maskormenacelogs | [OPEN] you see, i am the wolf, and this dirty little piggy lives inside of me

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[OPEN] you see, i am the wolf, and this dirty little piggy lives inside of me

WHO: Will Graham + YOU!
WHERE: All over
WHEN: Month of May (he will not be around the 15th-19th)
WHAT: Making friends. Losing friends. Getting experience with his shadow stag power. Aggressively playing pool. Fishing. Stuff and things, Coral.
WARNINGS: Standard Hannibal warnings apply (cannibalism and murder and sadness and season 2 spoilers). If anything else crops up, I will edit to add.
NOTE: Everything's been written up in prose, but if you'd prefer to do action, just reply with it and I'll match! And if you'd like a specific starter, shoot me a PM or something and I'll write it up in comments.

I. AROUND NONAH: Are we out of the woods? Are we in the clear yet?

He'd have gone to De Chima, had he not been there so recently for work, had he been sure he could keep himself from stopping by the old house. Worse, going into the old house, seeing if Mike Parker was there, perhaps checking in on his religiously conflicted roommate. Going to Virginia for leisure time is bound to end poorly, bound to have him finally giving up and checking in on this universe's version of Wolf Trap. Better to avoid all that inevitable mess by going somewhere else entirely.

So he opts for Nonah, and after going through the city itself, finds a nice patch of woods that doesn't seem too used. Seems more like the place where joggers go for morning and evening routines than anything popular, where parents might bring their children or couples might take to for a quiet, slow stroll. Once the noises fade to nothing but nature, he loses his shadow to its new, stag self, to get a better feel of how it works. They'll walk side-by-side as much as the stag decides to explore, bolting for a particularly playful squirrel, scraping his antlers on a nearby tree for reasons Will doesn't want to think about. Same with any rolling in mud. Probably just enjoying his freedom to be a strange, shadow stag; that's the story Will chooses to take on and believe as true. Every now and then, it might smack as more dog than deer, stumpy tail wagging, but Will doesn't pay that any mind, either. The thing's never far out of his sight—until something (or someone) truly interesting and not yet in Will's line of sight comes around, of course. Leave it to Will to not find this of too much concern and continue to take his time, walking fashion disaster that he is. Don't worry! That shadowy creature means no harm, and the guy following after who doesn't cast a shadow at all despite whatever sunlight is around has covered himself in a truly terrible plaid shirt and jeans that are two or three wears from being worn out. No threats here.

II. HEROPA: have you been herring a lot about the hook line and tinker?

Will doesn't work at the bait shop anymore, not technically. He is, however, still the owner, and that means he has to be involved. He's a little more involved than some of his employees might actually like, but at least whenever there's a minor issue plaguing the place, he can generally take care of it. If he can't, he knows who can. So every now and then, for anyone stopping by (or just looking in), they'll find a still plaid-clad Will Graham sporting a ridiculous hat that's clearly been worn by him for a while, however off and on. It fits his head, and the fishing hook stuck on the brim of it has been there so long it's created a dent. But Will isn't behind the counter or going through the shelves to fix them. Nah, he's the guy in the corner on a stepladder fixing some busted part of the ceiling or wall, or fiddling with wiring. He rather looks like the repairman.

If someone stops by to see him, specifically, here he is. If someone stops by with a question that the staff either can't answer or doesn't feel equipped to answer as well as Will can, he'll be pointed out as well. Yes, go ask the guy making an effort to center the WRIGGLE ROOM sign after it last fell about fishing seasons. That guy who's cleaning the front windows in the wake of the Flare and dragons alike will know far better than the person behind the counter why the hell the lures are different colors. Go pester him, he has the answers, he's the owner.

III. HEROPA 2 NAUTICAL BOOGALOO: We ain’t only fishin’

Will owes plenty of people fishing trips. Want to go fishing? Who the hell wouldn't? His preference is for standing around all day in waders, but if someone would rather go out, he'll get a boat. How accommodating.

