" What is it about the cold that makes your eyes so dull? "
unprompted asks || always accepting !
There is a tired sigh, the lines of his face weary – he doesn’t feel the need to DRESS UP for Lou. He isn’t the public eye that requires the careful and precise face of the good doctor. Hannibal stares out the window at the blustering white, unable to tear his gaze away from it despite the BALEFUL howling that tears at doors in his mind … ( He stands so still he may not even be BREATHING, so still he could be mistaken for a statue, hewn of perfect marble … )
And Abruptly the spell of stillness breaks and Hannibal lifts his mug, now hardly even LUKEWARM and drinks from it, curling his lip with distaste when he finds the heat has already leeched away from it.
WHAT IS IT ABOUT THE COLD THAT MAKES YOUR EYES SO DULL.
“ Do you know how WENDIGOS are born, Lou? “ His voice is a blizzard. As white and frigid as the howling beyond the windows. ( That’s what he sounds like, some nights, isn’t it? The BAYING of the wind in wilderness where only the ears of the WILD may hear it. Forlorn and lonely, HOWLING WHITE. ) —– “ I was born in the winter. Once, and then twice. In the dead of it, in the cold. In the white – and in the red. I have a particular distaste for it, as such. “
( CHERRY syrup red on the snow, hissing STEAM as it splashes … hot, hot, so hot – and then frigid, so quickly. In the dead of Baltic Winter, the body loses the flush of life so quickly. )
