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bakerstreet2014-01-02 04:33 pm
considers) wrote in bakerstreet2014-01-02 04:33 pm
The Date Meme
THE DATE MEME
Here's how it works!
1. Comment to this post with your character. List the character's name, series, and any preferences you might have in the subject.
2. Using the RNG, pick from one of each of the two categories below. (Or if you'd rather pick them yourself, feel free to do that instead!)
3. The two of you are now on a date! The first list is where you took your date. The second list is your current relationship.
4. Have fun!
Locations
1. Restaurant. What better way to spend some romantic time than over food? Maybe you're at the fancy restaurant in town, or maybe you just couldn't afford anything nice, so you're at the nearest diner. Or maybe somewhere in between?
2. Games. The two of you are playing a game somewhere! You could be at a bowling alley, an arcade, a miniature golf course...the possibilities here are countless.
3. The Park. Of course, Mother Nature can provide an excellent atmosphere for romantic bonding! Perhaps you're taking a leisurely stroll through the lush grounds, or maybe you've laid out a blanket somewhere so the two of you could have a picnic.
4. Movie Theater. Or maybe the two of you are sitting next to each other in a dark room, sharing a bucket of popcorn while you're watching the latest film. Did you opt for a horror flick to keep your significant other latched to your arm -- or for you to latch to theirs -- or perhaps something they enjoy, like a sappy romance film or a cheesy action flick? Or maybe you compromised and went to see a sweet romantic comedy.
5. Skating. It's always nice to go skating, right? Are you at a roller skating rink, or did you find a frozen lake and decide to go ice skating? Which one of you needs help (you know at least one of you does)?
6. Beach. Ahh, the beach! Go ahead and set up camp wherever you like! Or if you don't watn to lay down and catch a tan, you can go swimming, or take a walk along the shore! Or if you don't want getting sand on your feet or in your shoes, go hit up the boardwalk!
7. Sunday Drive. Sometimes you don't really have a destination in mind. Sometimes you just want to drive and enjoy the scenery. Well, here's your chance to do that!
8. Amusement Park. There's plenty to do here! Take your date on the Ferris wheel, or the tunnel of love...or something more thrilling, like a roller coaster! Walk around with cotton candy!
9. Dance/Ball. School dance? Prom? Business gala? Whatever it is, you're there, and you've got a date.
10. Wild Card. Your choice! Feel free to pick something that's not here.
Relationships
1. Blind Date. You had no idea who you were going out with until you arrived! Was it a complete stranger, or did it turn out to be someone you knew?
2. First Date. You finally worked up the courage to ask this person out, and they agreed! How awkward is this going to end up?
3. Steady. You guys have been going out for a while. This is just another one of many dates.
4. Proposing. This isn't just any date for you. You've brought your significant other out somewhere to propose to them! Make sure to warm them up for the main event!
5. Married. You're not just dating, you're a married couple! Whether this is a special occasion or you just decided to break from your everyday life, the two of you are using this as an opportunity to remind each other just how much you love one another.
6. Wild Card. Your choice! Feel free to pick something that's not here.
[Taken from an earlier meme]
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Considering what a dismal liar he very obviously is, using their boss' name as an unnecessary pseudonym, Hannibal can't imagine his lack of shock at being deposited here is a ruse. Revenge for being lied to for the past eight months of knowing Ichabod is bubbling beneath the surface of Hannibal's gracious, grateful smile to Mr Smith. "Thank you so much; I'm Jacob Lecter." Since they're already using false names, and because his name is perhaps too foreign for...the early 19th century?
It's still enough to give a man named Mr Smith a small pause, but Hannibal's friendly gaze seems to put him at ease soon enough. "Well, follow me, fellows. Let's get back to my lodge before it's much darker than this, and I can pluck this bird for us."
"Wonderful! I can help cook him, if you'd like."
"Yeah?" It's a companionable walk for several hundred yards, after that introduction and offer, but soon talk about culinary skills turns to the old-fashioned habit of prying as deeply as possible about your neighbors. Adam finally turns back to the two of them with a question. "So...you guys just friends, then?"
