#tw butchery

[bonefall]

i’m curious- can you explain, from prepping to actual processing and cooking and such, how the clans make sausage? is it really that easy?

SAUSAGES!!!

It's SO easy. The WHOLE process from prep to cooking is essentially 5 steps. Sausage is so old that it predates the historic record. The earliest record of it is from 4,000 BC-- but it's SO simple to make that it's almost a guarantee that any carnivorous society would learn how to make their own.

You don't even need fire. Most types of sausage are made by cooking the meat with heat or smoke, but you can get SALAMI through passive fermentation and air drying. Pepperoni is also in that same category of "dry sausage"! It was an invention of Italian American immigrants modifying sopressatta back in the 1920s.

Sausage is how you can use every last little scrap of meat on an animal, AND preserve it while you're at it. There's a ton of different types of sausages, but what binds them, literally, is that they're meat stuffed in digestive tract. ALL types of meat. The filling can be offal, muscle, or even blood, packed in with varying types of preservatives and spices.

(though in modern sausage production they use don't use natural cases as often, because it's more expensive than artificial collagen casing. that's actually how you can tell right away if you're at a quality pizza place or not-- if your pepperoni "cups" up after it's cooked, it's made with the real stuff. That's caused by the natural casing shrinking because of the heat.)

the TL;DR of making sausage is collect, scrape, soak, stuff, dry. Five simple steps. I am going to create an incredibly detailed walkthrough of it, every little tiny thing, from harvest to mealtime.

Minimum tools needed: a flat rock and a dark place, such as a cave.

Recommended tools: A flat rock, a bird bone with a stick, a cold underground den, fire.

It usually begins when an animal is brought back to camp, though it could even be started right in the field where prey is caught.;

CONTENT WARNING

This post contains discussions of evisceration and unsanitary topics in the context of natural butchery.

We're going to talk about disembowelment and processing animal organs into food. This includes how to open a carcass, and washing out the things that intestines usually contain. There is also an image of sausage casings at various stages of processing, including when it's still raw (but clean) intestine.

I was taught how to clean a deer carcass when I was only a teenager and I've never been squeamish, but everyone's tolerance for this sort of thing is different. It's okay if this isn't something you can handle; just know that the process of sausage making is easy, yet still a work of skill.

Appreciate the effort that goes into making your food! Just remember; there's a reason why they warn you about "finding out how the sausage is made!"

Step 1: Collecting the offal

You might think that because the prey that Clan cats hunt are so small, there would be some animals they can't make sausage from because of it. That's not the case! Bowels are naturally stretchy and will expand when stuffed; even a mouse can make for snack-sized sausages that a cat would enjoy.

(Remember; an entire mouse is approximately 1 meal for a single warrior.)

Removing the intestines is easy to do, requires no fire, and is necessary for avoiding parasites. Even a canon-compliant Clan can, and should, do this as part of their food processing. Canon treats claws like they're small knives and I do too because it's cool as hell, but if your Clan is more tool advanced, you could even allow them to use knives.

That gruesome phrase, "there's more than one way to skin a cat" is EXTREMELY accurate for ALL types of skinning. EVERY hunter and butcher you will meet will have their own method. Here's ONE way to do it, for right after the carcass has been bled dry and skinned;

It is helpful to hang the carcass by the legs, but not required. Especially for a large animal like a hare, this will make gravity your friend in getting the organs out. Clan cats have access to plenty of twine for this; brambles, willowbark, flax, etc.

Cut a "circle" around the anus first, under the tail. You want to keep the whole tract in one piece. If the intestines rupture, it might contaminate the rest of the ENTIRE carcass. This part you cut now will be the back end of the "tube" you're going to pull out.

From the bottom of the "circle," slit carefully down the belly until you hit the bone in the middle of the ribcage. This is tricky. If you go too deep, you'll cut the guts and spill waste everywhere. Don't go deep enough and you won't even get through the membrane. A good mentor would guide their apprentice's paw at this point, showing them how to carefully hook one layer deeper each time and how to angle the claw so they don't cut deeper than they mean to. (NOTE: the sternum is a lot shorter in most four-legged animals than it is in a human. The warrior's cut will be much further down the "chest" of the prey than you think.)

Now, the guts need to be cut from the back of the cavity. This is MESSY, but not tricky. This is the part where an impatient warrior would mess up, start yanking, and puncture the gut. If the animal is hanging, this is MUCH easier as the anus is still "anchored" to the pelvis like a big noodle.

Lastly, reach down and pull the throat up, then and take the whole tract out in one piece! In a very "large" animal like a muntjac or a hare, a more advanced Clan might tie off the colon with string before pulling it out, to avoid making a mess.

That's it! You now have the entire GI tract of an animal, including esophagus, stomach, large intestine, small intestine, and all the extra species-specific organs (like tripe or gizzards) they contain. An experienced butcher can do this whole process in less than a minute on a smaller animal-- and the small intestine of a mouse alone is over a foot long for making into sausages!

(In Clanmew, this "tract" is called a gwussip. It basically means "pile of slightly processed food." It's also used to refer to the dough used to make tunnelbuns in WindClan, and the minced meat that will be used to stuff the sausages later.)

Various types of sausage are made from the stomach down. Haggis is one type of sausage, for example, traditionally made of a sheep's stomach. The esophagus doesn't have the same "stretchiness" that the intestines are known for, and is more often made into a mince and sauteed if it isn't just wasted by being tossed.

BB!ThunderClan in particular likes to let it slow cook in fat and fruit sauce until it's more tender, but still delightfully chewy. It's not enough to fill a warrior up, but it makes a good snack for in between mealtimes. If you're familiar with Mexican cuisine, pig esophagus is prepared as "buche."

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

But, digressing,

Now that you have your intestines, it needs to be turned into casing.

Step 2: Scrape the inner membrane

Intestines are full of fecal matter. We all know this. Especially if you collected it correctly, it's going to be full of unwanted liquid when you first pull it out. Thankfully, it's just a tube and it can be washed.

These organs are made to contain everything icky inside of the gut, protecting the rest of body with its specialized buffer layers; the meat itself is perfectly fine.

The first thing a warrior needs to do is run it through a clean stream of running water, just like rinsing out a reusable straw. They'd be taking care to rub every fold clean, like a raccoon washing stockings in a river. Depending on the species the organ comes from, the culture of the Clan, and the condition of the animal before it was killed, some intestines might smell worse and need to be washed for longer than others.

BB!ShadowClan is different from other Clans in that they will flush it with a mix of vinegar and water to clean intestines. Especially since so much of their territory is stillwater, they're extra concerned with making sure their offal is cleaned. Other Clans find vinegar repulsive. ShadowClan finds other Clans dirty. Other Clans point out that they're the ones that eat literally anything. ShadowClan says they'd be able to stop wasting food if they spent less time whining and more time food processing. Cultural friction ensues.

After it's flushed, the cleaned intestine is turned inside-out. Just like a sock. From there, the inner layer of membrane is scraped off.

A long, flat rock is the best tool for this, or a good bone scraper. I've also heard of people doing this with a knife, so the rock is actually still technically optional for even the most thumbless Clans... but the cats can weave ropes out of grass canonically. They can use a rock.

(meanwhile in the background the bb!cats are playing instruments around a fire, absolutely ignoring canon's inconsistent tech level)

This is what it looks line at each stage of this process. Totally raw intestine looks like the image on the left. When turned inside-out, it resembles the middle. After scraping, it looks like the right.

Now there's just one more step before you officially have casing.

Step 3: Soaking in salt solution.

This is actually the hardest part for a Clan trying to be ecologically accurate. Salt is very rare in most forest environments. If your Clans are set up in a place with a natural salt source (near a beach, or near a geological deposit), you'll have no problems!

But... most Clans would, logically, not be so lucky and need to get creative.

The first option is stealing salt from farmers and hunters. Salt licks are usually left out in large, white blocks for sheep in fields, and deer in the woods. However, BB!Clan cats, except SkyClan, strongly avoid interacting with humans. That includes not approaching the salt licks left out for deer and livestock.

So, traditionally in the Forest Territory, they used the second option: Slowly burning the roots of coltsfoot. Dandelion also works, but will give you much less salt. In the Lake Territory, cats are sent on regular "Salt Patrols" to the ocean, bringing back bags of ocean salt from evaporated water for medicinal and culinary use.

Once that's done, simply toss the intestines in salt water for a few hours. That's it. You now have casing.

Step 4: Stuff the casing with mince.

Mince is just finely shredded meat, mixed with any spices your little kitty heart desires. Humans use a lot of herbal spices such as fennel, but as obligate carnivores, warriors prefer mushrooms which have compounds resembling the taste of meat.

