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humansveiled:

Her eyes remain FIXED on the porcelain of the sink, her imagination briefly entertaining a childish fancy. How much simpler this would be if she could shrink and disappear down the drain – vanishing into the depths of the plumbing with the same discreetness of the diluted blood that had FLOODED the pipes a mere hour ago. Disappearing would be far easier than being FORCED to confront her actions and the man who had both encouraged and witnessed the slaughter. She does not wish to answer her own questions, nevertheless spill her thoughts – wherever they might eventually settle when the shock has passed – to Hannibal.  She feels EMPTY in the wake of the receding turmoil that had wracked her body. Now that the immediacy of the surging adrenaline has passed, there is nothing left aside from creeping ANXIETY and the steady rhythm of the brush as Hannibal guides it through her damp hair. This HOLLOWNESS leaves her skin crawling with the desire to BREAK it – to act with the very same RECKLESSNESS that had carried them into this moment. 

Had she the STOMACH for such an action, she might have turned and pressed her lips to his, demanding that he take command of her body and ERASE the events of the evening with teeth and tongue and nails, but under the circumstances, doing so would represent an act of communion that she cannot endorse. She cannot offer him VICTORY over her; he has already taken a second life – that is quite enough for one day.                 … or a LIFETIME.  A hand pries free of the sink, coming up to meet his own, pausing the brush in its path.                            “I … need to sit.” He is offered no explanation as she steps away, moving towards the door. GRACEFULLY, she descends onto her side of the bed, tucking a single leg beneath her as she sits PERCHED upon the edge. She reaches towards the bedside table, plucking the medical journal that sits upon it and settling it in her lap open to the article on which she had paused the previous evening.  It is far better to study the afflictions of others rather than her own afflictions. 

The hand which weilds the brush comes to pause once her fingers lightly press upon his own encouraging him to stop. He says nothing of course and instead allows her to move away and out of the bathroom towards the bed. For a moment her merely stands there with eyes glancing down towards the brush in hand which he eventually sets down upon the counter with a soft sigh. It is dissapointing in a way, though not in any way surprising. What he intends to do with the remainder of the evening is something she dare not wish to know and so he himself exits the room entirely, making his way out of the bathroom and casually closing the bedroom door behind him once he’s gone.  With sleeves already rolled up past his elbows, he prepares himself mentally for the task he’s meant to accomplish which doesn’t take long. Naturally, he enjoys his work ; relishes in it even. As some enjoyed reading or writing, he enjoyed dismemberment. Let no part of the recently deceased go to waste.  As she reads through her medical journal, he takes action in his own medical proceedings. making his way into the basement where the body remains tucked away. In an ideal world he would have wished for Bedelia to join him by his side, allowing for his hands to guide hers as he teaches her what to do, how to dispose of the evidence against her and where to cut.                 What to cut and what to save.                 It was all very abstract, almost POETIC in its own way.  In the morning, she would find a severed hand displayed within the center of the dining room table adorned with flowers. Something she will surely not appreciate as much as he might wish her to. But it is a signal ; a warning. Something only he will find amusement in.  When he returns into the bedroom however, both hands are stained with blood of which he’s attempting to remove with a damp cloth while heading towards the bathroom. ❝ One of these days, you will have to learn to clean up after yourself Bedelia. There is no greater WEAKNESS than self-pity. You should own up to your responsibilities. ❞ It’s a harsh blow of words, he knows. But he is no longer treading along the veil of uncertainty as it comes to her own indulgences. He could kill her now if he so pleased - how easy it would be - but he decides to grant her the privilege of choosing her own path as he has done from the very beginning. However, he will not hold her hand for much longer.  He washes his hands before removing the shirt from around his form and discarding it to the side. Thankfully, the material had not been damanged by the stain of blood much like his hands and as he reenters into the room, he stands nearly hovering above her at the edge of the bed in the dim light with fists now clenched.                           ❝ What is it that you want, Bedelia? ❞

[ethicalbutchery-blog]

humansveiled:

