🍴 ( 009 ) Video

[youwill]

[Hannibal is seated at his desk, the camera balanced against something there: he is dressed in a tux, legs crossed, a glass of champagne in his hand. He sips it gracefully.]

Consider the ortolan.

[He smiles faintly, as if it's a joke he knows no one will realize.]

It was the practice of certain gourmets to eat these small birds for centuries. A rite of passage, of sorts, where one must hunt but not kill. Capture it alive and keep it so, for a time. It was best to blind the bird, placing it in a small cage filled with grain. Its reaction to the darkness is to gorge itself. If you were particularly thoughtful, you would add oats and figs to this diet as well. Once it had fattened itself, these gourmets would drown it in brandy - Armagnac, preferably. On high heat, roast it whole for six to eight minutes.

There is a tradition for consumption as well; of course there is. You would place a cloth over your head, to contain the aroma, to make it last, but also to hide your soon-to-be atrocity from God.

[He smiles again.]

Place the bird in your mouth, with only its beak escaping your lips. Bite down, and place the beak in your place. Chew slowly. Savor it. There is the sweetness of the flesh and fat, the brandy and the fig you have forced it to eat: this is God in all His wonder, from whom you must hide this act. I wonder if they tasted shame, too. Next there is the bitterness of untended innards, of organs uncleaned: this is the suffering of the Son, His blood on your tongue. It will soon be joined by your own, as your teeth crack hollow bones, as those bones slice your gums. Your blood, the sweetness, the bitterness - this is the Holy Spirit, and the Trinity come together in one mouth. A rite of passage, a mystery revealed.

It is terribly cruel. And terribly delicious.

[Spam for Ned]

[Shortly after his post, Hannibal heads for the pub sans champagne but still wearing his tux, and knocks at the door. He's already begun the set up, but there is one thing he still requires.]

[Open Gallery Spam on the Deck]

[Hannibal has been hard at work. With little to do between death tolls and less to occupy himself, he has been drawing. Mal was kind enough to supply him with tools enough for his art, though his pencils are never quite sharp enough without a scalpel to do the job. When he has finished, there is only one thing to do with his art.

Setting up takes time, but he goes as quickly as he can manage: Mal requested presentation dividers, which makes it feel just professional enough to satisfy Hannibal. The sketches and portraits are spaced out on the deck, providing plenty of room to walk around and observe. There is a small table near the pub entrance with glasses of champagne, and a very serious pie maker making certain that nobody does anything untoward to the champagne.

Hannibal himself can be found wandering through the little corridors he's made, observing his art on occasion but mostly observing those who have come to look.

It's opening night.]


(Hannibal is paraphrasing from Brendan Kiley's The Urban Hunt.)

Comments

[deadly_ned]

[The Piemaker stands alone in the bar, once again sitting apart from his dog, Digby. He sits at one of the empty tables, quietly filling out the margins in his mother's recipe book.

At the knock, he glances once to his dog before standing up to open the door. Upon seeing who it is, his face doesn't fall, exactly, but there's a definite withdrawal of his immediate feelings. The Piemaker lets neutrality take over, where he can't be touched or hurt]

Dr. Lecter.

[youwill]

[It's an admirable mask. Hannibal smiles pleasantly nonetheless, eyes tracking briefly away to see if Digby's come to investigate.]

Ned. I have a small favor to ask, though I will understand if you are reluctant to hear it.

Spam

[with_my_teacup]

[Riddick strolls up to the gallery as soon as he finds out about it; he wants to see. Most of the horrors don't move him; but they're interesting. Not threats but perceptions, little jokes, looks at the inside of Lecter's head at the very least. He pauses in front of his own picture, tipping his head, then smiling whimsically. Nice apron, doesn't think he has that one.]

Spam

[youwill]

[Hannibal is very good at social gatherings. He does not hover, does not circle to fast. He allows Riddick his space, and only when he sees that smile does Hannibal approach.]

I considered ruffles for the apron, but it would have been too much.

[routemistress]

[Even in a place where no one has to pay for anything, Iris still homes in on free drinks like a bee to a buddleia bush. She tips the first glass down in one, then sips slightly more decorously at the second - refilled from the bottle she lifted - as she wanders round the exhibit.

If she's grossed out (she is) or frightened (she isn't), she's careful not to let it show. If Hannibal catches her eye, she gazes back, calmly intent, her head slightly cocked, her eyes beadbright with curiosity.]

