( OPEN ) ALL HALLOW'S EVE FEAST

[relished]

WHO: Hannibal & you!
WHEN: October 31st
WHERE: his house
WHAT: The All Hallows Eve Feast
NOTES\WARNINGS: MASSIVE TRIGGER WARNING: involuntary cannibalism and one (1) artsy nsfw painting*. the link is to the painting leda and the swan. it's labeled with the star (★).




[the preparation for the party was more grueling than he's used to -- he was always able to hire a service to help his parties go as smoothly as possible, but he had to request the help of a few bots as well as Krouse to ensure that he would not be the one doing the serving.

one must knock before entering; greeted by a companion bot to take a coat if they have one. guests are guided through the foyer to the living room, an earthy room with heavy animal imagery. people are encouraged to socialize and relax in front of the roaring fireplace. several small tables have centerpieces of wildflowers that Hannibal has collected and grown as he's spent his time here.

the kitchen is off-limits, but if one might happen to stray into the stark, morgue-like space before Hannibal politely ushers them back out, they'll see Clarke's drawing of the emberbloom and and shadowbloom flowers from months ago as the only picture on the otherwise spotless refrigerator. having the flier there is no accident. he meant for a few curious onlookers to see what is left of her. perhaps it's Hannibal's intention to lead old friends of Clarke's astray to believe he is responsible for her disappearance. he's able to play now, plucking at the strings of minds to enchant and mortify. he knows that suspicions will have risen, but after tonight he's prepared for the onslaught -- so why not have as much fun before the inevitable?

scents of roast meat, cranberries and rosemary embrace guests immediately, delightfully lacing through the halls while classical music beckons them further into unknown horrors. Krouse can be seen making rounds with hors d'oeuvres, an interesting combination of cubed watermelon with what appears to be proscuitto meticulously shaped in the form of a rose, while companion bots carry glasses filled with red wine from his personal collection.

the dining room is lush, one wall stocked with herbs and hanging rosemary and forest imagery. the other wall with a painting above another fire which crackles softly. the mantle, simple yet jarring; large horns on either side with smaller ones laid out between them. the centerpiece is ★Leda and the Swan★, looming as the horns threaten to swallow the painting whole. the table is already set, porcelain charger plates laid in their respective places, with clean empty glasses and three carafes filled with water along the center. small vases of more wildflowers are in along the spread with lit red candles as well, but the table itself manages not to look too busy. snow droplets silently stick to the glass doors and windows, making the home feel warm; gentle, even.

Leda and the Swan is not the only painting to fill his home - art is everywhere, from the foyer to the kitchen, paintings and lithographs can be found in every room. the living room is especially the most wild, with the large oak doors and polished desk and chairs with claws.

Hannibal languidly wanders to greet guests who have made their way inside, dressed in a three-piece suit as usual with a glass of red wine in hand, motioning to wine or snacks. the sophistication that exudes from his home (and himself) can't be missed. those who have never experienced wealth may feel out of place, yet directly eased into the mixed warmth that is passed out with food and wine.]




[after an appropriate amount of time of socializing has passed and he's had help from Krouse to set the table so all of the food is available at once, he alerts everyone by a gentle clink of metal against crystal.]

Dinner is served. Please make your way to the dining room.

[anyone who asks exactly what they are eating is informed that it is veal. "how did you get veal" one may ask, and he'll respond with a sly smile and a twinkle in his eyes. everything they have been consuming and continue to consume has been the body of Samil, every part harvested for use. a petite heart (yes, heart) tartare is served alongside a smaller version of osso buco, which he explains is a traditional Italian dish, with seasonal vegetables.

wine has been replenished, and once settled at the table he raises his glass.]

I hope everyone enjoys eating this meal as much as I did preparing it.

[dig in.]

(ooc: everyone welcome! top level as u desire, tag out to others, get hannibal, etc etc. if you dont want to do an open tl and only want hannibal make sure to add closed to your starter. i won't be adding a starter for him bc this entire party is basically one giant one for him and he can be approached anywhere :) any questions can be left here. ps do not have your character go upstairs that's insane, why would they do that, they'll be redirected ominously. )

Comments

[relished]

[he shoots Castiel a look, a playful glint in his eye.]

People turn a blind eye to the darker aspects of their nature. They prefer to deliberate on beauty. What do you feel when you look at Leda? What do you think she is feeling?

[back up to the painting, he studies her, too. her splayed legs, the curvature of her hips, the way she lifts her clothing with delicate fingers to expose herself; how open her body language is, yet her eyes are focused elsewhere.]

[messenger]

[ he sees the look; misses the playful glint. his mouth twists, because he truly doesn't know what she's feeling. he doesn't know what he feels, either. not exactly. leda is present but is looking far away. maybe this is something he can understand — submitting but not wanting to submit to that particular dominator. zeus didn't craft leda, but did anything matter to him but her submission? her beauty? ]

Humans can find beauty in anything. I suppose it's convenient for those who've done terrible things to see those things as beautiful.

[ but there are also those who look directly at rotten heart of the world and continue to preserve it at the cost of themselves, anyway. those are the people he knows.

he shifts his weight, focus still on the image. ]

I can't imagine what she's feeling.

I... envy her position.

[ to have god's regard. to bear the full terrible brunt of that weight. he would sacrifice his dignity just for the opportunity, no matter how bitter the taste in the back of his mouth. ]

[relished]

Convenience, or acceptance?

[what an interesting response.]