Alarm reasserts itself as the door finally swings open. Given that there is only one other living person residing within the walls of this house, she should not be so concerned, but she cannot shake her fear of Hannibal’s capabilities. It is impossible to know whether the man will emerge veiled or unveiled, or when she might find the rage of the monster thrown in her direction. Even during the moments when he chooses to be affectionate, she cannot help but find herself paralyzed in the face of the inevitability of the moment in which she finally pushes him too far. And yet – her fears only push her further into recklessness.  She does not look over her shoulder at him, only lifts her eyes to track his foggy shadow in the mirror. Possessive fingers place slight pressure on her shoulder as he reaches past her, bare arm brushing against the fabric of her stolen shirt. Rare are the occasions on which anyone is permitted to touch her hair, but since it is wet, it has limited capacity for harm.               “If you are so compelled.” Hands curl around the edge of the sink, seeking to anchor herself against the rush of the tide. Her anxiety demands that she find purchase in the surfaces around her so that she might find purchase in her mind. It is a glaring and persistent habit, but it is – at least – mostly harmless. There are worse ways to signal discomfort.  His touch is gentle as he runs the brush through her hair, an act that, in and of itself, is not entirely unpleasant. She cannot, however, disregard the importance of the context. At its heart, this is intended to be manipulative, and a question about Mischa and Hannibal’s history swims to the tip of her tongue only to be swallowed back again.  Instead, her chosen response is apolitical:                             “What is it that you want, Hannibal?”

Strong fingers secure their position around the handle of the brush as the rest shadow beneath tresses of golden waves that slip delicately through each bristle. He refused to begin until he held her permission to do so and once she concented, a smirk formed at the corner of his mouth before the tip of the comb reached the very end of her hair. She was just as much protective of her own hair as he would be of a victims; such fragile forms of intricacy of which he would use should they be deemed necessary. Each stroke resonates a smell - one stronger with each stroke that wafts through his nostrils - with hints of the aftermath from her shampoo that ceased to evaporate.             It was an excellent choice, he noted silently to himself.                                                   It suited her.  The question initiates just a moment of pause in his movements, eyes looking to her though there was no shift in his overall expression nor demeanor that might give way to hesitation. There were many things of which he wanted, though none he would so easily confess right then and there. Where was the mystery in such a confession? She may have been permitted in his favor for the time being, but she had yet to cross the threshold that would allow her to see more of him. As far as he was concerned, she was already right where he wanted her.  He returns to brushing her hair, one stroke at a time, slowly and delicately as before. His spine straightened, though not out of discomfort and for a moment there is silence between them. His head tilting to the side as his fingers run through her hair just enough to feel its softening grace. The last time he had treated human hair with such respect had been the night of Beverly Katz’s death for the position of her mane had to be precise in its maintenance.                           ❝ Don’t ask questions you are not                              ready to know the answer to. ❞

[ethicalbutchery-blog]

It was a chance she couldn't deny herself , simply spotting the man in a coffee shop , it would be easier to gouge him from here rather then set up an appointment via the phone. Her hands reached into her purse, and she grabbed a small notebook slowly approaching and clearing her throat . " Sir ? Excuse me ? My name Is Maria Ha ' aal I 'm researching The Ripper case , you wouldn't happen to be Doctor Lecter ... would you ? " Of course he was she knew he was , but acting innocent always worked

He is not usually so obliged to intice such encounters such as this outside of office hours - especially when they pertain outside of the office entirely. However, he remains intrigued. A single uplift of his brow indicates such a factor before putting his notes away, hiding his drawings from view before furthering his focus towards the woman in front of him. ❝ How can I help you, Miss Ha’aal was it… ? ❞ He does not like not knowing who he’s speaking to - first and foremost - it is apprehensively rude that she does not take initiative of properly introducing herself - introducing where her professional standings resides -  nor her true intentions and leaving him within a state of question, but he disregards this for the time being. Offering her the chance to further explain herself. 

[ethicalbutchery-blog]

starliingisms:

There’s a moment of confusion, brows askew and lips just pursing before dawning quickly, “You would know, too, wouldn’t you?” The barest chuckle is rueful, at herself, not him, her stumble into trying to sound poetic. “I forgot, ‘wards of the state’ apply to both prisoners and foster children.” With this clarification of her words, this bitter irony, she mulls upon the concept. “You began by talking about defying expectations. Foster children stuck in the system at best become working poor, at worst, they become the wards of state again. Me? I’m in the FBI Academy.”

An apology and an offering of insight about herself.

