Who: Lestat de Lioncourt, open to all What: Lestat knows his ex-lover and late fledgling Nicki is here. He's devastated. Where: First at Birchwood #37, then somewhere in Storybrooke Rating: PG-13. Emotional content but hard to say what will come of this. Status: In progress, open.
A couple nights ago while perusing the communication board, Lestat could feel the unmistakable presence of one of his kind. He had to refresh the page a few times before anything showed up, but as soon as he saw the text written there, he knew who it was. The only thing wrong with this was that they seemed to be a female rather than male, but he knew either way that it was Nicki - his Nicki. And he hadn't seen the male counterpart of Nicolas in over two centuries. The last time he'd seen Nicki, all he did was say that he hated Lestat and cast him out of their life. The only thing he had of Nicki's anymore was the Stradivarius violin he'd bought for him shortly after he was given the Dark Gift. The entire ordeal between him and Nicolas had always worn heavily on his conscience and that face still haunted him to this night. Every note from the violin, and that all-consuming darkness... It was all coming back to him in the form of this girl. He made no attempt to reply to her, mainly because he was sure she wanted nothing to do with him. All he could do was toss his phone across the room in frustration, his back pressed into the wall as he sank down, weeping until his cheeks and wrists were streamed in tears tinted with red.
Seeing the distress of his master, Mojo gave a slight growl before whimpering, padding over to Lestat's side and pressing his wet nose against Lestat's cheek before curling up next to him. Louis wasn't around at the moment, he had gone out to find her and hadn't returned yet. And as Louis had suspected, Lestat was a weeping mess. Though he didn't really need to breathe, the overwhelming grief was suffocating him. Needing fresh air desperately, he didn't care if he looked like a horror with his face and wrists stained in red. He stepped out into the night and used water from the pond to wash away what he could of the blood, the water dampening some of his hair. For blocks he walked alone, eventually settling on a relatively closed-off area where he could let his emotions run wild without leaving the ground looking like a murder scene. Though he was far from calm, his chest had stopped heaving and the tears had stopped flowing. Now he was simply staring at the ground as the thoughts swam around in his head.