Lestat is quiet, in the wake of that question. Not because he is reticent. If he didn't want someone to talk to, he wouldn't have left his collapse at the door.
Only that it is difficult to define, especially with a penchant for speaking in prose. He feels like wooden splinters and snapped piano strings. Like an alarm that won't stop. Like the steadfast walls and boarded up windows against a hurricane, but from the outside. Little claw pinpricks into the fabric of the upholstery.
"Bad," finally. That about covers it.
His eyeline settles on the sheen of Daniel's laptop, which is about level, and winds around his internal, innate sense of Louis in the building, which is a collection of things. His scent, his heart beat, and something else less precise but even more distinct. Finds himself holding onto it like a fishing wire.
"He didn't wish to speak to me, I think. I got in a little while ago."
no subject
Only that it is difficult to define, especially with a penchant for speaking in prose. He feels like wooden splinters and snapped piano strings. Like an alarm that won't stop. Like the steadfast walls and boarded up windows against a hurricane, but from the outside. Little claw pinpricks into the fabric of the upholstery.
"Bad," finally. That about covers it.
His eyeline settles on the sheen of Daniel's laptop, which is about level, and winds around his internal, innate sense of Louis in the building, which is a collection of things. His scent, his heart beat, and something else less precise but even more distinct. Finds himself holding onto it like a fishing wire.
"He didn't wish to speak to me, I think. I got in a little while ago."