[ Few people have mastered blithe hypocrisy as Lestat has. He had a knack for it even in their earliest acquaintance, and so much time to master it since.

So when he stops in his tracks to give Armand a look of sheer semi-benevolent magnanimity, he doesn't blink at his own presumption or the irony of designating himself a guide to strange, bewildering circumstances an unprepared traveller finds themselves thrust into. ]

Dead? [ Lestat prompts, lightly, cocking his head like a bird of prey. ] Dreaming? Tumbled into Wonderland? I fear it's far more prosaic than that.

[ Lestat leans in, pretending to pluck a stray thread from his coat over Armand's shoulders in the dark. He studies Armand's expression, those forever fragile wide eyes of his, and remembers how eeriely lovely he found him once, feral and glorious creature. There's something of it in him again now, that desperation at the cusp of his understanding of the world being wrenched out from under him. ]

We've been whisked here by some witchcraft of this place. Like a fairytale, only without the fairy godmother - although I suppose I must act as one for you tonight. And like the plucky enfants terribles of nursery rhymes, we suffer under a curse. Our strength sapped, our gifts curbed...

[ Lestat smiles at Armand, his eyes gleaming like ice in moonlight. ]

How strange it must feel for you.