[youwill]

[He takes his time. There is nothing worse than an overeager entertainer, Hannibal knows this all too well. He lets her circle, take her bottle of champagne (and hides how that pricks at him). He lets her look before catching her eye from halfway across the deck. In silence, he lifts his glass in a toast, the corners of his mouth turning up pleasantly.]

spam;

[velocette]

[He doesn't pay much attention to the network unless Harvey Dent's actions make it important, so Hannibal has gone more or less beneath the Motorcycle Boy's notice. He vaguely remembers a scandal a while back, but like most things, it's been sanded and smoothed over with time and other crises.

The gallery reminds him of what Hannibal's crimes had been, but it doesn't change the Boy's interest even slightly. He spends as little as two seconds with some portraits, as much as twenty minutes with others. Harvey and Anya are the only two people he really would claim to know, but their representations are the ones he skims past.

When he's had his fill, he moves past the table toward Hannibal, finally stopping with a faint smile and a distant curiosity, as if he's studying some long-extinct and taxidermied specimen.]

How much do you charge?

spam;

[youwill]

[He catches Hannibal's attention at some point, recognized as Harvey Dent's warden and little else. That makes him curious enough to watch as he meanders his own slow circles. When he sees the Boy approaching, though, he stops, sipping at his champagne. The smile is returned, almost identically mimicked.]

In a world where we have no need of currency? Nothing. [He shrugs lightly.] I may be willing to barter favors. What would you want?

[givessweetness]

[Wynter is repulsed by the post. Food exists on Gallifrey but it's reserved for formal occasions, banquets or meetings with foreign diplomats. That sort of thing. Treating an animal cruelly for some pseudo-religious experience is repulsive to him, especially because all it seems to do is create more suffering for the person eating it.

But unlike other Time Lords, Wynter doesn't make a fuss unless it's unavoidable, so he doesn't remark on it.

When he arrives on deck, there's a similar reaction, albeit tinged with confusion, worry and a sadness that almost engulfs him.

When he sees Hannibal's watching him, he puts two and two together.]

This is your work?

[youwill]

[He's going to be quite put out if no one mentions the ortolan. Later, though, after he's had his fill of watching reactions. When Wynter catches his eye, Hannibal offers a polite smile. He's new, and thus bears extra observation.

At the question, he tips his head forward.]

It is.

[fridgetothefire]

[Anya catches a glimpse of the deck and promptly turns back into the stairwell. If it's going to be classy, then she will damn well rise to the occasion. She puts on the ridiculously expensive designer dress Iris bought her in Los Angeles - it covers all her scars and tattoos - and hose and heels and the pearl necklace Ben gave her for Christmas, only effervescently reminiscient of the teeth she once wore.

It isn't, mostly, armor. Mostly it's for fun.

She takes a glass of champagne (and anyone who gets on her case about being twenty will have another thing coming), and strolls, browses. She gets wry, quirky smiles on her face for Riddick and Charles and Harvey and Chris, a faintly sympathetic look at Jonah's. She frowns slightly at Arthas's, disappointed more than upset. It seems the obvious tack. Then again, Arthas himself is far from subtle. She sees Abigail's and makes a note to herself to warn Ben, and to watch a little more closely for the next few days, just in case, but doesn't linger or outwardly react to it any more than the others.

She gets to Ben's, and she doesn't turn impassive - that kind of blankness would just be an emphatic tell of its own. It's public enough that she and Ben are close, so she allows faint signs of controlled anger - slightly narrowed eyes, mouth, tightened jaw - but no sign of how much anger, or how much effort it might be to control. She moves on.

It's Dean's portrait that draws the first real reaction from her, arrests her, arrêter, to halt, to be halted. She doesn't gasp but her mouth opens slightly, and there's light in her eyes. Not hunger - not just hunger. She used to force him to hurt others, on the mirror barge, do it with his own hands or let Ben make it ten times worse. He'd beg, in the early days, for her to do it to him instead, and once or twice, in a moment of weakness and mercy and love, she obliged.

It was real, she had agreed after, it was me, and she feels that part of her alive now, named, called out to. She wishes the clawed doctor had a woman's frame instead of a man. She's glad it doesn't. It's not that she isn't sure of herself: she knows. Both these things are true. She takes a steadying breath without looking away, and then continues.

