armand

armand au post interview with a vampire independent vampire chronicles rp blog semi-hiatus

[knockknockingondeathsdoor-blog]

   She glanced up, eyes narrowing - she utterly despises being interrupted in mid-prayer. It’s far more unacceptable when she’s actually in a church, but nevertheless - typically, when a woman on a bench has her head down and her eyes close, it is only polite not to disturb her.

             ”Basic etiquette, darling.”

[vagabondsatanschild]

He inclines his head deeper. Her words hold truth; a truth that fathers an uncomfortable itch underneath his skin. It has been decades since Armand has prayed, but he still respects those who do so-- those who can.

So he sits, a decent ways away from her-- he has no wish to tread any further into her area than he already has and clasps his hands together. This, perhaps, is the ultimate blasphemy. A dread creature of the night such as him... praying?

Armand's eyes flicker up to the sky, and he grimaces despite himself.

                                                                                                         Pitiful.                                                                                                          Blasphemous.                                                                                                           Damning.

But he is not praying; his hands are clasped together more out of habit. Armands thoughts certainly are directed heavenward, though, and his pinched brow speaks of the downward spiral of his mind. There is naught good to come of this.

He speaks no words to her as he thinks, though his eyes do dart back to her in a mixture of faint curiosity and bitter jealously. Perhaps, before, there'd been the briefest flicker of a thought to flit her away, choose her as his newest damnation that only ever served to drag him further into the service of Hell, but now... no.

And even as he sits there, a multitude of desperate questions and thoughts and wishes and pleas tumble into his mind. Only one makes it past, to be spoken into the night air and to pass almost unheard because of how quietly Armand speaks.

"It has been... very long since I saw someone praying so sincerely."

[knockknockingondeathsdoor-blog]

     ”I do hope you have a good reason for disturbing me.”

[vagabondsatanschild]

"--My... apologies." Why was he here, though--? A pertinent question. His wanderings had taken him far tonight. To this stranger, no less, who seemed entirely irritated.

[poenitire-archive]

[You get a single surprised blink, Armand. Because - well.

Because Regret is never respected by anyone, much less apologized to on principle by anyone. So he blinks and tilts his head slightly as if trying to take in the full length and breadth of what just occurred. What is this unfamiliar sensation. He slides his hands into his pockets and doesn’t say anything for a long moment.

A covert glance around as if to make sure the landscape hasn’t started floating and the souls of the damned aren’t rising up to meet him, because he’s pretty sure he died while he wasn’t paying attention. But no. The landscape remains the same. The street is just as terrible as it usually is.

Shit. This is real.

Finally, the immortal, undying personification of remorse and repentance opens his mouth to speak in response to this strange and foreign thing known as an apology. If he talks how he writes, this will be a graceful, forceful statement that would leave academics crying into their books.]

Wait, what.

[Or not.]

[vagabondsatanschild]

He blinks, slowly-- the infinite void of the night seems to embrace him; he cannot fathom this encounter any more than he can anything else of late, and it seems the graceful, painful, unfortunate being before him is at the same loss. How-- curious. How disappointing, and yet... logical.

"---..."

Armand is as graceful as Regret is, in this strangely disjointed moment they've found themselves in as he opens his mouth to speak, and fails. They need a balance to their words, to their actions, though he cannot grasp at what could provide that. Perhaps... perhaps-- no, that is assuming too much, Armand thinks, regretfully lowering his fingers from the half-motion he'd been making to reach out to the other man.

Seeing was enough of a gift; to touch would certainly be blasphemy. 

                                                               "If I've bothered you--"

Well done, Armand. He's certainly bothered the being-- is saying those words in a half-apology the best he can do to fix this? It's pitiful, really.

[bjornandresen]

[vagabondsatanschild]

. — I know I haven’t really been on, and I’d like to apologize for that. A mixture of the new semester and general blahness has sucked my inspiration dry. I’ll try to get back on here when I can.

[icanbeyourcherrypie]

[destinedperdition]

"…Yeah."

He glances away, waiting for the boy to leave. He wasn’t in the mood to strike up a conversation with a stranger - he was hungry. After a few seconds, he nodded. “Well, this has been fun. But uh, I need t’ get back to my important business, so…”

[vagabondsatanschild]

"--..." Silence permeates the air like a restrictive collar. Armand merely stares; he has nothing to say at the moment. All he will do is watch passively, observe this stranger. He has a darkness wrapped around him such as Armand has only seen around others of his kind, he realizes. A passing car has him flinching for the briefest of moments-- he'd been nearly entranced in his watching. A mistake.