IV. HEROPA 3 RETURN TO THE HOMELAND: Flowers and trees depress and frankly bore me

There is a house with a yard that's well kept but not much to speak of just yet. The dogwood tree in the center of it is in need of some nourishment and time without the world being in ruins to get back to its former glory, and the scattered beds of flowers weren't in any particular order. Until today, that is. Will's out with his sleeves rolled right over his elbows, bearded dog providing help by doing the best thing he can in this situation: lazing underneath some shade and taking a nap. He's got all the tools he needs, pots with plants waiting to be transferred over, dirty hands bare instead of covered with gloves. He's not dealing with anything too thorny or prickly, so there's really no need for that, is there?

Except for the fact that the soil he's using contains manure, and says so right on the bags waiting to be tossed out with the rest of the trash. Whatever, it's all as organic as organic gets, he'll just wash them more thoroughly than usual and everything will be fine.

V. MAURTIA FALLS LIBRARY: Take a look, it's in a book!

He isn't even certain if he can check out anything, considering where he lives and all, but he's been through the Heropa library more times than he can count. It's good to expand one's horizons, isn't it? Maurtia Falls could have something on their shelves Heropa doesn't, so while he's there and following the rule of minding his own damn business, he stops by just to see. Curiosity isn't always a bad thing, after all. Will pointedly avoids any sections that have to do with crime, true or fictional. Fiction is supposed to give him an escape, and hopefully nonfiction will teach him about something that isn't his usual. Why even bother looking at books that won't do either? It's always much better to bump into someone who has a stack of books that relate to dogs, fish, the history of railroads, and what appears to be the first in a series about magical cats that can travel through space and have kept their secret from humans for all of eternity, isn't it? Because that's what Will's going for. Magical alien cats.

VI. BARS, BARS EVERYWHERE: He drinks a whiskey drink, he drinks a vodka drink

Will keeps a rotation of bars in his head, places with a little more shade than usual. No loud and booming music, no crowd of youths looking to get their groove on. Will's more comfortable in the quiet sorts where the jukebox plays "oldies" and no one has any complaints about it. These are the nights were he slaps his watch over that tattoo to keep himself as much of a nobody as, well, everybody else in the dim, sometimes smoky lighting. His pool game isn't anything to write home about, but he's steadily getting better, with the goal to one day wipe the floor with Hank Schrader. And because some of these bars are the places that don't ask questions, or have family members of the owners (or their friends) coming through just a year or so shy of the legal drinking age, Will keeps his job and this aspect of his life completely separate unless there is a real need for someone to step in. He's not a complete hog at the pool tables, though, and some affable competition is bound to only help improve his game. Loser buys the drinks—what a great deal.

Threaded | Flat

He's had Ken's address for a while, stowed away with other pieces of paper that contained numbers and addresses he considered important. Ken had his problems, Will saw that first hand, but overall, he thought the two of them got along just fine. Perhaps this was a success story for the both of them, but it could just as easily have been Ken laying low until he got his "collar" taken off and could move about freely. Will couldn't say for certain, though he did hope for the former. He likes Ken, damn it, likes how easily he picked up on the best way to communicate with Will. How he didn't shy away from what he wanted, or beg, or come at him with an attitude. Will gave nothing but the honest truth in court, which was refreshing. No carefully choosing his words to cover up an incident, no making deals with the devil, none of that. It was time, he thought, to put things on Ken's turf and give out some of that honest truth about why he'd volunteered.

He's still dressed in his usual plaid and jeans, doesn't give away that this little chat is meant to be any different than their others. Quiet, shaggy Will Graham surely doesn't have any secrets he's kept hidden that could come close to the sort of behavior a ghoul partakes in, look at him. He can't even keep to a regular haircut routine, definitely not the cultured sort of guy who always cooks his meat to perfection before he eats it.

A couple of knocks and his hands go into his pockets, waiting as an equal instead of the guy who's notes and decisions could work against Ken.

Grey finds the yard impressive. Granted, he doesn't have a lot to go on, not having seen a remarkable number of gardens in his life. This one involves flowers, and that's really enough for him. He has no gloves either, and doesn't think anything of the dirt on his skin. He's more fascinated by the plants he's tending, and he always reaches for the most colourful among them.