To envy a position of a woman who submits to a god bares a substantial weight. But she is submitting to a beast, too. Would you still envy her, then?

[as open as her body is, Zeus taking her as he likes leaves much to interpretation regarding her consent. is she truly welcoming him in, or immediately accepting defeat?]

[messenger]

[ he doesn't have an answer for any question hannibal asks, except the last. even then, it's tenuous at best. his adam's apple moves in his throat as he watches the painting, wondering. has he already accepted defeat? he's a fish on a line, lip hooked. thrashing until he can't. going limp and thrashing again. gutted anyway, in the end. even with dean here, alive, he can't imagine himself a good future.

castiel chews his lip and lowers his eyes. ]

I don't know.

[ he smells different today than the day he and hannibal met. the bunker clings to his clothes and his hair and his skin. leather and gun oil and other human scents. ]

[relished]

[he didn't think Castiel would know, but he's been so raw in his answers that the i don't know strikes him, a match lit in darkness. a stranger excuses themselves alongside the two of them and brings both new and old smells toward him. beneath their layers, they bring a new, familiar smell forward.

he knows who he's been with. he takes a quiet moment, the inhale hardly noticeable, as he traces the memory back. Dean. in the labyrinth, taking his kit. in the Kwik-Trip, with the mustang plush; cleaner, but still encased in leather and oil. human.]

Where did your mind take you just now?

[messenger]

[ wonderfully human, and so pure in that way. he's been invited into dean's room, into his home, his bed — for entirely innocent reasons, though the scent of his sheets clings to him all the same. he continues not to know how to answer hannibal's questions, and his eyes dart in the doctor's direction, a brief staccato movement. his eyelashes flutter. there's a barely perceptible flush clinging to his cheeks and his nose. ]

Nowhere.

[ he answers too late, and too obvious.

to hannibal, at least. castiel fails to decode the signal his mind is picking up, the images that flicker through his thoughts like a bad tv, screen jumping. suddenly, he remembers anna's mouth overlapping dean's mouth, the way she leaned up and into his body. suddenly, he remembers uriel's implications— angel food cake.

why does he think of that now? ]

It's nothing.

[relished]

Of course.

['nothing' that he notices creep into Castiel's face, blooming of a memory. he brings his glass up to his face, peering over the lip of it.]

Ex nihilo nihil fit.

[he wants to see where that, in particular, will reach. the red wine swirls and is swallowed down, glass close to empty.]

[messenger]

[ something in his face, inexplicably, softens at the phrase. is that affection? or sadness. he's familiar with the a posteriori. ]

Even in Heaven, not all of us have faith.

[ it's a familiar debate, even in heaven. though, only in the form of hushed whispers and sordid implications. those who speak their lack of faith loudly don't live long.

and here he is, living like this. thinking like this.

worse than any of them. ]

[relished]

[he's pushed far enough to know that he's getting somewhere now, driving a knife through an open wound.]

Do you know Heaven intimately?

[messenger]

Yes,

[ he sighs. ]

But it has nothing to do with Leda.

[relished]

[he falls silent, looking at Castiel as one would an object behind glass in a museum. the smallest of movements in his eyes, tracing every feature of Castiel's face.]

No, but she reached for that space in your heart that does.

[messenger]

Angels don't have hearts.

[ not, strictly speaking, true.

not anymore, anyway. not when applied solely to him. but sometimes he still feels — or doesn't feel, more accurately.

right now, though... ]

[relished]

[the air of his tone is nearly intimate, a near-whisper brought to the surface that only Castiel can hear. working as something from his subconscious, he lowers his voice to avoid potential eavesdropping.]

Does the confinement of a human vessel not stir the birth of a heart where one had not existed before?

[messenger]

[ the little hairs on the back of castiel's neck stand on end, and his fingers flex in his pockets. castiel can hear the conversation going on elsewhere in the room. hannibal is clear as a bell. he glances over again, unblinking, but doesn't answer. only acknowledging that he heard by the direction of his gaze. behind his expression perches a dispassionate curiosity.

he wonders what kind of assumptions this man must be making. it was understandable for anna to come to the same conclusion, being that she was an angel herself, and one in a similar situation.

several more moments pass before he speaks. ]

Did you know, in order to interact with you mortal creatures, it's necessary for us to take a vessel? Otherwise, we risk killing you.

[ he cocks his head, bird-like. ]

I always wondered why God make you that way. Isn't it inconvenient?

[relished]

[he doesn't consider his existence an inconvenience, nor does he ever linger on the thoughts of angels and the possibilities of their interference, so he redirects focus back to Castiel. back to where he wants.]

Is it inconvenient that he made you at risk to destroy what you were never meant to touch?

[messenger]

[ castiel stares. there's a pause, before his eyes narrow. ]

I asked first.

[relished]

[petulance from an angel's tongue. tension rises, a spark between them that he's interested in seeing play out.]

However God made me, I am no more an inconvenience to the world than it is to me— which is to say, not in the slightest.

[messenger]

I mean, isn't it inconvenient for you.

[ continuing in the same petulant vein, he rolls his eyes. ]

If I thought so little of humanity, I wouldn't be here.

[relished]

No.

[a silly question returned with a dismissive answer.]

Maybe not. Or perhaps you've wandered so far from your roots that you've forgotten what it means to be an angel.

[messenger]

If I didn't know what it means to be an angel, I wouldn't know what a terrible example of one I am.

[ it'd be wrong to say he's made peace with it, but if there's one thing that he knows about himself, it's this. ]