etrayalogs | MAY MINGLE

MAY MINGLE

WHO: Everyone!
WHEN: May 17th-31st
WHERE: On Etraya
WHAT: A mingle log!
NOTES\WARNINGS: N/A, please note any needed warnings in threads.

⏵ a hero's return ⏴

As champions exit the Labyrinth, they’ll find that their environment has gone through some fairly drastic changes. Where there used to be larger bodies of water is now thinner rivers going through land; the amount of bridges connecting landmasses has decreased, given what had been individual islands are now much more connected. In addition, Etraya is significantly more green; flowers bloom, birds chirp cheerfully, and there are numerous additional species of insects, mammals, and aquatic creatures throughout the lands. Baby foxes roam through forested areas, bees pollinate the flowers to spread them more thoroughly around the inhabited areas, and it feels brighter. Or perhaps that’s just in comparison to how the Labyrinth had been.

There are more areas to explore, new facilities, animals, and Etraya feels significantly more settled than it had before. Aurora’s promise of renovations had been true. And if one looks up, they may notice a city bubble visible on the closest planet that hadn't been visible before.

⏵ coffee break ⏴
After hearing Clarke’s suggestion, Aurora sets up a new cafe close to the apartment complex, and sends out notices to individuals with mandatory coffee hour times listed for them to come to Corrine's Cafe and make a few friends.

While the note does state that it is mandatory, there will be no follow-up from Aurora nor the companion bots to ensure those who receive notes do show. Given this is Aurora trying to take suggestions in mind and see how successful they are among the citizens of Etraya, however, following directives may not be a terrible idea.

It's up like a modern-day, smaller cafe. One walks in through the front door, and is greeted by a companion bot behind the counter who offers a wave of their hand and a friendly “Welcome! Let me know when you’re ready to order”. The menu offers lattes, mochas, espresso, black coffee, several different kinds of teas, and a few drinks that are a little odd to find in a cafe; ale, canned sodas and coffees, numerous bottles of wine, but only pinot noir.

Soft music plays in the background, impossible to place but it sounds as if it may be based on tracks that were popular in the early 90s.

Tables and booths are set up to seat two to four, with packets of sugar and small containers of creamer set out towards the middle. There are charging stations set up at every table, which may seem strange considering phones and laptops aren’t widely available, but Aurora’s doing her best. There are also a few bookshelves full of the classics, a few historical fiction, and several written by H.P. Lovecraft.

Each seat has a placard in front of it, with a name, and a ‘fun fact’. One might say “Hello! My name is Joe, and I like to paint!” Another may say “Hi, I’m Jill! My sister died tragically in front of me and I’ve never gotten over it.”

⏵ new horizons ⏴

Several of the new bridges found in Etraya now have signs posted just outside of them, and on those signs is a QR code that the earpiece’s HUD can scan. Scanning this with the HUD will bring up a scavenger hunt, listing several items and circling areas where they can be found.

Some of these objects will be obvious: find Corrine at Corrine’s Cafe - the companion bot who runs the counter, find a delicious meal at Bangsan Market, break into S.T.A.R Labs, or find room 87 at Point Blanc Academy. Some will be less obvious, like locating a bat, becoming friends with an archer, find a pink shirt, open bagged milk without making a mess, or get a drink at the mutant-friendly pub. Please feel free to make up your own items to find around Etraya!

⏵ NOTES ⏴
Welcome to our mid-month mingle!

Please feel free to use this to explore Etraya, put up wildcard prompts (you don't need to use the above!), or use the open prompts to assist in jumpstarting cr.

This mingle covers the period from May 17th to May 31st. Our next mission (and next mod log) will not go up until June 7th.

