Burned badly, hurt badly, but she escaped. Survived. Crawled into hiding on one side of the Atlantic and kept crawling.
Stood up and run into the shadows on the other side of the ocean.
Claudia lives as a haunting. A ghost story. She reaches for no vampire contact, fearing it will get back to Armand, to Lestat, and they will hunt her down. She despises her life, her limitations, but she wants to live. She takes her victims carefully, carefully as she can, her hunger balanced precariously with her fear.
She reads Louis’s public confessional, appalled and amused at his honesty, at the lies. And yet if that is what he believes, what Lestat and Armand believe… Dead she was, and dead she remains: flitting through the night, careful not to linger too long, even if she wants to toy with her victims.
She pauses for a moment on the street, glistening with rain, stooping to pick up a discarded boquet: drooping mums, half-crushed. Funeral scent in her tiny hands: oh, she misses the flowers, the drawing room in New Orleans overflowing with cut and potted flowers.
All of three feet tall with her blond curls twisted back into a neat chignon, a tidy cream blouse with a fall of lace at the throat, a pleated periwinkle skirt that falls to her ankles, tiny boots. Clothes oddly grown for her stature, for her little pale Kewpie-doll face with enormous dark blue eyes.
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Daniel & Claudia
Date: 2024-07-11 10:03 am (UTC)Despite all Armand had tried, she hadn’t died.
Burned badly, hurt badly, but she escaped. Survived. Crawled into hiding on one side of the Atlantic and kept crawling.
Stood up and run into the shadows on the other side of the ocean.
Claudia lives as a haunting. A ghost story. She reaches for no vampire contact, fearing it will get back to Armand, to Lestat, and they will hunt her down. She despises her life, her limitations, but she wants to live. She takes her victims carefully, carefully as she can, her hunger balanced precariously with her fear.
She reads Louis’s public confessional, appalled and amused at his honesty, at the lies. And yet if that is what he believes, what Lestat and Armand believe… Dead she was, and dead she remains: flitting through the night, careful not to linger too long, even if she wants to toy with her victims.
She pauses for a moment on the street, glistening with rain, stooping to pick up a discarded boquet: drooping mums, half-crushed. Funeral scent in her tiny hands: oh, she misses the flowers, the drawing room in New Orleans overflowing with cut and potted flowers.
All of three feet tall with her blond curls twisted back into a neat chignon, a tidy cream blouse with a fall of lace at the throat, a pleated periwinkle skirt that falls to her ankles, tiny boots. Clothes oddly grown for her stature, for her little pale Kewpie-doll face with enormous dark blue eyes.