[ When the Countess rolled into Vegas, it was in a Rolls Royce, packed with a stack of luggage bags and trunks. Natural immunity to disease and living on a Hellmouth make one especially apt to survive an apocalypse in style. And, in fact, she would have been happy enough to stay in LA, but the issue was rapidly becoming a severe shortage of food.
Vegas seemed promising, when she caught wind of the fact that people were congregating there. Sure, it sounded like it was in an effort to follow a new messiah or whatever, but gullible blood went down as smooth as any other.
It meant, of course, scouting the ~messiah~, deciding that he could be... well, if not trusted, then certainly frank with. She'd spent a day or two skulking around Vegas, as much as she was capable of, listening to people talk with both fear and admiration about the guy. Granted, it was hard to catch more than a few whispers before someone would inevitably spot the new woman and try to help her find her way around or ask her questions about herself (which was the last thing she wanted to talk about with strangers).
But information came just the same. They called him "The Big Man" and "The Walkin' Dude", and while Countess can appreciate a sobriquet more than most, it takes a few patient conversations before she can weasel the name Randall Flagg out of someone.
He's not here, she's told. Don't know where he is, ain't like we can call him and ask. He'll be back soon, though.
So she waits the few days until the whole settlement seems to fill with crackling, nervous energy. A terribly familiar feeling. It fills her and comfortably envelopes her brain, and she grins when someone finally tracks her down and tells her Flagg would like to meet with you upstairs.
Their voice is quiet, strained, and they won't directly meet her eyes. The Countess smiles benevolently anyway, thanks them as the elevator doors silently close in front of her so that she can be ferried up to the top floor. Another familiar feeling.
She exits the elevator with a grace that shouldn't belong to a newcomer, to someone facing the Almighty of this new neon world. There is no shake in her hand when she offers it to him, no sharp swallow before she speaks. Her eyes lock on his without hesitation. ]
Mr. Flagg, I'm honored to make your acquaintance. I am The Countess.
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Vegas seemed promising, when she caught wind of the fact that people were congregating there. Sure, it sounded like it was in an effort to follow a new messiah or whatever, but gullible blood went down as smooth as any other.
It meant, of course, scouting the ~messiah~, deciding that he could be... well, if not trusted, then certainly frank with. She'd spent a day or two skulking around Vegas, as much as she was capable of, listening to people talk with both fear and admiration about the guy. Granted, it was hard to catch more than a few whispers before someone would inevitably spot the new woman and try to help her find her way around or ask her questions about herself (which was the last thing she wanted to talk about with strangers).
But information came just the same. They called him "The Big Man" and "The Walkin' Dude", and while Countess can appreciate a sobriquet more than most, it takes a few patient conversations before she can weasel the name Randall Flagg out of someone.
He's not here, she's told. Don't know where he is, ain't like we can call him and ask. He'll be back soon, though.
So she waits the few days until the whole settlement seems to fill with crackling, nervous energy. A terribly familiar feeling. It fills her and comfortably envelopes her brain, and she grins when someone finally tracks her down and tells her Flagg would like to meet with you upstairs.
Their voice is quiet, strained, and they won't directly meet her eyes. The Countess smiles benevolently anyway, thanks them as the elevator doors silently close in front of her so that she can be ferried up to the top floor. Another familiar feeling.
She exits the elevator with a grace that shouldn't belong to a newcomer, to someone facing the Almighty of this new neon world. There is no shake in her hand when she offers it to him, no sharp swallow before she speaks. Her eyes lock on his without hesitation. ]
Mr. Flagg, I'm honored to make your acquaintance. I am The Countess.