@masonverger-rising
“The calvaria -- “
There is a distinct and satisfying pop from the cork as it’s freed from its narrow confines, the sharp aroma of red wine scenting the air around it. With practiced ease, Hannibal picks up the two wine glasses with one hand, the wine bottle in the other, and hands Mason a glass. He doesn’t pause to ask if it’s wanted, simply expects the gesture to be accepted, as is customary in his residence.
“Our ancestors’ very own drinking cup. How strange it is that our history be littered with the fascination of feasting from our own body, or rather, from the remains of our enemy’s body. I’m sure you can sympathize with the appeal of it -- to weave fear into our enemies’ narrative, or, to simply extract from them their very own essence.”
The wine flows steadily into the heir’s glass, pooling dark as blood.
“What better way to overcome our adversaries than through utilizing their own self as a weapon against them? Tell me, Mason -- “
Hannibal settles himself in his usual seat, hands posed over his lap. His stare is even, silent of any expression. His own glass rests upon the end table beside him.
“Surely you are no stranger to the whispers of others within your world -- your estate. How else could you survive the competition, if you were not. What is your skull cup? Whose blood have you sipped from their own bony Colosseum?”