Dr. Hannibal Lecter has a quiet, uneventful morning

[cook_the_rude]

The door opens, and a man walks in, in waistcoat and tie. A number of denizens of the bar has met him already, and know him as Dr. Lecter. Very few think of him as Hannibal.

He orders coffee from a waitrat, sits in a comfortable chair by the fireplace, and turns on the iPad he has brought with him, seeming for all the world like the most content man there could be.

If anybody approaches him, it's likely that they will be offered coffee.



[[meta: of course, the coffee isn't people!]]

Comments

[sidhe_king]

Hopefully, Lecter is one of those men who'll think to look up once in a while--but if he doesn't, he might be attracted by the whistling. He's busily working with a lapful of flower heads, each one being twisted expertly and simply into a loop big enough to make a crown.

[cook_the_rude]

"Hello up there?" Dr. Lecter says without even looking up.

[sidhe_king]

Finvarra chuckles a little and gives his tune a birdlike turn as he aims the flower crown to fall over Hannibal's head.

"Hello down there," he replies, obviously smiling.

[cook_the_rude]

Now, Hannibal Lecter does look up.

"What did I do to deserve this?" he says, with a smirk.

[sidhe_king]

"Chose to sit beneath me," the faerie explains easily, leaning over to see Hannibal. He grins. "Smile, man. 'Tis just a flower."

[cook_the_rude]

"I could claim you chose to sit above me," Hannibal says, with a little smirk.

[sidhe_king]

"I was here first," he chuckles.

[cook_the_rude]

"I wouldn't have sat directly beneath you," Hannibal points out. "But that is neither here nor there; you are above me now, and I seem to be flower-crowned."

[sidhe_king]

"And is it so unbearable?" he asks, cocking his head as he crouches in the half-darkness above the rafter; for a moment he's there, and in the next he's perched on the arm of Hannibal's chair, studying the man intently.

It's remarkably easy to see why humans have been so afraid to cross the fair folk. The adage goes that the king and his kind act with mischief often and malice rarely--but rarely does not mean never.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal smiles at him.

"Quite bearable," he says. "Not something I would choose to wear on a working day, but I'm not working here. How are you doing?"

He looks into Finvarra's eyes.

[scots_wolf]

There is a commotion among the humans and much smell of dead human, just worse than the dead human that his own human very, very rarely used to smell off.

Much worse.

Of course Franz wants in on the story!

But a waitrat drives him off with a stick. It's the very resolute mottled waitrat called Thady, so Franz complies with only very little stinky interesting human blood on his nose.

He lies in the chair that the other human who sometimes smells of dead human, and who cooks with Franz' own human, had occupied. There is his Thing still in it. Humans think these Things very important, as important as Franz would find an old bone.

Franz lies on the Thing and falls asleep.

[cook_the_rude]

It takes a long time until the human comes back, smelling of dead people and blood and ink. He carries a drink that smells sharp, just like Franz' own human tends to drink. Just like. It is the same. The humans called it MacAbre.

He clicks his tongue, and Franz dutifully looks up. The human smells of other dogs. They like him, and one is very worried. Franz can smell the name the worried dog thinks of as himself, and it is Winston. Winston's human is sick, and Winston is worried.

Woofing and wagging his tail and giving a little whine, Franz tried to tell this human about it, but humans understand so little about smells, even this one, who understands more than most.

The human tells him to get off the chair and the Thing, and Franz complies. The human picks up the Thing and sits again.

[scots_wolf]

Franz lies by his feet.

The human smells of dead people, and good food, and dead people and good food at once, which is nice but pleasant.

The human's shoes smell like rotten blood and dangerous monsters and sharp human cleaning things they use to wipe all smell away. Franz sniffs, and pieces together the story. They helped the girl who sometimes cooks as well, who is a friend of his own human -- this man, and the man who's got the children and who oozes sharp fear when he sees Franz, poor thing.

Humans are so weird.

Franz closes his eyes.

That Winston is really a good dog. The humans should pay attention to his smell. Poor things with their defective noses.

Winston's human is sick, and nobody is paying attention. Franz clandestinely drools on the human's trouser leg, hoping that Winston will get this note of sympathy and commiseration.

[cook_the_rude]

The human doesn't try to move Franz' head away from his leg; he sips his drink and looks at his Thing, and smells of blood and rot and contentment.

A strange human.-