[for hannibal] just now i shan't because you see i'm dancing

[technicoloured]

Cecilia isn't happy about it. She's never happy about anything he does. It's a predisposition she's got against him, he stubbornly reminds her while waving the cryptic letter in her face. This isn't about the actual facts; it's about her dislike of past conduct mismatched with her arbitrarily strict standards for morality which exceed, in his expert opinion, even the general realm of the religious fanatic at the best of times.

She isn't happy about it at all, but she's happier about most things he does if they happen under her supervision and don't involve him running off to seek Davroar's advice anymore.

If finding him barely conscious in a strange room he hadn't rented at an inn with a new surgical scar across his lower chest had displeased her, reading him the letter displeases her all the more. And, of course, if reading the letter didn't please her, it was clear she was going to spend the entirety of penning his response in her neat scholarly hand with a genuine scowl of righteous disapproval on her features.

It doesn't matter. He isn't doing this for her approval. He's doing this for a quiet sense of fascination with the man who's nearly killed him and fully saved his life--and, generally, the fact he's alive at all.

The dictation had first been attempted in his native tongue, but quickly been left off. The missive which ultimately reaches the mansion will be in the common tongue and written in a faintly more effeminate hand than one might expect even from the bard. The finishing sign is in an obviously different hand, the strokes much thicker and less practiced.

My Dear Master Lecter--

Your glassware has been kept in very good repair in the course of my convalescence. You'll be pleased to know you can retrieve it at your leisure any night this coming week at the Hanged Judge Tavern in Greyrock. It would be advisable for you to come under protection but to avoid it being obvious.

You know how jumpy we rabble can be.

X

Cynric is fairly certain it makes his point succinctly enough to bear his own mark rather than Cecilia actually scrawling out his name in full.

He's somewhat less certain that this most recent surgeon will actually appear in the rather run down tavern he's put himself up in for the week. Greyrock is, as an entire town, fairly marked for being a bastion of the lawless, and the Hanged Judge looks to be rather worse for the wear than even the other buildings surrounding it. There's absolutely no tension in his shoulders as he sits, night after night, at the corner of the bar with one leg crossed comfortably under his lute. The room is small and dark, yes, and the bulk of the visitors are clearly deep in their own conversation in the flickering candlelight, but the stream of his strong low tenor is nearly constant, underscored with just enough enticement along the strings of his lute to keep the occasional coin dropped into the empty mug resting at his side.

Comments

[augerofcuriosity]

The figure that sets out for Greyrock is one focused on blending in with his oncoming scenery. Sometimes the best protection is simply ensuring you have no predators in the first place.

His thief-turned-patient had had enough of a glint of intelligence in his eyes and words that Hannibal will, of course, be coming. Not on the first day, nor the second or third; but before the week is properly almost expired, either. It's only the fifth evening that he arrives in town, dressed in colors that match the dull earth and cloudy sky. His horse was left out of the traveling this time, so he arrived on foot, a satchel of components squirreled between layers. If he cheated most of the distance with magic, there's no telling now.

But of his magic - little motes cling to him, invisible dust that occasionally clouded the notion of him from others. Not invisibility, nothing so brash. But the few people who looked at their fellow traveller with greedy eyes tended to feel their gaze would be better spent elsewhere; distractions away from him seemed to come all too easily.

The Hanged Judge is a slum that's not too difficult to find, and soon a cloaked newcomer enters the tavern. Appearing neither rich (fit for pickpocketing) or aggressive (fit for a brawl), he doesn't garner much notice.

It's at one of the points when Cynric delves into his native tongue that a voice strikes up a harmony with him. If Cynric is facing any side along the bar, it's directly behind him; if he faces squarely the tavern itself, it's approaching from his right side.

The voice is a baritone, one that's perhaps more naturally drawn to the middle of that range. It's very clearly a trained voice - strong and exacting, no hesitation, even while singing so softly as it approaches. But there is, perhaps, a quality lost to that measure of precision - there's no welling of emotion, no room for natural hesitation. It is, if one wanted a flaw, chillingly exact and mechanical. Much more like metal than a voice; if there is any degree of passion to it, it's simply for the pleasure of being so precise.

But it's there, and it encroaches steadily. If Cynric doesn't break away from singing as he notices him, or if he pretends not to notice him at all, he'll hear and see the plink of a small copper coin being flicked into his collection mug. Hannibal leans one hand against the bartop and, his position next to Cynric now claimed, will very contentedly finish the song with him - should Cynric not stop.