"Hmm? Oh, actually Samuel is my brother-in-law." Hannibal was waiting for you to ask, just look at the sudden smile. This'll show you to keep secrets from him, Ichabod. "He married my sister not two years ago - a slim, pretty girl." He leans in to the bearded woodsman. "He's almost as sleek as she is, in fact." Adam snorts, already elbowing at Hannibal's ribs in manly camaraderie. "He got off lucky with me not breaking his neck - luckily he's a grand man, better at sports than he looks. I'm sure he's just waiting for the opportunity to wow you with his own hunting stories."
"That so?" Adam's eyeing you, Ichabod. And he looks so amused, perhaps a little proud, to hear that such a waif got a girl so lovely. "You enjoyin' that girl properly, son?" A belly laugh follows before he claps Hannibal on the shoulder. "You don't mind a fellow making a joke, do you?"
"Not at all," Hannibal curls a smile at both of them. "I daresay hearing the whispers of their honeymoon tells me they're both enjoying the other plenty."
Adam's laughter rings through the trees.
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"Wah-- I, I..." Ichabod stammers, ears burning so brightly in the growing dark, they almost become their own source of light to travel by. He isn't sure if he is more unbalanced by being tossed the ball in this game of deception quicker than he can think, or by the unveiled sexual undertones Adam presents.
And Hannibal adopts.
Judging by the sudden deadened glare on Ichabod's face, he looks to be about five thousand percent done with the exchanges being flung to and fro before him. His temper sparks instantly, with Hannibal's friction between subjects delicate as dry wood.
"I do what I must to make my lady happy; I wouldn't want her to become the second divorcée of the family." Ichabod stares a firm set of holes into the back of Hannibal's head, before his gaze meets Adam's with only somewhat less intensity. Their guide in question gives doctor Lecter a quick, wary side-eye. He thinks he gets the idea.
"Ahh, well. So you...say you cook, mister Lecter?"
It feels like a cool breeze that sweeps over Ichabod, though far more soothing than threatening; it's the secure shade that falls when the spotlight is dragged away from his presence, a sensation he finds deep solace in. He tunes out the rest of their conversation, keeping a sweeping gaze over the forest around them.
no subject
And then the wave crests and the ocean takes a turn that Hannibal's knowledge of the weather hadn't predicted. A feral grin is deep inside his mind, hidden under the calm surface of a man lightly reproached. Hannibal Lecter feels Ichabod's ire and savors it, weighs the animosity and wonders what fuels it deep within, where he honed it. He's not so toothless as others would believe. Mr Crane is a capable force.
And that's lovely. Hannibal lets the moment fade back into conversation with Adam, no more digs at Ichabod's nature or wife or secret lack thereof, a silent honor for rebuking him so well. In time Adam seems to forget the shameful revelation and the three (mostly two) talk their way to the huntsman's lodge...
Night fell again a few hours ago; it came swift and like a great pulling-over of cloth, no gradual falling away of the sun. With it came a chill, separate from just an absence of warmth. A crawling cold comes seeping through the stonework and the floorboards and the rafters, sinking down in the dustmotes and through the candlelight. And in it all is a sense of being watched.
Which Hannibal is, in that moment. He turns up from helping wash out Adam's dinner plates in a deep wash basin, elbows bared from rolled-up sleeves. His jacket is abandoned despite the chill, to keep it safe from water. "Hello," he says cheerfully, a test. It's thrown out like a stick into a pond to see if circling alligators might snap and show themselves.
The air is brittle with cold and watchfulness. Adam has grown strange throughout their second day together - and it's their second evening now. Last night they all piled down on the floor (Adam in his narrow cot) and fell asleep in uneasy company.
