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
[ Sorry, he's still here. ]
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Yours is just riskier.
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Coward.
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And I get to choose the same.
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Sam's jaw twitches, and his eyes narrow.]
Then I'll keep the theme. You lose, and I've got a Merlotte's uniform with your name on it. And you'll work behind my bar, or on your knees scrubbin' my floors, or wherever else I want you. For one day.
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That's how rumors get started, Merlotte.
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Speakin' of which, if we're doin' this bet we need to lay parameters.
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-> private;
[his tone goes cold, flat.]
I meant on decidin' what makes a win a win.
private;
-- What do you want to constitute a win or loss?
private;
When it's time for that conversation, it will damn sure be in person.]
...If you give him a taste of you when y'all two go out. Any taste. You lose.
private;
There is a difference between given and taken.
[Chilton had grown partial to his body over the years, to include its fluids. Most of which he preferred to keep under regulation.]
private;
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