She looks at Zane's picture the longest, not because it is particularly horrifying or because she is closer to him than anyone else - not true, although she is close to him in a unique way - but because she simply finds it the most visually interesting.

When she reaches her own portrait, she breaks into a real smile, slow and warm as the dawn.]

[youwill]

[Once he takes note of Anya, he keeps her in sight. He sees where she frowns, is angry, stares. He has knows what painting she is looking at without checking at each point; he remembers exactly where he hung them.

And when he sees her stop and smile, he matches it, and approaches.]

Would you like to keep it?

[Spam] Harvey approves.

[neverfeltbetter]

[All the hoopla of this art showing has not escaped Crichton's notice. He's not really an appreciator of art, but what he is, is too curious for his own good. So, he's found himself on the deck shuffling between the various pieces with a mixed look of repulsion and disquiet. They are technically good, but no way in hell would he hang one of these within a hundred feet of his house. Most of them are almost too disturbing to linger on.

When he's had just about all he can take of this horror show and is turning to leave, a picture over in a section he hasn't bothered looking at captures his attention. It can't be. He hurries up to it, eyes growing wider and wider the closer and more sure he gets.

It is. It's him.]

It's a curiously good likeness, isn't it John? ...Fascinating.

[Crichton can feel Harvey's amusement laughing through his mind, leaving little chills crawling up his arms. Hannibal drew these didn't he? Does he know? Can he know?

Sweat is already slicking his palms, and he quickly swipes at the droplets of it beading over his upper lip. His hand lingers over his gaping mouth, his thumb stroking thoughtfully at his lip. He's entranced, unable to look away from this gruesome image, so close to the truth. He's too shocked even to think of tearing it down.]

[soliterraneous]

There isn't water. [ This is what Aeryn says to announce herself, carefully handing him a champagne flute one he is done being startled by her being herself. ] Though you look as if you need it.

[soliterraneous]

[ Aeryn has no great love for Hannibal nor for art, truth be told; the idea of spending time just to stare at the creative output of others still strikes her as something of a waste of one's time. But Mal's inmate has done this, and the former has dressed up for the occasion, so Aeryn feels she might as well.

Mal's portrait catches her attention first, and then Crichton's - she knows what this is depicting, is well aware that his attempt at keeping the neural clone a secret has clearly not gone terribly well. She turns away from it, more of an emotional response than a rational one, but every piece gets it's own observation in turn.

Then she goes for the champagne. ]

[deshabille]

[Mal catches up to her once she's had a chance to take everything in - or not, as the case may be - and has a glass of champagne in her hand. For herself, Mal is not drinking. Anything. She's just watching.]

You didn't need to come.

[Although it's sort of very excellent that she did.]

open to any and all;

[enchangement]

[ People are drawn to the deck so River is also drawn to it; she wanders up to look at stars and then settles in to watching people, utterly oblivious to the art until she manages past the one of Nathan.

That gets a huff of irritation. Duke wouldn't let Nathan fade away into nothing. For that matter neither would she, or Brownie, who needs Nathan to exist for her own well-being. It is a mean-spirited sort of comment, she thinks, but then again most of them seem to be. Even the ones that look nice.

Like Esther's, which River settles in front of and begins naming flowers from the background in a light, sing-song voice. ]

[characterdefect]

[Roderick comes up behind her without announcing himself, knowing she'll hear him, or know of him in other ways. He puts his hand lightly on her shoulder, then lets it fall.]

Enjoying yourself?

[It's a serious question. He is.]

[no_talent_hack]

[What mostly upsets Hinata is the fact that he's not more upset by what he sees. Oh, he feigns an expression of disgust because he knows he should look disgusted, that he would be horrified and repulsed if he were still completely the person he's trying to be, but... he's just not. He sees strangers here torn open and tortured in art, and he remembers real-world analogues. Things that happened on the island, his friends... and things they did to other people when they weren't friends but cohorts. Cultists.

The dark, nasty voice that lives inside him now murmurs: At least some of it is creative. But the truth is, it's not even enough to entertain that side of him. Even the gore gets old fast. By the time he gets to the end, he's just bored and tired and angry with himself, and even more with the people who did this to him.

Maybe that's why he finds himself drifting back towards Charles's portrait, teeth clenched as he stares at the brain being picked apart. This one already happened. This one is of me.]

[youwill]

[First walk throughs are interesting. Hannibal watches them all look with interest. But it's when they begin to pick our their favorites that he approaches. When Hinata drifts back to his favorite, Hannibal joins him.]

