[ A regular visitor to the cells, Armand isn't unfamiliar with the sight of Lauralae turned in on herself, trying to hide from the world or her own memories. He can't blame her for it, as much as he doesn't like to see her that way.
One night, in the deepest and coldest hours before dawn, after he's spoken to Louis, he makes his way over to stand close by the place where she's huddled near Lucifer. Her protector earns a glance only; after a moment, he crouches down, studying Lauralae in the darkness. His vampire senses let him know she's not sleeping.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded object, which he holds out to her through the bars -- a pair of long opera gloves like the ones she prefers, soft and old silk, but clean. He knows well how small luxuries can seem far more important when one is confined and heartbroken. ]
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One night, in the deepest and coldest hours before dawn, after he's spoken to Louis, he makes his way over to stand close by the place where she's huddled near Lucifer. Her protector earns a glance only; after a moment, he crouches down, studying Lauralae in the darkness. His vampire senses let him know she's not sleeping.
He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded object, which he holds out to her through the bars -- a pair of long opera gloves like the ones she prefers, soft and old silk, but clean. He knows well how small luxuries can seem far more important when one is confined and heartbroken. ]