There's not much for a realmless killer to do when bored other than spectate. And Lestat does, happily. Sometimes he's alone as he watches trials play out. Silent, studying not just his fellow killer but the opposing survivor, too. The egotistical demean them. The foolish underestimate them. But the reality of the modern survivor is that they can be as devious, tricky, and cruel in this game as any Killer. What they lack in weapon or mystical power they make up for with strategy, deceit, and downright vulgar gestures.
Like this, he feels like an idle god. Bored and banished with nothing better to do than watch. His little viewing parties weren't always a solitary affair, however— sometimes he was joined by his brother in homelessness. The Ghostface. Danny Johnson.
Perhaps the only Killer with enough brains and educated humor to match Lestat in wit (sans Hannibal, of course), His commentary oozed with just the right amounts of humor and enthuse that make any good Emcee. Danny turned a bleak place of study into a party worthy of wine and song. With him, Lestat is no longer a wayward god on his cloud studying earth upon his cloud. The trial grounds are a Colosseum, and they are Roman noblety.
He did not find Danny today. It was probably for the best. As Lestat helped himself to Hannibal's third ever trial alone, he didn't study, he didn't joke. He just watched with a familiar ache in his gut as Hannibal approached undetected and injured with unsuspected brutality. He was no god judging the acts of man, nor was he a great roman indulging in the hedonism of blood sport. He was just a man who once knew another man, torn between the pain of trying to learn him again or forgetting the feeling of his attention completely.
Hannibal does wonderfully in trial. That surprises none.
Lestat is there, just outside the massive expanse of the end goal when Hannibal exits. He greets with a smile.
" My. What a rude bunch. You'd think dying endlessly would have humbled them. "