The real secret to stuffing, though, is to make sure EVERYTHING is chilly before you do it. Cold mince is less sticky, keeps its shape better when being handled, and the fat is distributed more evenly in the mix. Sausages made during winter come out better than ones made during summer, for that reason.

Don't overstuff and try to keep it even. You can do it by paw, but it would be MUCH easier with a simple gadget. The earliest sausage stuffing tools we know of were as simple as a funnel and a plunger like this antique;

But since Clan cats are stuffing little animals, they can work with much smaller natural materials. The bones of birds are naturally hollow-- just clean one out, get a stick to push the meat through, and you're making tiny sausages.

And the last, but most important part,

Step 5: Dry it by way of heat and smoke (sausage) or fermentation and air drying (salami).

What you have in your paws before you start this process is, essentially, a little bag of raw meat. Most food preservation can be understood as the simple act of drying. Salt, fire, smoking, wind exposure-- those are all just fancy ways of removing moisture from food.

So generally, the more moisture the technique removes, the longer it will last.

"Fresh" sausages, your bratwurst, cheap hot dogs, bangers, the ones that are JUST made of mince and casing and you're not planning on doing anything else, those get cooked and eaten immediately. These types are actually pretty "recent" historically speaking, because it was a luxury to not be making sausages to store and transport meat.

So to make it last, they will usually be "cured." That means that the mince was mixed with salt before stuffing. Simple as that. Smoked cured sausage is self explanatory once you know what the terms mean-- it's been cured with salt, and then put in a smokehouse to dry.

(side note: curing is also required for smoking, else the conditions inside the sausage become the perfect breeding ground for botulism)

But the thing you're really waiting to hear about is "dry sausage." NO refrigeration required, NO fire needed at any point in the process. Salami specifically is cured, fermented in a dark and humid place, and then air-dried. This process takes only a few days if it's hot, and up to a week if it's cold. There are often starter cultures and sugars (fruits) added to the mince which reduces the "failure" rate, but this can work completely on its own.

Its taste will also vary depending on the cultures of bacteria doing the fermenting-- but that's unironically the kind of thing beyond the scope of this. That's culinary science.

This is where a dedicated "den" for hanging fermenting sausage would be handy. You can make do with a cave, but being able to completely control the environment can be the difference between having food in two days, versus having food in a week. You can even store it while it's fermenting for months if you can control the environment perfectly.

The last step is simply to take it out when it's at the absolutely perfect conditions and stop fermentation. If it ferments ALL the way, it will taste so sour it's inedible.

And that's it.

It's that simple. You hung it up in a cave for a while, and now you have shelf-stable meat that doesn't need to be refrigerated.

The catch; this works best in hotter, sunnier, southern environments, where the post-fermentation process is finished off with air drying. Drying is VERY GOOD because it totally removes the moisture. BB!Clans, in Northwestern England, prefer to finish this off with smoking unless they're doing it in summer and the weather cooperates.

Air drying is better because it typically removes more moisture and makes the sausage hard. Finishing fermentation with smoking causes it to be "semi-dry."

This far north, the days are cloudier, darker, and colder than it is further south, where the most famous dry sausages are made. It's not impossible to make fully dried sausage here, but it's a LOT more precise of an art.

If your Clans are based in the USA, don't worry about that. Dry fermentation is possible everywhere there except Alaska. Even if they're at the very tippy-top north of the continguous 48 states, they are barely higher in latitude than Paris, France. To put what BB's environment is in context, remember that you could walk a straight line across the globe from Liverpool, UK and be somewhere near Edmonton, Canada.

(in fact, dry fermentation can be done easily anywhere it isn't too dry or too cold. RIP Southern Chilean fanclans you will simply have to smoke it just like the Brits.)

And that's sausage. That is an in-depth guide to how salami can be made by Clan cats.

[cupcakes-and-pain]

Just a Taste?

Dead dove, do not eat. Please read the content warnings!!

Contains: eating a person (technically not cannibalism because it’s a human and a god), religious themes (not Christian), long term captivity, magic, regrowing limbs, dehumanization, immortal whumpee, god whumpee, messed up mental headspace, amputation, butchery (as in the cutting of meat, not the other definition)

———

The butcher hummed to themself as they prepped their shop for the day. The morning light streamed through the windows and hit the recently wiped down surfaces, making the whole place sparkle.

They adored their job. Cutting up the meat and packaging it was strangely satisfying. And they liked how people’s face lit up when they tried the free samples of jerky and seasoned patties. How they brought joy with their cooking.

The only downside to it was their special meat. A priceless food that most people would usually only get to eat in once or twice in their lifetime if they weren’t lucky enough to have a nearby source (and very, very few did). It had to be cut fresh every day, or else it would lose its magic.

The meat of a god.

Gods automatically healed their injuries. Even losing limbs or organs would come back within a day or so. And their meat could heal anything if eaten. Lost limbs, broken bones, deathly illnesses, comas, and more. What’s more, it tasted better than anything else. It was the most exquisite, rich, juicy flavor and texture known to man.

Even still, obtaining it was quite frustrating. The butcher was insanely lucky to have their own god, but that didn’t stop how much the brat would fight back.

Of course, it was understandable that it fought. Gods were simple and stupid. They didn’t remember that their flesh would grow back or that they weren’t in danger of pain. It was very annoying. The butcher couldn’t believe that their ancestors had once worshipped these things. Eh, they had less information on gods back then. At least people knew now that it was foolish. The gods couldn’t really do anything for them.

- - -

The god tried not to wail as they heard the butcher come near the doorway to their cell. It happened every day, there was no escape. But still, every day they wished that they could just put it off for a little while longer.

Their powers had faded many decades ago, when everyone stopped believing. The only thing that remained if their godhood was their healing and immortality. They didn’t even remember their name anymore.

They hated their automatically healing. What had once been a blessing and meant that they could keep serving their humans was turned into a curse by those same humans that they had once sworn to protect.

Now they were just food. An endless supply of mythical meat.

But even still, the couldn’t fight nature. They were glad that they were still helping humans. As much as they hated the pain, at least they could fill the bellies and heal the injuries and illnesses of their humans. They were still useful to the humans.

They tried to hold onto that lovely idea as the butcher came down the stairs, saw in hand. They focused on all the good their meat will provide as their arms were chopped off and thrown into a pile. Their organs taken, their legs cut into pieces. They tried to remember that helping humans has always been their purpose, but the pain was too much.

The butcher thought that they didn’t feel pain, but no. They felt every second of it. They felt when their body was torn apart by the saw. The way the cold, stale air stung and burned. The dust and grime of their cell getting mixing with the new blood. The unending things that didn’t know how to describe; the aches that were hundreds of times worse than imaginable.

And say nothing of the regrowing process. It was anywhere close as painful to the process of losing them, but it still hurt like hell, especially since they had to grow everything back all at once.

But what hurt the most, what always hurt the most, was knowing that all of it will happen again tomorrow. And the next day. And the next. And the next.

They tried to not cry most of the time. It made them feel stupid and weak. But they caved in today and cried for a long, long time.

———

@kim-poce <3

[purgatorypartyyy]

farm gore

[ratwithhands]

Hi Hello apparently I didn't empty my tank yet.

So fun general headcanon: Emmet likes to cook. He makes most of the meals in the house and often brings homemade food to special events as a way to show his appreciation of whoever he has over. It's how he relieves stress, shows affection, tries new things, it's one of his key interests beyond battling.

This has slightly different connotations in Battle Addict. See Emmet studies the physical properties of pokemon, how they tick and how to make them stop ticking. A key part of his studies is sketching pokemon and outlining their internal structures, but there's no teacher like experience. His favourite way to improve his knowledge is dealing with the subject hands on, and cooking is a very good way to do that. He specifically practices butchery, breaking pokemon down section by section, noting the musculature, skeletal structure, and organs inside. This information helps him to find weakness in an opponent's pokemon while knowing how to cover his own.

This also serves as bonding time for him and Ingo because Ingo gets to be sous chef while Emmet turns a monster into mincemeat. He hands him the different tools he needs and they converse while Emmet slices and picks apart the carcass. Emmet also gets to explain the inner workings of the pokemon, which both of them enjoy analyzing and discussing.

The book Emmet is holding is his "butchery book", which is really just a collection of different biology textbooks he uses as guides to best break down carcasses. They always end up getting messy and after a certain point, he just stops caring and uses it, dirty as it may be. They have to be stored in a sealed container away from their other study materials, and are only ever brought out for processing. Emmet is probably the only person who can stand to be next to the stench of the concentrated dried blood throughout the pages, Ingo usually wears some kind of face cover when Emmet is working.

And for those who want to see the real mess of the work:

Washing up is half the labour of studying through butchery.

[honeybyte]

what is loveit?

