[ Lestat de Lioncourt is in Caiyi. It's a carefully chosen little respite, with rivers that remind him of almost of the river Seine and her tributaries. The scenery is vastly different but still beautiful, breathtaking, even, and Lestat doesn't regret it. He needed to escape, needed to flee Paris, needed to be away from the Theatre, Armand, the things that have happened. Not to flee, but instead to be reborn; to renew and rejuvenate himself and this place with its crowds and its beautiful lotus flowers floating along the river's edge and the soft silks and aroma of spices, this would be his chance to do just that. It's the furthest thing away from his troubles.
And so he is here, and the city is large enough and has enough foreigners that while people gawk and stare, they allow him to rent a room. Lestat is managing to learn what little of the language he can, although his money speaks louder than his words could ever.
Caiyi is a safe place to stay, if for the moment, to get his bearings about him. And so he stays for a few weeks, careful to take out undesirables and always taking care of the bodies as best as he can, careful not to rock the metaphorical boat until he's ready to leave for either a different place on the continent or, if he grows bored, make for the New World.
He finds himself lost in the architecture of the place often, hypnotized by the curving arc of the roofs, the gentle slants of the circular windows. The stained glass of Paris is illuminating, magical, but there is charm in this little place, too. Like the music he hears. Strings from the air, plucked notes floating through the darkened sky, and Lestat at once cocks his head to the side and rises from where he'd been in mid-conversation with his next meal, a foreign man named Alex who had been so relieved to see his blonde hair he bought him a drink that even now remains untouched.
He doesn't matter. Not anymore. Nothing does except those notes, and it's imparitive that he finds the source of the music. Lestat follows it on the wind, elegant in his walk though he finds most folk give him wide berth, most likely do to his paler skin and different physique, and in a matter of moments he finds himself at a teashop watching a white-vieled person play so magnificently, so beautifully, that Lestat finds himself absolutely stunned and near tears.
(There's something, a feeling, strangely calm for an unsettled, undead heart. Not peace but something similar; calm, maybe, something Lestat has never truly felt, not for a long time.)
He claps once the other finishes the song, loud, pointed, absolutely beaming as he takes a step forward. ]
C'est magnicifique, mon petit choux. Vraiment beau.
[ It doesn't matter that the other might not understand him. He's reaching inside his pocket for a coins of a rather hefty amount, eyes alight with wonder. ]
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And so he is here, and the city is large enough and has enough foreigners that while people gawk and stare, they allow him to rent a room. Lestat is managing to learn what little of the language he can, although his money speaks louder than his words could ever.
Caiyi is a safe place to stay, if for the moment, to get his bearings about him. And so he stays for a few weeks, careful to take out undesirables and always taking care of the bodies as best as he can, careful not to rock the metaphorical boat until he's ready to leave for either a different place on the continent or, if he grows bored, make for the New World.
He finds himself lost in the architecture of the place often, hypnotized by the curving arc of the roofs, the gentle slants of the circular windows. The stained glass of Paris is illuminating, magical, but there is charm in this little place, too. Like the music he hears. Strings from the air, plucked notes floating through the darkened sky, and Lestat at once cocks his head to the side and rises from where he'd been in mid-conversation with his next meal, a foreign man named Alex who had been so relieved to see his blonde hair he bought him a drink that even now remains untouched.
He doesn't matter. Not anymore. Nothing does except those notes, and it's imparitive that he finds the source of the music. Lestat follows it on the wind, elegant in his walk though he finds most folk give him wide berth, most likely do to his paler skin and different physique, and in a matter of moments he finds himself at a teashop watching a white-vieled person play so magnificently, so beautifully, that Lestat finds himself absolutely stunned and near tears.
(There's something, a feeling, strangely calm for an unsettled, undead heart. Not peace but something similar; calm, maybe, something Lestat has never truly felt, not for a long time.)
He claps once the other finishes the song, loud, pointed, absolutely beaming as he takes a step forward. ]
C'est magnicifique, mon petit choux. Vraiment beau.
[ It doesn't matter that the other might not understand him. He's reaching inside his pocket for a coins of a rather hefty amount, eyes alight with wonder. ]
Encore?