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@clairguyant
𝙲𝙻𝙰𝙸𝚁𝙶𝚄𝚈𝙰𝙽𝚃 ; an independent, selective portrayal of GUY ANATOLE from amc's TALMASCA : THE SECRET ORDER. based in anne rice's vampire chronicles universe. show compliant / headcanon based as episodes come out. penned by soph ( 24 / she+her / gmt ) est. 10/25 personals dni please! [ in the process of revamping ]
carrd - tunes - board - memes
[ BLOG STILL UNDER CONSTRUCTION ]
@clairguyant went looking for trouble & found it.
the bar is nearly empty by the hour he chooses. it’s an old, low-ceilinged thing, obnoxiously “retro”, nestled somewhere unremarkable along the river . . . the sort of place a man might wander into in order to disappear for a fleeting moment of peace. dull orange light pools shallowly along the paneled walls & a big, hoary jukebox still does the best job it can from its sad little post tucked in the corner of the bar’s main room. outside, the city breathes & throbs to its own heavy meter. but in here the air is stale, and no one speaks very loud. it is, armand thinks, a place made for strangers. he lingers half in the doorway for only a moment, unannounced. tonight he has dressed himself without much fuss: the black wool of his coat drapes neatly over his shoulders and his charcoal shirt has been left unbuttoned at the throat, no tie or scarf. his hair is drawn loosely back and away from his face, and he looks young enough, now, to be forgiven most things. but forgiveness will have to be a fight for some other night: there is a mortal man in this dark & sweaty room, and the vampire intends to speak to him.
guy is sat at the bar when armand’s eyes fall on him at last. near the end of it, the vampire notices, almost as if the young man has meant to leave this place for some time, but cannot quite persuade his body to comply. there is a glass before him half-empty with a measure of, well, something. likely, it wouldn’t take the trained eye of an ancient vampire to understand that guy has been here drinking for rather a long while, now. armand approaches him soundlessly, carefully. he does not move to take the stool beside him; instead, he drifts nearer to stand just behind and then slightly to the left, close enough that the faint chill of him may very well be mistaken for a passing draft.
“you have stopped looking for me,” he tells him at last. and the voice is low, calm. steady in an almost companionable sort of way. “that was unwise.” only then does he move again, gliding into the neighboring seat with the soft scrape of wood against grotty tile. “armand,” he smiles lightly, one palm instinctively lifted then pressed to his throat, proud to claim ownership of that particular name. “i don’t believe we’ve met, mister anatole.”
amber eyes drift to the young man’s glass, sweating onto the paper napkin beneath it. a faint, knowing tug passes over the vampire’s small mouth. “i want to know, was it my silence that discouraged you? or the absence of your mother’s name in all the predictable corridors?” he speaks gently to him. there is no mockery and no accusation in his tone, just dry, attentive curiosity. something dangerously close to sympathy flickers for half a moment, and then is gone. “i do know certain things. fragments. the last door she closed behind her, for example.” and he lets this information rest in-between them before he appends, “but you are not only hunting a mother. there is another, too, isn’t there?”
in the course of the last hour or so, a messy little pile of paper scraps has begun to accumulate on the sticky surface of the bar and guy has started to arrange it into different constellations. seperated into many small piles, clumped together into one big one or, currently, arranged in a line next to his drink, seperating him from the rest of the bar, the other patrons nursing their drinks alone next to him. they seem just as lost as he feels, as if they're waiting for someone they know isn't coming. yet their gaze flies to the entrance with every slight noise or movement from that direction - ready to assess whoever is coming in and joining their sad, motley crew; ready to receive a glance that lingers a touch too long, long enough to give them an opening to peel themselves off the bar and join a stranger for some quick, meaningless and decided small talk before taking their leave with them soon after.
