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bakerstreet2015-01-23 07:52 pm
fauning) wrote in bakerstreet2015-01-23 07:52 pm
picture prompt meme
the picture prompt meme
- comment with your character.
- others will leave a picture (or two, or three...)
- reply to them with a setting based on the picture.
- link to any pictures that are NSFW, please.
- be aware that this meme will likely be image-heavy. that's kind of the point.
link to an image: | embed an image in your reply: | you can control width and height of your pictures: |
hannibal lecter | nbc's hannibal
Re: hannibal lecter | nbc's hannibal
let me know if this is okay!
It's only in seeing her that he approaches the pier, a soft beige suit only a little darker than the sand, streaked with subtle patterns; his shirt and tie beneath, white. ]
It never stops, does it, Miss Watson?
[ Even at a respectable distance, his voice presses against her ear like the murmur of a lover, its dual meaning almost subdermal. ]
But I can't say it isn't pleasure to see you again.
It's great :)
She recognizes Hannibal's voice, and turns with a surprised and pleased smile.]
Dr. Lecter!
[She gestures toward the shore.]
Yeah...I could go a lifetime without seeing something like this again and be happy.
[She turns back to him, her smile returning]
But it's good to see you too! Are you working this case?
sorry for the slowness!
[ There's a slight bow of the head, some semblance of sheepishness. ]
I came to town for the weekend, for the opera. They're playing Don Giovanni at the Metropolitan tonight. I always arrive early on these little holidays.
[ His eyes land on the distant figure and the lab rats that are so studiously sweeping the sand around the corpse. ]
And you?
no worries!
[She gestures toward the beach, toward the figure in a black coat and blue jeans circling the scene, periodically stooping or crouching to take a closer look, or to smell something from close up. The idea makes Joan's stomach twinge in distaste. She glances back at Hannibal.]
It's amazing how these things seem to follow you when you're a detective. Sort of an occupational hazard.
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[ His eyes flickered briefly to Sherlock - his was without a doubt a mind that intrigued him - but it was Joan to whom Hannibal turned, one hand settled on the wooden rail of the pier.
Last he'd been here, she'd been more of an assistant, although he had discerned the relationship was a little more than that, something she wasn't obliged to divulge as they moved in time to a melody far away.
He seemed to brim a bit with pride on her behalf.
And Sherlock, well, he'd only ever been categorized as 'consultant' as far as he knew. ]
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[She smiled, chuffed by the expression on his face, and spread her arms.]
I am a detective. I consult for the NYPD with Sherlock.
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Congratulations, Detective Watson.
[ The stretch of his lips kept watering, but there was an indisputable crinkle around his eyes. ]
Perhaps you'll allow me to take you out to celebrate, however belatedly, while I'm here.
[ Hannibal liked Joan, genuinely, about as much as he could. Sherlock was interesting. She was... ]
What do you see?
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I would like that. Mmm.
[Her smile faded, and she narrowed her eyes toward the shore.]
With all this, I'm not sure when I'll be free... Maybe I can call you when I have some down time.
[At his question she paused, pressed her lips, considered the scene on shore.]
Well...the murderer was male. And this...it's weird. It's like he's honoring her. I think he knew her. Like...he believed he needed to kill her for some reason, but he wanted her to be seen as...
[She paused, because it sounded weird, and she may have just ended there with most people. But she finished her thought with him.]
...beautiful.
*tentatively approaches*
let me know if this works!
Hannibal also took the same sort of pride and satisfaction in his cooking as Dexter might in making up a kill room, perhaps even more so. It had to be right. There were quite a lot of secrets he enjoyed keeping, but where cuisine was concerned, Hannibal was quite eager to share himself with those he found worthy. His home was also his sanctum; his performance hall and his kill studio.
That being said, he's curious what sort of gravitas Dexter plans to treat the occasion with, if any. He'd been quite the polite man so far, but being polite and being tasteful did not always go hand in hand. Hannibal would be surprised if Dexter didn't show up early or on time, but if he showed up in, well, a shirt that spoke of barefoot Miami...
Hannibal would be there at the door to greet him genially in any case. One might think Hannibal had no right to judge what anyone else was wearing, seeing that he was wearing a dark, but still very much a brand of purple, suit. One would be wrong, however, because if anyone was going to pull it off ( and with a paisley tie, too ), it was going to be this creep. ]
Good evening. Please, come in.
