A little excerpt from my current WIP
Dark Fairytale/Dark Fae/Old God/Murder Cryptid Hannigram AU
Moonlight fell in decadent pools across the forest floor. A gentle dappling that obscured the violence of nature. The hush of midnight rising always kept it's own secrets, just beyond the range of what the human eye could see,
The dream came every night, every night the dream's the same.
The forest undulating, waiting, luring it's fleshy prey with peaceful promise, a softness meant to lend false confidence, to lull even the most suspicious mind into a sickly sweet, sharp toothed fantasy safety. Patiently waiting for some unlucky soul to wander a little to close, lose themselves between the silent branches.
The forest is serene, still, and patient... even more patient then Hannibal Lecter.
The midnight forest is such a lovely shade of quietude, reaching forbidding finger vines to slither twine into all your smallest tightest places. To press the silence into your skin. Silent, but never still.
Predators lurk, teeth bared, menacing, waiting, unconcerned by human expectations and desires. Secret starving creatures squirming in the pitch black, waiting to consume the imprudent. The cycle of life enacted in reverent hushed tones. Birth and death tied in a sacred pact, stitched in blood, bone, and sinew. One breath sustained by the taking of another.
And the forest sang with it, such lovely hymns to such solemn devastation.
He woke with the forest's song pounding heavy in his heart every morning.
Hannibal enjoyed the poetry of forests at night. They held an unspoken vein of macabre survival theater that reminded him of home in dark, haunting ways. The push-pull drama of simply staying alive had a poetry that human artists had been selling their souls to mimic for centuries. What humans strained and strived for, nature held easily without concern or self reflection. It simply was.
Hannibal was a different sort of predator then most people, a different sort of artist then any hanging in the world's most exclusive art museums or cluttered local galleries. His art bridged a gap that only he could see, between the waking world... and what moved beneath.