May I ask a question?

ota u_u

[deshabille]

[Mal has been better. You can tell she has been better, but only if you know her well enough to know that the level of grooming she has put in today indicates her inability to fall perfectly into place. But then again, it could be worse, too. She found herself curious about the tux and dug up something reasonably formal for herself as well, and can generally be found lounging in various corners watching people carefully to see if they're about to start anything.]

[She looks at all the portraits, though. They make her smile, in a grim sort of way. He's keeping himself busy. There are worse ways he could be doing that.]

[Her own is the only one that makes her grin, wolf-wide and viciously satisfied. I see you.]

[youwill]

[There was a few brief moments when Hannibal was absent from his own galla, but when he reappears it's as if he was present all along. He approaches from behind, once he spots Mal at her own portrait, and comes to stand beside her, smiling pleasantly. In his hand is a fresh made cappuccino.]

You clean up nicely, if I may offer the compliment.

ota!! u_u

[characterdefect]

[The visual arts were never Roderick's forte. Give him words, every time, words to dissect and analyze and put back together in different, better or worse, shapes and forms. Give him people to pull apart and reassemble: even better.]

[But this, he has to admit, is good. Not the frenetic scribbling of hyper-religious children waiting for their Father to appear, praying with charcoal and paint on the wall, but real art. Not to mention a great social experiment.]

[He finds himself particularly drawn to Iris's, not just in the way that she has been tormented, but in the fear in her face, which he hasn't ever seen in real life and very much doubts he will. Chris's, too, is appealing, as are Alana's and Dillon's.]

[He has no appropriate dress, but he takes champagne anyway and proceeds to thoroughly enjoy himself, gorging on the unrest created by these pieces, and Appreciating Art.]

hi thar

[routemistress]

[She notices, of course she does. She watches Roderick work the room like a shark tank, and considers why she's drawn to him and feels only a creeping distaste for Hannibal.

If anyone ever asks, she'll claim it's the dimples, and she smiles over at Roderick because she suspects he already knows better.]

A bit overwrought, I thought, but not too bad. Considering. 'Ow you doing?

[praesidium]

[Alana is fairly certain this is the last place she should be. But it's a small ship and she can't just pretend as though none of this is happening or that he's not here. The flood was a small reprieve in the way she felt about things and she's come out the other side realizing it's better that she has this knowledge, that she know how deep the rot really lies.]

[That doesn't mean she condones this gallery of horrors, however. The Chesapeake Ripper, Hannibal, is a showman. He wants an audience. He wants to taunt them, to scare them, to confuse them, to degrade them. Whatever the effect, he wants the control. This is one step below having a body on display.]

[youwill]

[Alana understands. That fact alone makes him immeasurably glad that she is here. She understands, at least a little, that this is close to the real thing. He has put up something to be admired, made shows of that which disgusts.

When he approaches her, it's as the old friend. He would consider her as such, still, even if he would take the opportunity to carve her lungs from her chest just the same.]

I didn't think you would come.

spam - ota!

[gard]

[ Quite an introduction to the Barge.

Hiziki is impassive. His face betrays no reactions except mild interest, with an underlying blankness that absolutely is due to a great deal of self-control. There are no leaks, no flinches, no hints of surprise.

He remembers the faces. ]

[youwill]

[New. That - like the questing for lawyers - catches his attention.]

This is not quite the welcome most receive.

[spam]

[synchronous]

[ The last thing Dirk was expecting to find up on deck that night was an art gallery.

Okay, no, scratch that. The art gallery is less surprising than the contents of the pictures. They're drawn well enough, but... huh.

He's staring in particular at the portrait of Iris, one eyebrow raised so high it threatens to climb right off his face. ]

[spam]

[youwill]

Why this one?

[Hannibal settles nearby, gazing at the sketch at an angle for a long moment before settling his eyes on Dirk. That eyebrow has him curious.]

[orderfromchaos]

[Dillon - true to form - can't resist sticking his nose in. He meanders around with his hands parked in the back pockets of his jeans, looking for something that holds his interest. Most of it doesn't really affect him. Despite the photorealism, it strikes him the way silly cartoon violence strikes most people, like the gruesomeness of your average Tom & Jerry episode: indicated, but lacking viscerality. He's too enmeshed in the reality of the world to fully appreciate representations. Ceci n'est pas une pipe. Not that he knows that reference.

