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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 -> ota
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
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.]
no subject
Certainly closer than Enoshima. She turns to him with a weak smile, hand toying in her loose hair.]
It's... the best I've seen here. Technically. [As unbalanced as it's pushed her to be, she has to defend it, at least for the sake of expression.]
no subject
[And that's not where he expected her to take the ball, but... okay, sure. He glances around at the rest of the gallery again, then back to the portrait in front of them.]
Y-yeah, I guess they're all pretty good... But do you know why these are here? I recognize some of these people. They all must be from the ship, right?
no subject
I recognize everyone here.
no subject
[He gives her a quizzical look.]
Did you paint these?
[But she was... fiction, right? He's almost sure...]
no subject
N-no! I could never draw like this! Words I can write, but I'd have to write thousands to tell the story in one of these!
no subject
O...kay... but you know who did? And why they're here?
no subject
[She's probably one of the very few people who doesn't know, public revelation having taken place in the middle of a badly timed coma.]
I don't want to know. I don't want anyone to know why I am.
no subject
Or, uh, something like that.
spam
[He keeps a polite distance, tipping his head forward in greeting.] Perhaps I should have warned you away. You do not seem to be enjoying yourself.
spam
Being approached, though, and having concern expressed? That's different, and even if eye contact's eluding her, when he's picked her out of so many others she has to make herself worth his time.]
I thought I should challenge myself.