⏵FULL NAVIGATION⏴

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

( (fourth floor, second window from the left, facing the street. and no, there is no security past the standard deadbolt ✨)

does she feel better out of wet clothes since it was an option this time? yes, absolutely. is comfort still a bit of a foreign concept? also absolutely yes. milk too if we're being completely honest, and tomorrow when her sneakers are dry but sour, they will be summarily tossed. fast fashion and the accessibility of brand new clothes are still a bit of a novelty, another trip to roxx will not be too big of a burden — and at least this time it's not because of blood spill.

does any of that mean clarke buys that she wasn't being casually directed and that rankles. there is no outright retort, but the twist of her lips speak volumes.

some of the attitude lessens as they walk, though. her with that same careful distance and him with the mildly grating small talk. most of clarke's responses are clipped but more so out of a lack of practice at casual conversation than any real issue talking about the weather, the plant life, the city itself. passing through the market she is very obviously distracted by the sights and smells, and watches a companion bot behind a counter so intently she outright misses a conversational cue or two. then they draw up to his house and she pauses on the sidewalk just to take it in. the architecture is entirely foreign but striking. the tall windows edged with dark wood in contrast to the relatively light brickwork are like gaunt eyes on a pale face, the portico evoking a sense of modern/old world extravagance despite her having no basis for it. it's a nice house, and clarke can imagine a whole block lined with similar dwellings the same way a fish can imagine traveling through the stars — it's oddly alienating, to now know what life used to look like.

if it's at all daunting, that sensation is overshadowed by the sensation of just feeling weirdly out of place. but hannibal moves to open the door and clarke follows. she's just as keen on taking in the foyer as she had been the exterior, and when he directs her towards the kitchen she almost just walks.

but the paintings that decorate the walls...

those distract completely. )

Oh, those are nice.

( she doesn't crowd the walls to look closer, but there is a definitive tilt to the head that broadcasts she wants to. )

Edited 2024-06-01 07:56 (UTC)

[such a fussy girl.

a fussy girl that appreciates artwork. he pauses after he closes the door behind them, taking off his jacket to be hung up nearby. there's a little stir inside of him as he watches her. a tickle of pride.]

You have a good eye. I can tell you more about the art while I cook.

[translation: you are not going to wander around in my home unsupervised.

but he sounds so kind as he says it, almost a second thought as he makes his way to the kitchen. the island is organized nicely, bowls of colorful fruits and vegetables decorate it. the kitchen is morgue-like, surgical in its design of light greys and blues. everything is organized right down to the placement of knives, straight and clean. a smaller wooden table sits beside the island that acts as a standing cutting board. the only hints of use are the indents and slices of a blade. he motions to the chair in the corner should she decide to sit.

he is efficient, but a show-off. some groceries are put away in the refrigerator, while others are left out on the counter to make for easy access. he's planning on making an omelet for the two of them. he would like to be more extravagant, but he has no idea what her palate is like and doesn't want to overwhelm her.

before he really gets started, he pulls out a decanter of freshly squeezed orange juice from the fridge, pouring her a glass and holding out to her.]

I hope you like eggs.

Edited 2024-06-02 05:25 (UTC)

( his meaning is loud and clear, and clarke's eyes drag from the framed painting of a tree back onto hannibal with the mild annoyance of a child denied. the tendency to speak in such carefully curated sentences that could never be construed for anything but exceedingly polite has to be something of an artform too, but it is nowhere near as enjoyable to bear witness to as brush strokes on canvas. if it would have taken him a few moments longer to shuck off his jacket and make off down the hallway, she might have objected. dug her feet in, lofted a casual just a second his way just to prove a point.

the careful distance she'd kept while walking the city lengthens here, clarke is several steps behind and her head is on a swivel — taking in everything from the wallpaper to the woodwork to the stiff but luxurious choices in furniture and the distant smell of mint. every room they pass she peers into, at least until catching sight of a few too many antler motifs and barely suppressing a shudder. they make it to the kitchen, and she's decidedly seen enough of them (two, literally just two kitchens in her entire life) to know this one is different. it straddles the line between fancy and ominous, elegantly arranged but no one who'd ever woken up in a morgue could look at the doors of that fridge and not imagine being locked behind them. the island is reminiscent of an overlarge surgery table, the cutting board akin to a beheading block. but it's so clean and sterile and neat; so obviously just a place to prepare food that she has to banish any negative connotations, write them off as a lacking familiarity.

the gestured invitation towards the corner chair is wordlessly declined as clarke lingers by the doorway for a long while. if she drifts anywhere closer, it's towards the standing cutting board — something tangible to place between herself and hannibal as he works within his domain and she watches.

sometimes people do this really weird thing where they accept anything that's handed to them, despite not necessarily wanting it. and sometimes people is just clarke with this decanted orange juice because what. the pulp floats to the top, fresh individual juice sacs preserved and she can feel the gradual chill through the thick glass. what had he just said? something about eggs? )

Oh, I'm — ( so uncomfortably out of place ) — not picky.

