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Jan 18, 2020 9:17 AM
'Chelle and Lan rescue Marcel in 1919 New Orleans
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"Of the two of us, you have just been unconscious in an opera house, I have not."

She doesn't actually slice into her wrist, but offers it to her houseguest.

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"Well... if you're offering."

He takes her wrist and bites into it, feeding on her blood.

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She makes a quiet, pained sound as he bites into her wrist, but doesn't try to pull away.

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Landri edges around and pulls a broken broom handle from under the bed. Michelle shoots him a look, but doesn't argue with him.

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He takes less than what he needs, he doesn't want to kill her. He doesn't want to, but that doesn't mean he won't.

The Mikaelsons cannot know he survived...

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"Better?" she asks when he stops feeding. "You'll be safe and hidden here. No-one thinks to check the maid's house."

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"You're not just a maid, cheri," Landri points out quietly, insistent.

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"You're a Sauval?"

Marcel already knows who they are, but they don't know that.

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Landri sighs, not surprised that their guest knows, but a little disappointed to be recognised. "The only son and apparent heir, with the entire weight of my father's expectations that comes with that. I fear I'm a dreadful disappointment to them."

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"A disappointment. I know the feeling, the weight of both my fathers' misery rests on my shoulders."

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Landri is quiet, in a way of silent solidarity between two sons who fail to live up to their father's expectations.

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"You both need rest," Michelle declares as she finishes binding a strip of clothe around her wrist. "And in the meantime, I'm going to make Popa roll in his grave by attempting his gumbo recipe."

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"Such hospitality. With friends like you I'll be the best fed man in town."

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Michelle gives a self-depreciating laugh. "Reserve that judgement until you've tasted my cooking, misyé."

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"Well go on then. Exceed my expectations."

He looks over to the other man.

"How are you feeling?"

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Landri watches Michelle depart before answering.

"If you're asking whether you can snack on me as well, you don't have to be so obtuse about it," he arches an eyebrow. Pauses. "But I'm feeling well, misyé."

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He raises an eyebrow.

"You enhaled a lot of smoke. I can hear your lungs struggling for breath."

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He pauses, focusing on his own breathing. "Perhaps you are right, I do not, at this time, feel particularly worse for it." He shrugs. "I just hope I do not expire. Ma cheri has enough to concern herself with without me dying in her house."

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"I can heal you. You seem very knowledgeable about vampires, do you know about the healing properties of our blood?"

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"I mostly know what Michelle has learned," Landri 'admits' (there's something under his words there, that is almost evasive, but what he's saying is plain truth). "But she has told me there were rumours of such." He is, noticeably, not accepting or rejecting the offer.

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"You're obviously not squeemish." He gestures towards the mess of blood he's accumulated.

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"Michelle broke me of squeamishness pretty early in our acquaintance," he comments casually. Considers. "But you merely stated that you could heal me, misyé, that was neither a statement of intent, or a suggestion that you wished to."

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"You high society folks, always with the unnecessary runaround. The invitiation was there, do you want it or not?"

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"This 'high society boy' is aware of who you are, Marcellus Gerard," Landri retorts coolly. And then deflates some. "I would be a fool to refuse."

He looks to the door, through which Michelle can be heard humming along with the rattle of pots and pans. "I worry I'm the only thing she has left. I do not wish to be all she has, but I would not wish to leave her alone, not if it could be prevented."

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"How far would you go to stay with her?"

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