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ʟʏᴅɪᴀ ᴅᴇᴇᴛᴢ ([personal profile] hauntedhome) wrote in [community profile] herbgarden2016-01-04 05:42 pm
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Open Post: Lydia Deetz



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[personal profile] itrhymes 2016-02-07 11:24 pm (UTC)(link)
Had his word choice been a little ominous? Hannibal has been accused of worse things that can ruin the mood. He smiles, indulgent, and looks down to the rich carpeting for a moment. "I believe that the interpretation of the signs are even more important than the signs themselves." He watches the photos be slipped away without protest, some of the favored ones already committed to memory - and then she leaves a single one free. He isn't going to forget the little slip of his sleeve in her last photo, the staged floating hand capturing surprises despite Lydia's calculated attempt at controlling the scene. It's an amusing anomaly, one that demands symbolism be assigned to it.

"God may do as He pleases, but without an audience capable of understanding it, what use is His art?" Hannibal speaks of God with a soft voice, not the stern proclamation of a preacher - but absolutely all of the self-confidence. "Art is a good lens to see life through. All of it is in the eye of the beholder."

Hmm. He looks content after speaking, like sharing this actually brings him a lot of personal joy. After a beat, he turns to look over his left shoulder, and then back to Lydia. "Would you like some tea?"
Edited 2016-02-07 23:30 (UTC)
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[personal profile] itrhymes 2016-02-08 02:42 am (UTC)(link)
Hannibal is happy to hear her continue the game. She presses forward, even using his own metaphors, the return coming across as polite. Almost flattering, all on its own. Hannibal lingers for a moment, considering, not yet heading towards his kitchen. His eyes watch Lydia's fingers on his desk, and his own instinctively flatten against his jacket.

"More like a child painting by numbers, perhaps." Hannibal's voice is calm, unargumentative, but his words suggest a certain disdain for the concept of fate. "God is not the painter, but the creator of the canvas. It's His creations that take up the brush." His office is huge, in part, because of what it does to voices. Everything carries fully - it doesn't echo back with all the furniture dulling the atmosphere, it doesn't feel like a cramped space with too much stifling it, or too open and vacant. "Knowing that, how could you refuse the invitation to paint your own inspirations?"

The freedom given to him by knowing that there is no God is limitless. Knowing that he will die someday and cease everything is a drive to live in the moment. No, Hannibal is certain and unforgiving in his dismissal of the concept of fate, but at least he makes a heartfelt argument for the lack of direction being positive.

"You may follow me, if you wish." But he also promised tea, and now he begins backing off to another door at the opposite end of the office, diagonal from the entrance.
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[personal profile] itrhymes 2016-02-14 03:11 am (UTC)(link)
The only real issue with the kitchen, as it stands, is the tiny window it's been granted. To keep the room secretive and private with respect to the outdoors, there's just a little one along the top wall - more reminiscent of an unfinished basement than a kitchen. The modern light fixtures, however, more than make up for the lack of sun.

Hannibal pauses, fingers on the kettle's arched handle. His eyebrows lift and his lips press together so as not to make a sound of disbelief. He looks, in a word, amused. "No," he says simply. But, not to lose his endless chatter: "Simply raised in a Lithuanian Catholic household. I've been inside countless churches." Which is true, although most of the ones he's been in, he was inside without family members. With their grand ceilings and their forbidding doors, their talk of values while hiding depravity, Hannibal adores looking at churches. He has a folder, at home, of photos of church collapses, the ancient bricks or cheap wooden paneling splintered and ruined.

"Do your parents bring you to church?" The heater is flicked on, the kettle filled.
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[personal profile] itrhymes 2016-02-16 04:24 pm (UTC)(link)
Does Lydia have any idea how many people haven't recognized his accent. Does she. If she'd guessed on her own, she'd have risked having to pick him up off the floor. Hannibal can count on his fingers how many people haven't looked confused at the name 'Lithuania' since he moved to America. They're not exactly a dominant global power.

"Oh, the services are terribly boring, on the whole." With the exception of America's more southern churches, with all the screaming and tongues and falling to and fro across the aisles, calling for Jesus. "I find them to be beautiful to look at, however. The older ones in New England sometimes have the flare you find over in Europe." You can practically feel the Rich Affluence coming off of Hannibal in waves.

The kettle ticks as the metal heats.
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[personal profile] itrhymes 2016-06-10 01:32 am (UTC)(link)
Hannibal's mouth purses with a smile, teeth just barely hidden. The kettle is the soft, throaty sound that precedes the shrill whistle. Hannibal rescues all of their ears - and the green tea's delicate water temperature - by taking it off early.

"As I said, my family was. In name, at least." He watches Lydia over the steaming water, as he spoons out tea into the strainer for steeping. "I enjoy the pageantry associated with religion. But I do not partake in it as someone looking for protection or guidance, no.

"You said you find church boring. Can I assume you feel the same way about God, or do you feel that you are religious without the need for a church?"
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[personal profile] itrhymes 2016-06-10 11:59 am (UTC)(link)
"People certainly have developed their own hatreds, and then hidden behind a number of books over the centuries, to justify their violence." Hannibal collects two teacups from a narrow cabinet. Matte, dark grey, with delicate darker grey patterns. Hard to notice the difference except as the gloss catches the light.

He catches on a quick thread of thought, strung through what Lydia has just said. As he measures out tea into their cups, his eyes flicker to hers above the steam. "You think people should be their own Gods? Create their own personal religion?" He replaces the kettle on an unused burner.

He reaches across the space between them, her cup offered in his hand. "Or perhaps that we should do away with the concept altogether?"