[smallfuckablecreature]

(tags via @aetheryi)

MOOD THOUGH. Like dissection/butchery and cannibalism ARE hot to us but I also view them as just this absolutely fascinating artform. I'm sad that there's no good vegan alternative, dissection is so beautiful

-The Lamb

(flirting) so hey you wanna find out what human flesh tastes like

[kittieshauntedourfantasy]

Haha yay new game I like

[bcdrawsandwrites]

Day 18: Fever / Vomiting / Warm soup Characters: Morceau Oleander, Oleander’s parents Warnings: Emeto, references to animal abuse, detailed description of butchery (dead dove do not eat seriously please heed the warnings) Summary: After a rough day, Oly helps his mom make stew.

Oly's mind was still reeling.

He remembered his papa talking to him for a while afterward. At some point his voice had stopped being angry, but it barely mattered. All Oly could do since he'd stopped crying was sit very still and be very, very quiet. He didn't want to talk, or listen, or play, or do anything. Eventually his papa left, and he didn't pay attention as to where.

His thoughts kept circling back to what he saw at the butcher's shop, only to dance away immediately, leaving him feeling dizzy. He was sitting by the door—the door that he'd never been allowed in until today.

He'd been so, so excited—his papa was finally going to show him what was in there. Papa had told him to get one of the rabbits, but he'd gotten distracted—Mr. Bun had been talking, and then his dad got mad at him for taking so long, and... and...

Tugging on his hat, he shook his head and sniffled. No, no, he didn't want to think about that. He didn't want to remember what had happened—he just remembered that it was bad.

Where was Mr. Bun? Mr. Bun always helped him when he was upset, or when he didn't understand something.

Wiping his face, he got up and stumbled off toward the rabbit hutches. He looked into one, and a particularly big bunny pushed his way to the front, smashing his face against the door.

Please please please pet me and scratch me, he said, in that funny voice Oly's other family members couldn't hear for some reason. Please please.

Oly opened the door, allowing the rabbit to hop out, and shut it again. He sat down, obliging the rabbit by stroking his clean, white fur. Something about the action made him feel a lot better. "There you go," he murmured, and looked back into the hutch. When he couldn't see the small bunny he was looking for, he frowned, and strained to see into the other hutches.

He hadn't realized he'd stopped petting the bunny until said bunny stomped his feet. NO! Pet and scratch me more!

"Oh, sorry." He resumed stroking the rabbit's fur and scratching his ears. "I was just looking for Mr. Bun. Do you know where he is?"

You took him out, dummy! the bunny replied, flopping over onto his side and casting a look at the nearest hutch. And the big man took him away. He just came by and took some others, too. You should ask him.

...Oh, that was right. His papa had taken Mr. Bun, and...

No, no, he didn't want to think about the bad part.

The bunny hopped to his feet and stomped again. Pet me more!

And Oly did so, content to hold and pet the rabbit and not think about anything else for a while.

Eventually Eagle came to get him, scooping up the rabbit and telling Oly that he needed to help Mama with dinner.

Waving goodbye to the fluffy friend, he hurried over to the house. He still felt wrong, but maybe he would feel better after helping Mama. Being around Mama usually made him feel better.

The kitchen door squeaked open as he entered the house. "I'm here, Mama!" he said, and his mom turned to him with a smile.

"Morceau, would you like to help wash the veggies?" she asked, gesturing to a tall stepstool that had been placed near the sink.

"Sure, Mama!" Smiling, he clambered up the stool, reveling in the feeling of being momentarily taller.

And then the smell hit him.

Normally he thought nothing of it—the smells of the foods before they were cooked was just part of helping in the kitchen.

But now that smell—he knew that smell. He'd smelled it earlier, but he wasn't helping Mama in the kitchen. He was...

Slowly he turned to see his mom chopping up little pink pieces of raw meat.

But it... wasn't just raw meat. Or, it was, except... except...

There had been blood, like that one time when he'd pricked his hand on a thorn, but it was everywhere, there was so much, but it never touched the white fur. And his dad had been so angry, and the head and paws were gone and he pulled the fur off, and there was the bright pink beneath, and the smell, and there was still stuff inside that, the long, stringy stuff, and it smelled bad, and there was blood, and all that was left was meat, but the meat had come from—

"Morceau? Morry, what's the matter?"

Everything was blurry, and tears dripped down his face as he stared at the pot they were going to cook the stew in, then at the meat.

It came from rabbits.

Like Mr. Bun.

Oly, Mr. Bun had called, but he hadn't been able to keep up with his papa. Help me, Oly! OLY—

The voice had stopped when the cleaver came down.

Oly's stomach lurched, and he scrambled away from the counter, nearly tripping off the stool. His mama caught him before he fell, but he pulled away from her, collapsing onto his knees and retching onto the tiled floor.

The awful bitter taste burned his throat and mouth, but it didn't remove the smells of the blood and raw meat lingering in his memories. He sobbed between heaves, and his mama gently rubbed his back. She was saying something, but he couldn't hear her.

When his stomach finally stopped flipping, his mama wiped his face and gave him water to help him rinse out his mouth. Then she wrapped him in a blanket and carried him to his room, where she tried to ask him things, but he couldn't answer. Eventually she left his room, and he could hear his mama and papa talking, the conversation quickly escalating into shouts.

Some distant part of him remembered that he hadn't been able to help his mom wash the veggies, so dinner was going to be late. But... he didn't really think he was hungry anymore.

Or that he would be hungry for stew ever again.

[victusinveritas]

The Butcher

Cusco, Peru, 2009

Leica M8 35/1.4

©Tina Manley

[bonefall]

Does Riverclan eat roe or milt? I assume that if they see fish eggs on the river they leave them so they can grow into fish later but if they happen to catch a pregnant fish would they eat it? Also i found looking up 'weird foods' helps a LOT with coming up with cat foods since majority of it (unfortunately) is made of bugs, organs, or generally things humans think is gross but cats would Loovee. Also apparently you can make bone marrow into a sorta cheese or butter, the normal recipe uses plantains but would there be a substitute the clans could use?

I had a cookbook on preparing offal I looked at a lot, but I misplaced it.

Roe is DEFINITE. They will definitely be eating that-- fermented goldfish eggs are actually a delicacy in some places. If they catch a female who was full of eggs, that's a delicious bonus. She's dead by the time they figure out she's pregnant, it's too late for those eggs to get fertilized anyway.

Milt I'm less sure about including. Not because the Clan cats wouldn't happily eat that, but I don't even know where to begin on tagging it lmao. Same with other... sensitive male parts of various animals, especially the salmon from the autumn salmon run (another delicacy) and wild boars (bully sticks).

Plus, there's plenty of other things to cover without getting into that.

Like developed eggs, which you didn't mention! They would think it's a treat to snag bird eggs that are developed enough to be meaty, but not enough to have solid bones and annoying feathers. Even just finding big clusters of snake eggs would be a treat, especially since they'd be so easy to bring back to camp because of how they stick together.

Or frogspawn, and toadspawn. Toadspawn comes out in a big line. Forbidden Spaghetti.

As for bone marrow butter, someone actually mentioned that in replies once and I looked into it a bit, but it looks like a "cricket flour." Not ACTUALLY a substitute for butter, but added to butter to make it stretch further.

I haven't been able to find any actual recipes that fully substitute marrow for butter. Just, "1/4ths marrow 3/4ths butter" :/ Which sucks because it would be extremely helpful, since Clan cats don't have dairy products.

BUT they will be eating marrow, in any case. That's delicious. I'LL eat marrow. I'll suck it right out.

[333near]

[the-replicator]

butchering/meat photo under the break

it’s not gory or anything but still

had this photo taken for the store-wide announcement that i started the butcher apprenticeship! here i’m prepping a ribeye for dry aging.

this shit is so fun tbh and i’m only gonna continue improvinggggg 😌

[redrockvalley]

The Hodag & The Hunter

TW: Violence, Guns, Blood,Animal Butchery, 

A deafening roar reverberates through the desolate, lifeless expanse, shaking the very ground beneath his feet. Breaking free from the ominous shadows of its burrow, an enormous and intimidating creature of monstrous proportions emerges into sight, its outstretched claws and bared fangs accentuating its ferocious snarl. In this desolate land stands a hodag, a fearsome beast with the head of large ox-like horns and spikes protruding from its spine. Most unfamiliar would succumb to fear but the hunter knows these beasts intimately for he has encountered, the Hunter takes a deliberate, steady breath, fortifying his nerves and strengthening his resolve as he tightly grips his Rifle, embracing the imminent confrontation with the monstrous hodag. Maintaining his position, he meticulously examines his surroundings, the unbearable dryness and scorching heat of the Mojave desert relentlessly sapping any remaining traces of moisture within him, yet he remains still, unwavering in his determination. But the hodag is not alone in its sinister intent, as an entire pack of these menacing creatures encircle him, brandishing their razor-sharp claws and gleaming teeth, eagerly anticipating the moment to strike and claim their kill. They’re smaller, likely the beast’s offspring. 