   "What seems dualistic to me is the concept of predator and prey. I realize it can be transformative like evolution, but evolution branches. Maybe it’s because how I see predator and prey as something akin to instinct alone and that troubles me?“

❝ You certainly do hold a vast concept in regards to foster children and the dualistic regulations that are so denied to them in some comparative. ❞ This of course is a mere conjugation to the reality of meaning and what really pertains to the necessity of her meaning, to which he understands. But he must first, make certain that she understands her own mind before continuing further. ❝ But I can’t help but wonder, if this is about you and your own jurisdiction or perhaps something far more personal? ❞

[ethicalbutchery-blog]

@unstableempathy liked for a starter. 

His hands move deliberately upon the meat that is in front of him within the confines of a room that is not his own kitchen. It is strange, granted, but not entirely unwarrented given the outcome of the situation. He has missed a very vast opportunity to the original plan in which he’s acquired previously upon the nature of their apparent deaths, but it has not discouraged him from a proper meal nor the essence of where his current life has come to unfold. With Will Graham properly situated in the dining room, he at least holds the same articulate appreciationof ones own primary delicacy.  Upon entering into the dining room, he has officiated a rather sophisticated display of what appears to be Korean Beef upon a bed of jasmine rice topped with parsley and green onions. Granted, it isn’t as fancy as he might have preferred but it is the best he can do given their current situation and the acquired necessities that have been offerred to them.            ❝ You have held every chance of opportunity to                escape from me, Will. Why haven’t you? ❞

[ethicalbutchery-blog]

nigellecter:

As his habitat and surroundings oozed with the sense of confusion and a hint of perplexity, he sinks into such facilitated action through a brief impasse. The longest second of all before the jut of his upper lip closes around the rim of the glass. None of the comforting correspondence nor the permanence of attraction stretches, for he’s perpetually stuck in time and his own personality, which remained to be pendulous and suspended in standstill. He’s a gift wrapped with a bundle of unpredictability and capricious volatility. The brewing maelstrom always present within his fragile heart. All the emotional weakness had been armored up with animosity and insolence, but such antics would decay behind panpipes of the wind, calling him away beneath the simplistic, yet reclaimed untempered beauty.  

And he were already past that. Perhaps as good an antidote than anyone else can offer with the absence of knowledge. No doubt he was a connoisseur of foods, but regardless, the flourishing abundance hadn’t graced his being as such.

“Ah,” an empty acknowledgement as the alcohol swirls against the walls of his mouth. Certainly not intolerable, yet such interest ends there, for no amount of tweaking nor shifting of his philosophy would render the nuances of depth. “Certainly I can understand the hedonistic aspect of it -” yet the grasp of courtesy immediately severs. 

“What are we having for dinner?” 

Although he had not expected such company for dinner, that did not determine the fact that he had not made plenty enough for two at the table should the opportunity arise. On the contrary, he had paired the upcoming dish perfectly with the selection of wine already in hand - regardless of the ill-factured gratification of his companion’s appreciation for such fineries in taste. He may have obliged in an understanding of etiquette standards, but beyond that was a mere distaste and an overall misconstrued perception of appreciation. Still, Hannibal manages a slight but friendly sort of smile in response before setting his own glass upon the already adorned table as if it had been pre-established for the company he hadn’t been expecting.                            ❝ Have a seat. ❞ He insists upon exiting the room and entering into the kitchen to fetch what he’s already prepared himself for the evening. Thankfully, there is enough for two - for he always prepares for at least two if not more at his table regardless of the evening. For now he prepares the hors d'oeuvres, considering it to be a proper appetizer plate given the occasion. When he returns, another plate is set upon the table along with a dish fit for the most sophisticated palate.                     ❝ Prosciutto roses to start, followed by beef                    cheek and a red wine ragu. Assuming that                    is to your tastes? ❞

[ethicalbutchery-blog]

❝ I’m asking as a formality to gage what you are most comfortable in discussing. Clearly, by the tense reaction of your body language at this moment, Diesel is not one of them. Which to be honest, I find somewhat curious. ❞ This is, considering the fact that the dog is meant to be her most common source of comfort. Normally, those who adore their pets in such a way usually become less tense when the subject matter revolves around their furry companions. He has to wonder now, if the tension relies in some other factor aside from her dislike from the male species. Given her situation, he would have very much assumed she’d prefer a female companion - though perhaps sex does not play apart where animals are concerned.  ❝ So, you’re not afraid of the woods where you are - in some retrospect- far more vulnerable as opposed to where others are invovled. You say you enjoy meeting other dog walkers while you’re out. Are there any you have any association with outside of the occasional meeting? Anyone you would perhaps consider to be... a friend? ❞

Death Stranding || + ethicalbutchery

She was almost shocked and felt now even more uncomfortable. Of course Diesel was going to behave, but she still felt like she needed to say sorry for him just doing what he was trained to do. The question threw her off too. Wasn’t it obvious why she needed a companion? She was a nervous wreck. Mercy looked at him, brows creasing.