( when she eats, which is not incredibly often and absolutely does not follow the traditional breakfast-lunch-dinner pipeline, it's for sustenance. because she has to, not because she wants to. the same could be said for sleeping, and just like clarke would never complain about waking up with a crick in her neck from slumping over a desktop, she doesn't have much to say about the way beef jerky and prepackaged peanuts get stuck in her teeth, or milkshakes make her feel a little ill. )

[a small smile at her obvious discomfort, though it's masked by his response to her inexperience in a kitchen.]

I'll remember that.

[a clean apron is wrapped around his waist and he washes his hands before he begins handling any food. he places a large cast iron skillet on the stove, which he turns on a medium heat setting. another pan is taken out, too, for later. he talks as he preps, making his way around the kitchen and organizing his workspace with the chicken, eggs, tomato, dill, sour cream (the portion is scooped into a small glass bowl and the container is returned to the fridge), butter, and a small block of parmesan cheese.]

Usually this recipe calls for liver, but I'll be substituting it with chicken breast. I don't quite trust the butcher here and it doesn't seem like they'll be providing the cuts of meat I prefer. I'll have to source it myself next time.

[get Hannibal in the kitchen and it's one of the places he's most comfortable. his conversation and ease reflects that. he grates the cheese as he continues,]

That painting you were admiring was done by Frederick William Hulme. He was an English landscape painter and illustrator in the 1800s. He illustrated several books, including ones written by Edgar Allen Poe and S.C. Hall. [a quick glance up from grating,] Are you familiar with those authors?

Edited (not me forgetting to include things!! ) 2024-06-02 23:52 (UTC)

( by this point in her interdimensional, world hopping shenanigans, clarke has had quite a few meals she'd consider delightful. from chocolate cake, to her first properly seasoned, slapped-together stew on her home planet, to steaming piles of mashed potatoes, crab legs, and beef tips presented buffet style on the serena eterna, to the greasy burgers and frothy milkshakes served in the local diner, and the wide array of dishes offered on rotation in the hospital cafeteria. from food prepared by enemies, by friends, ghosts, and robots.

but she's seldom ever gotten to peek behind the curtain; had the opportunity to witness the raw ingredients and the process it takes to transform them into a full plate, let alone the undertaking shouldered with ease and... dare she call it glee? parmesan looks like any other cheese, dill is only vaguely recognizable from years of earth skills lessons which highlighted which vegetation was poisonous and which was edible, she cannot even imagine willingly eating liver. but hannibal pulls on an apron like scrubs, and preps his cooking space like a surgeon. and she's stuck on the sidelines like an unnecessary anesthesiologist, nothing to do with her hands but rub her finger in the condensation collection around her chilled glass of orange juice and watch.

and he talks. about inane things like butchers and poetry, and all clarke would have to contribute to the former is a reinforcement of skepticism — for all they knew, cuts of meat around here could be from humans as easily as they were from the local wildlife. )

I know Poe. ( the weird urge to list all the other poets she's become familiar with within the two years spent on a cruise liner that boasted a decent fiction-only library swells — frost, melville, dickinson — but is summarily popped like a bubble. why try to prove herself to him? ) What's Hall written?

He was better known for his journalism. His wife was also talented.

[he sets the grater aside and places the shredded cheese into a glass mise bowl, moving along to dicing a couple tomatoes and garlic that he picks from the wooden bowl that holds a colorful arrangement of vegetables. he's preparing a salsa, yet still anyone watching is allowed a performance. the simplest tasks become a form of art itself.

after enough preparation is done, he saves the rest for later. chicken is taken from the refrigerator, too. he seasons it, loves it, fingers pressing into raw meat; a ceremony. olive oil is dashed onto the pan before the chicken breast is placed delicately into it. he doesn't need a timer.

again, washing his hands before moving on, pace a bit slowed. the chicken needs time to cook and there isn't much more for him to do. he motions to the painting on the wall behind her.]