He is trying to learn from Will, though. He's already adopted the same crouching stance, and he's leaning forward in the same way, and he digs when Will does and copies the way he puts them in the ground.

These were Abigail's flowers, he thinks. He wonders if Will still misses her. He'd gone home, after all, presumably to find her again. Grey doesn't know yet.

He finishes with one manure bag, patting the past of it down to cover the roots of the roses he's just planted. He taps Will's arm for attention, and points at his bag too. Does he need another one, or is he making this go further than Grey? He isn't ever really sure how much is the right amount.

Krei isn’t much for bars. Not these sort of bars, anyway. Being a business tycoon had given him little time to indulge in life’s simpler pleasures. He was accustomed to alcohol that cost well over a thousand dollars, in establishments designed specifically for the rich. There had often only been a dozen of people there at a time, because how many billionaires and millionaires were there in the world? Hint: not that many. The alcohol offered here was less than stellar, but he could swallow it down easy enough if he didn’t think too hard on the taste. Apparently, in the barkeeps own words, ‘we don’t usually sell wine’, so he hadn't had high expectations to begin with.

He’s a little on the trimmed side, even in slacks and as casual shirt as he could find (which isn’t very casual at all, because it’s a dress shirt), but he doesn’t stand out as an imPort. He keeps his wrist well obscured so he’ll be able to maintain peace and quiet while he reads. It’s a book on ‘electromagnetic repulsion physics’, so it’s even less likely anyone will approach him. This isn’t exactly the environment for geniuses of any kind.

After a while he gets a little bored of periodically glancing up to watch people play pool and decides to approach the table himself, though he can’t recall the last time he even played the game. He vaguely remembers having to use the white ball to hit the colored ones into the holes. That’s about it, though. If there are other rules, he’s oblivious to them. Setting his book down on a nearby chair, he retrieves a, uh… stick? From the wall, using the chalk on its tip, since he’s pretty sure that’s used to regulate the amount of friction between the stick and the white ball.

"Hello." His opponent doesn’t look like anyone special. He smiles at them, gesturing at the pool table. "Would you mind setting that up? I haven’t played in a while."

Kristoff's head was still swimming. It was one thing to accept the reality of magic and to deal with that sort of thing peripherally, but disease was another thing entirely. It was one of those things that proved the year he came from, in a sense. He knew very little about sicknesses and how they're dealt with in this place. For him, waiting it out had always been the only option, and so it was the technique he'd utilized during the strange epidemic.

That's all passed, though. At least... It had passed as well as it had been allowed. It doesn't smooth things over quite right, though, and so maybe that was why Kristoff felt as though he were still waiting.

Waiting on what, he couldn't be sure, and he didn't like to dwell on the possibilities. There was no guessing what might happen. There was only the overlying anxiousness of vague expectation, and he fought that by finding a peaceful enough place outside of himself. This wasn't hard near Nonah. He had to give 'em that.

With Sven in tow behind him, he was walking a well-worn trail when he suddenly came upon the strangest stag he'd ever seen. At first, it just seemed like it was black, which was definitely weird enough, but... After a couple of seconds of dumbfounded staring, he found himself trying to look for signs that might tell him whether the thing was real or not. Substantial? Solid? Did it really matter. He took a step backwards, reaching out to lay a hand across Sven's snout.

"That's not ominous or anything." Should they run? Like... What is the protocol for this sort of thing? Speaking out loud, expecting an answer in Sven's own way, he asked, "What do you think it means, buddy?"

It’s really not all that surprising that Clark visits the library often, is it? At the speed he reads he’d need to spend his entire salary on books every month if he wanted to get new books, and he does live in Maurtia Falls. Really, it’s more surprising that Will is here, so Clark’s eyebrows try to meet his hairline when he bumps into the man. Clark’s holding three books: two treaties about medical biology and what looks to be some historical records on the Black Death.

The choice in Will’s books surprises him too. Surely he could have found those in Heropa as well?