“Protection.” She murmured. “He’s trained in protection too…so if someone wanted to attack me, you know.” Mercy folded her arms across her chest, wanting to pull her legs up to and just curl up into a ball. He’d probably work everything out from those words alone. Mercy knew her doctor had sent over her file and medical records, so she didn’t understand why he was asking.

A woman like her couldn’t function properly without a companion, or at least it felt like it. “He helps me get out of the house, meet people…other dog walkers and stuff. I like walking him, especially in the woods in he summer,” a faint smile ghosted across her lips.

[ethicalbutchery-blog]

humansveiled:

The pain in her face is evident as his words turn sour. His barbed tongue mirrors the ill-considered cut of her actions in a way that she might admire if she stood several steps distant from the situation. However, the ground on which they stand is riddled with emotional pitfalls. They are not so lucky as to stand apart from the world in the way that she so desires, to sip wine and gaze down upon others as they mill about like fish in a fish tank, constricted by the limits of their tiny minds.  So instead of remaining passively fixed within this conversation, she stands. Calculated motion seeks to disguise the upset shaking of her hand as she sets her glass on the coffee table. Then – in a single, frigid moment – she turns and exits the room without so much as a glance over her shoulder or a courteous goodbye. On another night, she might fear the consequences of such discourtesy, but she need not fear losing his regard so soon after engaging in the very violence that he has so long sought to draw from her.  Of course, she has no doubt that he will follow her. However, that is not so much a concern for the now as it is for some looming and uncertain eventuality. No – if she knows him, he will offer her time enough that she might relax slightly, but no so much that the window of vulnerability will slam shut upon his itching fingers.  The door to the bedroom slams shut behind her. Once inside, she sheds the rest of her clothes, abandoning them in a pile in the corner where they cannot touch and taint anything else in the house before stepping into the shower.  Steam rises around her as she steps into a stream of water that verges on blistering. She wants to cleanse herself of all remnants of the killing – both tangible and intangible – and hot water can, at least, provides the illusion of sanitizing fire. When she emerges, she steals a shirts that he has hung on a hook on the back of the door. It both is convenient and possesses a quality of revenge that seems appropriate.            She fails to realize, however, that such assertiveness           plays into his very claims regarding the need for dominance. 

In a way, he isn’t the least bit surprised by her silence nor the abrupt mannerism of her sudden departure once she stands and removes herself from the room. For the moment he merely sits, taking a sip of his own glass of wine, continuing to watch the flames as they dance and burn before him like a symphonic melody ringing in his ear. Nevermind the slam of the door nor the starting of the shower she has taken upon herself to cleanse and remove all remnanants of what has taken place. It’s only natural after all, for even he at times feels the necessity of doing so upon occasion.  It is a blissful state of being - one to which he will grant her for the time being - though she will not be able to hide from the truth for very long. It would only be a waste should he allow her to do so. This is not her first kill and he expects it to not be her last - with or without his presence there and willing to oblige the act. He may have, in some way, instigated her actions ; but he did not wield her hand nor thrust it within the abdomen of her most recent victim.  Still, he allows her this time of solice. To regain her consciousness of what has just taken place and give her the time in order to control her own thoughts. He is however, slightly disappointed. He had hoped for her to be stronger by this point, more so at his own mindset in comparison to killing but perhaps it is still too soon in the game. It is up to him now at this point in time to console her in some way far beyond the point of discarding the remnants of her actions and furthering her need for comfort after what she has just done. And so, once the remanants of the fire have nearly fully vanished does he stand from his seated position, picking up both glasses of wine along with the bottle before heading up the stairs and into the bedroom.  Setting both glasses - and the bottle - upon the nightstand, he removes his shirt and his pants though he is not fully in the nude before opening the door to the bathroom where she resides. He see’s her then, standing in nothing but his own shirt with her golden curls wet from her shower and the steam still prominent upon the mirrors and a deep exhalation is exuded past closed lips. He comes up behind her then, a single hand lightly placed upon her shoulder as he reaches for the hairbrush upon the counter top. ❝ May I? ❞ He asks, before taking the liberty of brushing through her hair. 

