ʟᴇsᴛᴀᴛ ᴅᴇ ʟɪᴏɴᴄᴏᴜʀᴛ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
youresovein) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
maskormenace2017-09-03 08:54 pm
youresovein) wrote in maskormenace2017-09-03 08:54 pm
Entry tags:
- abigail hobbs | n/a,
- john constantine | con man,
- † frederick chilton | chief of staff!!,
- † gwen wynne-york | n/a,
- † hans gruber | n/a,
- † jack | n/a,
- † kanaya maryam-lalonde | psychopomp,
- † lara croft | tomb raider,
- † lestat de lioncourt | n/a,
- † magnus chase | n/a,
- † maxwell trevelyan | inquisitor,
- † mr. gold | rumpelstiltskin,
- † peter maximoff | quicksilver,
- † qymaen jai sheelal | grievous,
- † ray gillette | n/a,
- † sadie doyle | n/a,
- † sam merlotte | n/a,
- † taako | n/a
( video )
Well! What a group we all make.
[ Get a load of this guy. Leather jacket. Violet sunglasses. Touch of a French accent. He's not blending in at all, but it's clear that he's not particularly interested in trying to. He's lounging with feline grace (read: like he owns the place) in a corner booth at an all night pancake house, one arm draped casually over the back of the seat, the other holding the communicator. He gives the camera a smile and an elegant little wave. ]
Hi. Lestat here. Author. Rock star. Creature of the night. I introduce myself this way not to be egotistical — although I am, enormously — but because I've been told that it accounts for some of my eccentricities. I'll let you judge that for yourselves.
Now, I could go on about myself all night, and I gladly will if anyone cares to ask, but I have a question! There's no wrong answer. There may not be a right one, either. The question is in regards to a story, and the gist of the story, although significantly and brutally abridged, is this:
The protagonist of this tale isn't a heroic man, or even a particularly good man. Actually, he's mostly awful, when you get right down to it. And he had, quite some time ago, found himself down on his luck for a whole host of reasons, most of which he most certainly deserved. But one day, something changed. The particulars of that change don't matter right now, only that he knew that he, too, had to change; had to undergo what a generous author might call character development. And so this man made a grand if somewhat disastrous gesture of honesty, of love, and perhaps of repentance. Things didn't go as planned, because of course they never do in a good story, do they? Ah, but in any case: rising action, climax, denouement. All the parts were there, and the ending even hints at another volume.
And then— [ Here he waves his hand, as if to indicate the whole of everything: himself, the pancake house, the endless night outside the window where a vinyl poster advertises all you can eat waffles. ] This. And so my question is: what lesson, what kind of meaning do you think our protagonist should take from a plot twist like this? I find myself at a loss, my dear viewers, and it's too farfetched of a sequel hook for my tastes. I wonder whether—
[ He pauses here, something offscreen catching his attention, along with a weary, irritable-sounding customer service voice. ]
—ah! My lovely waitress Ethel is asking whether I intend to sit here vlogging all night or if I'm going to order something. Say bonsoir, Ethel.
[ He turns the camera; the surly waitress does not look amused. Back to Lestat, then. ]
Well, it seems even my charm has its limits. For now, then!
[ And with another wave, he signs off. ]
[ Get a load of this guy. Leather jacket. Violet sunglasses. Touch of a French accent. He's not blending in at all, but it's clear that he's not particularly interested in trying to. He's lounging with feline grace (read: like he owns the place) in a corner booth at an all night pancake house, one arm draped casually over the back of the seat, the other holding the communicator. He gives the camera a smile and an elegant little wave. ]
Hi. Lestat here. Author. Rock star. Creature of the night. I introduce myself this way not to be egotistical — although I am, enormously — but because I've been told that it accounts for some of my eccentricities. I'll let you judge that for yourselves.
Now, I could go on about myself all night, and I gladly will if anyone cares to ask, but I have a question! There's no wrong answer. There may not be a right one, either. The question is in regards to a story, and the gist of the story, although significantly and brutally abridged, is this:
The protagonist of this tale isn't a heroic man, or even a particularly good man. Actually, he's mostly awful, when you get right down to it. And he had, quite some time ago, found himself down on his luck for a whole host of reasons, most of which he most certainly deserved. But one day, something changed. The particulars of that change don't matter right now, only that he knew that he, too, had to change; had to undergo what a generous author might call character development. And so this man made a grand if somewhat disastrous gesture of honesty, of love, and perhaps of repentance. Things didn't go as planned, because of course they never do in a good story, do they? Ah, but in any case: rising action, climax, denouement. All the parts were there, and the ending even hints at another volume.
And then— [ Here he waves his hand, as if to indicate the whole of everything: himself, the pancake house, the endless night outside the window where a vinyl poster advertises all you can eat waffles. ] This. And so my question is: what lesson, what kind of meaning do you think our protagonist should take from a plot twist like this? I find myself at a loss, my dear viewers, and it's too farfetched of a sequel hook for my tastes. I wonder whether—
[ He pauses here, something offscreen catching his attention, along with a weary, irritable-sounding customer service voice. ]
—ah! My lovely waitress Ethel is asking whether I intend to sit here vlogging all night or if I'm going to order something. Say bonsoir, Ethel.
[ He turns the camera; the surly waitress does not look amused. Back to Lestat, then. ]
Well, it seems even my charm has its limits. For now, then!
[ And with another wave, he signs off. ]
no subject
( that trudy beekman would just LOVE the chance to snatch up credit for her research—
waitwaitwait, sorry, wrong intense woman with issues about family and an enthusiasm for stealth and firearms, my bad )
Arguably that kind of pretentious is the more dangerous kind.
no subject
no subject
( Oh, what's this? All that mildly scathing air from before seems to have evaporated in the face of her being a huge damn nerd. ) I'm trying to find the balance between a width scope of knowledge and the value of specialisation. Versatility versus having the depth of understanding to be truly insightful—
( Ah. She sounds very slightly sheepish. ) It can be a little challenging.
no subject
I imagine so! I've always been the type to cast a wide net, myself. What drew you to archaeology, if I might ask?
no subject
Family tradition, I suppose. My father brought me along on some digs when I was very young, and I was hooked. People often talk about history as if it's dead or irrelevant, simply because it's in the past, but I think that throughout history, the consistent is people. Their vitality and their stories, their struggles, their humanity - all of that transcends time.
no subject
It's entrancing, isn't it! I do know what you mean, or something close, at least — the thought that we might share some common soul, perhaps, with people who lived even thousands of years ago.
no subject
Yes. On Yamatai, I found some records written by a young woman, Hoshi, chosen by the Sun Queen to be one of her handmaidens. She must have been from the Kamakura period, I think, so around the late twelfth to mid-fourteenth century, just about? Centuries were between us, and yet I felt as though I were reading diary entries of a friend. She was worried about something.
( A drag of breath as she thinks - the pyre, Sam, Mathias invoking Himiko. Hoshi had sounded so... hesitant. ) Souls are, admittedly, rather more mystical than I'd like my understanding to be, but I suspect my preferences have little to do with reality.
no subject
[ He waves a hand to dismiss the idea before it can get its hooks in him and make him melancholy. ]
But that sense of connection, that I understand. I felt it most strongly when I was traveling in Egypt — that sense, you might say, of history being a tangible thing.