“I don't ever think about death It's alright if you do, it's fine We gladiate but I guess we're really fighting ourselves Roughing up our minds so we're ready when the kill time comes.”
Lestrange. It echoes the French phrase l'étrange: the strange one. One of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, blood rich with dark magic and old wealth flowing through their veins. Bound by loyalty that was more obligation than love, a pact that held them to ancient ideals and lacking morals; to upkeep of their kind, and an assurance that they may hold their pedestal over a sea of the less worthy. Chandeliers hang above their heads, heavy with sin, and blood stains their white-gloved hands.
“Glory and gore go hand in hand That's why we're making headlines You could try and take us But victory's contagious.”