[ethicalbutchery-blog]

     The important thing is what I am Becoming.

[ethicalbutchery-blog]

humansveiled:

A non-committal hum slips past her lips in response to his assertion. They may not be sitting here – in the wake of a brutal murder – but it is not so ridiculous to think that different versions of themselves might have managed to peacefully settle somewhere quiet, content with intellectual conversation and brazen sex. As things are, however, they must coexist with violence and the fear of exposure, neither of which suit her particularly well. Of course, he has no qualms about forcing her outside of her comfort zone, but she would expect little else from a domineering man confronted with a manner of living with which he does not agree.                                            Such is human nature.          “The need to dominate can be a form of weakness.” The failure of her control certainly cannot be described as a strength. If one does not hit the target for which they are aiming, then they are not a talented archer. She may be arrogant and assign herself an excess of self-importance, but she is not so disillusioned as to pretend that she is good at something that eludes her. If she did possess such misguided tendencies, then she would not be able to maintain her image in the way that she has.  Bedelia downs the rest of her glass in a single, pained gulp so that she might toy with the glass more freely. The situation calls for fidgeting, and she will embrace any excuse to avoid his gaze.  As often as she ventures behind the veil, he seeks to pry away her armor, and she would prefer to rob him of such an opportunity.                                         “ – As you are well-aware.”

He turns away from her then in order to take audience with the flames that continue to dance before them, destroying the evidence as it so beautifully dances within its own private waltz of destruction. How the outer layers burn with a brightened disguise of radiant orange only to be consumed by the darkness thereafter. Her words do not go unnoted, for there is a hint of a smirk that displays itself just at the corner of his lips. Should he have a desire to make his amusement known, he would have furthered with a gentle hum or chuckle in relation to her statement. He finds the concept of domination to be quite indearing ; it is after all what draws all spectrums of races both human and animal alike - though not all are so willing to succumb to it.              It is a continuous fascination among the sciences regardless.                             ❝ In some retrospect, it can. Even in todays                            standards submission is considered to be                            the primary form of power in relation to it’s                            dominating predecessor. ❞ His meaning stems primarily on the basis of sexual relations of course, but that does not deter from the obligations of dominantly renderred species. At times, such exuberance can very well be the downfall of any being attempting to secure their masculine tendencies over another. It all depends on how one exudes themselves and properly establishes themselves in that role.  He turns to her then, nevermind the fact that he knows she will more than likely continue to refuse his gaze. Had there ever been a moment in his life where he so wished to read the minds of others, it would be within the realms of murder. Their thought process before, during and especially after. What he would give to read Bedelia’s mind now.  ❝ You submitted to your weakness when you thrusted the knife forward and into another persons abdomen. When you gutted him, you surrendered his fate. It is up to you as to whether or notyou see that as power or weakness on your part. I for one, never do. It is how you view things that satiate your mindset in regards to how it will make you feel.                             Domination is not a taught experience, nor is weakness.                                   It is already subjected into your line of thinking. ❞

[ethicalbutchery-blog]

          Apologies, I am in the process of getting this           blog fully set up. Thank you all for your patience,           especially on replies and starters. 

[ethicalbutchery-blog]

x. verses to be determined. 

[ethicalbutchery-blog]

x. rules coming soon. 

[ethicalbutchery-blog]

x. about page coming soon. 

[ethicalbutchery-blog]

nigellecter:

And the unfamiliar vocalizations become a congregation of delirious gleam through the ambience, freely passing through his tympanums without any weight. There’s raw coldness scraping through his throat as his ticking patience proves; presented through the most minutest scowl and etched smear of his down-tilted lips in displeasure and discontentment. Yet, loneliness is such a bugging sensation and a company, however slippery and floating, is a palpable company upon all the lost cause. 

Through the tumultuous air setting things at stalemate, such obligatory remark knocks loudly against his windpipe as he briefly gazes his well-dressed reflection through the carved tabletop. And how he stands upon the confines of the kitchen like a sore thumb - a fucking desperate stranglehold he holds upon this lie. Albeit he partakes often in arts, he isn’t above the constant egotism of pretentiousness and grandeur. 

He merely nods in acknowledgement - supposedly, he could go along with the turn of the tide and reciprocate in courteous gesture. Yet, his mind isn’t fully aligned with the clanging exterior of his defiance - with exuding tidal wave of crudeness. 

