Maxwell Stares At Her, His Lip Curling Slightly. She Reminds Him Very, Very Much Of One Of His Pawns--

Maxwell of all people can relate. Even before the Codex Umbra was returned to him, when he was given a perfectly ordinary, perfectly useless book, he had kept the mundane tome tucked close to his heart in his inner jacket pocket as though it were the Codex itself. Familiarity can be a powerful thing.

"My offer stands. I assure you, I'm quite the expert when it comes to extracting the hidden meanings of books. So if you ever do wish to figure out why you have been given this one, you need only ask. ...but I won't be able to help if you aren't willing to let me take a look."

Maxwell drums his fingers over the cover of his own "mysterious book."

"Were you given anything else upon your arrival? Or allowed to keep anything else, I suppose I should say."

@codexvmbra

[📖] Girl held her book the way a child might keep a beloved toy close to them. It was clear she wasn't going to let anyone else get their hands on it. "I'm not sure why I have it...but I'm going to keep it." Even if she couldn't remember why it was important, she felt protective over it regardless.

create something in my workshop.

a necklace.

bit by bit, you’ve crafted a beautiful piece of jewelry, one that gleams in the sun and glitters in the low light, one that draws attention and admiration and glowing words. you step out into the world and the world turns to you. eyes are caught by the shimmer. hands reach out to touch. gasps fall from mouths at the very sight of you. you feel like the center of the world until you realize that what people are really looking at is the necklace. you haven’t made eye contact with another person in weeks. this thing that you’ve made is gorgeous. it should be a point of pride for you, a a glow of achievement over your chest. with it glimmering across your collarbones, nobody has even noticed that you’re there.

Prompt 17: inhuman

And catch he does! For all of his posturing, Maxwell is physically quite weak, and he doubles over as soon as those claws slash across his front. The Stars have not seen fit to return his armor, and he takes the full brunt of the attack.

Pain blooms in his chest, and red begins to stain his suit; it gives the appearance that the vibrant poppy on his lapel has begun to drip its color like splattered ink.

Ow.

On instinct, Max pulls out the book the Stars have given him and flips it open. Nothing happens.

"Fine, fine, yes! You've proven your point." Max's expression is still twisted into a hateful snarl. If only he still had the power to pull irritations like the Librarian into a hell of his own making...

"Now finish the job or leave me to lick my wounds in peace."

Surprised, his body pulls back as it sees Maxwell's lunge. But Maxwell makes contact all the same. The Librarian, while lithe, was exceptionally taller than most humans and human adjacent.

Thus he was tackled down, but not flat to his back. Instead his lengthy legs were sprawled out and he was sitting up with his arms holding him up behind him. His eyes were bright and he looked both like he were smiling wide and mashing his teeth for attack.

"Your claws suit your countenance well, a predator! Take a look at mine!"

He sat forward, swiping an arm in an arc in front of him, claws out, trying to catch Maxwell.

Oh, how he wishes he could sic his hounds on this fox in true hunting party fashion.

"Yes, yes, fine!" he grinds out, throwing his hands up in defeat. "If you apologize and if you make it worth my while to see this agreement through, I'll transcribe everything perfectly legibly in our common tongue. I expect you to do the same. No tricks from either of us. Happy?"

"Your end of the deal. Hm. May I have an inquiry?" He did not actually stop to see if Maxwell would give him the go ahead.

"Is the knowledge you possess written in the common language of this island?"

“of course, take your time…”

Lecter might not yet wish to give the impression that he's engaging in close, careful observation, but Maxwell doesn't hide the fact that he's taking his own mental notes on the psychiatrist's behaviors. So far, so good, it seems.

"Oh, I comprehend it just fine, pal." He "comprehends" that They are a bunch of sadistic pieces of shit who love nothing more than to see him suffer. ...but of course, Lecter's right. Maxwell's only human, despite the physical and mental changes he's undergone during his time on the Throne, and They are distinctly not. For every secret he's uncovered about Them, three more wait, undiscovered, under the surface. Symbols and shapes flashing before his eyes, dark hands beckoning him deeper--

Maxwell frowns. He doesn't like that comparison.

"Then you had better help me remove the boulder altogether."

His daily routine? What does that have to do with anything? Shouldn't Lecter be asking about the content of the nightmares, trying to dig deep into Maxwell's psyche? Or worse, asking about Carter's childhood, so he can try to blame visions of Them on some tripe about how William's father and mother didn't love him enough?

"I treat myself quite well. One might consider it to excess, but I do not. Let's see... I recently became gainfully employed as a sort of... fashion model. Not a role I ever expected myself to hold, but one for which I am very well-suited." If only Higgsbury were here to appreciate the pun.

"Besides that, I sometimes explore the wilderness, or find myself at various establishments dedicated to providing entertainment and drink. Currently, my favorite is the Skullrender."

