Cœur À Cœur, Sang À Sang

With Celeste, he can always be himself. Be the goofy Maurice that she had fallen in love with, the one that stood steadfast at her side. Leaning his forehead against hers, he lets out a small giggle of his own, leaning in to kiss her nose.

Shopping for presents for one another is certainly hard. After a thousand years, and with the stores of cash they’d accumulated, there isn’t much they didn’t have or hadn’t received and they didn’t eat human food so small treats couldn’t be given. It meant most everything had to be sentimental or meaningful in someway and there were only so many sentimental gifts one could give. Still, they managed it, and whatever they could think up is always appreciated if for nothing else than the thought behind it.

ㅤㅤThere’s a difference between being capricious and overtly cruel merely for the sake of it, one that frequently clouds the judgment of others when it came to the blond, Lestat’s temperament often turning on a dime, the darkest of persuasions during moments of excessive impulse having everlasting effects. The Brat Prince’s name is known among vampires, but the reason varies between respective figures, love and hate forming strange bedfellows dependent on the individual at hand, some explicit in their desires whereas others readied themselves to be wronged. And France, well, it can be its own beast, Paris’s fetid demons still haunting this modern age, unsettled grief and turmoil readily getting out of hand in prior fits of indoctrination  (  il n’a pas de temps à perdre avec ça  ).  Celeste seems unnerved, aureate tresses spilling to the side with a curious cant of his head, iridescent line of vision tracing over her countenance without an ounce of shame nor discretion, a weariness having descended upon her that evokes bygone years  (  il le comprend parfaitement.  ).

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ“ Conclusions, damning as they may be… ”  Visage righting its position, words drift as Lestat distractedly glances away, the soft pitter patter of rain against glass shrouding the distant emergence of an oncoming storm, a flash of lightning lacerating the night sky which can only mean—  He smiles to himself as the inevitably booming thunder rolls in, teeth briefly plucking at his lower lip.  “ …do they not provide clarity regarding the passage of time, the notion of a life lived in the face of stagnation? ”  The blond always looks forwards despite the past forever clawing at his ankles, opposing outlooks from others difficult to reconcile when trying to set his mind to the task, fair brow pinching a touch in contemplation.  “ I say, ”  a pointed nail juts into the air,  “ we become more ourselves the older we become. Memory has its place, but if some are held onto too fervently, much to our detriment, they will encumber us. ”  A dismissive shrug, downturned lips forming a frown in thought.  “ Ask yourself, is what you want? ”

He doesn’t take the change in conversation immediately, and Celeste presses her lips together at the wisdom he passes her way. She’s far older than Lestat, centuries older, but in this instance, she can give him credit where it’s due. But also knew it all already. Celeste even believed that already. Death comes for everything and everyone, and it serves a purpose. But while her mind knows and believes, her heart wants so badly to reject it. Loss cuts her so deeply, right to the very core of her soul, and she’s tasted enough of it to breed a desperation to avoid it. And so far, she’s mostly succeeded. She had lost her parents and sisters as a human a millennium ago ( though her sisters are a recently remembered and still a mostly unprocessed hurt ), plenty of friends throughout the years, and worst and most recent of all, Daisy, her husband’s second progeny and the young woman she’d taken in as a daughter. But she’d managed to protect herself and Maurice for centuries. She’d fought hard, spilled blood, made deals with devils. How could she just accept a coming end now?

She couldn’t. Despite her demure appearance and usually sweet demeanor, Celeste is a fighter at heart and the lives of herself and her husband are things she will never stop fighting for.

But she doesn’t want to think about that. If she thinks about it too much, she will fall apart, and with the danger currently surrounding her husband and his newest progeny ( and perhaps the entire Vampire Nation ), she simply doesn’t have the time or energy to do that. After all, who knows how long it would take to put herself back together again.

The reason for Lestat’s visit is a much safer topic. Well. For her heart anyways. Lestat de Lioncourt is infamous is some circles, and Celeste ( as a part of the very outskirts of some of them ) knows well what he is capable of. The idea of him on a hunt is still frightening in its own way. She doesn’t let that show, though. Instead, she tips her head in a warning look that on her naturally comes off as something similar to a mother chiding her child.

“There may be no official crime against killing here, Lestat, but whatever this hunt of yours is, I suggest you be careful. Things aren’t good right now, vampires are on edge, and you’re still young enough to fear retaliation.”

Her eyes stay fixed on him, following him. She believes him when Lestat says it isn’t her ( What had she ever done to him? And despite her husband’s penchant for trouble, Lestat de Lioncourt was so far not on their list of known enemies. ) but that doesn’t mean his actions won’t make things harder for her and hers. If he creates more unrest somehow…if he threatens the tentative handle Maurice currently has on the political landscape of Vampire North America…

"Magic?"

He let an impish smile spread slowly over his features, implying that he and the foreign stranger were the only two in the room that shared a secret knowledge.

"Magic doesn't exist. At least not here in Lombrica. Perhaps things are different where you come from? Or perhaps you'll have to just wait for the show and see for yourself."

The polite smile that had adorned Celeste’s face grows in an instant, spurred on by the intrigue Dustfinger crafts so finely. She can see why the stories surround him, whether he is truly utilizing something beyond human understanding or not. He knows how to tell a compelling story. But she isn’t human and while magic doesn’t exist the way humans think of it, the supernatural does. She knows that all too well.

Dustfinger isn’t a vampire. She can tell that just by looking at him. Having recently fed before coming here, Celeste’s face is flushed with color but even so, dead blood looks slightly different to eyes as keen as hers and she can feel the warmth radiating off his skin. Dustfinger is definitely living. She had figured that much, though. Vampirism gave them many gifts but his control over fire isn’t one of them.