The Hunter’s calloused and weathered hand reaches towards a vial of oil nestled within the deep recesses of his worn satchel. The stench emanating from the concoction is putrid enough to repel even the smaller, less audacious creatures, causing them to instinctively recoil in fear. With a swift motion, he pops the cap of the bottle, revealing its viscous contents, and begins to slowly pour the pungent oil towards his feet. As expected, the grotesque creatures, driven by their insatiable hunger and sheer belligerence, snarl viciously, snapping their menacing teeth in a primal display of aggression. Yet their advance is halted momentarily by the repugnant odor permeating the air. Nonetheless, their mother seems undeterred, steadfastly advancing despite the warning signs. Sensing the imminent danger, the Hunter slowly steps back, maintaining a cautious distance while deftly circling the intimidating creature. Fully aware of the challenge at hand, he is well-versed in the fact that the hide of the Hodag is as impenetrable as solid obsidian, rendering it impervious to conventional methods of extermination employed against other formidable beasts. Like most fearsome critters, the Hodag can only succumb to the lethal touch of silver. Alas, dreaded silver comes at a steep price, a fact that weighs heavily on the Hunter's mind, as a single missed shot is a chance he cannot afford to take. 

As the anticipation builds, the Hunter notices how the creature's menacing clawed feet begin to rhythmically paw the ground, an unmistakable indication of its intent to charge. With his adrenaline pumping, the Hunter instinctively reacts in a split second, swiftly kicking the sand that is doused in the putrid beast oil right into the monster’s enraged eyes, causing it to momentarily reel back and buck in excruciating pain. Sensing an opportunity, the Hunter expertly positions himself and immediately executes a quick and precise shot, aiming directly at the exposed stomach of the Hodag. The bullet pierces through the soft underbelly and penetrates its lungs, bringing a violent end to the creature's rampage. A bone-chilling scream resonates once again, emanating from the vast, desolate wasteland, as the defeated beast futilely swipes at the air, its jaws snapping ferociously at a phantom enemy, before finally succumbing to the ground. Victory is achieved; The Hodag has been vanquished. With a sigh of accomplishment, seasoned with a hint of weariness, the Hunter wearily approaches the lifeless corpse of the fallen monster. Gazing upon the lifeless heap, his eyes momentarily shift towards the nearby den where the other Hodag pups are nestled. The task at hand seems less daunting as he contemplates the young ones since Hodag puppies, even as colossal as these, rely solely on their mothers for care during their first year of life. Judging by their size, it becomes evident that these pups are merely two months old and thus their survival instincts have not fully developed. The Hunter acknowledges that it wouldn't be challenging to provide care for them; given their nature, these pups would inevitably turn towards cannibalism, leading to their own demise.

He examines the creature closely.

“Odd…” He thinks, “I’d have to give Dusty some credit…he was right, Hodags really were down here…the beasts were mostly found in the forests of Wisconsin” His hands follow the beast’s skull, its thick features covered in spines, and claw marks. “Hm…dehydrated, not surprised…” the man muses to himself before checking the creature’s gums, still sticky to the touch. It’s saliva thick and viscous. He’s used to the dirty part of his job, It’s a fine respite from fighting such creatures. 

He skillfully draws a gleaming silver dagger with an intricately embossed design of an ebony snake , using it to expertly slice through the thick hide of the formidable beast. The grotesque squelching sound echoes through the air as the beast's skin is peeled open, exposing its inner organs. With careful precision, the Hunter selects only the most vital components - the precious skin, for his client, and the vital heart, which will serve as a crucial alchemical ingredient to replenish his dwindling oils. Aware of the inherent toxicity and rapid spoilage of the meat, he takes swift action to incinerate the carcass, ensuring that the offspring of the beast will not feast upon their mother's remains.

The man arose slowly, meticulously wiping his hands clean of the beast’s blood.Standing up straight he stretches his back, relieving the pain that ravaged his weary spine. Due to his naturally slender frame, many believed that the harshness of existence would engulf him, leaving him to perish. Yet, it became evident that his grit surpassed the limitations of his own physical being. An unwavering scowl etched itself upon his countenance, he truly had a face only his mother could love. Despite his best efforts to look presentable, his thick mustache, adorned with mutton chops, failed to conceal the stories of his past etched upon his ebony complexion. He lets loose a sharp whistle as his steed trots over to him slowly.

His steed, a shimmering akhal-teke whose coat glistened like powdered gold which seamlessly merged with the colors of desert sand. He expertly fastened the Hodag skin onto the back of his loyal companion, provoking a slight whinny from the horse due to the unfamiliar scent, yet The Hunter skillfully soothed the steed's unease. "Steady now, Cisco... easy, girl," he murmured, his voice tainted with gravelly roughness and a subtle hint of venom, as if perpetually suppressing a raspy cough.

The hunter quickly mounts his steed, whose powerful hooves gallop towards the town of Red Rock Valley. His intention: to rendezvous with his client to collect on the bounty and to meet his colleague, a fellow hunter to discuss the change in environment in the Mojave area.…

[atsadi-shenanigans]

What Shall We Become 25 - Consumed

TW: Body horror

The rogue rolls a constitution check.

On AO3.

They walk. And walk. And walk some more. He rather thinks they ought to walk faster. But when he thinks that at her, she tosses back some bizarre mental scenario of a horse frothing at the mouth on a plain and a human walking steadily towards it.

…what in the hells is a “persistence predator?”

The scratch under his arm stings a bit. He’s not surprised; a weapon at the end of what they’ve learned was a total butchery of sentient fungi would have left all kinds of nasty things on that blade. That, however, is a concern for living creatures, who need things like food and air and clean blood. And anyway, he’s a vampire spawn (however leashed by the parasite) with a spawn’s healing. A dirty weapon won’t harm him.

His perplexing leader doesn’t speak much as they slog on and on. Likely saving her breath for all the walking. Even the few exchanges in thought, however, are gruff and muted.

She’s hiding.

It’s familiar.

He’s aware of more of her history now than he was the first time he pillaged her memories. He’s aware of the general shape of her past. But only now, in recent days, is he seeing a shade of his own experiences (watered down and altered form) within what he knows of her.

And finds himself more confused than ever.

He was so certain it was deliberate. A manipulation. A game. One he knew every intricacy of. She was changing the rules, but he still understood the goal.

Except she isn’t playing to that now, is she?

She’s shown helplessness to the others of their party in order to make them care for her. It’s the same thing children and pets do. And it was successful most of the time.

She’d cried out when that drow struck her. Which is perfectly normal. Being struck isn’t pleasant. He hadn’t liked hearing it (that same effect children and pets do, he assumes). But instead of milking it or playing it up, making him feel obliged or needed in a way that has nothing to do with sex (the sheer novelty!), she hid away.

She was ashamed. Deeply so.

And…he knows that. Intimately. Being completely unable to do anything. Kneeling in front of that bastard as he carved and carved and made his revisions, Astarion’s muscles trembling without end after a while as his body tried desperately to undo the damage. All for naught. The lines opened and reopened. The horrid sting as that bastard rubbed the gashes he was satisfied with, forcing something sharp and grainy, something that stung into Astarion’s skin.

He didn’t fight. Couldn’t. Literally.

A thought then occurs that makes him feel both filled with lead, and bubbling beer: what if it’s not a manipulation.

Then…he doesn’t know. He’s never encountered that before. It’s a trap. A trick. Always and forever. Ends with him sobbing and clawing his fingers bloody, begging for the master please, please he’ll be good.

Astarion rotates his left arm to try to dim the ache.

But he’s lashed out at her. Hurt her, even (it had to be manipulation to make him feel…he doesn’t even know). Yet she still hasn’t struck him. Hasn’t beaten him. Starved him. Set herself or another upon him with tools of pain. Hasn’t commanded him (no chains needed when a word will do the same) to the boudoir to entertain guests for days.

She’s guided him. Talked to him. Rescued (ugh) him from torture. And…

“Astarion?”

His name sounds foreign in her accent, though she gets the syllables right. Just twists them slightly. It really is a rather charming sound.

Gods below, that drow must have cut him deeper than he thought. He’s about to wave her off when his left foot suddenly goes weak. He stumbles. Catches himself on her staff.

Her heartbeat jumps. She says something.

He tries to shake it off. Must have been uneven ground. Only his right foot follows suit. He crashes hard to his knees as the pain cracks up his thighs.

“Astarion.”

Her footsteps rush over. The warmth of her hovers nearby, but she doesn’t grab him (hands on him, grabbing and clawing and taking, always taking). Because she’s shy (considerate).

