#threads of fate.

[saseplayground]

starter for @stagborne

This isn't Dove's first live-in arrangement as an aide, but it's her first in a while, and most notably the first since meeting Hugo. Admittedly she had been hesitant to leave him alone, but he had encouraged her to go, giving every reason from his wonderfully improved health to not wanting to stop her from doing what she loves. And of course he won't be truly alone. He has a good circle of friends who care for him deeply.

Dove knows this well, and soothes the flutter of worry whenever it arises. It's a long, peaceful drive into the heart of farmland, and by the time she's pulling up the dirt road to the lonesome farmhouse she feels ready. Present. Here to help in whatever way she is able.

She sits a moment in the silence after turning off the engine before getting out, leaving her modest suitcase and extra shoes for later retrieval. Already she can hear muffled sounds of movement from inside as she steps onto the porch, too specific to be anything but dogs, and she smiles instinctively, reaches to knock lightly on the door frame and invite a chorus of barks.

[saseplayground]

starter for @il-mostrc

During the course of Hannibal's incarceration, Dove writes to him. Not daily or even weekly, but consistently, correspondence always pleasant and, to all eyes that read the contents before the doctor himself, innocent. But it's impossible to believe that anyone with good intentions would keep in touch with such a monster, even for the humanity of it, and in the aftermath of Hannibal's escape she's one of the first to be scrutinized. With her consent, there's a very tidy ransacking of her home that finds no evidence of plots, schemes, or immediate contact with the doctor since his escape, much less the man himself.

They move on to questioning and Dove is very cooperative, but with little result. She can't offer any insight as to where the doctor would go, except that he might like someplace more peaceful, or what sort of plans he might have beyond a desire to not be caught again. It's asked and answered that she has had no prior romantic or sexual involvement with Hannibal, confesses to no unrequited feelings for him, expresses no belief that he harbors such feelings for her. She doesn't claim to have been so close to him as to be allowed to glimpse the reasoning of his mind, the drive behind his actions.

Then why the letters?

This is an old question; early on it had been leaked to a paper particularly fascinated with Lecter that Dove Solomon, a risen star in the world of classical music, wrote letters to the serial killer and cannibal at whose table she had dined on occasion. There had been some fuss, small outrage in certain circles, mutters of accusation in others, and as a result she was not welcomed to play as much as she once was. There were of course many requests to interview by both gossip rags and more upstanding columns, but she always declined, and in the end many reputable sources wrote it off as her being the child of a convicted murderer, and thus having a bleeding heart for those kinds. It wasn't forgiven or necessarily forgotten, but over the years it became simply a burr in her otherwise upstanding character.

So, the letters.

Dove doesn't disagree with public opinion. She can't condone Hannibal's actions, but neither can she abide the thought of him, once so freely social and appreciative of the world's beauty, trapped in the stale dark for the rest of his life. She has no delusions about the severity of his crimes and it's not about what he deserves. It can be said as simply as this: Once you know someone it becomes a choice to abandon them, and she chose not to, even if the rest of the world did. Especially because the world did.

On paper and in person, there's nothing to suggest she's anything more than a bleeding heart—opinions are divided on whether it stems from conviction, naivety, or sheer stupidity—but that doesn't stop the FBI from keeping an eye on her. They'd be fools not to.

Dove told the agents honestly that she doesn't expect Hannibal to contact her, but she's not entirely surprised when he does.

[saseplayground]

starter for @southrnweed

The lights are on, the door is unlocked, and the hours are nowhere to be seen. All signs aside from the hustle and bustle, which can be excused as it being a little late for breakfast but a bit early for the lunch rush, point to the restaurant being open. And what kind of restaurant is closed from 11-1, anyway?

