#desanctii

"That's not a role model. Boy, you want a coven leader who likes you."

Ever since waking up that evening, Daniel had felt thirsty. He had stopped by a fountain and drunken eagerly and when he'd walked away, somehow he was more parched than before. The bottle of liquor he purchased somehow ended up empty and abandoned. It hadn't done a thing to sate him either.

This thirst, it was eclipsing everything else. He felt it burning in his throat, down to his stomach. Overtaking every thought.

When he was next able to regain awareness, his unwashed hair was matted to his forehead and his fingers ached from how tightly they were tangled up in the chain he wore around his neck, holding on to the vial of Blood. The only tangible proof he was left with at times like these, when he'd long lost track of his wallet and any other belongings and even the clothes he wore were far removed from anything that had been bought for him specifically.

Might as well be lost entirely. Perhaps he was. Daniel felt the roughness of the brick, his hands touching the wall he'd been leaning against. He got to his feet, unsure when he'd sat down, and he staggered away.

Did he have any coins left? Could he find a phone box and place the call? Did he want to?

Prolonging the game knowing that his hand hadn't been swapped. Still losing. Might as well fold already.

In the end, he stopped near a phone box. A car honked several times and finally lightly nudged him, accompanied by the driver's angry cursing. He took a few steps forward, only enough to get off the road and to then lean against the wall closest to the phone box.

Habitually, he gives a small easy-mannered laugh, devoid of unkindness or any sort of malice.

The deep chilly gaze of the elder one has shaken some good sense back into him, the expression crossing his face a little reticent, however curious. The great power of this one is near tangible, much like that of the age-hardened Children of the Millennia. Even with the proliferated strength afforded him by the blood of the First Brood, Lestat seems a mere fledgling by comparison; a child of that aforementioned bygone age when the cities had fallen to chaos, and the revolt had darkened this very same threshold, taking the lives of his brothers.

Yes, he remembers Santino well enough, from the annals of Marius's memoir and the brief weeks spent secluded at the old Night Island; He'd played quiet congenial games of chess with Armand in those precious nights. On the night of Akasha's demise, Lestat had seen the abject horror on his face as she'd cruelly recounted all account of his misdeeds. He'd suffered a great loss in his dear companion Eric, hadn't he? Suffered far more, just as greatly. What despair, to endure such pain.

Forgive me, I'm being a perfect fool. The thought comes suddenly, and he does not know if the other has heard it.