He looks at the Emperor's portrait for a little while, actually lingers for a while at Stark's, halfway solemn.

When he finds his own, he just looks skeptical, halfway disappointed.]

[youwill]

You expected more.

[It's not self-consciousness that settles Hannibal besides Dillon. Not quite anger, either. His anger has been bottled away for the sake of observation, tonight.]

spam

[hart_or_hand]

[Lindsey is familiar enough with art galleries from his time in LA. He even enjoyed them on occasion. This one, however, mostly just brings back bad memories. Dean's and Chris's portraits bring back the worst memories, memories of the holding dimension, of being tortured to death every day for months.

He breaks away and grabs a glass of wine. He's too sober to deal with this. And sees Mal's sketch. The symbolism is readily apparent to someone who's defended demons and vampires in court. He can't completely hide the desire it raises in him. Turning is probably his only hope of ever truly being free from Wolfram and Hart. They owned his soul, not his body. With his soulu gone, he should be free.]

Lucky bitch.

[heisrisen]

[The Emperor drinks. Not because he is affected by alcohol, or because he is very fond of champagne, but because it's the polite thing to do. He veers between despair and rage and patient, calculating nihilism, these days. It's unpleasant, but hopefully it won't be long. He passes most of the portraits indifferently, if not hastily. He admires the anatomy, here and there, notes the various barbs, but he doesn't care. He looks at Zane's disintegration for a little while, as though attempting to will himself to care, but it was worse watching him fall apart for real. He gives it up.

He feels something looking at Sylvanas's portrait, at least. Pity, maybe, though he isn't sure if it's for the figure on the page or for Hannibal who envisioned her. He thinks of the little sighs she made as he dismembered her, and he smiles, just a bit, fond and wistful.]

[youwill]

You will not blame the artist, I think, if he asks why you smile at his art.

[Hannibal comes up alongside him, in front of Sylvanas' sektch. He is not fully satisfied with hers, but then, there are others he is likewise unimpressed with: it filled his time, if it accomplished nothing else.]

[this_corrosion]

Bit pretentious, though, isn't it?

I mean, there's still a dead bird in your mouth.

[youwill]

As opposed to a dead cow, when one orders a steak. The delivery of nutrition to your stomach is simply especial.

text

[hearrrtofgold]

[Okay, despite all Duke's enthusiasm for gourmet dining that's pretty gross. He's hardly going to rag on someone else's taste or a food preparation technique that, while barbaric, is also very old; but the satisfied sadism Hannibal talks about, that he dislikes.]

Consider the lobster.

video

[youwill]

I do quite often. [He smiles.] Are you from Maine?

spam -> ota

[persecutioncomplex]

[That kind of eloquence has been slipping away from her the longer she's been here, and she's only ever had it when she can write down the words first. She can't bring herself to try to answer, so stews in jealous awe instead until she hears rumors when she ventures out and turns around to come dressed better and clean this time.

It doesn't matter if he doesn't notice her, if anyone does at all, she tells herself, and while a few hushed words have given her an idea of what to expect, she prays that no one sees her as she goes pale and digs her nails into her palms when she recognizes face after brutalized face. The wild voice in the back of her head reminds her that she promised, that she would make sure Syo never had a reason to keep her safe, but she snaps back at it with a fierce look she can't suppress. There was a reason she came: she's almost an adult, she has to prove it.

It's only art, Genocider! You don't know what that looks like!

The thought mollifies the other her, and with a chuckle of my kind of art, the fear starts to subside. She doesn't know if she's seeing cruelty or just another "what if" like the Admiral shows all of them, but only lets herself linger in front of people she doesn't know well. Syo is making a subconscious list of what to return to if she somehow regains control, but a glance at Crichton's and Touko turns away white.]

Re: spam -> ota

[no_talent_hack]

[Crichton's is the other one that's particularly affected Hinata -- like Charles', it's the only other one that resonates with him and not some horror he's seen or done. He wanders back towards it when he's done the rest of the gallery, although he pauses when he spots her.

He's still not sure if he has the advantage here -- if she's pretending not to know him or if it's not a trick at all. Does she know why this particular piece has an effect on him? He certainly knows why it would on her.

Really, in retrospect, it's pretty impressive that she didn't ever end up joining them.]

...Hey.

