Indeed. After the first 200 or so they begin to loose a little of their spark, but this is...charming.
[ Generous, certainly from a being that has long forgotten the date of his mortal birth - if he ever knew it to begin with.
Armand smiles to himself at Louis' immediate eyeline, and doesn't make him wait. He carefully offers up the packed in both hands - it's wrapped perfectly in brown paper, complete with an artfully tied bow in green satin but no note card - turning his body once more to the room, but watching Louis' from his periphery. ]
To mark the occasion.
[ Inside is something he's been working on for a little while, not specifically with this date in mind, but subconsciously perhaps, Armand knew that Lestat would not let the anniversary go unnoticed. It's a green leather bound book - much like any of the plain tomes that litter the shelves in the city - but this one has received heavy modification.
Someone has gilt the page edge for starters, a ribbon bookmark in black has been added and the cover and spine have been decorated with delicate looking gold lines, leaves and swirls. There's no title to the front, but on the spine is inscribed 'Keats'. Inside, there are words, poems to be exact - the writings of the aforementioned poet, perhaps not complete but certainly more than one mortal could remember. But this hasn't been written by a mortal, it's been penned in Armand's careful, slanting hand. The pages themselves seem to give off a perfume - roses - and here and there on every page there seems to be the after images of petals - perhaps they were pressed here once before being replaced with poetry.
There's no inscription, no date, only the words 'property of one Louis de Pointe du Lac, if found please return' written carefully on the title page. ]
no subject
[ Generous, certainly from a being that has long forgotten the date of his mortal birth - if he ever knew it to begin with.
Armand smiles to himself at Louis' immediate eyeline, and doesn't make him wait. He carefully offers up the packed in both hands - it's wrapped perfectly in brown paper, complete with an artfully tied bow in green satin but no note card - turning his body once more to the room, but watching Louis' from his periphery. ]
To mark the occasion.
[ Inside is something he's been working on for a little while, not specifically with this date in mind, but subconsciously perhaps, Armand knew that Lestat would not let the anniversary go unnoticed. It's a green leather bound book - much like any of the plain tomes that litter the shelves in the city - but this one has received heavy modification.
Someone has gilt the page edge for starters, a ribbon bookmark in black has been added and the cover and spine have been decorated with delicate looking gold lines, leaves and swirls. There's no title to the front, but on the spine is inscribed 'Keats'. Inside, there are words, poems to be exact - the writings of the aforementioned poet, perhaps not complete but certainly more than one mortal could remember. But this hasn't been written by a mortal, it's been penned in Armand's careful, slanting hand. The pages themselves seem to give off a perfume - roses - and here and there on every page there seems to be the after images of petals - perhaps they were pressed here once before being replaced with poetry.
There's no inscription, no date, only the words 'property of one Louis de Pointe du Lac, if found please return' written carefully on the title page. ]