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🍴 ( 009 ) Video
[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.)
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.)
[Spam] Harvey approves.
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.]
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Ugh. I feel like I need it.
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[He takes a long, long drink from his glass. Champaign isn't his favorite, but who frelling cares right now?]
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[ Aeryn just looks at him for a long moment. ]
How's your head?
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Still this side of sanity.
For how much longer I wonder?
[Crichton shakes his head like he's shooing a fly.]
Plus one very loud back seat driver...
He's talking to me again, Aeryn. I haven't been able to shut him up lately.
[If only he could get some sleep.]
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You should speak to one of the telepaths.
[ She only feels a little weird suggesting it, considering she's also talking to one. But she doesn't have any 'back seat drivers' to worry about. ]
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[He groans. Everyone keeps telling him to go see a telepath, but he just can't. He can't bring himself to do it.]
Aeryn, I've had so many people inside my head. Each time it's worse than the last. I'm not going to invite someone else in.
[Spam] Hannibal would like Harvey
Do you need a drink? I'm afraid I can't offer you a chair up here.
Re: [Spam] They would get along famously.
No thanks. I don't think I'll be sticking around long enough.
You draw these?
[Spam]
[He doesn't even consider lying. He's died thrice already: what is the point in trying to avoid a fourth? Better to be honest, and sharp with it.]
I'm sorry you don't seem to be enjoying them.
Re: [Spam]
[The fear and disgust are swiftly defaulting to anger now that he's found someone to direct it at.]
Re: [Spam]
One could argue that simply by existing within line of sight of one another, we give our permission to be seen as others see us. [He is neutral in the face of that anger, utterly unphased by it.]
Re: [Spam]
So what if I tell you to take it down?