business follows a pattern here, one guy notices but is not a part of. lost in his own little world, his thoughts, a bubble around him that muffles the voice of the bartender asking him if he wants another. yes, another would be great, in fact guy needs another if he wants to truly give himself over to intoxication and drown out the incessant, loud thoughts of those around. it's funny, how the places that seem the quietest are often alight with the most obnoxious streams of consciousness. someone in the corner is stressing over their first date, while a man in the opposite side of the room seems to have an internal argument with the jukebox, concluding it with a few good kicks that sends the old machine spurring again, the rattling echoing through the small room. a couple has just disappeared into the bathroom and guy makes a conscious effort to uncouple himself from their thoughts, focusing on the task at hand - ripping up yet another coaster into tiny fragments to add to his pile of scraps. there had been a weak attempt at telling him off from the bartender some half hour ago, but apparently guy's eyes were just wet, wide and defeted enough for him to back off and allow him to continue as he pleased.
his espresso martini has warmed to about room temperature and he quickly swallows the rest of it down with a grimace. he should've ordered a beer, guy thinks to himself, and he does, pointedly ignoring the bartender's internal skepticism, weighing whether or not he should hand guy another drink. he shouldn't have ordered another, beer or else. he shouldn't have started drinking in the first place. it's not like he wasn't aware of the fact that he's shit at the job he was forcibly recruited into, what with the lifelong surveillance yet zero useful training he had received before being shipped off to another continent as bait for some big, bad, evil mastermind. he's a good lawyer, or he would have been, but he's decidely a shit spy. which really wouldn't bother him if it weren't for the fact that, this time around, he's not being used as a pawn in the game of some ancient organisation - this time, he's actually got a personal interest in being decent at his job. god, it feels so stupidly trivial, refering to it as a job. more of a life-sentence. with exhibit a being his own mother.
the thought of her mixed with the aftertaste of a stale cocktail almost makes him retch, and guy quickly remedies the bitter feeling with a sip of whatever the bartender had placed in front of him. not that he particularly cares about what he's being served, so long as the poison does its job of dulling his psychic abilites to a distant pounding. doubt soon joins his spiral of guilt. should he have stayed with doris? broken with the talamasca once and for all? maybe he should, most definitely actually, yet if he left the talamasca - provided they didn't just kill him on the spot if he voiced such desires - he effectively lost any and all chance to find his mother. or doris, should she need his help. or - guy groans, ashamed to even consider that there's someone else he might go looking for. his mother. doris. and -
"jesus - fuck." there's a loud, sharp and painful screeching as guy stumbles backwards from his his chair, dragging it along the floor. it's enough to sober him up somewhat, if only for a split second, enough to allow a sudden onslaught of thoughts all directed at him, cursing the asshole who had dared to assault their ears. yet guy doesn't stumble far and comes to a halt not five steps away from the stranger whose unsettling gaze was fixed on him. the stranger who, really, isn't a stranger at all. who has been the object of months of research, the protagonist of guy's absent-minded daydreams. who, until now, was the very reason guy had been drowning his disappointments in various liquors. "you're - " armand. unwillingly the talamasca file appears at the forefront of his mind, dates and names and blurry surveillance pictures. evidence of an existence that pieces itself together into the man occupying the seat next to him, naturally, as if he had sat there all evening, as if he had not just given guy the fright of his life.
it takes a few seconds to register that he speaks, addresses him, that this is not simply a figmet of his deluded and disappointed mind. lips still stuck around an inhale, the alarm at armand's presence fades a little as the adrenaline rush fades back into the pleasant, numbing buzz of alcohol and, against his better judgement, guy slides back onto his chair. he gulps, has half a mind to stop himself from apologising for putting a stop to his seemingly pointless search for armand.
"guy", he says a little stupidly, still somewhat dumbfounded. "mister anatole is my father." foster, his mind supplies, but best not to get caught up on the specifics. not when armand is offering up hints of information that guy has spent the last few months chasing after. like he is the guard of a well in the middle of a desert guy has been aimlessly wandering. "sorry, i just - i can't believe you're here." there's a beat, and as armand mentions his search for another his inebriated mind immediately conjures an image of this other. eyes the colour of church glass, hair in varying shades of grey, a clawed finger tracing along his cheek. a jolt goes through him and he sputters a cough, earning him a sharp look from the bartender. "i'm sorry", guy says again, squirming in his seat as he attempts to regain his composure. "i just mean - i was under the impression you ... didn't really want to be found." it's either that or guy is really, really, really shit at his job. "why are you here?"