Jean-Honoré Fragonard. Influenced by the artists Reubens and Rembrant. Or do you prefer landscapes?

( hey hannibal, that is potentially the most explicit handling of raw chicken humanly possible. and like most people when a weirdly intimate act is being committed in front of them, clarke averts her eyes from the actual counter. choses instead to focus on the back of his head and the bits of profile she can catch from this angle. the far painting is a welcome distraction, at least until she actually looks at it and finds the color used to illustrate the naked women a little too similar to the look of the chicken breast he was just kneading seasons into.

she finally brings that glass of orange juice to her lips and takes a little sip just for want of something to do with herself. the juice is fresh and bright across her tongue, acidic and a little pulpy — which is absolutely the only reason she needs to clear her throat with a light cough before responding. )

I like landscapes. ( once upon a time she'd defended them when another called them boring; they could only really be interpreted as lacking substance by a person who hadn't grown up hundreds of thousands of miles above earth's surface, one who'd had the opportunity to grow bored of the dirt and the grass and trees that sprouted from it. when the impossibly green foliage of the ground was potentially the most benign and beautiful part the planet'd had to offer her and her like, clarke always carries a special place in her heart for a bit of scenery. )

I think Pissarro's the best at them. ( odd choice maybe, but from what little she'd seen the man had mastered the vibrant greens of the countryside as thoroughly as he had the hustle, bustle, and dark grime of the old world. little snapshots of a time she'd never know herself, but could almost extrapolate from canvases stored in the fallout vault of mount weather. yet, in truth, her heart belongs to — ) But Berthe Morisot is my favorite though, I like portraits more.

( a beat, and then unbidden, the urge for one more divulgence: )

I like to draw portraits more.

Edited (jfc it's edit-o-clock) 2024-06-10 09:29 (UTC)

[sorry Clarke, his meals are where parts of himself are actually allowed. it's where it's safe for him to be more primal; he enjoys the feel of flesh running along his fingertips. to be in his kitchen is to be graced, few are blessed with it.

there's a distinct (albeit brief) sparkle behind his eyes as Clarke speaks. nothing engages Hannibal much more than the talk of art, and for her to have even some experience on the topic opens parts of him that she likely hasn't been able to see until now. they have only been rough and tumble, a blood diamond in the making.]

The impressionist. He finished his paintings outside in one sitting, did you know that? Very impressive work.

[he could go on and on and on with little facts about artists, something that she will likely catch on.]

Portraits are more intimate. [a cocked brow,] It was your art of the flowers on the flier, no? I kept it. You have a good eye.

[should they make their way into his living room at some point (or if she stealthily creeps around his home later) some of his work is laid out on the desk there.]

( if she'd been served up the choice between keeping their interactions brief and rough and tumble, or outright being called out with mentioned evidence of a good deed that probably served none — well. clarke would then have to contend with the fact she'd made most of her own choices. she'd followed him willingly into this kitchen, she'd demanded warnings splattered around the town then saw fit to do it herself. logic doesn't override emotion though, and the beat of her heart ticks up a mild amount in what can only be described as embarrassment. you ever do something but want to keep your name out of it?

a haze of purple flushes up her neck and through her ears, but once again orange juice saves the day. clarke takes another measured, slow sip in order to give herself time to recompose before answering. )

...yeah, it was. Figured since I looked at it, no one else had to. I don't know if it helped, but. I tried.

( a beat, then a hint of sass. )

Your house is really beautiful, by the way. Big upgrade from your apartment.

( stubbornness could probably be extrapolated as a trait human beings developed as some sort of survival method; stake your claim, stand your ground, defend what's yours. but today it is just being exemplified in clarke griffin being absolutely incapable of getting over their first meeting, and expressing she's still a little salty about having woken up on his couch. )

[he checks the chicken, flips it delicately with tongs, allows Clarke her embarrassment. a small sizzle erupts from the pan, fresh herbs mixed with butter and oil wafting upward.]