[He comes over to stand next to her, clutching a drink he hasn't had any of yet.]

This stuff... [He leaves it neutral; an opening.]

[secretasshole]

[David is intrigued. He's not capable of being disturbed, not really, although it is strange to see people he knows - and in a few rare cases - cares for represented this way. He's especially curious about Abigail's, and spends a long time staring at it. He doesn't recognize the other man, and he decides he wants to know who he is.

He would have sought Hannibal out anyway, and he's curious to speak to his warden too and find out why she allowed this to happen, but regardless of motive, eventually he approaches the mastermind behind this bizarre spectacle and regards him with the same pleasant curiosity he usually does.]

They're quite creative.

[youwill]

[David's mein is often a welcome one, and Hannibal smiles, returning that pleasant facade.]

Some are, I think. Others could use work.

[He tips his head, raises his glass.] Thank you, all the same.

[beingdifferent]

[There is little about Hannibal that offends Esther. His words don't perturb her at all; the ortolan, blinded and wallowing in its own gluttony, coming to its fate as a delicacy is not surprising. Suffering as an exquisite entertainment was nothing new to her. She wouldn't bite into the little bird herself, but she understands the appeal.

The art on deck, likewise, doesn't much disturb her. The injuries, the punishments and symbolism, and the suffering (once again, exquisite) are worthy of admiration. As an artist herself she appreciates the attention to detail and the fine technique almost as much as the delightfully twisted subject matter.

She's more afraid of the others milling about and studying the pictures, reactions as varied as those in attendance. Despite Rorschach's and Iris' assurances of protection, being in public like this isn't safe.

Her own portrait is beautiful, and she can only look at it for a second.]

[youwill]

[He notices the brevity of attention she gives her own portrait, notices the way she looks and walks, and so he is careful to approach. He lets her see him coming, tipping his head to her.]

Do you have a moment?

spam - ota

[brokeout]

[ It didn't take long for John to figure out what this was. Or at least the first layer down from the surface. A hall of little jabs, fueled by psychological insight. He's glad he never got on this guy's radar.

But he's a little pissed, too.

Fighting hasn't been working off the edge the way it used to, either. He's been edgy and restless. Getting used to being edgy and restless. And maybe it's this that makes him decide to ruffle a few feathers.

Whenever people are looking away, he switches the pictures around. Sometimes changing places, sometimes just putting one upside-down. Sometimes lifting one off the wall and slipping it behind a bench. He does it telekinetically, never touching them, always in quick, swift, precise movements.

...He's not being that careful that he isn't caught. ]

[ ooc note: John is also telepathic, so if you haven't hit up his permissions post, let me know how much is cool for him to pick up on. Fine with him getting caught, too. o7 ]

spam - drawn to the nexus of alcohol and vandalism

[this_corrosion]

[It's not clear if Gary saw anything. He doesn't say anything, at least, but he does glance to the side at John - is that you?

He doesn't understand the appeal here. They're a little creepy. But mischief, that he gets. (He also has a helping of champagne in each hand, because you can pay for school but you can't buy class.)]

[halftheman]

[ It's a game; he realizes it when word reaches him. The monsters in their suits and ties, all moving at his behest. Hannibal's mirror-gaze turned upon them, reflecting back their terrible, beautiful ugliness. He's hardly the first to play at this; Crane did it, ol' Jerry Arkham, they've done it on a grander scale. Hannibal wants them to dance, to flinch and twist on a hook at their inner horrors revealed. ]

[ The decision to play along is a hard one. Harvey puts on a suit that, in another world, would cost upward of twenty-five thousand dollars, and is made to fit his body like a glove, and comes up to remind the other man that he's hardly top predator on the boat-- Harvey isn't either, but he still elevates himself to a position above the cannibal. ]

[ His disdain for it all barely shows; leaking out at the tightness of the corner of his eyes, the occasional line of his mouth. Abigail's portrait infuriates him but he keeps the fury to microtells, the roll of his shoulders as he leaves the piece behind. Anya's is lovely, and very her. The others don't move him nearly so intensely as Abigail's though; even his own perfect portrait doesn't stir more than the vaguest of irritations. ]

[exnihilo]

[She has no desire at all to browse. Mostly she has no desire to be seen browsing, which feels more exposed to her than she thinks some unknown picture of her could theoretically be. But she sees the lines of him, half swagger, half sour tension. She pads close, slips a hand into his, squeezes softly.]