An island in Greece. The mountains in southern Germany. The coasts of Turkey. It's fruitless, ultimately, and the murders that happen there are lost in the overwhelming churn of global news, if they even break containment into the local kind.
Armand is precise, using the kind of seamless anonymity his wealth can provide him, sparing no expense because there's no point otherwise. His arrangements are meticulous, every detail in its place, and becoming a ghost in the memories of any human staff he might require for this and that, of which there are few. He is very good at managing his life.
Good enough he doesn't have to think about it. Good enough that he doesn't have to think at all.
Now and then, the shiver of tension, the cord strung between himself and one other. He thinks he would know if it snapped, but then, Lestat and Louis had been so stupid about all of that, so perhaps it's an illusion. An illusion when the cord shivers. An illusion when he can, so gently that it never trembles, hold onto it.
His search is a distraction. What would he even do, if he found Marius de Romanus? Besides requesting his judgment.
Vampires dead in south America. Forged paperwork, hotel bookings, the occasional image leaking out into common social media. He knows enough to know that Daniel is not heeding him. You know I'd give two seconds of consideration and realize I'd just be Claudia, and yet, he tags along with the two lovers. Or they tag along with him. Louis is as good a follower as he is poor a joiner, and what Armand remembers of the tattered condition of Lestat's mind when last he touched it casts doubt on him being the driving force of this trio—
All the same. Annoying.
He ignores the tugging at their bond, anyway. Daniel will have to do better than that.
no subject
An island in Greece. The mountains in southern Germany. The coasts of Turkey. It's fruitless, ultimately, and the murders that happen there are lost in the overwhelming churn of global news, if they even break containment into the local kind.
Armand is precise, using the kind of seamless anonymity his wealth can provide him, sparing no expense because there's no point otherwise. His arrangements are meticulous, every detail in its place, and becoming a ghost in the memories of any human staff he might require for this and that, of which there are few. He is very good at managing his life.
Good enough he doesn't have to think about it. Good enough that he doesn't have to think at all.
Now and then, the shiver of tension, the cord strung between himself and one other. He thinks he would know if it snapped, but then, Lestat and Louis had been so stupid about all of that, so perhaps it's an illusion. An illusion when the cord shivers. An illusion when he can, so gently that it never trembles, hold onto it.
His search is a distraction. What would he even do, if he found Marius de Romanus? Besides requesting his judgment.
Vampires dead in south America. Forged paperwork, hotel bookings, the occasional image leaking out into common social media. He knows enough to know that Daniel is not heeding him. You know I'd give two seconds of consideration and realize I'd just be Claudia, and yet, he tags along with the two lovers. Or they tag along with him. Louis is as good a follower as he is poor a joiner, and what Armand remembers of the tattered condition of Lestat's mind when last he touched it casts doubt on him being the driving force of this trio—
All the same. Annoying.
He ignores the tugging at their bond, anyway. Daniel will have to do better than that.