We belong to the light, we belong to the thunder We belong to the sound of the words we've both fallen under Whatever we deny or embrace, for worse or for better We belong, we belong, we belong together
› TENSION LINER PROMPTS
"I dare you to try."
"Do you always get close?"
"You’re pushing my limits."
"Stop looking at me like that."
"I’m losing control here."
"You have no idea, do you?"
"I can’t resist you anymore."
"Stay back, or don’t."
"I know what you want."
"This is getting dangerous now."
"You’re too tempting for me."
"I shouldn’t want this, but…"
"I don’t play fair, remember?"
"Careful, you’re testing me."
"You’re just making it worse."
"You’re too close for comfort."
"Do you always push buttons?"
"Stop before I kiss you."
"You’re making it too hard."
"I can’t stop thinking about you."
"I want you too much."
"You know exactly what you’re doing."
"I’m not playing games here."
"You’ve crossed the line now."
"Keep pushing, and you’ll regret it."
"This is dangerous, isn’t it?"
"I’m trying not to care."
"Don’t make me regret this."
"You’re playing with fire."
"You don’t know what’s coming."
"I shouldn’t be this close."
"We’re getting dangerously close now."
"I can feel the heat."
"Don’t test me right now."
"I want you too badly."
"Don’t make me chase you."
"You’re distracting me, you know."
"I won’t fall for this."
"I want you, but…"
"What do you want from me?"
"I’ll never give in."
"I’m trying not to care."
"You’re playing with my patience."
"Don’t make this harder, please."
"I can’t stop this feeling."
"I’m already in too deep."
"You won’t walk away unscathed."
"You’re walking a fine line."
"I’m trying to stay calm."
"What are you doing to me?"
' 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊 𝐈'𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 𝐁𝐎𝐘. 𝐈'𝐌 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 @#$%! 𝐁𝐎𝐘. '
𝙲𝙻𝙰𝙸𝚁𝙶𝚄𝚈𝙰𝙽𝚃 ; an independent, semi-selective portrayal of GUY ANATOLE from amc's TALMASCA : THE SECRET ORDER. based in anne rice's vampire chronicles universe. show compliant / occasionally headcanon based. 18+/MDNI. penned by soph << promo by @anahilation >>
the way jasper glances to the side at the knocking of the book is distant, disconnected in the kind of way that shows how utterly unimportant it is to him. really, it's only even done for show, to play along with whatever little exercise this is that guy needs to go through because... well. he might be pretty decent at keeping people out of that head, but it doesn't mean jasper isn't attuned enough to notice certain things. direct thoughts can sometimes be difficult to pluck from the mind, but general emotions and feelings were far harder to bury, especially the reactive sorts. so, try as he might, there are things jasper picks up, and he's more than happy to play along.
after all, guy had his attention now, that much was obvious. he was along for the ride, wherever it may end up.
which is why he ends up going out of his way to step closer and lean down to pick up the book-- all done with rapid vampiric speed, just for show. just to hear that way guy's heartbeat thumps a little harder. just to have an excuse to be closer, and remain so, holding the book between them, pressed to guy's chest over his heart as a fingertip traces, circling over the book.
"is that what you want to call this? associates? does that satisfy you?"
a sharp inhale as jasper picks up the book, not shocked exactly ( burton had demonstrated this certain power guy's literal first day on the job ) but more so as a reaction to the sudden proximity. it takes considerable effort to suppress a gulp. his heart's already jackrabitting, and there’s no getting it to settle down, not with jasper so close, not with him pressing the book to his fucking chest, so the least he can do is try and get his breath under control. agonizingly slow, he heaves his gaze upwards, inch by mortifying inch, dragging it along each button of jasper’s shirt until he reaches skin, until he reaches the iridescent blue of the stained-glass church windows he has for eyes.
his pulse is thumping against the cover loud enough that he’s certain jasper can hear. the blush that rises to his cheeks is half humilitation, half something else that better remain unnamed, for his sake.
does this satisfy him? what kind of a question is that? and why ask it, when guy feels like jasper already knows the answer?