“I…I don’t know what’s come over me, darling,” he says. Though she won’t have understood a word of that, would she?

His legs won’t work. Fear begins to claw low in his belly as he tries anyway and ends up flopping back down like some newborn farm beast.

“Fuck.”

He does recognize that one. Her favorite.

What in the sweet hells is wrong with him? He’d fed and rested. Far more than he’s ever been. He’s felt better the last few days (the confusion around his companion notwithstanding) than ever.

He rolls his aching shoulder again.

And something catches.

Oh.

Right as, in a much quieter yet more dread-filled tone, his leader says, “Fuck.”

She helps him strip off the chest armor. He has to lean in to do it, and she still smells of rich, dark blood, so he has to stop breathing to keep his aching fangs to himself. Then the chest piece slides off and he can lift a hand to touch—

He stills.

There’s something on his arm. Through the fabric of his tunic, he can feel it. It seems to have opened further. The skin is tender, but the closer he gets, the number his touch grows.

Shit. Shit.

It’s formed a deep crack in his flesh. A fissure with crusting edges that feel too large and…fleshy to be dried blood.

“Jesus fuck.” She makes a distressed hum. Says, “This here…”

She reaches across the tadpoles for him. Gives a polite knock (that will always be funny: a living being asking the vampire for permission to enter). So he opens and lets her in.

She’s more contained, this time. He still senses the dark entryway behind her she shields from them all, but she’s focused, now. And an Eleanor with a purpose is an Eleanor at her most dangerous.

He sees an image of the dead drow and riotously-colored pieces of mushrooms. Some of the drow had been slashed or clubbed, and among their wounds were…growths.

She wants to see his arm. And he suddenly very much doesn’t want her to. He doesn’t want to. He would rather force himself up and stagger on and forget about all of this. He’s an immortal vampire, by the hells. Nothing save a stake or a beheading ought to touch him.

But, as ever, he has very little choice in what happens to him. Can only sprawl there as his leader helps him tug his sleeve down and then she crawls partway over his lap (very, very carefully not touching him) to peer into his arm pit.

Now it’s her turn to go very still. She clamps down tightly on her thoughts, but not before a wave of her tight fear washes over to him.

Mushrooms on his flesh. The same odd, colorful growths reaching out, waving tendrils.

Astarion is used to fighting for every, last drop of blood he can. Fighting for any scrap of anything. The first heave of his stomach he instinctively shoves against. He cannot afford to lose blood. Never. And certainly not now. But then his mind comes back to the flash of her sight and her own stomach-churning horror, and he claps a hand to his mouth but the stale fish blood still comes up, still sprays between his fingers. His leader scrambles out of the way, and then he’s folding over, gasping and gagging and still, always, trying to stop, trying to keep his hard-won prize, his only victory.

When it’s done, he sits empty and even more wretched than before. With something growing in the dead flesh of his arm.

Ah. Mushrooms do grow out of death, don’t they. Silly him.

SHADOWHEART.

The thought hits like a shock of thunder, stronger than what he’s even seen from their wizard. It storms across the bond to smash into the erstwhile cleric (so hard the woman stumbles into the gith, too busy hissing and clutching at her own head to snap back).

What in the hells—

Istik fool!

Mystra’s tits—

The images comes fast. As stripped of emotion as they can be. His leader is once again a blade. A sharp one. Lancing across the distances between them all to spear the cleric rather like a suckling pig (the cleric does not appreciate the thought). It isn’t until the gith steps in with a shove of her own that his leader catches herself enough to modulate anything. She still thrums through them all, however.

Collect yourself, the gith thinks (he knew it, knew she was more proficient in this than she ever let on) (and then he gets to feel the twinge of her disdain at that thought).

Mushrooms growing from the dead. Astarion’s arm, the cut in his pale flesh pushing out as things inside reach for the open air (oh, there was more blood in his stomach, a pity). The cleric’s worry flares before she absently smothers it. Slides a coolness over the top. Wonders what potions they have.

His leader dumps her bag at his feet. Bottles and packets spill everywhere. Among them are three lesser healing potions, another invisibility, something he can’t identify, and her language potions.

Slim pickings at the fish camp, then.

The healing potion. It’s designed for the living to close wounds and re-stitch flesh and fill up reserves of vitality. An antidote might work better, but the mushrooms aren’t a poison as much as an…invader.

The thought doesn’t even finish before his leader is wrenching the cork off a bottle and holding it to him. At least the burning flavor masks stale fish blood.

His fingertips start to tingle. He can lift his hand again, and wiggle his toes. His leader bends down again to check…

The potion did stitch his undead flesh back together. And trapped the growths inside.

Astarion is an elf and a vampire spawn. He’s been killed the once, been knocked unconscious and damaged so badly his thoughts scramble. But he doesn’t think he’s ever passed out. He hasn’t the physiology for it, either living or dead. But he thinks he might be near enough just now.

A knife.

Ah. Yes. He’d be rather familiar with that. Cut the things out.

The cleric considers that even more grimly than him. He would have to take more flesh than just the surface. Would have to dig deep, lest he leave any tendrils.

Godey would approve. A month or more from the nautiloid, and he’s still going to be carved up. Corrected. There’s no escaping that, he’ll always be a flawed thing, a mistake—

Fuck that.

The thought steals the air from his lungs. Not from him, not from the cleric or even the gith. It’s not even loud, like when she threw herself at their cleric in her panic.

Eleanor is calm and quiet and very, very certain.

No cutting. No hurting. Not unless it’s the last option. And even then, they do what they can, they find a way to shield him.

He nearly severs the connection then and there. Lest they see the way that thought quakes through him.

Shield him. Try to…try to lessen it. No one, no one has ever spared a thought like that for him. Not in two centuries. Perhaps not even before that.

“Blood?” his razorblade of a leader says in Chondathan.

“Pardon?” he says on reflex. Then registers what she says.

Healing potions work on him now, with the worm in his brain. Before that, they would have liquefied him from the inside out. Before that, the only balm to his hurts was blood.

A strange image flashes through all of them: a hand on a lever, pulling it back. A rumbling change in pitch. Engine. Throttling an engine. That’s what the tadpole is doing to him, yes. He should heal at a much faster rate than he currently does, especially as fed as he’s been.

(And then he wonders, briefly, if the worms are doing the same for their tiefling and what that might mean should their little band succeed in removing said parasites.)

And another image: a button with strange writing above it.

“Nitro,” his leader says aloud like that means anything.

A series of ideas he can’t quite track: a spray of liquid into a confined space, fire burning hotter, gears churning in a blur.

“Blood?” she says.

She means…to speed up his healing. To what it should be. Use blood to do it.

But the fish blood he has left (and that part is her fault, bleeding as she is, he has no choice but to try to drown the maddening scent in bottles and bottles of his provisions) won’t do it. No. The thing that really brings life to his dead flesh—color to his cheeks, warmth to his skin—is that of a warm creature. A thinking creature. Her—

He slams that thought into the ground. But not before she, the perceptive shit, catches it.

“Me,” she says in Chondathan.

And by the hells. He can feel her consider it. Rather like watching an exchange collector weighting what one absolutely knows is a counterfeit gem against magical weights. Only instead of it going badly and having to scarper up to the rooftops (or, disgustingly, the sewers), this time he’ll just…die.

He doesn’t think she hears that? (Feels a twitch from the cleric and of course that little wretch is listening.) But his leader comes to her decision almost immediately after that thought.

“Yes,” she says.

She pauses a moment. And then brings his still functioning arm up to tap his fingers against her neck.

[hayleythecannibal]

Twisted Minds: Act II- Chapter Twenty-Five Tome-Wan

TW: Crime scenes, Gore, Implied Death, Death, Cannibalism, Guns, Animal Death, Mental Heath, Pregnancy, Mason Verger

Warning this is Fem!reader. You can also find this on Wattpad and A03 under the name @HayleyMarieOfficial. Comment if you want to be added to the Taglist.

Taglist: @punkin-time @miaowkitty @gabriella-aesthetic @urlocalfanficwriter @dilfdemolisher

Twisted Minds Masterlist

MUSKRAT FARM - PIG BARN - NIGHT-

WILL GRAHAM is relaxing in Mason's chair, stroking Verger's SUCKLING PIG swaddled in a blanket on his lap. MASON VERGER, bloody-nosed and annoyed, stares at a confident Will. “Why would Dr. Lecter wanna kill me?”

“This isn't about you. This is about me. Killing you would just be a hoop for me to jump through. It's sauce for the goose that you're not particularly likable.” Will strokes the pig like a baby. “I like me.” Will chuckles darkly; “You just stole your sister's womanhood.”

“She weaponized her uterus. Shouldn't have been waving it around like a gun.” Mason says defensively. If it was Y/N…Mason wouldnt have to just worry about Hannibal…No. No. Its almost laughable. If it was Y/N, Will would take the uttermost pleasure in killing him. “Then it was self-defense.”

