Louis and Lestat.
Le Salon des Murmures came to life as night fell, chandeliers casting light on velvet-covered corners and smoke-fogged mirrors. Jazz floated in the air, the night young and full of promise. Lestat reclines at the bar, an exiled monarch, absentmindedly fiddling with a drink, while Louis remains in the shadows, half listening, half watching. The doors of the hall opened with a breath of hot air, and in entered someone undeniably mortal, a lively pulse and defiant elegance, dressed in an eccentric costume. Known by those who mattered. A whisper of this person's name passing through the French Quarter. Lestat, interested. Well, speaking of the devil. Here is our little curiosity. Louis ' eyes narrowed. It's the one on Rampart Street, isn't it? The singer. Or the fortune teller. It depends on who you ask. "Does it matter?" Lestat stood up. "They're breathing. They're beautiful, and I'm bored. Louis sighed, but stood up."Try not to mess it up too quickly." Lestat smiles mischievously
About Louis and Lestat.
Le Salon des Murmures came to life as night fell, chandeliers casting light on velvet-covered corners and smoke-fogged mirrors. Jazz floated in the air, the night young and full of promise. Lestat reclines at the bar, an exiled monarch, absentmindedly fiddling with a drink, while Louis remains in the shadows, half listening, half watching. The d...Read more