[ It won't take more than a foot in the door to get a face full of the savory-sweet smell of whatever's cooking. ]
*applause* ^_^
Create for him.
This will require more processing.
Dexter himself is... uncertain, of the appropriate gravity. He's aware, for one, that his tastes are so terribly Miami that they probably leave a bad taste in his poor hosts' mouth. Part of Dexter's mask in public, but this not Public, after all. Which mask, if any, is right?
All of his colourful cloths seem insufficient. So it's in a slick formal suit that Dexter on the doorstep appears, stark black and pristine white, with a dashing fedora that matched. Lab-geek sheik just didn't seem up to par for this particular meeting.
Right on time is Dexter's style; likely the moment the minute turns.
He's also brought wine (dark, blood coloured, pristine bottle of moderately high price) because it seemed to him the civil house guest thing to do. Deborah had looked at him strangely when he's asked (not fretfully at all) if there was anything else he should bring. Odd.]
Good evening.
[Smiles all warm as recorded flame; something almost peeking behind the mask.]
Thank you.
[Even his oil-slick shoes are meticulously clean, leaving not a trace of dirt as he steps inside. The smell seizes him quite instantly; his Adam's apple dips as he's forced to swallow, mouth suddenly watering. Anticipation quirks the corner of his mouth almost suggesting a grin.]
That smells wonderful. I'm tempted to ask what it is-- but I wouldn't want to spoil the surprise.
[He presents his offering to the meal, grasping the bulk of the bottle.]
I brought this; I hope it suits the meal.
what a sweetheart
Hannibal accepted the wine with both hands as if he were retrieving something sacred, and not something bought at a store with relatively reasonable prices. He turned it over in his hand, inspecting the label and the color. ]
It will suit the entree, certainly. Please.
[ He continues to gesture Dexter into his immaculate foyer, marble floors and a small table as if for formal leave of appointments. It is immediately obvious that, despite its modest outward appearance, Hannibal's abode is something carefully pruned for the aesthetic. He leads Dexter on into his dining room.
It is dark blue, like the night sky before the moon hits its darker peak, with wood molding that must have taken some time to stack.
The table is vast, polished wood, and long. He has entertained large parties here, even if the table is now set for two. As the centerpiece, there are large, red candles that are just beginning to burn. Before them, far enough not to catch fire, is a small grove of greens interspersed with white honeysuckle, purple anemone, and a pink-purple hyacinth. Among the grove sits a great alligator skull, grinning at the guest with vacant eyes.
Hannibal gestures for Dexter to sit left of the head of the table, where he himself will be settling. ]
The tapas will be seafood - I hope you will allow me to procure a white wine to pair with it.
[ Even as he says it courteously, there's an air to the man that expects this to be so. Once Dexter is seated, or just about there, he'll be moving off to the nearby room ( the kitchen, no doubt ) to bring in the first course.
It's not more than a minute before Hannibal reappears, two plates in hand. ]
Blackened alligator salad with beets, greens, and lotus root.
[ He introduces the dish. A true Floridian cuisine for its main component, but it's a salad, nonetheless. He's brought a bottle of white wine with him, and after setting the dishes at their places, pours as if it were his livelihood to do just that. The alligator is charred and lovely in a macabre way, ash among greens and candycane beets which look, strangely enough, like roses. Set against them are the lotus chips, which are pale and resemble howling, three-eyed faces more than anything. Large, cooked shrimp are rustled into the bedding. ]
Something in the North we find a delicacy, and something the South largely neglects, I suspect.
LOL one way to describe Dexter I guess? XD
Dexter nods in a flawless mimicry of appreciation, and steps inside after he is welcomed. Everything oozes class and is so perfectly clean and neat. Dexter finds himself missing the order and cleanliness that was lost upon living in the space space as children. His children, he had come to think of them, and it wasn't as if he wouldn't cut someone open to protect them-- but they really did offend his compulsion for neatness. Stepping into such a well kept home is like a breath of fresh air, and he can't help but feel a fraction more at ease.