“what the hell is your angle here?” guy sounds breathless, nervous to a degree he hasn’t been in years, not since he was a kid. “this is your doing, isn’t it? that’s - it’s not me.” maybe if he says it enough times out loud it starts being true. what is it that olive said about getting someone to believe a lie? that you need to tell it to them over and over and over? “you’re doing something to me.”
- So go ahead, say what you're thinking. Say it. - I don't wanna die.
[ WRAP ]: when sitting astride a horse/motorcycle/etc. together, the sender reaches back, takes the receiver’s wrists, and gently pulls their arms around the sender’s waist in an embrace designed to keep the receiver safe, despite feeling remarkably intimate. @bratxprincexlestat
He must have blacked out at some point. There's really no other explanation for the gap in his memory, the gap that accounts for a probable lack of judgement and a complete disregard for his survival instincts. There's nothing else but a very strong hit to the back of his head that accounts for where he currently finds himself : plastered to the back of the Vampire Lestat on a motorcycle, airflow and wind turning the curls of his hair into Medusa's snake as they whip his cheeks repeatedly. The cold air turns sharp as they rush by. The city blurs into watercolour lights. As they drive by he catches stray snippets of thoughts, mostly outraged drivers commenting on the breakneck speed they're going at, some of them doing a double take when the pieces fall together on who's driving.
In what seems to be a repetitive pattern for him, he'd come here looking for answers only to end up at the centre of what's shaping up to be another brush with death. Maybe he'll learn this time, know not to mess with vampires in the future. A jolt goes through his body as Lestat does something, hit the brakes or the gas or swerve, Guy can't be sure, this whole - thing, it feels like it's happening to someone else. Like someone else's breath is going alarmingly fast, like someone else is concerningly close to sliding off the backseat when, just in time, a hand reaches back to grab hold of his wrist, wrapping it around Lestat's middle. His skin his cool to the touch, strikes Guy as even colder than the air whipping at his cheeks, but he doesn't retract. Instead, he wraps his other arm around, too, interlocks his fingers on Lestat's sternum and - well, holds on for dear life.
There's something missing, though. The warmth of a human embrace. Distant memories of one of his mom's boyfriends taking him out for a ride push to the forefront of his mind; Guy squeezes Lestat tighter, as if that might expel this unwanted glimpse from his head. It's concerning, though, despite the obvious difference - that Guy feels just as much comfort holding on to a living corpse as he does a breathing human. Well. That's a problem for later. " hey - dude, can you, like, slow down ? "
@clairguyant / plotted starter.
there used to be a grating murmur of voices when he opened his mind, but now he's only met with pregnant silence. not a word from louis. no taunting from lestat. nothing but a feeling of anxious expectation. vampires are dying. or, more accurately, someone is killing them. yes, even immortality can be defeated by the right hands but whose hands they belong to remain a mystery. it's why it's so quiet now--why no one speaks for fear they may earn the wrath of the immortal killer. daniel is warned to move quietly, the newborns the weakest to the fire after all, and though armand insists he hunt alongside him, he's out alone tonight. alone and hungry.
for blocks he followed a woman, young and a little drunk, as she stumbled home, but daniel still struggles to push himself into fight mode. louis is right--shaking the humanity out isn't as easy as daniel expects it would be. the only saving grace is the need for blood rivals that of a fix, but ten times the craze. it pulses in his fangs, unrelenting, his mouth watering and his body panging. empty. death is greedy. it requires sacrifice nearly every night for how young he is.
he drains the woman too fast, listening to her heartbeat slow under his mouth, and it takes all of him not to keel over and puke. the alcohol she consumed sends a pleasant buzz through him though, and this is familiar territory now. a dopey smile graces his lips as he drags her body elsewhere, promising to take care of it before morning. he could drain another despite an upset stomach, but that idea is quickly abandoned for a new, enticing scent in the air. and--a whisper to break the silence? it's instinct for the preternatural to sense one another, but this isn't death. there's life in that scent.
daniel doesn't hesitate to abandon his food in pursuit.
