Once, there were three fisherman. Friends and sometimes rivals, all. At the end of a long day, they came together with their catch to judge who had done the best, and found that all three of them had only caught fugu. They jested some halfhearted arguments as to the sizes, but all three knew that to make a proper meal of their catches could be deadly. None of the fishermen were willing to confess to their fear, so they went home to prepare their stew. As knowledgeable fishermen, they knew which parts were most poisonous. They removed the liver and the ovaries, and when the stew was done it smelled delicious.

But when it came time to taste, no one stepped forward. "Let us find someone else to test it," said the wisest of them. "We will bring some to the beggar in town. We will be seen doing a kindness, and in turn, he will do us one." the fishermen all nodded their agreement, and packed a bowl for the beggar. All together, they went to find the beggar. The old man was surprised but grateful, and seemed to enjoy the stew immensely. When nothing had happened to him, the fishermen delightedly returned home to partake of their meal.

The next day, the beggar saw them on their way to the water to begin their day again. He was delighted to see that they were in good health - for he had hidden the stew, and only pretended to eat when the fisherman asked how it was. He knew better than to trust a stranger.

[Hannibal pauses and gives the ghost of a smile.]

Some men are wise, and some men only believe they are so.

Fugu is the Japanese word for pufferfish. They are considered delicacies there, and rightfully so. Fugu sashimi and milt are quite excquisite. A good fugu chef will not serve the liver, as that is where the potent neurotoxin is at its most powerful: but the flesh surrounding the liver is tender, and much less poisonous. It will likely not kill a man, but good fugu will leave the lips and tongue tingling.

[The smile fills out.]

A reminder, of how close one has brushed death.

( notes for Mal, Damon, Abigail, Alana )

Excuse me.

[The man on screen is dapper as fuck, a faint crease in his brow marking his confusion. The suit he wears is a touch dated, plainer than most of the plaid numbers he usually prefers: this is a plain, grey, though considerably well tailored number that looks like it would be better suited to the last century.

Or to a particular breach in Oxford. If you look closely, there is a black nose peeking out over his shoulder, from under the collar of his jacket. It's fitted very particularly, so that Boudica can hide there unnoticed. It helps that the mink is not overly large.]

Ask now, [she whispers into his ear. Hannibal glances toward his shoulder, then back to the camera.]

This will sound very strange, I am certain. Please bear with me; I only wish to understand the state of things.

[Unseen, Boudica digs her claws into his back in her impatience; Hannibal makes no outward reaction.]

Where are your daemons?