He spends a few long moments steeped in a strange shade of appreciation; a cold, steel coloured shade, perhaps. The attention to detail resonates well with him. When his eyes cross the centrepiece a fleck of something like nostalgia drifts amidst his perfectly composed expression.]
Of course [he answers graciously about the wine; a comment held as he realizes the other man has intentions to follow. He takes his seat (feeling strangely spoiled sitting at the head of such a large table; such a lavish display) and waits his hosts return. His gaze edges back to the seemingly grinning centre piece, and Dexter feels somewhat tempted to grin in return.
Dexter gives his host his full attention upon his return, attentive and appreciative seeming the correct reactions-- and, of course, he can't help but be a little curious of the food. Dexter is a creature that has few true pleasures, but eating is second only to killing when it comes to things he truly enjoys.
His favourites-- the things he craves most deeply before and after the moon swells full, include pork sandwiches and charred-black steak. So what Hannibal has prepared already looks fantastic to him; his Adam's apple dips as he's forced to swallow, mouth watering.]
This looks fantastic. [His eyes return to Hannibal with some obvious difficulty-- he's quite enamoured with the food, but there's something else, too. A dark, cold kind of interest, maybe even fondness, if such a thing could be truly so.] You planned this all very meticulously; taken so much care and arranged everything so beautifully. I feel a little spoiled, I'll admit.
[It's the same attentive attention to detail that Dexter himself is bred with, so could this feeling be kinship? It wasn't impossible, he supposed. He feels a little clumsier with it now, than with a knife in hand and a kill to slice.
Geez, even Rita didn't fuss this much over him any more. That... sat strangely and needed time to process.]
In any case, I'm just flattered you'd go through all the trouble for me. Everything looks wonderful. If it didn't smell so heavenly I'd almost call it a shame to eat it. Almost.
[Dexter took up his utensils but awaited his host; he wouldn't eat until they were both seated and ready.]
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pew pew. though we prefer something more intimate, don't we?
The organ started up slowly, echoing through the severe arches as he slowly made his way through that spacious palace dedicated to his memory. The pews were empty, save for the bones of the many worshipers he'd collected over the years, and they did not turn their heads. Nor did he, though he saw glimpses of his reflection in the stained glass. There were no true mirrors in his memory palace.
He was thinking of renovation, and he could move just as fast or as slow as he pleased, an incorporeal, even omnipotent being in this sanctum.
Between Mathematics and Cranium is where he rested, an oblong figure, winged, antlered - not quite human, in any case. He navigated carefully, winding his ways past the holes and the various pitfalls. Some he fixed, over the years; others were left.
And maybe that's where he came from. As the elder, the new Hannibal, observed his walls and ruminated on the possibilities of another wing, something moved out of the corner of his mind's eye. Like heat off the horizon, a shimmer. ]
Come.
[ He entreats the spectre that haunts the halls ever still, that vicious, sweet edge in the back of his mind. There were certainly times where he chose to ignore the presence, but now... ]
Join me.
Often, yes.
[Whether the thing was an 'it' or 'he' would have had Hannibal's fellow psychiatrists spinning their collective wheels for a decade or more. What exactly 'it' was would have kept them going for a century, if not more. Was it a piece of his personality that Hannibal had sectioned off with his too brilliant mind like a god giving a doll life? Was it the beginning of a multiple personality disorder manifesting? Or was it only a grouping of memories that had taken on life of its own, a ghost in an organic machine that Hannibal simply hadn't gotten around to locking away somewhere? The only person who knew was Hannibal himself.]
[Bits of dust drift down like snowflakes as the young man comes into the unearthly light filling the chapel. He pays no more mind to their dead audience than Hannibal did. Maroon eyes slide down and back up Hannibal, a quirk of sour amusement shaping his mouth. Today, this younger version of Hannibal has elected to be (or is sculpted to be) at his oldest, roughly nineteen years old. Sometimes he was younger but rarely by much. The white of his lab coat is muted in the chapel's illumination, the blue stitching on it still clearly reading 'Hannibal Lecter, MD - Johns Hopkins, Emergency Room'. His red eyes linger on the antlers, amusement giving way to a brand of exasperation.]
Feeling Wendigo-ish today, are we? Any particular reason?