Except Adam. He slept like the dead and woke at what Hannibal senses was midnight to polish, to clean, all silent as the grave. He's been watching. All day. They hadn't left except to hunt another fowl for food, Adam insisting the weather wasn't right for travel - partially true. Snowflakes floated without threat, hadn't gathered more than the barest cloud on the ground. It had turned to fog within hours and stayed thick throughout the afternoon and evening. The distrust was palpable; Hannibal thinks Ichabod is aware as well, though they can only trade silent glances without suspicion.
In this moment, Hannibal senses the quiet stare between him and Adam is the final rope, held taut. He tilts his head, injects a burning question and feels that thread turn to ash.
Adam jerks forward, sloppy, and stops just as imprecise. Hannibal has already thrown down his dishes and washclothes and stood up fully, hands glistening with water at his sides. It's a commotion that leads to another round of quiet, but the breaking of the staredown is clear.
Whatever's happened, it's about to happen, now. Hannibal's eyes carve over to Ichabod, seated at the small dinner table at some task of his own devising. He's surely noticed.
Adam's eyes never waver from Hannibal's face, even though he senses that Adam isn't seeing him clearly.
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But Adam, his shift in personality made itself known very immediately. His bright demeanor had been snuffed and replaced by what felt like a creature watching through a darkness. Talk was bare, which was strange for the man who had practically talked himself into a coma the previous night. Any attempt to leave was met with a bizarre air before Adam's words, like happening upon a deadly, coiled creature ready to strike. It stilled every muscle and intention, trapping them there in the cabin. Ichabod had half a mind to wander away during their hunt but the thought of abandoning Hannibal to whatever stomach-turning fate that was surely in store withered any bud of confidence he managed to grow.
Ichabod's feeling queasy from nerves by now, a cocktail of regret for not escaping when he might have had a chance, mixed with the absolute absence of communication with his only cohort. Glances and signals are just not enough to convey what Ichabod wants to know, but even whispers may be carved and legible to the ears of their third party.
Does Ichabod believe it to be supernatural? At this point, not entirely; his near three years in Baltimore have taught him that many strangers may have ulterior motives and wield a mask with deception at its base. Adam could be up to anything.
At the table now, Ichabod is performing maintenance on a tool of his own, having been somewhat damaged by the bag's tumble a day prior. A minor fix, thankfully, but one Ichabod has taken his sweet time to do to provide himself with some kind of distraction. He wants nothing to do with any socializing tonight -- he is much too eager to get to bed and wake up and leave.
But of course, there is an event brewing in the center of this small cabin between Adam and Hannibal. It makes so little disturbance that Ichabod does not immediately rise from his seat until Hannibal's eyes meet his. It feels like a beckoning.
"Ah, ahm," Ichabod scrambles as he slowly stands, taking a few cautious steps forward. Adam is acting peculiar enough to inspire some genuine alarm. "Mister Smith, are...you feeling all right?"
It's as if Adam has just realized that Ichabod exists, and he turns slowly to look over at him. He seems to only have motion in his neck and waist -- not even his eyes move as he turns and looks over Ichabod now, almost as if he wasn't seeing with his eyes at all.
Ichabod struggles over a lump in his throat, his heart attempting at a break for freedom presumably, and he begins to reclaim the steps he had taken. Perhaps this is what drives Adam to advance upon the smaller man, jerking aggressively, almost as if he's having trouble re-learning how to utilize his body. Ichabod instantly backs himself up, stumbling against the chair he had been seated in, before quickly hitting the wall behind him. Adam is unfortunately learning quickly, the closer he gets, even lifting his hands up and out for Ichabod's throat. One hand cruelly grabs Ichabod's face, but it's an admirable attempt for a man who seems to move on marionette strings.
Oh and of course, Ichabod is wailing and clawing desperately at Adam's torso, gurgling for air while the other hand finds his wind pipe. In the shamble, his sharp examining tool is lost to the floor in favor of freeing his hand and pulling at the one currently on his face, trying to tear his eye and cheek from his skull. It wouldn't even occur to Ichabod to use it as a weapon anyway.
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He shadows just one step and not a hair more when Adam backs Ichabod up in the corner. Screaming and struggling, the sound of legs smashing up against wood where Adam's body doesn't register the pain of the chair in his way, flesh against the wall, the rasp of cloth on wood in need of sanding...
