Wasted on them both. Lestat salutes, and drinks deeply.
No pleasure crosses his face, of course, not about to feign it. The glass is set aside, considering the fragmented path of pain that follows Daryl Dixon from the wilds of post-apocalyptic Georgia to this room in the catacombs of Paris, the echoes of voices, friends gained and lost. Blood spilled. A lot of blood spilled.
Impressive to kill vampires. Useful to dispatch the walkers. Fascinating to sense the warm bodies that Monsieur Dixon has put in the ground to get to where he is, the more-or-less untainted blood spilled into the earth.
"And now you know," Lestat says. "And you have found new lambs to shepherd through the wilderness. What is it you wish for them exactly?"
They can still hear the music a little—to Daryl's ears, just the bones of it, a deep thrum of a beat. To Lestat's, a full melody. It isn't quiet, just muffled, and when he tips his head, it's to half-listen to the current set as he watches Daryl.
no subject
No pleasure crosses his face, of course, not about to feign it. The glass is set aside, considering the fragmented path of pain that follows Daryl Dixon from the wilds of post-apocalyptic Georgia to this room in the catacombs of Paris, the echoes of voices, friends gained and lost. Blood spilled. A lot of blood spilled.
Impressive to kill vampires. Useful to dispatch the walkers. Fascinating to sense the warm bodies that Monsieur Dixon has put in the ground to get to where he is, the more-or-less untainted blood spilled into the earth.
"And now you know," Lestat says. "And you have found new lambs to shepherd through the wilderness. What is it you wish for them exactly?"
They can still hear the music a little—to Daryl's ears, just the bones of it, a deep thrum of a beat. To Lestat's, a full melody. It isn't quiet, just muffled, and when he tips his head, it's to half-listen to the current set as he watches Daryl.