turns out, joining a top-secret organisation specialised on surveilling the supernatural and subsequently becoming a well-paid spy for said organisation is easier than it sounds! apparently all it takes is to have your entire life since early childhood controlled for you, not a single ounce of free will, thinking something's seriously wrong with you, a crippling addiction to clonezopam. and then, just when you're on the cusp of actual achievement, when things feel like they might just go your way and you might just adjust yourself and adapt to your freak-ness, shape your life around it - they get you. they wait until you're almost-somewhat-not-quite-happy-but-content, that's when they get you, that's when a strange woman shows up outside your job interview and recruits you into her psychic monk order. not that he's complaining - because, frankly, guy's in no position to complain here. he's at their mercy, and at the same time they're offering him a lifestyle he hasn't thought possible in his wildest dreams. and then there's the ghost of his mother, not quite ghost-like but, as it turns out, corporeal and alive, and now he can't unentangle himself from them, not while this mystery remains unsolved.
but even if recruitment was laughably easy, save for some childhood trauma, being a spy? well, that's a different story. guy curses under his breath, watches helplessly as the lighter he's been toying with for the last hour or so gives a last, feeble spurt of a flame before it finally dies. he slips it back into his pocket, keeps his hand there to try and warm it up a bit. it's chilly for this time of year, for san francisco where they've recently sent him, and the wall he's been leaning against in what he hopes is a very cool and aloof position isn't helping the matter. the brick is cold to the touch, a cold that has seeped through his thin jacket into his bones. and why is he here again?
vampires are dying, that much he knows - or that much he's been told. helen said the numbers they're tracking are diminishing at a concerning rate (but she hadn't said that, of course, she'd called it 'noticable', and somehow that didn't sit right with him), that they needed some additional eyes there to keep track, report back any suspicious activity. and, apparently, the new hire was the exact fit for the job. so far the last few days have bin noticeably uneventful, he's been told to linger around some known vampire hotspots, keep his eyes on dark alleys and the like, but no luck. just the promise of a sleepless night and another status report that reads as follows: 'nothing to report.'
could he get fired if he didn't deliver? or does getting laid off by the talamasca mean ... well, getting your lifeless body laid off in a ditch somewhere with all tracks conveniently covered? his stomach churns, guy quickly shakes the thought from his head, decides to walk it off. and whatever happens when a vampire takes notice of him in one of those dark alleys, mistakes him as a meal rather than a talamasca agent on a stakeout? he knows there's always someone watching, even when he's on a solo mission, but would that additional pair of eyes intervene if it came to it?
he's thinking so loud it's almost blocking out the internal monologue of passersby, and he almost misses it, that presence. that unedniably non-human .... aura? against all his training and better instincts, it makes him freeze - and then, his interest piqued and entirely distracted from what he's actually supposed to do here, he turns around, walks into the other direction, follows that string of thought. until, eventually, it leads him not into another dark alley but a dimly lit sidestreet, just around the corner of a bar he went to on his first night here. his heartbeat has already quickened, when he reaches out, it's telepathically, hoping to reach the right mind. ' i know you're there. come find me. '
.
TALAMASCA: THE SECRET ORDER
Episode 4 — "Wet Work"
we're bound together. ( for jasper ! ) // @clairguyant //
quite the interesting way to word it, of course, and there is a moment where genuine amusement flickers across the vampire's features. it could seem perfectly innocent, a blink and you miss it kind of phrasing. but nothing about guy so far had been so casual, had it? there was tactic in his every step. perfect really, for the organisation that had sunk into his life. it brings a twitch to lips, softness to icy blue eyes that might otherwise feel cold.
blink and you miss it.
because then jasper is straightening up, brows raised a little with his own practised air, the delicate balance of charm and offense.
"oh we're bound, are we? see now, that kinda makes it feel forced. suggests resistance... i think i like entangled a lil more."
he's never sure what possesses him to say these things when he does, spur of the moment decisions that almost always turn out to be devastating. usually it's when he's popped a couple pills, when he's been waiting around for the sharp, high-pitch of overlapping thoughts to fade into a dull tinitus at the back of his head, when it feels like he's holding his breath and plunging back down into the water where soothing, muffled white noise surrounds him. when external, mind-numbing factors have ceased to bother him, and he's filled with the pleasant buzz of realizing that he doesn't have to go back up for air for a while. it's what makes him cocky, or overly emotional, or god forbid, tell the truth. it's what got him the job at that cushy law firm, and it's what made him waltz into owen's office and demand to speak to his superior.
he gets away with it most of the time. not this time, apparently, because jasper takes him up on it, and guy feels like someone has gripped his shoulders, pulled him out of the water, filled the tub with ice and then shoved him back under the surface. wide-eyed and almost unnaturally still ( save for a few bodily movements, the soft vibration of his heart against his chest for example, that he presumes his undead counterpart does not posssess ) he stares at jasper for a beat, barely even registering words cutting through the silence. he blinks, breaks the spell.