Even if it didn't help, they saw your artwork.

[a little self-advertising, if nothing else. the flowers had been virtually harmless, though what he managed to cultivate and grow on his own will be used in a more controlled manner. he has several plants blooming already, hidden, but upstairs so they can absorb some sunlight.

he doesn't look at her while he tends to the chicken, but he does smile, half of it hidden.]

Thank you. That apartment hardly suited me. [it's said with a breathy, practiced laugh, but there is truth to it. that place is ugly.] I don't think it suits you, either.

( hannibal busies himself with flipping the chicken, which means he probably misses exactly how severely clarke wrinkles her nose at that notion. she has no want for fame or recognition, not even for something as simple as a warning poster. there'd been a reason her name and network username had not been included, in case anyone had wanted to reach out and ask more about the effects of the flower. it'd been a cut and dry do not look at this! message, redrawn by hand so many times her wrist twinges at the memory. sometimes it is better to be no one than someone people look to for answers, and it wasn't like she had many to give.

somehow, she manages to reign in the severity of her face by the time he looks back; schools it down to just mild offense, a quiet distaste, but the vibe remains the same. she doesn't love that he'd kept the flyer, but won't say a thing provided he doesn't go around showing it off and spouting facts of yet another artist.

the apartments, they're talking about the apartments now. and with hannibal's pronouncement of her own misfit status, she basically snorts. )

It's got running water, and a roof. Again, I'm not exactly picky.

( given where she'd come from, it'd be ridiculous to gripe about gifted shelter. but at the same time clarke is in the perpetual argument with herself that she shouldn't be picky while also despising the apartments. her own quarters are still in the exact same arrangement it had been when she'd first arrived, little bits and pieces dropped around to indicate someone inhabited the rooms. but it's a place she stays, not where she lives. she sleeps on the couch, the bed going untouched because it's just too soft. she's left her filthy labyrinth clothes in random corner for days now, telling herself they would be dealt with. she's tacked up every bit of information she'd managed to gain about this place on pages ripped from a yellow legal pad. she keeps her kidney in its jar on a counter of the little kitchenette.

but there are no stars. no quiet rumble of other bodies around her when she tries to rest, which may be a factor in how little she actually manages to sleep. there's no rumble of an engine vibrating the floorboards, there's no sway of the sea. it's not a home. this entire planet should not be thought of as a home, anyone who gets too comfortable is doomed.

also the apartments are ugly as hell. )

You should allow yourself some pickiness, especially here. If Aurora or Echo will provide it, ask. Or, has a place from your home already appeared?

[it sounds like he's only making polite conversation now, but depending on her answer, it'll decide where he may walk to next. Clarke isn't an open person, at least not to him. he's made some progress, however little. he suspects her past and greater suspicions of him alone prevent her from trusting him.

but they've already had one too many instances where he was able to come to her aid. he wants those moments to muddy her perception, blur her view. she is a challenge he is willing to work with, willing to shape as he shaped Abigail and Will. he's sure that Bedelia would have something to say about that, would question his intentions and want to discuss the why.

he knows why. everything is calculated, and he will bide his time until the moment is right to turn the place upside-down. it's all a game to him, a game that isn't so different than the one Echo is playing.

he takes out a two plates and silverware, places them on the counter beside the stove.]

Not that I've found yet.

( and in a day or two's time, when clarke does actually happen upon the makings of the burnt out dropship camp, she will have to look back on this conversation and wonder if she'd somehow managed to speak it into existence without even asking the higher powers. like how brief, unkind sentiment that they were all like rats in a maze had been followed up with an announcement of the labyrinth in the following month. like how the running joke of terrain challenges had eventually separated her and krouse in the bowels of the maze. how she and hannibal had discussed darkness one moment, just to be faced with a mark of her own descent in the next. it's known that they're being watched, constantly evaluated; it doesn't feel all that paranoid to assume what she did or said could then influence future events.

then on second evaluation, clarke will be forced to wonder if maybe the camp was his unintentional doing.

but in the now, she is too wrapped up in watching this cooking showcase. it's when hannibal starts setting out plates that clarke finally wills herself away from standing cutting board and instead hovers between the morgue-like preparation table and the stove island. the condensation on her orange juice has reached the point where the glass itself feels difficult to hang on to, or maybe she just needed something to occupy her free hand and cupping the bottom of her drink. )

[almost like he knows something even though he very well doesn't, his next words are airy; a second thought.]