Another mistake he's made is standing so near to the road; there's no forgetting the pallor of his skin, the unearthly shine to his eyes. An unintentional exposition for this stranger-- now to see how he reacts, or, indeed, to see if he noticed at all.

[oswinwhosawthestars-deactivated]

"I find night to be more peaceful, don’t you think?"

she raises an eyebrow in his direction, indeed noticing the subtext of danger under his tone. She decides to dismiss it however, perhaps it wasn’t intentional?

[vagabondsatanschild]

A small smile flits across his face.

"--Infinitely."

Armand considers her. Brave, or foolish? Perhaps a mixture of both. "Miss Clara, I would worry about you, if I didn't think already that you could handle yourself." What he says is half truth, half a contradiction to facts. Should he choose, she would be nothing to him. But he doesn't because he doesn't want to do so. Not yet.

[vagabondsatanschild]

. For those who are online, oc no.1 is ready and available.

[beetnelson]

"Solitude gives birth to the original in us, to beauty unfamiliar and perilous - to poetry. But also, it gives birth to the opposite: to the perverse, the illicit, the absurd."

Thomas Mann (via disconymph)

[oswinwhosawthestars-deactivated]

"Why thank-you. Your name is unique. I like it."

She bobs slightly, in what’s supposed to be a curtsy. Her counterpart, she’ll admit, seems rather charming, lovely even.

[vagabondsatanschild]

Armand tilts his chin upwards slightly, eyes flashing in an eerily luminescent manner as he considers her. A slight raising of his eyebrows and the faintest hint of a smile is his only answer to her compliment. "You're out-- very late, miss Clara."

                                     There's the quietest of warnings in his tone, if she cares to listen.

[oswinwhosawthestars-deactivated]

"Clara Montague. Pleasure."

[vagabondsatanschild]

"--My name is Armand. A pleasure indeed, miss Clara."

It's late-- well, by definition, near dawn, and he hadn't intended to chat, but she's spoken, and it's not in him to ignore her. Armand has a few moments; he can afford to talk.

[vagabondsatanschild]

Armand realizes he’s not alone the second there’s the whisper of footsteps far away near the entryway of the ramshackle house. He’s upstairs, fingers tangled in the drapery as he stares outside. He has no intention of moving or leaving, though.

Whoever it is, if they venture to the upstairs bedroom, will do what they will or say what they must, and Armand will react accordingly. It’s halfway to dawn, and he has a bit of time to contemplate where he will go next after he is done with this town.

And indulge a stranger in a strange conversation, as it will surely be.

[destinedperdition]

          “—-Right. Well, you better carry one. ‘M on important business.” And by that, he means he’s on his way to get a cheeseburger. But there’s no reason to get into specifics.

[vagabondsatanschild]

He's about to carry on, when a pulsating itch beneath his skin reminds him of a little fact; he hasn't fed yet, because, after all, the night is still young. There's a similar weariness that's born from traveling alone for so long, though-- so he merely stands still, chin tilted downwards and observes the man. Unlikely company could, potentially, be the best.

"Important business, so late at night?"

[vagabondsatanschild]

.

[destinedperdition]

thedoctertothedevil

postcomatose

vagabondsatanschild

selfdeception

fangedpilgrim

[destinedperdition]

          “… What?”

[vagabondsatanschild]

"--I was only passing by." There's the accusation in his words-- though it could be considered more a warning than any attack on this stranger in particular.

[poenitire-archive]

vagabondsatanschild

[He’s exhausted, and he’s not looking forward to the groups of people that seem to enjoy congregating on his doorstep. Regret is getting ready to make a conscious effort to be a worse person. God knows how - he’s fairly low on the scale of morality to start with.

But there’s only one man. And it’s a vampire, which automatically drops Regret’s expectations for the conversation down to lurking in the gutter.]

Yes.

[vagabondsatanschild]

  ---How curious.

Armand is fascinated. Here is what he never thought he would see; a being older than himself-- other than Marius. And oh, it excites him! He's heard whispers, oh yes, but he never thought to find him. Never thought-- never thought he would meet him. There's the briefest pang of regret  that he would never be allowed to stay by his side.

It's a matter he won't think upon, so as to soften the ache.

                                   Instead, all he says, with a respectful tone, is--          

                                                                                "I'm sorry." 

There's such a weight behind those words as he has never managed to put behind any words he's said before this, a weight that says I am sorry you have lived so long and, at the same time I'm sorry I have come before you because I must be as nothing compared to you and he straightens almost subconsciously, so as to present himself better.