" i only mean - we're sort of ... we've got the same goal, yeah? make 'em pay, right? that's - what i meant. " it's not, or, well, it sure is part of it - but there's also something else, something ... sometimes it feels like him and jasper have gone through the same thing, experienced shared trauma, although it's nonsensical to compare the absence of his mother to all the shit jasper went through. it still sends a shiver down his spine when he thinks about it ( which, surprisingly, is more often than he anticipated ), still makes his eyes sting with wetness. really, the amount of times he's almost cried in front of jasper is ridiculous.
and then there's something, something to which guy immediately slams shut the door to, something he banishes from his mind as soon as it pop up. if he indulges it - god forbid, jasper might pick up on a stray thought, an absent-minded daydream. he'd never he the end of it. ' entangled ' as a descriptor for their situation, or rather their predicament, does not help in the slightes, because suddenly guy is conjuring up images of limbs entangled and bedsheets twisted and he coughs loudly, holds onto the edge of a table and accidentally knocks over a book to spook himself out of it.
get a fucking grip on yourself, dude. " we're working together. associates ? we can settle on that. "
the mind of a child will always be scattered, spread out with a haphazard hand, palms full of confetti'd thoughts that are neither finished nor refined; there is no poetry in the firing synapses of a young thing and, like young so are, this one is still wet behind the ears. his thoughts are laid out in neat piles, all clustered together like the collection of dead leaves. not so much a cognizant choice as it is nature. his mind is a glass box and armand looks in with very little effort at all, the vague expression bordering pained. petal soft whisper of that name: daniel. as it passes through the mind, the barest breeze of memory attached, armand can't help but latch onto that thought. he straightens, the pupil's growing heavy, midnight black overtaking the iris and there he stands - tasting the name, following the thread of it, chasing it until he finds just what it is that he's looking for. and then the rest of the iris is nearly swallowed altogether. two hungry, unsettling black holes in the head of eros. daniel. the wide eyed panic. lifeless, but full of horror. if he didn't know him so well, perhaps he might have assumed that this boy's done something awful to him, but no. the boy, his boy, has taken on an uncanny resemblance to the maker. his own eyes stare back, a ghost of macabre making and armand, his mien melts into something far more amused. ❝ don't pretend you don't know. ❞
seeing armand was often an omen of sorts. the last gasp of air before being pulled underwater, a swan song that often speaks of darker times to follow; foreign traits in the mien, the union of dry officialdom and the languorous disciplinarian of old, this vampire is not one that's meant to be seen up close. armand only offers grace to the innocent and guy, this boy with his name in his mouth, daniel's face in his mind, he is not an innocent. no one innocent should know his name. ❝ this little game david is playing no longer interests me. bring him back his rejection, little one. ❞ possessive of his name, and his privacy, armand takes a step away from the stoop. his feet are naked, the softest breeze of silk pajama's just caressing the tops and he steps closer once more, until his toes reach the edge of the steps and his door closes behind him loudly. ❝ he sent you for me. as bait. ❞ beautiful bait. fleshy, pink, a quickened heart and teddy bear eyes. so - so reminiscent of that boy in paris that armand has to furrow his eyebrows upon closer inspection. hiding the disgruntled sentimentality. ❝ and if they sent you to me, i'm afraid they expected you to die. do you want to die? ❞
pitch black engulfs auburn, and guy is as frightened as he is enraptured as armand's pupils overtake the majority of his eyes. it reminds him of a cat sizing up its prey - or, rather, one of the big cats, a lion maybe. or a panther? he's unable to conjure a fitting metaphor. then again, guy suspects there simply isn't one - not for something as singular, as ineffable, as 'armand'. something ancient, something that has walked the earth longer than he can trace his family tree back to. a dull, distant ache begins to spread behind his eyes, like something’s pressing against his browbone, struggling to break free, and he’s suddenly aware that armand is in his head. perusing his thoughts at leisure, like he's thumbing through a filing cabinet of his innermost secrets. by no means as painful as the sudden onslaught of internal chatter when his klonopin wears off, it’s not exactly pleasant, either, and guy squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head a little, as if he’s trying to swat away something buzzing in close vicinity to his ear.
