"Alright then. Let's make sure our guests haven't gotten lost." Which may or may not be a tease about a certain small child, some months back, telling him that this new house was 'too big' and 'easy to get lost in'. Hard to say.
The stairs are taken slowly, still tethered as he is to Triss, who has adopted a sideways slant to accommodate keeping her leg mostly straight. Rounding their way past the sweeping end of the staircase gives them a clear view into the kitchen, where Hannibal gets an answer to at least one internal question. Not only is one of them - Argus - interested enough in the books to have looked at them, he isn't even going to try to hide that he's done so.
So they are definitively here to talk shop. What a strange grouping of metas they make.
Hannibal goes straight to the metal-and-black fridge that stands about two feet from the table that the books rest on. Tendrils of cold air leech from the freezer portion as he removes an ice pack, wrapping it in an oxblood dish towel and handing it down to Patricia. At Argus's words, his mouth bends up, approving and willing to share, although his eyes don't quite thaw. "I take my responsibilities of raising a child seriously. I have found it is best to be prepared."
He sweeps right by Argus and Ruth at the table, happens to draw a little closer to Danae when he crosses over to the stove top. He turns his back on them to gather down a teapot from the cabinets, although his neck is turned owlishly to watch them still. His host-smile has grown a little more firm - it's an expression Triss might recognize from their court days. It's a face that means negotiation. A face for unknowns, for strangers, for hostiles; for when he doesn't know enough about the enemy yet to play the game any other way. When in doubt, chilled and exacting hospitality has always served him well.
Water from the sink fills the teapot. His voice is as steady as his hands. "I am under no illusions here. You have only come to speak with me because of her, not myself. Why were you so certain she is one of you?" There is no confusion in his tone, only a bare statement requesting information. "Ordinary children have been taken by kelpies before."
He only refrains from saying killed by because said child is currently standing among the head-height countertops.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2016-06-05 04:20 pm (UTC)The stairs are taken slowly, still tethered as he is to Triss, who has adopted a sideways slant to accommodate keeping her leg mostly straight. Rounding their way past the sweeping end of the staircase gives them a clear view into the kitchen, where Hannibal gets an answer to at least one internal question. Not only is one of them - Argus - interested enough in the books to have looked at them, he isn't even going to try to hide that he's done so.
So they are definitively here to talk shop. What a strange grouping of metas they make.
Hannibal goes straight to the metal-and-black fridge that stands about two feet from the table that the books rest on. Tendrils of cold air leech from the freezer portion as he removes an ice pack, wrapping it in an oxblood dish towel and handing it down to Patricia. At Argus's words, his mouth bends up, approving and willing to share, although his eyes don't quite thaw. "I take my responsibilities of raising a child seriously. I have found it is best to be prepared."
He sweeps right by Argus and Ruth at the table, happens to draw a little closer to Danae when he crosses over to the stove top. He turns his back on them to gather down a teapot from the cabinets, although his neck is turned owlishly to watch them still. His host-smile has grown a little more firm - it's an expression Triss might recognize from their court days. It's a face that means negotiation. A face for unknowns, for strangers, for hostiles; for when he doesn't know enough about the enemy yet to play the game any other way. When in doubt, chilled and exacting hospitality has always served him well.
Water from the sink fills the teapot. His voice is as steady as his hands. "I am under no illusions here. You have only come to speak with me because of her, not myself. Why were you so certain she is one of you?" There is no confusion in his tone, only a bare statement requesting information. "Ordinary children have been taken by kelpies before."
He only refrains from saying killed by because said child is currently standing among the head-height countertops.