[ "There are worse things out tonight than vampires."
As it turns out, Lestat is (shockingly) not the only vampire out here this evening to have come to just that very conclusion: that these conditions simply could not be any more perfect, any more opportune, for partaking in the customary revelry of a hunt.
Tonight, it would seem, now officially belongs to the predatorsβ to all those hunters and ghouls who've been gathered here alongside their would-be quarry almost as their equals within this pointless captivity.
It does still remain to be seen, however, whether or not these bloodthirsty Unseelie beings truly could, somehow, be worse than vampires; so few things ever are, but perhaps Armand's eagerness to hunt is also somewhat blinding him against taking them more seriously as a threat.
Their appearance feels almost serendipitous, if anything: the perfect shield behind which to consume his fill without needing to spare much thought towards being discovered. To even entertain the notion that any of the attacks occurring (and those still yet to occur, because after all, the night has only just begun) tonight could have come at the hands of anything other than this unholy litter of monsters currently roaming the maze like minotaurs, would clearly be the very height of paranoid, superstitious foolishnessβ a veritable modern day witch-hunt, even.
Armand is so unconcerned about being caught out that he might as well have already gotten away with it, so of course it's only natural he should thereafter immediately end up crossing paths with someone unexpectedly... or at least it might have been, were he human, but unless they're asleep, vampires are almost impossible to sneak up on, which means he should have been able to hear them coming easily.
Why didn't he, then?
Upon turning, Armand thinks at first β assumes, hopes, dreads β what he's seeing must only be an illusion, because after all, the Fae are well-known for being shapeshifters, are they not? And he surely can't really be staring at who it now looks like is standing there, surely not, when all this time he's been here... alone.
It's the cruelest possible mockery of wishful thinking, yet still he knows better than to truly believe that this man who he's staring down wildly could be anyone other than Lestat: the man, myth, and legend himself, right here in the flesh and blood. The senses don't lieβ Armand feels his presence there as strongly as he always has; he can hear him now, faintly, as one hears a voice coming from another room, or the indistinct crackle of a distant radio playing; he smells him on the air, sharp and spiced like perfume or wine or blood, like the tinny edge of static building up before a storm; and so many other things, countless things, big and small and horribly, magnificently familiar, of which Armand feels certain not even the most accomplished of changelings could ever imitate.
Armand is rarely found at a loss for words (so savor this moment while you can, Lestat) but has remained as completely still and silent as a painting, eyes blazing like lanterns in the growing darkness. Then he simply bares his fangs, though not as a threat so much as a means to convey that they've both entered the maze for much the same reason. ]
ii. IN THE MAZE πππ
As it turns out, Lestat is (shockingly) not the only vampire out here this evening to have come to just that very conclusion: that these conditions simply could not be any more perfect, any more opportune, for partaking in the customary revelry of a hunt.
Tonight, it would seem, now officially belongs to the predatorsβ to all those hunters and ghouls who've been gathered here alongside their would-be quarry almost as their equals within this pointless captivity.
It does still remain to be seen, however, whether or not these bloodthirsty Unseelie beings truly could, somehow, be worse than vampires; so few things ever are, but perhaps Armand's eagerness to hunt is also somewhat blinding him against taking them more seriously as a threat.
Their appearance feels almost serendipitous, if anything: the perfect shield behind which to consume his fill without needing to spare much thought towards being discovered. To even entertain the notion that any of the attacks occurring (and those still yet to occur, because after all, the night has only just begun) tonight could have come at the hands of anything other than this unholy litter of monsters currently roaming the maze like minotaurs, would clearly be the very height of paranoid, superstitious foolishnessβ a veritable modern day witch-hunt, even.
Armand is so unconcerned about being caught out that he might as well have already gotten away with it, so of course it's only natural he should thereafter immediately end up crossing paths with someone unexpectedly... or at least it might have been, were he human, but unless they're asleep, vampires are almost impossible to sneak up on, which means he should have been able to hear them coming easily.
Why didn't he, then?
Upon turning, Armand thinks at first β assumes, hopes, dreads β what he's seeing must only be an illusion, because after all, the Fae are well-known for being shapeshifters, are they not? And he surely can't really be staring at who it now looks like is standing there, surely not, when all this time he's been here... alone.
It's the cruelest possible mockery of wishful thinking, yet still he knows better than to truly believe that this man who he's staring down wildly could be anyone other than Lestat: the man, myth, and legend himself, right here in the flesh and blood. The senses don't lieβ Armand feels his presence there as strongly as he always has; he can hear him now, faintly, as one hears a voice coming from another room, or the indistinct crackle of a distant radio playing; he smells him on the air, sharp and spiced like perfume or wine or blood, like the tinny edge of static building up before a storm; and so many other things, countless things, big and small and horribly, magnificently familiar, of which Armand feels certain not even the most accomplished of changelings could ever imitate.
Armand is rarely found at a loss for words (so savor this moment while you can, Lestat) but has remained as completely still and silent as a painting, eyes blazing like lanterns in the growing darkness. Then he simply bares his fangs, though not as a threat so much as a means to convey that they've both entered the maze for much the same reason. ]