Maxwell seems as though he could go on and on about himself, but he finally stops, awaiting the next question. Was any of this actually helpful?

there's a successful attempt at not letting the surprise felt show, not having expected maxwell to so willingly discuss what haunts him. it's an annotation written down, as is the small fact he refused to take a seat ( " perhaps an indication of hesitation when it comes to therapy - standing facilitates the search for an exit " ).

soon, however, the pen is dropped, and hannibal's hands come to lay flat on the journal atop his lap. he wants to ensure maxwell knows he's being listened to. actively taking notes after every sentence is a good technique to guarantee the patient feels observed, to give off the impression hannibal is studying them closely ( and as far as he knows, there's no reason to steer maxwell in that direction just yet ).

" that's, unfortunately, not shocking. whenever the human brain lives through a scenario just past the bounds of its comprehension, there are lasting marks - a seemingly everlasting pull towards the place which traced its suffering. your body may not be there, but it is where your mind resides still. " his head tilts, a sign of compassion. " in some ways, you will resemble the figure of sisyphus, cursed to forever push the boulder uphill - only to find himself returned to the base of the incline upon success. "

for a split moment, he returns to writing, taking note of the nightmares. soon enough, his gaze finds its way back to maxwell. it's soft, almost. " noone can 'fix' these visions of terror but yourself, maxwell. i am merely limited to help you along the way. "

hannibal leans back, thoughtful, then finally adds: " for now .. i want you to describe to me your daily routine. the places you go, how you treat yourself. "

Has anyone noticed Maxwell rips his own poster in half?

... ..... .......

This patron doesn't just look like an owl, she's as silent as one, too, it seems. Maxwell's tempted to make a snide comment about how inappropriate her combat attire is for a refined establishment like this one, but... no. She's an attentive member of his audience regardless of how out of place she is, and he will play the gracious host. He can't have his short temper reflecting poorly on his new place of work, after all.

How truly mortifying it would be to get fired from a job so easy a well-dressed Pig could do it.

"Good day," he says pleasantly, offering a shallow bow. "I appear to have caught your eye." That, more than anything, cools his urge to address her with snark; Maxwell does so love to be admired.

His smile and soft, inviting gaze are both the carefully crafted facades of a performer-- enough to make any average customer feel truly, wonderfully seen.

Whether they do the same for Engle, only time will tell.

"If there's anything I can help you with today, don't hesitate to ask. It's what I'm here for."

This place, the Faucher Lace House & Boutique, seems to have gathered quite the flock. Even a newcomer like herself can't help but notice the crowd.

Fashion and espionage are really more in Guin's department, but if Engle wants answers about her missing team, she'd have to fill in for the rest of them.

Between her combat boots and her tactical gear, she's not exactly dressed for a shopping trip. One of the models, a tall man, takes notice of her, and Engle looks right back at him.

Her gaze is unrelenting, and she breathes almost as minimally as a mannequin.

The question remains: which one of them is going to break first?

@codexvmbra

"For now." He's not going to set a limit on how much he drinks today; Maxwell isn't going to deny himself anything for as long as the (admittedly meager) funds he's been provided with last. It's time to celebrate!

...so why isn't his server scurrying off to help him get started?

Max turns from the fight, intending to fix the other man with a cool stare that should help motivate him to leave, but then he notices the way his server is eying his outfit.

"No. I'm here alone."

He sits up taller, straightening out his sleeves and his lapel. He doesn't blame the man for gawking; he cuts a striking figure in his suit.

Thank God he arrived in real clothes as opposed to those rags he had on in the Throneroom.

"It's custom made." Obviously. As if anyone would sell a jacket with those shoulders without it being a special request.

"Banter" has begun to achieved, as long as you count Maxwell talking solely about himself to be worthwhile conversation; it doesn't seem as though he's about to comment on the other man's taste in fashion, or on the other man period.

the fights are part of the reason will wanted to get employed at skullrender. nosy and without the ability to mind his own business, the writer finds brawls such as these fascinating. of course, watching them here sheds him of the guilt included in enjoying the occasional exchange of punches: the participants know what they're getting into, it's the main draw of the establishment.

.. that, and having a chance to meet the most interesting of people. the man that just called him over is unusually well dressed for this sort of afternoon. of course, there's nothing wrong with overdressing for any event, really - will does it all the time - but it was rarer to see in skullrender.

" oh, hi! " the notepad in his hand lifts with a smile, " and will that be all? "

will's gaze darts around, checking for anyone else wanting to order. the rest of the crowd seem to be intensely focused on the fight, so perhaps he can afford bantering for a little bit. " two, hm? are you expecting a date, mister .. ? "

he doesn't move from his spot near the stranger's table. in fact, it looks like will's waiting for something - for him to be looked at, so he may be caught non-discreetly studying the man's outfit.