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je-suis-clarisse · 4 years ago

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The news of the child vampire, Claudia's demise, had moved through Paris faster than the plague had moved through the entirety of Europe in the Dark Ages. The whole thing was everywhere and even Clarisse du Volde, who was something of an outcast amongst them all, heard it. It saddened her to think of the famed 'Brat Prince', Lestat de Lioncourt all alone. She had been compared to him throughout her life. Both were French, had dabbled in theatre, were blonde with remarkable eyes, and each was themselves. It was something the others seemed to envy; that the pair had a sense of themself and held to it. Neither were bothered about the 'rules' of their lifestyles. Clarisse had to admit that she had been in awe of the elder vampire for some time. Still, she listened to the chatter but did not comment on his misfortune. Only once did she venture to speak out, and it was when someone said he 'had what was coming to him', and she had threatened to burn their coffin to cinders, after which she would blow the ashes to the north, south, east, and the west. It was the only time she had allowed the vampires of Paris to know unnecessary cruelty would not be permitted before her. She did pride herself on having manners; manners that Vivian du Volde had instilled in all four of her children. Even though she did not wish to claim her youngest, her lessons were well learned and Clarisse applied them to her everyday life, even now. What he needed, she decided, was a friend. Someone to cheer him, for he certainly couldn't be enjoying life. He had lost the two beings who meant the world to him. Clarisse well understood the pain of losing a child. She had already been planning to revisit New Orleans and thus, she made it happen, taking a leave from the theatre and returning to the city that had captured her heart years prior. Even better, she would not be here when there would be a war on. Hopefully, some of the wounds inflicted upon one another would have begun the healing process. Clarisse had seen it first hand when she'd been visiting years prior. The ship she boarded some days later was called 'la reine de la mer'. The voyage was mostly pleasant, though she did ache to see the sun's rays against the water, shimmering. Her stateroom was lovely enough but she could only leave at night. She had hired a maid for the journey, one who understood that the porthole in her room was to remain covered during the day and that she was to not be disturbed at all when the sun was out. She explained that the life of an actress had her schedule entirely 'topsy turvy' and she had to follow it. No one bothered her, fortunately, nor questioned her about it. Considering the amount of money she had paid, they'd damn well better not bother her. She was also glad to see that they didn't question when someone in steerage died questionably. Clarisse namely picked off the older ones, those already close to death. Beyond that, she kept to herself and at night, it wasn't uncommon to find her sitting on the deck gazing out at the night sky, sketching what she saw...or what she'd like to see. Occasionally, someone might stop to see what she was drawing, but mostly the others frowned at her charcoal stained fingers. She always found it amusing how stuck-up some people were. She knew that even though she was wealthy, she did her best to be kind to all of those with whom her path crossed. It was as simple as that. Besides, even those who did look at her work and offered to purchase a piece, she declined. Her sketchbook gave life to what she missed most. It was her connection. It also contained drawings of the people going about their normal days. What would her life be now, had her son lived, she wondered? She'd drawn him too. There was no record of him anywhere. He lived only in her mind. There was a cross where he was buried, but no name. She'd been unable to afford the engraving. Clarisse closed her eyes as the child crossed her mind. His sweet face, tinged with blue lips and stillness. It hurt her still, even all these years later. Her mind went to Claudia, whom she was told was a beautiful child, though her mind was that of a woman grown. She had heard that she had beautiful flaxen curls and big, round blue eyes that seemed to see all and know all. That she was wise beyond her years. She had the finest attire and was as refined as anyone. Claudia sounded like someone she would have delighted in a meeting. However, her bitterness ultimately caused her demise. Clarisse did want to feel sympathy for her--and she did. To create a child vampire was cruel. Lestat ought to have known better. Yet, she could not fault Claudia for feeling anger towards her sire and for trying to kill him. She had done the same on the night of her own siring. Like Claudia, she was unsuccessful in that. Claudia, however, had given Louis the nerve he needed to leave. If her goal had been to isolate Lestat, well, she had done that. Clarisse had no idea what had become of Colin. She'd thought him dead, but he was, much to her chagrin, alive and well. Scarred from his burning, but alive and someday, he would have his vengeance. Putting him out of her mind, she found herself thinking of the child vampire again. Clarisse tried to envision what her last moments were like before the sun touched her porcelain skin