Plus, once Thistle enters the establishment, he'll hear music coming from the kitchen and see there actually is one person sitting on a chair pulled up to the kitchen window, two plates of food in front of him and clearly not an employee—so even now it's still uncertain as to whether the place is open or not. But whatever else goes through his mind, he's likely to be distracted by the way the man at the window turns to stare at him. It's a little unsettling, not only because his eyes are visibly amber-orange from a distance, or that the manner of his direct stare is reminiscent of a wild animal, but there's something else...it might remind Thistle of the paranormal, as if the man is almost haunted. Nearly haunting. Half a ghost.

Before anything can be said, the man turns back to the kitchen, says something lost in the music. Sounds of another voice and a second man appears, this one extremely normal and wearing a hairnet, leaning through the window to also look at Thistle, expression more apologetic than frustrated.

"Hey! Welcome. Uh, we're actually closed right now..." Malachi glances at the food in front of Nove, an as-yet untouched sandwich and one of the rarest steak you'll ever see, partially eaten. "Closed" seems to be a very relative term today. "...buuut that's my bad. If you don't mind just locking that door behind you quick I can whip you something up for here or to go, otherwise you got about an hour and a half before we're open."

[saseplayground]

starter for @venusblooded

Work has come to be a drag. At first it was somewhat exciting, a new experience, a new sense of independence from Viviane and the means to liberation from living with her, but after two years, bar tending inevitably lost its luster. Sharing shifts with █████ makes it easier even if they can't really hang out, but she's not so lucky tonight.

Still, things eventually come to a close, and after shooing out the last few stragglers and doing a passable job of cleaning up, Lilli is free. Stepping out into the night she lights a cigarette before locking up, takes a couple long puffs and wishes again that █████ was there to walk the lonely way home with her.

[saseplayground]

starter for @deliriumang3l

You will never find her here.

The knowledge haunts him night after night, mile after endless mile. It's easiest to travel under cover of dark, faster to move at the tireless pace of a wolf than figure his way through human means of transportation—and Noël would not be residing amongst humans, anyway.

Would she?

Doubt is plentiful, plagues him anew each time he returns to his human form, heavy with guilt and mourning and it is easiest to stay as an animal. Easiest to fall asleep that way. Yet even then the dream still finds him, and it is this that convinces him more than anything that it is no ordinary dream. Even in the solitude of his animal mind the white hart leads him onward.

The fog is sudden, thick, cool in his nose. He slows, and then there is pavement sudden beneath his paws and he leaps away, ears flattening to the sides in surprise and for any hint of sound. Careless. Lucky for the fog, which would obscure him from any eyes that might still be awake. But as he stealths along the edge of what turns out to be a parking lot, senses sharp for any hint of life, he realizes that there is no one. Nothing. The silence and stillness that lie upon the mall and—he sees now, incomplete—apartments is more than that of sleep. They ooze the unease of abandoned life, but it is a human fear.

A quiet huff as he relaxes, casts about for some sense of direction. He does not want to end up on the road heading deeper into civilization. But even as he begins to move away from the rotting structure, he hesitates. Logically he cannot think Noël would be here, but what is logic to a beast? His physical senses tell him there's no trace of her, and yet there's something...deeper. A subtle pull. It reminds him of dreaming. As if inevitable, he paces slowly towards the building.

A new sense of unease begins to stir as he comes near, and he looks around again, tests the air, but still there is nothing. Only a faint prickling down his spine. Perhaps if he was truly a wolf it would have been sufficient warning to send him on his way, yet his heart is human enough for longing. It hopes.

A beast easily more than twice the size of the largest wolf, all dark and russet fur, amber eyes keen in the dark, he silently crosses the threshold.

[saseplayground]

what are YOU doing at the devil's sacrament @southrnweed

He has been restless for a long time now. Knows why, and San told him that knowing is good because it gives him something to work with, a basis for action. She also said there is usually more than one way to go about doing something.

