âYou know when I said I knew little about love? That wasnât true. I know a lot about love.â
âI believe that. Somehow, Alice, I think you might know more about love than any of us.â
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#iwtv#interview with the vampire#the vampire armand#amc tvl#assad zaman

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âYou know when I said I knew little about love? That wasnât true. I know a lot about love.â
âI believe that. Somehow, Alice, I think you might know more about love than any of us.â
((Iâll add icons or something later))

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   His experience with ghosts and other spirits was limited, albeit enlightening. Some were stuck in loops of sorts, unaware of their own demise. Some were all too aware of their demise and were out for blood.
   Others, well⊠others were somewhere between the two; gentle spirits who were aware of their fate and merely flitted around without having moved on to the great beyond. The latter was a type he had no experience with prior to tonight, and so he had no way of knowing if what was about to occur was a usual occurrence or not. Surely he hadnât seen anything of the sort written anywhere in his research, but perhaps people didnât like other people prying into their personal information, as personal information is what was shared quite without his permission.
   The conversation was normal, if ânormalâ could be applied to a conversation between a ghost and a necrothologist. Perhaps it could be, all things considered. After all, it was closer to the ânormalâ definition of necromancy( what the young man was beginning to aspire to), that of a person who communicated with the dead to tell the future. The latter part could be ignored, of course, but the former was currentlyâand quite oftenâtrue.Â
   And so the two of them were in the dark library. It was storming, because that was often the way of things. Somehow during a strike of lightning the spirit ended up closer to him than she had been before the blinding flash, and he could briefly feel the strange brush-that-wasnât-a-brush of her hand against his arm before his consciousness was hurled into blackness and roughly expelled a few years back into a memory he tried to bury.
   The run to the river was mindless and senseless, a desperate sprint that used all the energy he didnât know he had. His brother was running beside him, calling out to him to stop, to slow down, to do something else other than run blindly into town for what awaited him.
   He didnât listen.
   He saw the crowd first, a small and growing quiet gathering of people near the bridge that crossed the flowing water. There were men in the water, not caring that their trousers were getting soaked. They were pulling something from the waterâno, not something, he knew, but someone. He was aware that he was beginning to shake, his vision tunneling with darkness as he looked at the pale figure being gently dragged onto solid land.
   He was aware of the shocked whispers and glances to him without being aware as he pushed through the crowd. Was he crying? He may have been crying. He couldnât tell. He couldnât feel or be aware of anything except her, lying there on the grass, her skin with a deathly pallor, her gold curls wet and clinging, her summer dress ruined.Â
   He was kneeling now, his hands shaking over her as though he was afraid to touch her. His vision was blurry, but that was only the tears. A hand touched his backâhis brother, some part of his mind told himâ and he jerked away. The hand was on his arm now, a firmer grip around his shoulders meant to be comforting but only feeling suffocating. A voice nearby said softly, âIâm sorry, Johannes,â but he merely shook his head and jerked away then.
âNo,â he said sharply, both within and without the memory. He was back in the library, his hands shaking as they had been those few years ago, his cheeks wet with tears. Johannes stubbornly wiped the tears away with the back of his hand and looked accusingly at the spirit. âWhat did you do?â he asked lowly. He wasnât sure if it had been done on purpose, whatever it was, but he didnât like it.
âSoulscapeâ
âWild flowers, and sweet grass as far as the eye can see. Gentle sunlight, like a summer morning, and a river of iced jasmine milk tea, flowing down banks of polished sandstone. in the sky you can still see the night, fading stars and whips of the universe and you believe looking at them that magic is real. Sometimes, there are butterflies. Small ones. Always white, always in groups, coming up suddenly and swirling into the sky. Breezes come and go, and small brown birds that chirp, and blanket under a shade tree for resting, and shadows hiding in the bark where no one looks, and no one sees.â
ghostsince1738 replied to your post://Do you guys ever wonder if youâre going to...
At college the place we get work/homework is called the hub. Sometimes in class we randomly start chanting âpraise the hubâ. Freaks out our lecturer. None of us quite know when or where we started it. Cults spring up when you least expect it.
//thaaaaaaaaat sounds about right.
I helped my little sister start a fake cult like that for an English project. The cult of the GPA.
@ghostsince1738 || continued from here.
He was aware the question seemed to actually have two possible meanings. Hal knew Alice could have possibly been asking about his thoughts on those he had killed, but he went with the less painful option instead and guessed she was referring to his thoughts on whether his friends were in some sort of afterlife.
âYes, you do have a point. But I also know for a fact there are horrible things on the other side. Every person who is transformed into a vampire always see men with sticks and rope before they awaken from the transformation.â

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