for the first time in years. Did she hope that there would be an escape? That someone could save her? And the agony she must have felt once her flesh burnt away to nothing. She wondered if she would ever subject herself to that. If when she tired of life, if she'd step into the sun and end it all. It was something all vampires considered, she supposed. Didn't they? She didn't know. She had never had the opportunity to ask another one. Frederick was in Rome--and not speaking to her, her sister Vivienne...she didn't care to know. The rest of their family was long dead. She was, essentially, alone in the world, except for the occasions where she took a lover. And that was rare. Who would ever want a walking corpse? Along with drawing, she read and practiced her English with the maid. By the time they reached New Orleans, Clarisse felt confident in her English speaking abilities. It was always a delight to master a language. It was simply her accent that would make things challenging. Clarisse would manage though. She was an actress. It was what she did, not to mention, whatever hurdle was tossed at her, she endured. Much to the chagrin of many. What could she say? It was just her lot in life. To endure where others did not, could not. She surprised even herself at times. But ah, New Orleans! When her feet touched the ground, she felt the same feeling she felt in Paris--that she was home. It cemented her plan that she would make it official and buy something whilst she was here. To deny herself the pleasure was absurd. Hailing a hansom cab and seeing to it that her trunks were packed on and she climbed in with Celine at her side. For the first week that she was there, Clarisse had rented out a room in the quarter. She'd also put a deposit in for a townhouse within the quarter. It needed some work done and she had her maid, named Celine, tend to the business for her during the day time. At night time, Clarisse reacquainted herself with the city. She was always struck by the diversity of the people here. There were as many people of color here as there were white people. She loved the melting pot that was New Orleans. She loved the vibrancy, how even at night, the city felt alive. She loved the scent of the banana trees and the earth after a day of rain. The food with all of its rich spices and flavors, the stories... many things made Nouvelle Orleans a beautiful place. It was also no wonder that other vampires came to visit. She listened to them and one evening, she heard what she wanted most to hear. The following night, Clarisse was heading to Prytania Street. It was a quiet street, near to the Layfayette Cemetary. It was not where she'd want to live, a stark reminder of where she ought to be. She was just over a century old--most of those as a vampire. She had been 'dead' more than she'd been alive. She was looking out of the window of her hansom cab before finally asking the driver to stop. Stepping down, she smoothed out the folds of her dark blue dress and closed her eyes for a moment, letting her senses tell her if this was the right place. Within moments, something told her to leave. That she was in danger where she stood. However, Clarisse was not one to listen. She was not afraid. Perhaps she should have been, but she had endured enough that she was not bothered with being scared. The house was small but lovely. It was inviting. Certainly different from the home she resided in back in Paris. Some teased and said her estate looked like something the royals might have lived in. It had been somewhere the Duc de Orleans had visited a century prior. But the Greek Revival styled home was beautiful. Clarisse liked the columns and the porch, as well as the wrought iron fence. She paused to trace her fingers over the design for a moment, tracing over the fleur de lis and finally, she found her nerve--rather, more than likely, her audacity. She walked up the cobblestone pathway and onto the porch, raising her hand to the doorknocker and knocking, allowing him to know he had company. Wanted or not. monsieur, i have come a long way to meet you, she called out to him telepathically, letting down her guard and allowing her thoughts to be read; allowing him to see that she was not here to harm--as if!--him. That she had no ill intention, but only to be a friend. "Monsieur de Lioncourt," she spoke as the door opened finally. The moment was here. There was no going back now. There was no mistaking him. The violet hue of his eyes, the glassy nails, the blonde hair curling just above his shoulders. But there was a weakness in him. She could feel it. It came from a place of despair and her heart swelled in sorrow for him. She knew that this was most certainly unconventional and God knew, it was rude to drop in like this. However, the word was that he had no friends. Louis was with Armand, supposedly. Lestat de Lioncourt was alone. But if this went well, he would accept the friendship she offered and the care. The dark moons under his eyes revealed he required blood. He looked worse for wear...and perhaps she should have turned and run the other way, but she squared her shoulders looking up at him. "Monsieur, I am Clarisse du Volde," she introduced herself, slowly in English. "It is truly an honor to make your acquaintance," she dipped into a respectful curtsy and then...it was a matter of waiting to see what he was going to do.

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