And digits clasp around the stem of the glass with a sweeping force, as if snatching his allotted sum of slaughtered prey as the tide turns. Watching the depth of colors swirl as he detects the potent earthy and rich fragrance. 

“A fucking cornucopia of unknowns for sure. From Italy or France?”

Forever is the displeasure of one so unacquainted with the fineries of good wine where the pallet finds anonymous pleasure within such confines as proper aesthetics. It is unsettling, though not uncommon and most certainly not misunderstood given the circumstance of company. However, it is a shame none the less. Especially when such dire situations call for a scrutiny of examination as well as celebration.                          What a tregedy indeed.  Still, he does not hold it against the kin of blood which courses through the others veins lest he so wish to deny it properly so. They may have a difference in standards and taste, but the mind flourishes oh so similarly to some degree that even Hannibal Lecter cannot deny the amazement of such a feat when it comes to the human reproductive tendencies.                    ❝ California. Rutheford to be exact. ❞ He need not go into full detail of it’s structure for certain that his company could clearly care less. Such impressions would go idly dismissed if at all acknowledged and so he chooses to remain silent in regards to further content. Let him simply indulge in it’s finery on his own and conclude a personal diagnostic as he so chooses to do either way. 

[ethicalbutchery-blog]

mercuryblake:

When the meat was gone and there was not much else to distract her, Mercy set the container down on the coffee table next to her. So many questions that she didn’t really want to answer. Again, Mercy couldn’t fault him for trying. Recovery of this sort was a team effort, but she was finding it difficult when the other team player was someone she wasn’t too comfortable with. She did try, however, to sit back in the chair and relax a little more. 

Diesel by this time had moved much closer, sitting on his haunches with both front paws over her lap. She pet him, arms wrapping around his thick furry neck. The questions where left unanswered for a moment as she closed her eyes and let herself calm down. Diesel was here. If he tried anything Diesel could and could happily rip his arm off. That made her feel a little better. 

Sitting back and letting the dog settle beside her again, Mercy sighed and rubbed her face. “Sorry…he does that to help me…”another thick lump was swallowed and she cleared her throat awkwardly. “He’s…two and a half. Had him since he was ten weeks. A trainer helped me prepare him for whatever I need so…m’sure you know how it works.”

He was very much aware of how assistant dogs worked in order to secure their owners in times of stress and need. It was part of the reason as to why he didn’t argue Diesel’s presence to begin with - never mind the legal stature - so long as he remained a basis for her comfort. However, what concerned him the most was the fact that she was giving him little to go on as far as reaching any form of progress where therapy was concerned. He was trying, yes, and he knew that it would take a lot of time in order to establish a proper relationship. The problem was her lack of trying. Granted, she didn’t wish to be there, especially not in Hannibal’s presence and that much was understandable at best. But therapy worked both ways.                 One could not be cured if they didn’t truly wish to be.  Even more so than that, if they didn’t hold a desire to move beyond their current mental state regardless of where that was. Mercy, at this point, didn’t seem to hold any indication that she wanted assistance in her psychology and that in itself would hold further problematic situations for both of them. If she was discomforted in answering questions regarding the one source of her actual grounding mechanisms, how else would she respond to more personal inquiries that delved within her mental state of being?                  ❝ I am not concerned with your pet so long as he                  maintains his proper behavior within the vicinity -                  to which I am not doubting that he will - so you                  need not apologize.                 Let’s begin then with why you feel you need him. ❞

Death Stranding || + ethicalbutchery

[ethicalbutchery-blog]

@fleshungered liked for a starter. 

                ❝ I wouldn’t drink that if I were you. ❞ In such formal circumstances such as this - or in any social gathering for that matter - Hannibal was not one to address another, regardless of the situation. Normally, he would take note of misconstrued activity and simply watch the scenery unravel itself to a proper form of delicacy. In this instance however, it intrigued him far more to be the one to step in and view the occasion in a somewhat refined manner. What would happen should the opposite of intentions occur? Now, there was something.  Granted, the drink in itself was not of alcoholic value but a mere sparkling substance of hydrogen chalcoenide with a hint of lime and a spike of batrachotoxin. He had seen the substance meticulously dropped within the contents of the glass ; his nostrils smelling the poison even from his distance. With all intents and purposes, the act was not at all a form of kindness on Hannibal’s part but more so a sense of intrigue for the latter form of circumstance.