Hannibal is precise when he finally moves. To be silent his dishware is neglected and it's instead a tool of Ichabod's from the table - a scalpel, small and gleaming - that cuts Adam's ear.
He yelps, a human cry of pain and shock, and immediately grabs his ear. It's just barely nicked, but well-placed and confidently piercing the cartilage, and blood trickles between clutching fingers. Hannibal's already darting backwards, a lithe shadow in front of Adam who's turning away, a hand still at Ichabod's shoulder but his ire there neglected. He's clearly picked a new target. "Adam!" Hannibal's voice is loud but perfectly in control, commanding. "Sit down. We need to talk." He gestures to the chair, knocked to the floor in the first steps of the fray. He doesn't bother to make reassuring eye contact with Ichabod until then, when he can give him a once-over to determine that he wasn't choked nearly enough to be in danger. He's fine, if shocked. He looks to have had a healthy fright.
"Hell rain on you!" Well that's unpleasant. As is the spittle that accompanies Adam's clear rage - he seems more himself, if it's possible, but taken by an anger that has no reason.
"Ichabod, I think we might have to leave early." Adam lurches forward, a little more deftly than before, but Hannibal's small and quick and he dodges easily, still keeping Adam between himself and Ichabod. Now their huntsman friend will always be presenting his back to one of them.
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Squinting still, Ichabod watches open and helplessly as the two other men begin a very bizarre exchange that occurs before him. Hannibal seems much too calm for this scenario (while Ichabod stands, panting, holding his face, back firmly attached to the wall) but given how in-tune and aware the good doctor has been all day, perhaps there is less suspicion and more clarifying relief?
"L-leave?" Ichabod can't tell if he is excited or flummoxed, as he isn't exactly sure exactly how they can go about that when Adam seems to be anything but sated. "Given the situation at hand, I would be eager to hear your plan for accomplishing that, doctor."
But before Hannibal can do just that, Adam very nearly snarls as he twists in just a way that shouldn't be possible within the realm of comfort -- and if there had been any sliver of space between Ichabod and the wall, the pathetic thud tells us just how much had wedged through. "Leave the forest... You will never leave the forest."
Ichabod looks about ready to faint after a pang of horror flickers across his face like a flash of lighting. It sounded as if Adam's vocal chords had been manipulated like a hand upon an instrument -- a piano, or a cello, pressing and grinding to force out the specific thoughts into words. All right, Ichabod is all sorts of on board with this superb "leaving the forest" idea. "...O-oh? And why is that...exactly?" Do you really want to know, Ichabod?
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So Adam's mentally unwell enough to turn on them, but healthy enough in body to react correctly. It's almost as if he's terrified, too, not just preparing for a brawl. It's wrong, wrong, wrong for how he's acting.
"He's watching. Always watching." And now Adam is lumbering back for his evidently-favorite target, Ichabod pressed up against the wall still. Hannibal follows, a silent shadow against the bare candles and fireplace in the room, and Adam's other ear has an identical slit before he's even touched Ichabod once more. Hannibal needs Ichabod to help him escape - the man clearly has a reason for not being surprised that they've gone back in time. There's something he's not telling him, a secret that is dearer to both of them with Ichabod alive. They're allies.
And Adam's in his way of getting home.
Adam's yelping again, too, an all too human holler of pain when he backs off once more. "Stop this." Hannibal's words are unheeded and this time, Adam's movements are swifter, smoother, like it's his own instinctive protective will he's acting on. He comes right for Hannibal and, in a rush of well-timed muscle that he wasn't expecting, Hannibal manages to skewer Adam's right palm with the scalpel before he loses it to the floor. The table rapidly approaches and then they collide into it, Adam's fists going wild but strong and Hannibal blocking the brunt of them with the bony sides of his forearms. There's no need for words, just actions. Hannibal's silent but for his aggressively steady breathing, eyes looking downwards instead of at the face of his attacker.
