The nights grow warmer, and I find myself wandering the streets. It's too soon for tourists. The other supernaturals are still too afraid of me, it seems. I find myself longing for the kitten witch and Mal, my demon companion. Where are they now, I wonder?

Safe, I hope.

Lestat? Armand? Are either of you here? I know I have been unreliable in my appearances. But at least I have been well behaved. No bodies lying about.
...I had that one instance of scaring the shit out of some ghost investigators, but they deserved it.

And so, my story in some form or other will finally be given to light.

"Mm. Should be honored or terrified that I've gained the notice of the Talamasca?"

"You died."

Over and over again, I hear this. I should know the truth, non? After all, what proof was there of my death? A letter written by Armand, telling Lestat it was so. Pardon, but Armand's word is not so great.

I never saw the letter. I was gone by then, and whether Armand-

Nicolas leans on the balcony overlooking the narrow New Orleans street as the krewe of Hermes rolls by. Lights flash, bands play, crowds beg for beads, and liquor flows.

It's not his city. Not like it is Lestat's. But he enjoys the life of it. He'd been there a week and planned to stay another.

|| please forgive slowness. Writer had dominant hand operated on and its hard to type at the moment.

I need some companions to talk with. Bring your bottle of wine or whatever your fancy is. Come. Sit with me and throw me a topic. I promise no judgement. I am a safe place.

"I could feed and feed and feed, and there would still be a mountain of evil."

Snow sparkled in the moonlight as Nicolas stepped out of his home that overlooked Gallows Hill Park in Salem. In the houses around him, he felt the cheers and jeers of mortals as their football teams either won or lost. The bars would be letting out. Feeding time.

I hear the soft pounding of a familiar heart.

History repeats. Learn.

I know one day when things settle, writers will come back. But right now? It feels like RP is dead.

"You died."
Over and over again, I hear this. I should know the truth, non? After all, what proof was there of my death? A letter written by Armand, telling Lestat it was so. Pardon, but Armand's word is not so great.
I never saw the letter. I was gone by then, and whether Armand believed the act