“Damn right.”

“And butchery.”

“Are you lecturing me on butchery in my own slaughterhouse?”

“I wouldn't deign. You could disappear me with a wink. I heard about the "embalmed beef" scandal.”

“What did you hear?”

“One of the Verger packing plants in Chicago was investigated for dangerous conditions. They found several whistle-blowing employees had been rendered. Inadvertently.” Will points out. Mason Laughs; “Canned and sold as Li'l Ivy's Pure Leaf Lard. A favorite of bakers everywhere. We didn't lose a single contract.”

“Blame doesn't stick to the Vergers. If I kill Hannibal Lecter, that's going to stick to me.” Mason studies Will, very curious what game he's playing. “It is providence itself when a destiny like yours couples with a man as resourced as I am.”

“I'm just pointing out the snare around your neck. What you do about it is entirely up to you.”

HANNIBAL LECTER'S OFFICE - NIGHT-

“I'm not deceiving you, Dr. Lecter. I'm just pointing out the snare around your neck. What you do about it is entirely up to you.”

“You put the snare around my neck. Why did you tell Mason Verger I want to kill him?”

“I was curious what would happen. It's true, isn't it? You do want to kill him. Or you want me to. Either way, you'd like him dead. I'm just giving you a little nudge.”

“Mason is discourteous. Discourtesy is unspeakably ugly to me.”

“Are you thinking about eating him?”

“Whenever feasible, one should always try to eat the rude.”

“Free-range rude.” Hannibal studies Will, curious. “Would you join me at the table?”

“Mason Verger's a pig. He deserves to be somebody's bacon.”

“You have more reason to kill Mason Verger than I do.”

“You gave me that reason. Maybe you should kill Mason during your next session. Can you explain my actions? Posit my intentions? What would be your theory of my mind?” Hannibal sitting across from Will, mid-therapy.

“I have an understanding of your state of mind. You understand mine. We're just alike. This gives you the capacity to deceive me, and be deceived by me.”

“Mason may be intending to kill me during our next session.”

“Then you'll have to kill him first.” Will holds Hannibal's gaze. Steady and implacable. “You said you were curious what would happen. I want you to close your eyes, Will. Imagine what you would like to happen.” Will closes his eyes.

IN DARKNESS, A SOUND A rapid, repeating THUD. A HEARTBEAT. No, TWO, beating in syncopated rhythm over softly-playing OPERATIC MUSIC. He opens his eyes, face to face with Hannibal Lecter, in profile, a CLOSE SHOT of their faces. Hannibal, unmoving, holding his gaze. A hint of a smile.

Will Graham. Face set. Unreadable. And then Will SLASHES a knife across Hannibal's throat in a fluid motion. as blood FOUNTAINS between them. BLOOD SPRAYS as it flies through the air between them. it SPLATTERS their faces. Will steps back and we reveal we are --

“MUSKRAT FARM” - PIG BARN - NIGHT-

Hannibal is bound in a white STRAITJACKET, arms strapped behind him. his blood as it STAINS the front of the straitjacket. The TWO HEARTBEATS now beat in different time, one running SLOWER and SLOWER --A harness on the back of the straitjacket is connected to a rope on the pulley system for feeding the pigs.

A WINCH CONTROL Is tripped. A motor HUMS. The rope begins spooling… HANNIBAL’S BARE FEET Lift off the platform… Blood DRIPS onto his feet. Will watches, implacable. Hannibal is lifted and slowly SLIDES away toward the darkness of the pig barn. HANNIBAL -- his eyes never leaving Will. Displayed in Grand Guignol glory, hanging, his throat cut, moving inexorably out over the pig maze.

watching Hannibal, blackness all around Hannibal as he moves away, background falling away to leave just him and Will in this moment. Blood still runs freely, SPATTERING the metal grid of the pig cage. Hannibal's blood as it slowly DRIPS off the metal, into the cage below, its iron smell exciting the PIGS below.

The SNORTING and SNARLING of pigs escalates at the scent, rising, strident, like feral SHRIEKS of baboons. As, CH-CHUNK -- the payload reaches the track's end – Hannibal's blood RAINS DOWN into the maze below...

BAU - JACK CRAWFORD'S OFFICE - DAY-

Facing Jack who sits behind his desk. “Hannibal has a certain personality style the rest of us can learn from. In moderation, of course.”

“You saying Dr. Lecter's got too much of a good thing?” Jack raises a brow. “You can't glamorize him. And you can't dehumanize him, either.” Will observes the office. “All I want to do is catch him.”

“He's given me nothing actionable, Jack. He's confessed to nothing.He's acknowledged only vagaries.”

“I need more than vagaries. You've killed someone, Will. And What about Y/N? She’s In danger through all this.” Jack clasps his hands together. Will rolls his eyes. “He was trying to kill me. And Y/N is safe, She moved in with me.” Will says, Like he’d ever let her get hurt. And little does jack know, Y/N is much more dangerous than she looks.

“I don't know if I can prove that it was self defense. You mutilated his body. We made a public spectacle of Freddie Lounds's death. I'm out on a limb. And that limb is going to break. I've only told the OIG what they need to know. What haven't you told me?”

“Hannibal is trying to manipulate me into murdering one of his patients. Mason Verger. I can manipulate Hannibal into killing him instead.”

“What's Verger done?”

“Hannibal considers him rude. That's motive enough. It's as though committing murders has purged him of lesser rudeness.”

“You're talking about putting a man's life in danger.” Jack stresses. “A good decision is less about finding the best alternative than about finding one that works.” Will chuckles dryly. “Don't let empathy confuse what you want with what Lecter wants.”

“I told you I'm a good fisherman, Jack. We have to use the right bait. When Hannibal tries to kill Mason Verger, I'll arrest him and you will have two witnesses.”

“We may have three. I'm a good fisherman, too, Will.” . BAU - INTERROGATION ROOM/OBSERVATION ROOM - DAY-

Dr. Bedelia Du Maurier sits alone in the room. Finally, the door opens. Y/N enters and crosses to the table, carrying a document. “They tell me you were hard to find.” I set the documents on the table. “That was the idea.”

“Thank you. For visiting Will in the hospital. And for what you said.” I take a seat. “I didn't say enough.” She admits, “Now's your chance to say it all.” I slide the document folder across the table: “You've been granted immunity from prosecution by the U.S. Attorney for District 36, and by local authorities in a memorandum attached, sworn and attested.” Bedelia takes the multiple memoranda, glancing them over. “Let's talk about Hannibal Lecter.”

“Some psychiatrists can be so curious for insight, they may try to manufacture it. How deadly that is to a patient who believes them.” Bedelia says in thought. I glance at the Woman. “You were Dr. Lecter's psychiatrist, he wasn't yours.”

“I told myself that, but I was under Hannibal's influence. What he did to Will made that abundantly clear.”

“You were attacked by a patient who was formerly in Dr. Lecter's care. That patient died during the attack. Report said he swallowed his tongue.” I say as I run a hand through my hair. “It wasn't attached at the time.”

“How exactly did your patient die?”

“I killed him.” I nod and gesture for her to continue. “I believed I was defending myself. And to a point, I was, but beyond that point, it was murder. Hannibal... influenced me to kill my patient, our patient.”

“You weren't coerced?”

“What he does is not coercion, it is subtle persuasion. Has he persuaded you to kill anyone?” She looks at me, I glance at the mirror behind me. I turn back to the woman in front of me. “Will was attacked by a patient formerly in Dr. Lecter's care. He killed him in self-defense.” Bedelia studies Me, knowing it wasn't just self-defense. And that there was more to it.

“You're distorting the truth to keep who you think you are consistent.” She says with a soft smile. “My truth isn't distorted, Dr. Du Maurier. I know what's true.”

“Has Hannibal tried to persuade you to kill anyone that wasn't in self-defense? He will. Then it will be someone you love. And you'll think it's the only choice you have.” Bedelia says, as subconsiously my hand rests my belly. “How do we catch him?”

“Hannibal can get lost in selfcongratulation at his own exquisite taste and cunning. Whimsy. That's what will get him caught.” I consider Bedelia's advice...

HANNIBAL LECTER'S OFFICE - NIGHT-

Will and Hannibal are in therapy. “Your veneer of self-composure gives an extreme sense of the surreal. So much about this feels like a dream.” Will says dryly. “Dreams prepare us for waking life.”

“One thing to dream, it's another to understand the nature of the dream.”

“You're waking up to who you are. That's all you need to understand. There are some extraordinary circumstances here, Will. And some unusual opportunities.”

“For whom?”

“For both of us. For Y/N.”