Adam's feet planted staggered, unplanned, as he'd jumped for him, it's easy to insert a dress shoed-foot between them, jerk his waist, bend and twist with shoulders ramming... But the two tumble together, Adam grabbing onto him as he falls, and dust falls off the rafters as they hit the floor, still locked.
The scalpel's just barely out of Hannibal's reach now, to his right. Adam doesn't see it because Adam doesn't see anything. Hannibal huffs a breath and remembers his companion. "Ichabod!" False fear in his voice. "Help!" Get the scalpel, grab a chair and break it across Adam's back, be a useful distraction so Hannibal can locate the bow saw he's seen hanging on the wall.
Adam has to die. It's a truth Hannibal feels in his chest, and he needs to ensure Ichabod doesn't reproach him for the killing.
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It's not that Ichabod doesn't feel confident in the idea, it's the fact that the idea doesn't occur to him at all. He's stunned into hesitation by the wrestling match that erupts before him, and honestly, he sees very little else around -- even the glint of the metal blade catching the light of the fire.
But Hannibal's plead for help sparks some urge to act, and he hops immediately closer to the tangled pair on the floor. As a constable, Ichabod had been trained in detaining aggressive citizens in New York during an arrest, but Adam looks wild with rage, and he's not entirely sure that he can match that much testosterone with his bare hands.
The wooden chair beside him, however, might.
He is loathe to, but Ichabod reaches for the chair by it's back; it's untreated wood but it's a heavier kind, perhaps oak, selected obviously for its sturdiness. He stalls for a few excruciating seconds, trying to gauge how hard he should hit, but when Adam's hands start fumbling for Hannibal's throat, all inhibitions are lost to adrenaline. The chair swings in on the huntsman's side, landing square on his shoulder and neck. Perhaps the chair just hadn't taken kindly to the climate's drastic changes between humid heat and dry cold, but a couple of legs shatter on impact and spiral out in wide strokes across the cabin as Adam tumbles off of the doctor and onto the floor.
Ichabod has nothing in the way of intentions, but he loses the chair to the floor in favor of securing a shattered wooden leg made hazardous by the impaling point where it used to be attached. He doesn't entirely understand what's happening, much less why he's grabbing broken pieces of furniture to defend himself with. "D-doctor, are you all right?" Forgive him for asking stupid questions; he can hardly help it.
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Hannibal twists back up to his feet, clever hands swiping Ichabod's scalpel from the floor along the way. It's dropped in a hidden pocket of his sleeve - old habits die hard when they're useful. "Thanks to you," he pants believably, a quick smile full of reserved gratitude.
Adam. Adam has to be taken care of. Ichabod has to be convinced of this. Ichabod's fear is a strong tang to the air and it's bitter on Hannibal's tongue. How useful. "I don't know how much longer we'll be alright with him here, though."
Right on cue, Adam lurches at them - this time for Ichabod, wrenching at his shoulders. The two look ready to smash against the table once more, about eight feet from the mantelpiece and fireplace. Hannibal circles around to behind them, behind Adam, and instead into Ichabod's line of sight. He pulls at Adam with false strength, making sure the one-track mind in his hands only wants Ichabod and isn't distracted from his goal.
Hmm, perhaps he'll need to get creative, desperate even, to help Ichabod free himself once more...
His vision statics as if with poorly-circulated blood, a quick pound in his ears and blue in his sights. He blinks it away as he waits, pupils dilated for a moment in the dark. Focus.
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Poor Ichabod's eyes don't find whatever it is that caught his attention, which is understandable, given that Adam has virtually rammed him down. The suddenness startles the constable into a spell of incapacitation, where he bends backward limply against Adam's hands. Desperately, his eyes search for Hannibal -- and instead find something much worse.
The man's mouth gapes, eyes seemingly swelling in their sockets, and Ichabod sacrifices a resistant hand to motion wildly at the doctor -- no, behind him.
