Lestat turned you, and it went badly, as it was bound to do. The blood doesn't subdue madness or pain. It only heightens it, and increases the distance between Maker and fledgling, but Lestat wouldn't believe that. He wanted so badly to fix you. And after turning you his nature was weakened, his bold bravado shattered. And between the heartless mother and the broken lover, he was easier to tempt.
It doesn't really matter anymore, my failure at that. Excepting that, had we not taken you as bait, Lestat might have left you alone until you died.
I don't want any police here. Caution is the key to an uninterrupted existence, Nicolas.
|
|
|
Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on Jan 12, 2009 17:14:05 GMT -5
Do you know - maybe you'll believe this, and maybe you won't - that I had to pause a minute or so and figure out what you meant by police? Of course, it does seem very grim, the thought, and the suspicion of a serial murderer would undoubtedly bring about the end to the neon lights of the Night Island, wouldn't it? I'd behave myself for you, Armand. Do you believe that?
You shouldn't, you know, considering how exceptionally cruel you are. I waited for the fury to strike after your phrase about Lestat, like a delayed reaction, but it hasn't come. Perhaps it never will. Or perhaps it will take a few hours. Sometimes the things you say lodge themselves in my brain like a tumor. I've turned over and over certain sentences from our Facebook conversation, wondering, what could he possibly have meant? If he'd said the words out loud, what tone would he have taken? Not that that is every any indicator of motive with you, but it is some help, undoubtedly.
But, you know. It wouldn't have taken long. When I told you to make the sabbat, it was not the first time I had contemplated suicide. Did you see those images when you drank from me? I wonder how they tasted.
Goodness, I like you terribly this evening. And you're in a much worse mood. If you were in a charming mood I would probably tell you I adored you.
|
|
|
Post by Armand on Jan 12, 2009 17:38:32 GMT -5
No. You've never behaved yourself for me before.
I've told you, haven't I, my little trick? Or if not, you must have heard of it, for all that you read and I certainly informed Louis, although he found it distasteful. When I hunt, I call out for the ones who want to die, and they come, and then I drink. So wonder not what I saw or took from you when you were under the cemetary, but rather, what it meant that you gave in. That you've considered suicide before- don't you think I knew that?
I don't know what you're talking about. I'm not in a bad mood tonight. I'm enjoying this immensely. But as for the charming, no, I don't suppose I'm being charming at all. How delightful that you've found yourself lacking the will to be angry at me.
|
|
|
Post by Nicolas de Lenfent on Jan 12, 2009 21:49:01 GMT -5
I would not call it a lack of will - of course I wouldn't; only you could do that. You really would like me to become angry, wouldn't you? I don't quite understand that impulse. Certainly I've angered you before, but I've never tried to make you angry - not specifically. Perhaps I've longed for a reaction.
Oh, no, haven't I? Not towards the end. But I did. Perhaps you only notice me when I misbehave. I would think someone as perceptive would have noticed that pattern in me by now. If you paid me a little more mind when I was being good, I might want to do it more often.
|
|
|
Post by Armand on Jan 12, 2009 22:46:45 GMT -5
Sometimes, perhaps, but not right now. If I make you angry, you'll stop talking to me, and I'd like to talk to you for a while longer.
I don't know how I could possibly pay you more mind when you're good than I've done in the past. How exactly would you like me to reward you? I don't know what I could ever have given you that would be incentive enough to behave.
|
|