You should have a look around, you may be surprised.

[just as he had been. no one alerted him of his home, he had to discover it all on his own. he's glad that he'd been the first one to find it. if someone else had decided to stake a claim, he would've disposed of them.

he busies himself with the chicken, entirely engrossed. nimble hands working as precious minutes tick by and the second pan is set on the stove to heat up. he's timed it perfectly so when the pan is hot and ready for the eggs -- which he will be scrambling separately in a glass bowl -- the chicken will be fully cooked and prepared to be shredded. he pours himself into those precious minutes, sparing Clarke only one or two glances.

he clicks his tongue.]

You've hardly touched the juice. Is it not to your liking?

[her discomfort is leaking out onto the island, toward the food, toward him. he hasn't had such an uncomfortable person in his kitchen since Will, but she's another breed by nature. most of Will's discomfort tended to land in the back of his throat, catching along his jaw and sending tension everywhere else. he's noticed that hers settled in her hands.]

( engrossed in his tasks, hannibal likely misses the way clarke's eyes narrow at the repeat mention of finding her own space here. she scowls at his forehead for a long second, evaluating if maybe he's actually just some sort of etraya plant meant to encourage her to assimilate; to find something here to latch on to, to forget that any cure for her homesickness would be a loose fabrication at best. she watches the frothing fork used to beat egg yolks and whites together in a homogenous mixture, and the glowers at the hand that braces the bowl.

of the few times he glances over in her direction, her face is carefully redirected. she catches the beginnings of movement and quickly focuses on the fridge door that reminds her a mortuary chamber, or the painting of naked women that still evokes the same visceral sensation of handling slimy raw chicken. when asked about the orange juice, she just says, )

It's fine.

( then purposefully brings the glass to her lips and drains half the thing.

and like, it's not just fine, it is arguably the best orange juice she's ever had; bright and cheery along her tastebuds, sweet without the overwhelm of added sugar, pulpy in a fashion similar to biting into a fresh orange. but clarke could be content with juice concentrate, if their differences in palettes had not already been made clear in the labyrinth. it is decedent, but the chocolate cake in mount weather had been enjoyable right up to the moment she'd learned the mountain men were going to drill her friends for their bone marrow. she's not picky, just a little haunted.

and uncomfortable. and feeling that awkward sense of being out of her depth with no one else but the homeowner to throw her a proverbial life preserver. so, if he's going to focus on her juice drinking, she can focus on his cooking. )

How do you know the chicken's done?

[she says it's fine but there's no hiding the pleasant reaction in one's face after consuming something delicious. he hears her drink it down before looking at her pointedly, hardly going out of his way to hide a satisfied tick up of his lips.]

I've been gifted with a very unique sense of smell, but you should always cut into its center to be sure there isn't any pink left inside.

[chicken now being transferred to cutting board and then eggs to hot pan with butter. all those prepped ingredients are poured to the pan as well, adding depth and color. this is the quicker end of the preparation and he glides through it, cutting and shredding the steaming chicken before adding it into the omelet. he makes it look easy, as easy as breathing; a second nature.

soon it's all finally looking together and he is arranging the meal on a plate as a chef would a fine dining restaurant. garnished with a freshly picked wildflower and salsa (minus the quail egg) he's bringing the plates to the dining room to be set. all silverware is placed (rather perfectly) and he urges her to sit down, pulling out a chair for her, because ladies first.]

Bon apétit.

[there's an interesting painting that she'll likely notice when guided to sit.]

Edited 2024-07-01 14:41 (UTC)

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MAY MINGLE

pov: me neck deep in the hannibal house wiki gallery

pov: me also in the wiki gallery bc i forget how much stuff he has

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squints at recipes, squints at writing, keysmashes