Lestat is quite out of sorts.

It has been decades since he encountered true cold, but he is certain it did not bite at him then as it does now. Indeed, almost all of his vital strength seems to have been sapped, although whatever peculiar witchcraft that lifted him from where he lay and transported him here did him the courtesy of mending the gross damage to his body. It even restored some of his belongings to him, a favour which might mollify him somewhat if not for the rude deposit in some forsaken wilderness.

Still. He is himself, and no paltry North Wind can truly harm him. Despite his black mood, crisp night air and the calls of wild creatures are an invigorating improvement over fetid ruin.

Lestat cuts through the forest like a phantom in his bloodied white shirt and fitted black trousers, a meagre bundle tucked under his arm. He entertains himself with the thought he is a true orphan once more, out to make his way in the world unbound by fickle tethers, and although it is not at all true, it is darkly amusing.

It is all darkly amusing, if one has a properly sanguine temperament, as he does. One must laugh if one is not to weep. It is in this spirit that he catches sight of another in the woods. A guide, perhaps, or prey, or both, and does Fate not provide opportunity for those who persevere? He has always thought so, except when he has not.

"Good evening!" He calls out to them, gaily.

The blood is the first thing to penetrate Lestat's awareness. He breathes it in deeply, savouring the tang of it, however dulled his senses are to true appreciation of the vintage. He lifts his head with eyes closed and lips parted, rolling it over his tongue with hunger-sharpened longing.

He attempts to move his arms, and his eyes snap open. His pupils are vast, pitch-dark hollows crowding the colour of his irises to obscurity, and his lips pull back in a snarl as he jerks at his bindings.

"What is this?" He demands, of the room at large, and perhaps of the companion in front of him, if they are inclined to answer.

Of course Lestat followed the dog. He was taken with it from the beginning, delighted to have stumbled across such a charming creature. He had already begun to make plans to win it over for his own, imagining the sport and usefulness of having a loyal companion for the necessary endeavours in the woods.

Of course it betrayed him. What else could he have possibly expected? All the charming creatures of the world are in conspiracy against him, toying with his affections only to abandon him in the metaphorical and literal mud.

Anyone passing by the muddy ditch Lestat has found himself in will be treated to a liquidly spiteful murmur of invective, reproach, and frustration, paired with intermittent scrabbling. Those who stop to investigate will discover a dishevelled, mud-streaked man at the bottom of a slumped pit, staring up at them as if they have something to do with his plight.

"Well?" Lestat snaps, hands on his hips. "Do you intend to gawk, or make yourself useful?"

[ PM me or message me at terriblepurpose if you'd like to plot something more specific! ]