#sigilsofteeth

Now, Kelly certainly wasn’t a brat, but she was petty. And this was an insult. Nothing but a pure insult from Han. She recoils as if scaled when he finishes ordering, pursing her lips and focusing a gaze on him that could only be described as “betrayed”. But she remains poised, acting as if she had learned her lesson as he takes the cup from the worker and places it in the cup holder. A few minutes pass in silence, and she seizes the cup, takes a swig from it and replaces it in the holder.

     { ☩ }—;    Slender digits fiddle with a stray leaf, pallid arms coming to rest on the weathered balcony,  ❝ Donde estas, old man? ❞  Her eyes SEE, remaining forward as she feels him about. Her tone is merely a jest, an aching heart reaching and seeking the other’s companionship. 

@sigilsofteeth

     It’s been a while since this wing of the palace had a visitor of any kind after the ‘incident’.

     Usually Mercedes and Melchior were the first to kick up a stink about anybody who dared even approach the stairs, let alone an outsider to Vesuvia such as this, but not this one - not Hannibal, never. Instead they greet him with muffled, quiet barks and pining whines; a clattering of clawed paws as they stepped aside for him to pass so that they could follow. They trail closely through the dimly lit halls, only trotting ahead for a brief second so that they could take their places either side of a large ornate door, red eyes darting from the soot smeared threshold to fixate upon their guest with despondent contemplation…

They won’t follow him any further. They will wait.

                    ( They’re good dogs. They know their place. )

     With the room untouched for so long, everything was coated in a generous amount of both soot and dust, so much that even opening the door caused it to kick up a mist that already comes to besmirch black boots several shades lighter. The bed remained a charred mess, but still standing solidly - a testament to the quality, the very least - decorated with dusty cobwebs. The walls were scorched, as was the floor and rugs, and many of the smaller decorations had unfortunately been reduced to charred remains.

Miraculously, the Count’s favourite portrait appeared to have survived the blaze - sans a fine layer of ash muting the vivid pigments, and the curious way that the canvas was half torn from it’s frame, but only from one corner. The eyes… The eyes were missing. Slashed messily from one side to the other, smeared with red.

          ❛ —Marvelloussss… Isn’t it?❜

     A familiar voice rasped, as a figure loomed on from behind. It had been so long. Too long. Not even Nadia would stick around for any longer than a minute, and only to really curse his very being for the haunting nightmares and sleepless nights.

Blackened fingertips extend to ghost at the small of Han’s back as this ‘apparition’ stepped into existence, and as slow as they are to reach out, they’re just as slow pulling away; instead they reach for the canvas over his shoulder, smoothing out the painting to glance at it himself. Red eyes squint. Claws curl against the paint when he eventually pulls away.

    what  treacherous majesty  !  overcome with light.  casting out the darkness.  bearing teeth fit for a beast whose maw only knows bloody carnage.  they were right to dub her wild.  to know what it is to be consumed,  incinerated.  but here,  her light is not scorching,  instead it is all - knowing,  silent.  

    ❛    ——   your eyes do not deceive you.  ❜  she is curious,  curious as to how he can see her amongst the murk when his own eyes are filled with its taint.  like water flowing from the cup she speaks openly.  at first it comes as a feeling,  then a sound rippling across the air.  her form solidifies and now the outline of a wolf streaks itself across the murky depths.   ❛   you see me for what i truly am.  ❜

WHY DO YOU BEG FOR DISASTER

what would london be without all the rain? it falls like gravel against their shared umbrella, early morning fog already settling in above the city streets. they feel emptier like this at night. more peaceful than they ought with the few drunken stragglers yet roaming the sidewalks obscured by this solemn haze. 

hannibal’s eye refracts the light of the street lamp above them for only a moment — only as long as it takes for him to tilt his head back and meet the vampire’s gaze. and in that moment, he remembers that old library at the base of his stairs; the fear of god with which that same eye had struck him when he’d still believed that god ever cared. it’s funny now, he thinks, as he reminisces. it’s funny that he was afraid. funny that now, when he looks into that eye, he finds only comfort that god never spared him; he sees only fondness that he’d never know, otherwise.and so it’s without thought that he dips his head, drawn nearer to the hand that lifts to reach this mask.