brushes a hand against the scorched painting within his old bedroom.
@sigilsofteeth
It’s been a while since this wing of the palace had a visitor of any kind after the ‘incident’.
Usually Mercedes and Melchior were the first to kick up a stink about anybody who dared even approach the stairs, let alone an outsider to Vesuvia such as this, but not this one - not Hannibal, never. Instead they greet him with muffled, quiet barks and pining whines; a clattering of clawed paws as they stepped aside for him to pass so that they could follow. They trail closely through the dimly lit halls, only trotting ahead for a brief second so that they could take their places either side of a large ornate door, red eyes darting from the soot smeared threshold to fixate upon their guest with despondent contemplation…
They won’t follow him any further. They will wait.
( They’re good dogs. They know their place. )
With the room untouched for so long, everything was coated in a generous amount of both soot and dust, so much that even opening the door caused it to kick up a mist that already comes to besmirch black boots several shades lighter. The bed remained a charred mess, but still standing solidly - a testament to the quality, the very least - decorated with dusty cobwebs. The walls were scorched, as was the floor and rugs, and many of the smaller decorations had unfortunately been reduced to charred remains.
Miraculously, the Count’s favourite portrait appeared to have survived the blaze - sans a fine layer of ash muting the vivid pigments, and the curious way that the canvas was half torn from it’s frame, but only from one corner. The eyes… The eyes were missing. Slashed messily from one side to the other, smeared with red.
❛ —Marvelloussss… Isn’t it?❜
A familiar voice rasped, as a figure loomed on from behind. It had been so long. Too long. Not even Nadia would stick around for any longer than a minute, and only to really curse his very being for the haunting nightmares and sleepless nights.
Blackened fingertips extend to ghost at the small of Han’s back as this ‘apparition’ stepped into existence, and as slow as they are to reach out, they’re just as slow pulling away; instead they reach for the canvas over his shoulder, smoothing out the painting to glance at it himself. Red eyes squint. Claws curl against the paint when he eventually pulls away.
❛ It’s been a while since you’ve shown your face… To what do I owe the pleasure…? ❜