Adam begins to rasp and wheeze, as if the air in the cabin has turned to smoke. Hit with a fierce coughing fit, the huntsman's velocity grows to a halt; no longer fighting and pushing, the man is now very nearly clinging onto Ichabod, hacking and roaring against his chest. Ichabod's vision hazes again, but he certainly sees the splatter of blood on his front that Adam has just sprayed out of his mouth.
Confused and graceless, Ichabod shoves Adam away, stumbling back against the table; there is a deafening ringing in his ears that is absolutely stupefying his equilibrium. "D-doc-- doctor, behind--!"
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He looks through bursting black and blue to Ichabod and hears nothing over the grinding screech. Ichabod gestures, eyes wide with fear, and Hannibal is deaf. He turns and the room tilts with him, swelling further away and blurring, blackening, shapes from the corner of his eye always at the corner he can't focus--
Hannibal gasps a breath, feels the beat of his heart whoosh whoosh--
blinks into focus Ichabod staggering, blood on Adam's shirt, dark shape swells--
Hannibal whirls upright, eyes clear. Fire crackles in his ears and he hears hacking, aggressive coughing from Adam. Over to the fireplace, grab the poker near the abandoned flames. It's nearly dead, embers spark at him. Hannibal turns and sees Adam collapsed against Ichabod's front (how long has it been?) but with the scalpel somehow in his hand. Flash near Ichabod's throat, and Hannibal's there at his side in a twitch of muscles. The poker enters through Adam's back on the right, just under floating ribs. It exits on the left just above his ilium.
The entire affair squelches through Hannibal's ears, a welcome change from the rushing roar.
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It's a shape, long and dark -- a figure. Ichabod doesn't even classify it as humanoid until he notices the ovular point tilts to the side, curious, intrigued. A head, set on impossibly thin shoulders. For a moment, Ichabod in his mind likens the creature's body to a sewing pin.
Until the arms come, spreading out, out of seemingly nowhere. Long, formless, flowing freely yet move with unnatural precision -- and toward Hannibal.
Ichabod cries out but the roaring atmosphere deafens his voice. He is still holding Adam, which he only realizes when the man's limp body weighs him down, preventing him from moving. Hannibal disappears somewhere where Ichabod cannot see, with his peripheries made useless with a dark, buzzing sensation. He moves Adam's deadened form up, a thought trailing deftly like a crippled fly on a windowsil: must go, must run, bring Adam, where is Hanni--?
There's a cruel and suddenly rough shifting through the man in Ichabod's hands, but there isn't even enough time for his neck to twitch downward before there is a warm spray that spreads over his face and neck. It stings his right eye and his hands release Adam immediately, losing him to the floor in favor of finding his face. A sudden, dull pang in his lungs.
Ichabod sees only red, as the light of the dying fire in the cabin is perverted and distorted in the lens of his eye, and the outer edge of the macula where the rods are going haywire. A strained lurch in his esophagus. It makes the blood that transfers on his hands look black once he pulls them away to inspect whatever it is that is now dripping off his skin.
It's too much, too much. Ichabod's brain is white noise, skull like a bee hive, blood raging like a summer storm on the ocean. Pounding in his throat. He's been coughing for half a minute and has no idea. He can't breathe.
It's suddenly cold as his vision blurs away to nothing, but as his auditory hallucination subsides, he might realize that the high pitched tone in his ears sounded much more like screams than pure and simple ringing. Slowly through the dense wading, Ichabod feels his feet slamming on twigs and earth. The high-frequency snapping turns to the glass-shard texture of dead leaves. Something snags at his ankle and he lands in the filth and wet ground. He lies five yards from the front door of the cabin, hacking and gulping at the thick humid air.
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Adam sounds plaintive, frightened, like the dying keen of an animal. A bull bellowing and snuffling on the floor at Hannibal's feet. He wrenches at the fire poker, gets it most of the way back out, blood slicking, before Adam tears away. On his back in instinctive self-defense, he skewers himself anew with a howl.