whatever armand is saying is obstructed by a high pitch that drones through his head, distant, yet echoing against the walls of his skull, and his words register a second later, offset. “ what - david ? who the hell is that supposed to be ? i don’t know any david. “ it’s true, yet resembles a child’s desperate attempts to talk itself out of trouble, begging its parents to believe them. simultaneously, the synapses of his brain begin to work overtime, going through the events of the past weeks at record speed. filing, cataloguing, pulling out discarded pieces of paper, and holding them up to a lamp in the hopes of revealing a hidden message written in invisible ink. was there some detail he had missed? the off-hand mention of this david figure; had there been something in the training videos, or concealed in conversations with helen? anything that might help him save his skin here. with the talamasca, you never knew, maybe helen has deliberately been tight-lipped about the origins of the organisation, the head of it. or - that strange knock-off spy in the hotel the other day … raglan james, maybe? after all, helen’s given him a fake name, and at this point, guy’s pretty sure so have olive and just about everyone else affiliated with the talmasca that he’s come into contact with so far. who’s to say someone offering guy up to a group of crook-vampires as their next meal slash pet with supernatural abilities wasn’t also operating under an alias, perhaps so that his morally questionable objective of the evening wouldn’t come to light? he wouldn’t put it past them to put someone like him at the head of their organisation. after all, that’s coming from the same people who were more than happy to offer guy up as bait without virtually any training.
and that’s just it, isn’t it? he’s bait, yet again, and can’t be sure if it was armand’s own observation or if he’s pulled the thought from his head. despite his better instincts, he gulps against the ever-growing lump in his throat, coats it’s raspy with saliva, which provides little relief. ‘ and if they sent you to me, i’m afraid they expected you to die. ‘ it’s not off-brand for the talamasca, it’s almost typical at this point, sending him into the lion’s den. first, the infiltrated london motherhouse, now - well, now an up and close, exclusive meet and greet with the vampire armand, the nation’s second favourite literary undead? or third? fourth, if the knowledge of molloy’s own vampirism ever reaches the light of day. guy’s only a little embarrassed to admit that he’s read the book cover to cover about three times ( only looking for further clues about his mother, … ), but from what he remembers, armand hadn’t been exactly painted in the most flattering of lights. of course they know he’s dangerous. of course they sent him here, anyway.
and it’s only when he starts reminiscing about the book that he notices something that makes him squint, forget his embarrassing, bone-chilling fear for a moment as he takes in the similarity between - yes, that’s daniel molloy, isn’t it? like he’s staring into the same set of eyes, only daniel’s, curiously, had changed colour. was this how vampiric transformation worked? and, if so, does that mean louis and lestat have the same eyes, too? questions are tripping over themselves, unraveling a big ball of yarn inside his head, and guy has to forcibly remind himself that he’s in danger. he blinks, “ well, that depends. are you going to kill me ? “ he’s not sure where this sudden jolt of boldness comes from, likely from the same virus that infected him back then in owen’s office, which prompted him to go along with his suicide mission of a plan, but it settles on his chest, makes him stand upright, seek out armand’s eyes. “ or are you all talk and no game ? “
' 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊 𝐈'𝐌 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 𝐁𝐎𝐘. 𝐈'𝐌 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 @#$%! 𝐁𝐎𝐘. '
𝙲𝙻𝙰𝙸𝚁𝙶𝚄𝚈𝙰𝙽𝚃 ; an independent, semi-selective portrayal of GUY ANATOLE from amc's TALMASCA : THE SECRET ORDER. based in anne rice's vampire chronicles universe. show compliant / headcanon based as episodes come out. 18+/MDNI. penned by soph << promo by @anahilation >>