“Mason Verger is an opportunity?” Will raise a brow with an exasperated smile. “Mason Verger is a problem. Problem solving is hunting. It is a savage pleasure and we are born to it. A savage pleasure we can share.”

“You're fostering codependency.” Will laughs, yet it is no laughing matter. “Is that what I'm doing?”

“Isn't that what you did with Abigail? Got her to take a life so she would owe you hers.” Will is calm, observational, analytical. “I bond with Abigail, you take her away. You saw to it that I alienated Alana, alienated Jack. You don't want me or Y/N to have anything in Our life that's not you.” Hannibal doesn't deny it.

“I'm your psychiatrist, Will. I only want what's best for you Both.”

“Please. Every moment of cogent thought under your psychiatric care is a personal victory.” Hannibal smiles, taking no offense. “You're applying yourself to my perspective as I've been applying myself to yours.”

“You're right. We are just alike. You're as alone as I am. And we're both alone without each other and Without Her….We are nothing”

HANNIBAL LECTER’S HOUSE - DINING ROOM - NIGHT-

Hannibal flips the bronze dish upside down on the elegantly set table. Opposite Hannibal sits Jack Crawford. “Kholodets. A Ukrainian dish whose outcome can never be predicted.”

“Something tells me that you’re heightening my expectations.” Hannibal smiles, guilty as charged. Three TAPS on the back of the bowl and he lifts it to reveal – A CLEAR ASPIC Delicate gelatin. The small fish are INSET, arranged in a SWIRL PATTERN, frozen as though in mid-swim. “The Latin gelatus translates as "frozen." Here, the aspic provides a three-dimensional canvas in which one may stage a scene.”

“A Möbius strip, the eternal chase.”

“An evocative shape -- in that at a certain point, it becomes unclear who’s pursuing whom.”

“In isolation, a moment can't speak to motive, intent or aftermath.” Hannibal indicates the dish, now cut through the middle. “Aspic is derived from bone. As a life is made from moments. A moment is unyielding, but a life is malleable.”

“And what moment are we in right now, doctor? You, me, Will, Y/N?”

“Still harboring doubts about Will?”

“Alana Bloom isn't harboring any doubts about Will. She's convinced he murdered Freddie Lounds.” Hannibal reacts; Alana never mentioned this to him. “Are you convinced?”

“I'm convinced of my general lack of trust in other people.”

“Lack of trust in other people increases the need for religion. If you can't rely on others, you have to rely on God.”

“I'm relying on myself. Yet in this moment, I don't know who's pursuing whom any more than these fish do.”

“Whomever's pursuing whom, in this very moment, I intend to eat them. Hannibal grins at Jack and takes a mouthful.”

HANNIBAL LECTER'S OFFICE - DAY-

HANNIBAL -- he sits at his desk as he concentrates on his pencil strokes. OPERA plays in the background. His nostrils FLARE -- an unusual scent has reached his nose. Hannibal looks up to see his office door slowly open. CARLO, the pig man, and MATTEO, one of his cohorts, enter through the waiting room door, walking toward him. “no, dottore.”

“Buongiorno.” Hannibal puts down his pencil. We see his SCALPEL beside it. His attention is on the two men coming toward him. “Mr. Verger asks for your company.” A very subtle CLICK registers and the patients' private exit door behind him opens. “Please. Come with us.”

“Preferirei di no.” His nostrils FLARE again. HE MOVES -- SIDEWAYS As a thin leather GARROTE narrowly misses his neck. TOP SHOT -- we watch from above as Hannibal evades TOMMASO, a third kidnapper who came from the exit door behind him.

Matteo manages to catch one of Hannibal's hands in the garrote, but the doctor slides sideways, striking at Tommaso with his garroted hand, QUICK BLOWS in succession. Hannibal kicks a stunned Tommaso's legs out from under him, dropping him violently to the floor. Having incapacitated Tommaso, Hannibal turns calmly to Carlo and Matteo who are clearly impressed with the doctor. “Matteo.” Matteo draws a lead-filled SAP and goes for Hannibal who steps inside the blow and is about to strike when he tenses. LOOKS DOWN The prongs of a TASER stick from his chest. The handset held by Carlo. Hannibal DROPS to his knees. “Carlo…” Carlo looks to Matteo and his face falls. Matteo is staring at where a scalpel sticks in his crotch. Matteo instinctively grabs the scalpel, pulls it out.

“Shouldn't have done that.” Matteo is horrified as one leg is turning rapidly RED, the stain flowing down the fabric from his upper thigh, staining the whole leg in seconds.

Panic starting to set in… BLOOD Spills from under the cuff of his pants and spreads across his shoes and, within mere seconds, he's standing in an expanding pool of blood. Matteo collapses to the ground. Carlo swings his own lead-filled sap and STRIKES Hannibal.

WILL GRAHAM'S HOUSE - BACK DOOR - DAY-

Will's DOGS crowd in, eating. Will And Y/N look up at a sound -- the WELL-TUNED RUMBLE of an approaching car. A 1959 SEIBERT LIMOUSINE comes up the drive and CRUNCHES to a stop. The back door unlatches and… MASON VERGER Climbs out. He leaves the door open.

Will Ushers his strays into the house and crosses to the idling limo. MASON'S DRIVER intercepts him and ROUGHLY pats Will down, searching for weapons. An then pats down Y/N.

Then the man is all service again, as he steps aside and Y/N, Will, and Mason speak briefly and MOS. Mason gestures into the car and Will, at once resolved and reluctant, gets inside and then lets Y/N in. Mason gets in after her. The door shuts and the three are lost behind smoked glass.

MUSKRAT FARM - PIG BARN - NIGHT-

CARLO Bent to his work. He looks up as Tommaso, one of his henchmen, starts the winch. HANNIBAL Is lifted off the platform to his feet, toes barely touching. He wears a straitjacket harnessed to the winch line. His head hangs, unconscious. Or so it seems. Carlo pulls Hannibal's HARPY KNIFE from his pocket.

“Buona sera, dottore.” Hannibal lifts his head. “You're Sardinian. If you have to be kidnapped for ransom, wealthy Italians will tell you, it's better to fall into the hands of the Sards. You must be a professional revenger as well, I suspect.” Tommaso has come from the winch to stand alongside Carlo. Both stare at Hannibal in hate. “With you, it is personal now.”

“I take it Matteo died? Did he foul himself? I imagine he must smell worse than you by now?” Carlo's eyes go dead as he removes a knife. “Kill him and there is no money.” The two men turn to see PIERO leading Y/N, Will, and Mason onto the platform. Piero nods at Carlo and Tommaso, then leaves. Hannibal's eyes lock with Will's. Mason clocks it. I look between the men, I go to step back in shock when I’m nudged forward.

“I wonder what would happen if I locked you two in a cage together?” Carlo removes Hannibal's shoes and socks. “Those little piggies are going to go EEE-EEE-EEE all the way home. The swine may be shy about starting on the toes. We have to encourage them with a little sauce, so we're going to cut your throat.”

“Padrone. He killed Matteo.”

“You can take Matteo's family the crown jewles” Mason holds out the Harpy and Will takes it from him.

“Anything to say, Dr. Lecter?” Will stands before Hannibal, replicating the image that had plagued his mind. Hannibal regards him without a word. “What the hell-” I say, I glare at Will and then turn my gaze back to Hannibal.

“Don't let him bleed out. Just a little nick. Just enough to give the pigs a taste of it.” Off that, Will brings the KNIFE'S EDGE UNDER HANNIBAL’S JAW. I place my hand on Will’s Back, “Dont…” I whisper softly.

He then moves to make a SINGLE VERTICAL SLASH down the straitjacket -- the CANVAS and STRAPS SPLIT like cutting a roast’s bindings. Mason opens his mouth to shout, but Carlo and Tommaso are already moving. Carlo's gun butt lands HARD in the back of his head. Will drops his knife and falls to his knees.

Movement becomes BLURRY STREAKS. Sound dampens -- SHOUTS, SCUFFLES and FOOTSTEPS are shrouded in bunting. The only certainty is that all hell is breaking loose. as he falls to the platform and we… his eyes Blinking open as he fumbles to get up onto his elbows and see... THE PLATFORM Is empty. Will and Y/N are the only ones there.

GRAHAM/L/N HOUSE - NIGHT-

Mason as the full effect of the cocktail he just inhaled hits him. Mason's heart THROBS HYPNOTICALLY and his vision begins to TRAIL WAVES OF COLOR. “Whoa.” Hannibal leans into Mason, propping him upright in a chair. A light on him, the room falling into darkness beyond its spill, making it unidentifiable to the viewer.

Mason suddenly bursts into laughter, his head lolling on his shoulders like it's going to fall off. “Mason, I must ask you to be quiet. You will frighten the animals.” His hand glides along the back of a passing PIG. “Soo-eee, pig-pig-pig-pig.” He puts a finger under Mason's chin, lifting his head so he can look into his face.