Hannibal lurches past, eyes beating in his skull. He coughs, desperate for air, sprays blood off his wet hands with his breath. A black shadow follows him and swallows through his back, breathes when he does. Doesn't fall out when he coughs.
Hannibal is on the floor, knees and palms cold on wood. The fire's been out for hours.
The roof spins in his vision, blackens. His m̕i͞n̶̮d͈̦̼̠̪̭͈ ͏͚̪w͏a̦͍͡k͉̖͇͙̀e̼̗̺̠s͖̳̻͓͠ ͍̩̤̝͈̦u̖̗̖͜p̨̪̱͔.̷̬
Hannibal doesn't retch when he next wakes up through sheer force of will. Hallucinations of speech that he can't hear pounds in his brain. Vibrations that are more than sound, that synchronize with him, i̟̭͍n͔̹̝̱͖̭̮s̘̺͔̺͖̗i̛̙ͅḏ͢e̤̯.̯̠́ ̱̝͈̬̥͙
The air is black and there's no fire to combat it. Hannibal rises, hands slide on slick floor only once. His fingers stick to the match he lights, and his hand is lined with black blood when it cups around the candle. He steps over the dead body, mind so still. So wide. Hannibal feels a presence inside of him, not asleep but watching. He swallows and doesn't taste fear, but his instinct is to want it out.
W̜̮e̬̟̳̳ ̸̱̣̜̬͚̼͉b̦̣o͎͘ͅt̴͉͙̦̥͈͕ḩ̬̰̥̱ ̩̙͢o̼͉͍͕͕n̜̲̱l̗̥y̢͍ ͚̩̼̥͟ẉ͉̰a̘͙̜̱͇̗̱t̶c͖̺h̬́ͅ.̖ ͏̖͎̟Ẁ͈e͇̪͉̖̻̠̗ ҉̙̭̫͕ͅb̞̩͔̥̤̞o̴͎̫̬ṱ̷͉h̷̰̪̥̩ ̶òn͕̙̘̪͇͇͜l̜̤̦͙y͖͍ t̳o̭̩̠͕̣y̭̳̭͓̩ ̯w̜i̼̺̘͈̘͎͠t̞͍̰̗̘̙͚h͕͕̲̻.̷͓̦͈̫̩̗ ͖̰̀ͅW͏̹̪̞͙͎͙͉e̼ ̮̼͔͖͙͇̬̕a̪̳̰ͅre̴ ̣̮͇̫͎̤̙ǹ̰o͖̫̘̩t̡ ̗̘s̖͍̳͡ͅo̻͚̯̟͖̪͠ ̴̳di̺̰̟̱͔͉͡ͅf͖̱ͅf҉̲͓̗ͅe̥̖̤͞r̼̼̼e̵̖͇̟̜̠ͅn̟̪̣̳͖̙͔͞ț̳̲̣̩̱ͅ.̪̘͟ͅ ̶̺Y͏̬̘̥o҉͎̭͚̯u̟͢'̡̥͇r̪̳͖̬ḛ̖̹̖̺͎ ̷͉̩͙̜v̱͎̠e̸̱r͕͈͍̲̝y̤̠̕ ̪d̖̜͘i̖̭̹f̳̩ͅf͞e̹̦r̪̥̩̥̺͈̺e͓̮̜͙͖ņ͕̬͈̱̤̥̤t͏͉̩ ̲̯̯̼f͇̦̯͙̘̺r̴͖͕͎͓͇ò̬̘͙̲̠̩m̴̠͚̠̜̺̝̖ ̺̥̜̜͎̕t͏̣͕͖̳̗̪͔ḫ̥̯̖̹e̯̟͙̣ͅ ̧͉̭o̱̤͜t̷̮̭ḥ̪è̼r͇̙͠s̮̗̙̦.҉̣͙
Hannibal's breath leaves fog in the air. The door is open and minimal scrapings of blood mark it - Ichabod's not in the cabin. He's out there. It takes some time for Hannibal to push past the vines of the presence's awareness, realize he can talk. "Ichabod!" It rasps through his throat.