[This young version thinks himself a prisoner in some strange cage, but it doesn't demand release or lash out at its captor/god/fellow prisoner/whatever role it puts Hannibal in within his thoughts. Such would be useless. It is patient and polite, a deadly mix when one knows the mind behind those strange eyes.]
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His own eyes are black as they regard the other, shrewd and noncommittal all the same. He does not take one shape, a wing here, an antler there; the spirit is the only one in this place that can view him, which means it has as much as an advantage of him as he does of them.
That sharp, cruel quirk of mouth, much more obvious than he is now. The young man of Paris, where now he is returning. It makes sense, at least to him. He tilts his own head at the question, a parody. ]
Don't you know?
[ A tease, a taunt, a ruffle against those unseen feathers of a fledgling.
He doesn't have to, but the elder ( and newer all the same ) of the two lifts a hand and waves, splitting the wall between the two sectors with the same effort as parting a veil. Into nothing. Into something that begins to bloom, a hedge beginning to work its way into a garden. He already has a few in his palace, but as always, this will be something different. He just needs time - he's taking his time with an audience present. ]
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I could, I suppose, but I don't yet. I was asleep.
[A thin shoulder lifts in a careless shrug. Little here would hurt him unlike the outer world where he would be teeth bared, watchful and waiting. A predator among the sheep that keeps a look out for others. 'Sleep' could be anything for him - working, guarding, repairing, or merely being unneeded. Lithuania's tones hangs heavily in his spoken words, tinged with Paris' influence with the uplift of some vowels and the purr of others. The sound is much rougher, rawer than Hannibal's own. A small huff accompanies his words, refusing to rise to the elder's verbal prod.]
I'll escape someday. [Said more to himself than the other self. But is Hannibal's will (no matter how much of it this one has) enough to conjure itself a form outside of Hannibal's memory palace?] What are you making?
[He is content to stay at Hannibal's side, watching a god at work although there is a marked lack of being impressed at such. An almost obsessive need to know and see is there, but he is not shocked by what Hannibal can do here in this place.]
And why? What is your muse for this?
[Despite not being awed by this act, Hannibal is voracious in his need to know. Even trying to climb up like a child to get a better view.]
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The younger-older self stays at his side, a fractured reflection. There are no mirrors in this memory palace, but there is...
He considers a moment. His accent has far from fled - in this place he can speak every language he knows at once in fluency - but it's a softer voice now. ]
A memorial. For a friend.
[ A few. A foreign concept to his fellow - he relishes that, at least by half.
Calla lillies bloom among the hedges, interlacing with small sprigs of lavender, lilac. Alstroemeria settles close to the amaryllis and aster. An exquisite walkway of cobblestone blossoms beneath his every step and races ahead, off to the silent burst of a wide, running stream. ]
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[That part of him lingers here, now watching the garden he constructs. Like Hannibal, he breathes in the scent and appreciates the melody of flowers it brings to him... knows the secret words of those blooms.]
Perhaps some rosemary. For remembrance. Pray you, love, remember.
[Of course he would quote 'Hamlet' to him with Ophelia's lines. Such cheek.]
[He doesn't look up at Hannibal, watching only the new garden's construction. That doesn't stop his words, ones probably no one but Will Graham might dare to speak to Hannibal. That doesn't mean that he isn't close, nearly leaning over Hannibal's knees to get a look. To watch. To learn.]
We don't have friends. [At least not to his knowledge. Fluttering shades of others in Hannibal's memory might pass by his dark areas sometime but never really register with this secret part. His world is insular, kept to Hannibal's whim or fate - whichever it is that rules his existence in this place.]
Do we? Who is it?
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At the quote, a mere tick corners his lips. Such cheek. And rosemary, paving the way at the corners of the stone in sprigs. The smell of it is quite remarkably close to the occasional waft of perfume from the woman who nestles beside him on the plane, down to the slight musk in the appearance of a yearling, coming slowly to suckle from the stream opposite them. ]
This above all; to thine own self be true.
[ He reached out then, graceful yet quick, to snag the other by the back of the neck, reeling him in in such a way that it was both dangerous and sweet. A wing enfolded over the other, companionable and wicked, a mouth bent so close to an ear you could kiss it.
And in the palm of his hand, an ortolan grew like a blossom, just beginning to rustle its wings before the long fingers ( talons ) snapped shut and held it still to shrill. An offering. ]
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