Instead of the handsome doctor's mug, Mason sees a BOAR'S HEAD on Hannibal's shoulders. He stands over Mason. He stares at Hannibal in awe, yet Hannibal is now back to normal. “What did you give me?”

“A variety of psychedelic compounds, "psychedelic" so named from the Greek for "mind-revealing."”

“You're going to have to write me a prescription for this, doctor.”

“Patients rhapsodize about the lifechanging insights they achieve during altered-state sessions.”

“I'm enchanted and terrified.”

“The world presents itself as a cacophony of sights, sounds, smells and recollections. I want you to recall your education in the stockyards and slaughterhouses.”

“Papa taught me everything he knew, but not everything I know.”

“Show me how Papa would check the depth of a pig's fat.” The BOAR-HANNIBAL holds up Mason's father's knife. Mason takes the knife, considering it. He glances down. Mason considers a passing pig. Hannibal gently pulls Mason's chin with a finger, to bring Mason to look into his eyes.

“No, Mason. Show me on you.”

GRAHAM/L/N HOUSE - NIGHT-

Will toward Their porch. He moves slowly, exhausted and groggy. His Hand slowly stroking Y/N’s back. He pauses, the silence has confused him. He puts the key in the lock. Will opens the door to find WINSTON alone to greet them.

“Hey, Winston. Where's everyone else?” I pet him softly, id say i shocked about the stunt from earlier but i am in no condition to stress that much. Will moves into the house and closes the door behind Y/N. A WET MUMBLING from the darkness draws the couple’s attention.

“I just love your dogs.” A BLOOD-SLICKED hand holds out a small piece of wet meat and a dog gently takes it into his mouth. The mutts sit in a semicircle, waiting to be fed. We hear smacks and chomps. “S'a good boy... yes... and for you... is that nice? Good girl.”

“Mason?”

“I adopted dogs from the shelter once, two dogs that were friends, and I had them in a cage together with plenty of fresh water, but no food. One of them died hungry, and the other one had a warm meal. I really should have put you and Dr. Lecter in a cage together. Curious what would've happened.”

“What are you feeding our dogs?” I step forward towards my drawer where I keep my spare gun. Will turns on a light, illuminating a blood-soaked Mason. Mason's concentration is on the dogs. One hand holds the bloody knife, the other holds out scraps of meat. THAT HAVE BEEN CUT FROM MASON’S FACE. “Just me.”

He looks up at the couple, his whole lower face now a RED DEATH'S HEAD. The meat of his cheeks and jaw is gone to reveal his teeth. As he sees them, he grins in a TERRIBLE SMILE as he cuts off another piece, sawing at the meat. Mason tosses the piece of his face and one of the dogs catches it in its mouth. OFF Will's horror… ...Hannibal Lecter emerges from the shadows behind him. “What Mason is experiencing isn't restricted to reality, so reality has been forced to adapt.”

Will ushers the dogs into the next room, away from Mason, closing the door behind him. “He fed his face to our dogs.” “He has Broadened their palates as I have broadened yours. Murder or mercy?”

“There is no mercy. We make mercy, manufacture it in parts that have overgrown our basic reptile brain.” I say as I step away from the drawer.

“Then there is no murder. We make murder, too, it matters only to us. You know too well that you possess all the elements to make murder. Perhaps mercy, too. But murder you understand uncomfortably well. You both do.” Hannibal graces my cheek, my gaze locked in his.

“I'm hungry.”

Hannibal steps back from me, “Eat your nose.” The Couple watches as Mason raises the knife to his ruined face and cuts off the tip of his nose, eating it. “I have a taste and consistency similar to that of chicken gizzard.”

“Taste is housed in parts of the mind that proceed pity, and pity has no place at the table.” Will stands beside me. “I'm not going to kill him.”

“He was going to feed you to his pigs after he fed them me. Weren't you, Mason?”

“I was. I was also going to sleep with your lover there too.”

“He's your patient, Dr. Lecter. You do what you think is best for him.” I say as i stare at the grotesque Mason. Whats on the outside finally matches whats inside. Hannibal considers me a moment, then moves behind Mason and SNAPS his neck. Mason goes limp. Hannibal then calmly checks his pulse. Satisfied that it remains.

VERGER ESTATE HOUSE - MASON'S BEDROOM - DAY-

Soft light and North African music, an oud and drums. Mason lies in his bed behind the plastic curtains that maintain alevel of sterility to where he rests. In the floor, the eel swims in the aquarium, reflecting watery, rippling shadows. A SHAPE enters the room, approaching the plastic curtains. “Good afternoon, Agent Crawford.”

He crosses the room toward Mason's bed, noticing the eel. “Good afternoon, Mr. Verger. Beautiful creature.”

“It's a Muraena kidako. There's an even bigger one in captivity in Tokyo. This is the second biggest. Its common name is the Brutal Moray, would you like to see why?”

“No. I don't want to take too much of your time, Mr. Verger. I know you need your rest. But I would like to ask a few brief questions about what happened to you.”

“Very curious how my accident has garnered the interest of the FBI. Took a tumble into a pigpen. Broke my neck. Embarrassing, really. Clumsy, clumsy, clumsy. If my sister hadn't found me, pigs would've eaten more than my face.” “Pigs did this to you?”

“Oh, yes. Pigs certainly did. I was hoping to get my face back when they pumped the swines' stomachs, but they haven't had much luck.”

“You are a patient of Hannibal Lecter's, is that right?”

“Dr. Lecter, yes.”

“Mr. Verger, have you ever seen or met another patient of Dr. Lecter's? A man named Will Graham.”

“Will Graham... Will Graham… The man who didn't kill all those people? That Will Graham.”

“Yes.”

“Can't say I've had the pleasure.”

“Have you found Dr. Lecter's therapy to be helpful, Mr. Verger?”

“I've benefited greatly from Dr. Lecter's therapy. I'm still benefiting. I will always be grateful for how he's helped me. I only hope one day I can repay him. Now if you don't mind, Agent Crawford, I'm rather tired.” Mason glares at Jack as he studies the man behind the curtains. Then: “Thank you for your time.”

He watches through the curtain as the DISTORTED SHAPE of Jack Crawford turns and walks away. A moment, then another DISTORTED SHAPE approaches the plastic curtains, parting them and moving inside Mason's sterility zone. It's Margot. “Is he gone?”

“It's just you and me. I'm going to take care of you, Mason. Just like you've always taken care of me.” A reassurance and a condemnation in one. A life sentence worse than her brother could ever exact. OFF Mason's unblinking terror...

HANNIBAL LECTER’S OFFICE - NIGHT-

Hannibal sketching a famous painting from memory. “Achilles Lamenting the Death of Patroclus. Whenever he is mentioned in the Iliad, Patroclus seems to be defined by his empathy.”

“He became Achilles on the field of war. He died for him there, wearing his armor.”

“He did. Hiding and revealing identity is a constant theme throughout the Greek epics.”

“As are battle-tested friendships.”

“Achilles wished all Greeks would die so that he and Patroclus could conquer Troy alone. Took divine intervention to bring them down.” Will crosses to the fireplace, lit by its glow. “This isn't sustainable. We're going to get caught.” Hannibal puts his pencil down. “Jack Crawford already suspects you killed Freddie Lounds.”

“If Jack told you he suspects me, it means he suspects you.”

“I know.” Will considers their options a moment, then: “You should give him what he wants.”

“Give him the Chesapeake Ripper?”

“Allow him closure. Reveal yourself. You've taunted him long enough. Let him see you with clear eyes.”

“Jack has become my friend. I suppose I owe him the truth.” Hannibal allows that statement to sit, then picks up his pencil and continues sketching, Will in the background, illuminated by the light of the fire.

[legacyshenanigans]

The Den 🐍

TW: Mentions of blood and chopping up bodies.

Marvolo: *covered in blood in the butchery* Rerek?

Rerek: Yessss?

Marvolo: *smirks and throws him a hand*

Rerek: Ooooh thank you, Master.

Marvolo: You're welcome *goes back to chopping*

Rowan: *walks in and leans on the wall near the door* Hey.

Marvolo: Hello *smirks* Rowan, do you trust me?

Rowan: Huh?

Marvolo: Do you trust me?

Rowan: Course, why?

Marvolo: Don't move..

Rowan: What? Wh-

Marvolo: *hurls an axe towards Rowan at lightning speed, it penetrates the wall RIGHT next to Rowans head*

Rowan: (?!)

Marvolo: *grins*

Rowan: Boss, that coulda ended badly *chuckles*

Marvolo: Don't be fuckin silly, Rowan *smirks* I'm good, really good..

Rerek: Ha! Did you his face! Hehehehehe

~