Straightening to her full height, she didn’t expect much from a passerby on the street, even one that had gotten close enough to speak without her noticing. That was her first mistake, like missing a step in a stairwell, and feeling taken aback the rest of the way down. That kind of rush of sensation and renewed alertness flooded her, far more invigorating than the cool air.
There was something about this man that transcended this particular place— as prosperous as it was, it was still a place of daylight, as it were. Unselfconscious, safe, exceedingly… American.
But he wasn’t. She didn’t need the pattern of his voice to tell her he hailed from somewhere else, it was written in the planes of his face, the angles of his body. His clothes, his presence, everything that struck her as a first impression spoke of somewhere else. Somewhere dark, and rich, elegant to the point of exclusivity. So close to perfection that it became removed from the rest of the world.
The annoyances of her less than fruitful expedition had blown away on the chilly breeze. This man, whoever he was, was beautiful, in a very old way. In a savage, baroque way, and it was a pleasure just to behold. She had spent long years of her life among that kind of sepulchral glory.
“If it looks too good to be true, then it must be?”
She smiled, keeping it deliberately reserved. The woman knew what ingratiation looked like, how obvious and unappealing it was, and as interesting as he was, she had her pride. But it was a little difficult not to grin outright: what an extraordinary person! People rarely stood out to her like this anymore, more or less variations of a bland norm, and seeing someone like this— even if it was only a brief encounter, even if he simply went on his way, was so deeply enjoyable.
Hannibal nodded with the decency of a man fragmenting himself from the Victorian age, priding upon the scope of his undeniable existence and specific being. Untouched by the times around him, the sort of man able to reach the deeper parts of rivers and lakes in search of the clay with which to create his masterpiece. The evidence was upon him, of course, the worn features that had the whimsical hint of the hardships endured met by the smile formed that had become a piece of his suit.
” Indeed, even if one is to be in want of what is untouched and left to be seamless then how is he to be sure of the origins?"
For a singular moment in reality, the shift in his somehow foresighted words coming to an end to the wait for the woman's reply his eyes had met the surface of whatever could be witnessed. There was, of course, something that had him wishing to strip away her flesh to reveal what element was within her that made her be singled out in his eye. The flawlessness in her skin, each and every inch of flesh smoothed over with a delicate tint and clothing all too fair for the area.
Ironic, though, considered he had come to a mere market clothed in a midnight pinstripe suit accented by the further dark vest beneath and paisley tie of still deep azure. The double-breasted overcoat didn't aid in his endeavors neither, but, the evidence before him was undeniable-- She was not from the lands near.
As if that weren't enough her mannerisms spoke endlessly about her, the sort of tone taken despite him being nothing more than a stranger wasn't very common. Even his fr҉ie̶nḑ Will Graham had found it difficult to muster anything but threats of the psychological, yet, she, as a human found upon the street of a market shared remarkable traits of those whom he had wished to know earlier-- When societies hold upon the throats of the weak weren't so inviting.
