Iron. Hannibal nearly laughs. His face shudders, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes and nose deepening with a smile that he's only successful in keeping from his mouth.
His attention keeps skipping from one to another around his kitchen, interested in everyone's thoughts on Patricia - they clearly are all one something, one cult-like branch-off of the great preternatural tree that sprouted all of them. And they're being forced to share this knowledge with him present, presumably because they realized Triss would never keep something like what they're showing her a secret. (He cynically dismisses that they're genuinely interested in showing her guardian these tricks, helped along with the strongest defensive waves coming over from Danae. He can smell the tension, the trepidation, from everyone including of course Triss - it saturates the room.)
Hannibal takes a deep breath, relaxes more deeply into his chair, and prepares to ride the waves of the room's collective anxiety...right back into his own mind.
Metals. Different powers, different metals? They'd wanted Danae's, specifically, and they all smell too different to share a house and resources, which means that if it's something they all need, then it's something they all have their own supply of.
Eating metal. He thinks of that phrase in different languages - first in the habitual way of adding things to his memory so it's easier to find if he's speaking another one, and then out of curiosity. Lithuanian, French, German, Russian, Ital--
Italian rings out. Flashes of pages - ancient, sheepskin, notes written and rewritten in margins, editing as they went, gossipy and fearful. Hannibal relaxes into the memory rather than tear after it, lets associations gather so he has more threads to follow in this labyrinth...
Patricia snags his attention. He watches her face set at the disparaging tone from Danae. When it's clear that Patricia has somehow managed to do something, Hannibal feels an echo of the pride that normal parents likely get to experience when their child makes the honor roll. It thrums through his chest, warm and generous and selfish all at once. "What do you see, Triss?" His hand reaches out, fingers near Patricia's - more of a gesture of wonderment than any attempt at trapping her hand in his. This is...wonderful, finally there's answers. Have they finally found a way to let Patricia develop less fear about her powers, for her to grow into the fascinated amazement she deserves to feel for her abilities?
Hannibal is visibly happy about what's going on. His features warm, he looks over Triss's head. "You could have just said something, Argus. Or any of you." His expression doesn't budge from the quiet elation that had settled in, as soon as he'd mentally ticked through to the page he'd been looking for.
"Please pardon the slurs of our past generations, but: metallo-mangia abominazioni, are you not?"
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2016-06-07 12:44 am (UTC)His attention keeps skipping from one to another around his kitchen, interested in everyone's thoughts on Patricia - they clearly are all one something, one cult-like branch-off of the great preternatural tree that sprouted all of them. And they're being forced to share this knowledge with him present, presumably because they realized Triss would never keep something like what they're showing her a secret. (He cynically dismisses that they're genuinely interested in showing her guardian these tricks, helped along with the strongest defensive waves coming over from Danae. He can smell the tension, the trepidation, from everyone including of course Triss - it saturates the room.)
Hannibal takes a deep breath, relaxes more deeply into his chair, and prepares to ride the waves of the room's collective anxiety...right back into his own mind.
Metals. Different powers, different metals? They'd wanted Danae's, specifically, and they all smell too different to share a house and resources, which means that if it's something they all need, then it's something they all have their own supply of.
Eating metal. He thinks of that phrase in different languages - first in the habitual way of adding things to his memory so it's easier to find if he's speaking another one, and then out of curiosity. Lithuanian, French, German, Russian, Ital--
Italian rings out. Flashes of pages - ancient, sheepskin, notes written and rewritten in margins, editing as they went, gossipy and fearful. Hannibal relaxes into the memory rather than tear after it, lets associations gather so he has more threads to follow in this labyrinth...
Patricia snags his attention. He watches her face set at the disparaging tone from Danae. When it's clear that Patricia has somehow managed to do something, Hannibal feels an echo of the pride that normal parents likely get to experience when their child makes the honor roll. It thrums through his chest, warm and generous and selfish all at once. "What do you see, Triss?" His hand reaches out, fingers near Patricia's - more of a gesture of wonderment than any attempt at trapping her hand in his. This is...wonderful, finally there's answers. Have they finally found a way to let Patricia develop less fear about her powers, for her to grow into the fascinated amazement she deserves to feel for her abilities?
Hannibal is visibly happy about what's going on. His features warm, he looks over Triss's head. "You could have just said something, Argus. Or any of you." His expression doesn't budge from the quiet elation that had settled in, as soon as he'd mentally ticked through to the page he'd been looking for.
"Please pardon the slurs of our past generations, but: metallo-mangia abominazioni, are you not?"