Surrounding himself with nature, getting as far as he can from any sign of civilization, helps—but his senses, sharp as they are, still feel the lack. Small sounds prick at the edges of his hearing and he must turn his head to listen more closely, scents mingle and smear and require more focus to discern this from that. The sound first, muted gulping of water, followed by a faint smell that he has encountered before. Reminds him somewhat of Lilli at first with a lingering of cigarette smoke and strawberries, but the rest is a more masculine jumble nestled in woodsy notes. He recalls a name in Malachi's voice.

Thistle?

Nove sees him first, eyes sharp through the dense thicket of greenery. Thinks about going on his way unnoticed, but after a moment rustles intentionally. Curious. When he first saw him, Thistle had fit right in to the civilized setting of Micky Smith's. At home in society in ways Nove was forever out of place. But now, seeing him here in the wilderness, hand ready on his knife, he's just as at home. Accepted.

There's a long-drawn silence as Thistle's questions hang between them. Nove, as should be expected by now, simply looks at him, and despite a lack of discernible expression there's a certain air to his silence. The implication is clear: Then what are you doing here?

"...It's my thing," he finally says, that same quiet tone and rusty edge to his words.

The information of disappearances is new to him, but being vanished is not his immediate concern. His manner of looking at Thistle changes slightly. Consideration. Malachi had said something about ghosts before, and Thistle had answered with whatever's spooky. Is he the kind of person that goes looking for trouble? Whatever the motive, it stands to reason that they are both at similar risk here—depending on the cause behind the disappearances, perhaps Thistle more so. The solution is obvious.

"We should go." It's a suggestion, no urgent inflection, but Nove makes no move to lead the way. He came across the decrepit trails by accident having been roaming through the untouched depths of the forest, and while he could backtrack well enough, he doesn't think leading Thistle deeper into the wilderness will be the fastest exit. Probably safer if Thistle takes them back the way he got here.

(Truthfully, Nove does not feel concern for his own safety, but he will not do anything to risk leaving Lilli again. It's why he is managing the restlessness as best he can on two legs instead of four.)

[saseplayground]

starter for @deliriumang3l

It was a stupid idea. Reckless, dangerous. What had she been thinking? She knew better. And yet...

Manna walks barefoot along the road leading away from the city, feet tough from nearly two years that feel like a lifetime. Her clothes are dusty and tattered, shirtsleeves and the legs of her pants torn ragged and uneven as though something ripped them off, irritated by the confining length, but in the midst of summer it's the least of her problems. A ratty backpack is slung over her shoulder by its remaining strap, sagging low from the weight of its contents.

She'd only just arrived at the edge of modern civilization the day before, and now here she is, leaving it behind because it was so stupid of her to go there in the first place. She managed to survive this long, for better or worse, without needing to intrude too much into society, and it's for the best to keep it that way. She's always known that. Yet as time had passed and she adjusted to her horrible new reality, the idea of finding her father only grows more pressing. It's the only thing she has left. She'd promised.

She stops. Feels the weight in her heart, in her mind, in the pack. She had planned for this day for months, won't let herself run rampant; it's worked the last few times. Looks back the long way she came, chewing her lip, a deep furrow between her brows. She's exhausted, legs leaden, and terribly hungry, but it's an ordinary hunger. It's only been five days. There's still time...

A multitude of thoughts and feelings clash within her and she looks again to the vast nowhere of the road ahead of her—and her eyes catch on the shape of a sprawling shopping mall. How could she have missed it? But even as she watches it seems to shimmer slightly like a mirage, or as if shrouded in mist. It's clearly abandoned, not a single car in the wide parking lot, windows dark even from this distance.

An idea blossoms in her mind.

.:.

She steps cautiously through the broken doors, eyes darting around, listening hard. It's a place she would have come to hang out when she was younger, and she's wary of others who feel the same. But she doesn't immediately hear anything. Good.

Hoping it stays that way, Manna begins making her way deeper into the abandoned building. There's got to be a room she can lock herself in, or something sturdy enough to keep her chained to...