“Oh, hello Will. Didn’t expect seeing you here.” And then, because he realizes that might come across in a wrong way he adds: “I mean, you don’t live in this city. Looking for something specific?”

"Will Graham?"

Abduxel is standing off to the side of the ladder that Will stands on, clad in his typical all-black suit, formal shoes, no hat. He must be aware on some level that this is inappropriate fishing wear... right? Must be.

Okay, no. He has no idea really.

"Ready to catch some fish?"

It's a bait shop. Will Graham owns a bait shop. Somehow, Dorian didn't connect in his mind that Will Graham's shop was a bait shop and oh my god there was literally a cooler full of bugs. Dorian had a very privileged upbringing and lived in cities most of his life so the concept of the bait shop, while familiar, was still absolutely disgusting. The fact that the entire place smelled like a cannery only made it worse. He would never get the smell of fish out of his clothes, why the hell did he wear this outfit to begin with?

It's a bizarre picture: Dorian Gray, still managing to look put-together while wearing tight jeans and a bomber jacket (Will said he had animals at the house, Dorian wasn't entirely sure that he didn't have animals at the shop), looking at a shirt that says "Fishing: a REEL good time!" like it was crawling with those crickets in the cooler. Did people actually buy these things. Why did people actually buy these things. What sort of people actually bought these things. The bait shop and tacky fish hat have pretty much just left Dorian speechless as he looks around, eyes settling on Will and oh for fuck's sake why is he wearing a hat as well. It's obvious that Dorian is entirely out of his element and yet he's still probably going to end up buying one of those fucking shirts just to show Will a sign of goodwill. And then he's going to end up keeping that terrible shirt because Will Graham is something between a project and a trump card and if he can idly mention that he wore that shirt to bed or around the house or something, it's all the better.

The sound of Abba over the speakers only manages to confuse Dorian even more. It could be worse. It could be Brad Paisley. But the combination of bait shop atmosphere, terrible puns, and 70s music has just left Dorian looking at everything like he's stepped into some weird bizarro world and he has no idea how it functions. That body-swapping episode shocked him less than this entire set-up shocked him. This had to be a circle of hell.

Still, focus on the mission. Focus on what you came here to do, you're going to talk to Will about his powers, you're probably going to bullshit some more nonsense about controlling a stag while hoping the conversation veers towards bonding and inserting yourself as a good, close, trustworthy friend, you are not going to stare at the cricket cooler. Walking over towards Will, Dorian nodded at the man, expression still a little shell-shocked from the combination of tacky, bugs, and fish smell. "I thought you said you were FBI?" said in a tone that's part amused and part 'what gives.' The unstated question though, was obvious: what the hell was Will Graham, FBI agent who regularly put away serial killers, doing fiddling with the electric wiring of a neon sign?

There's only one reason why he's out here. He's not a fan of nature walks - does it really clear your mind or does it distract away from more important things that deserves more attention? He would try to convince you of the latter, and his friends, the people who would question his sudden "I'm going to take a walk in the forest", are far and further away. No one questions why he steps out at his housing in Nonah.

For him, this empty void space in nature is perfect for testing out these hornet surveillance drones. Part of a project between him and Tony, this is a prototype of the old model they - well, him and the Tony from his time - created. He brought this single drone out in anticipation of the future hive. After a few minutes of turning it on, letting it rest on his palm and another few minutes of weird parental attachment and reluctance in letting go, he reached out his hand it flies out slowly.

He watches it go and when it disappears out of his line of sight, his eyes lands on a stag. It watches him and Hank stares back, unsure of what to do at this impasse. He was raised on a farm but dealing with animals were never his thing. Hank takes a step back without taking his eyes off it. He could shrink and get away but without his Giant-Man costume, he'll be stranded in the nude, not a pleasant experience if he remembers from past cases. And he would run into the same problem with the alternative solution.

"Of all the days to not wear that damn thing... Easy, big fella." He said mostly to himself, with his hands raised, as if that'll work to stop the stag from advancing.

As fun as flying is, it's never a good thing to solely rely on it, but that doesn't mean that Jaime particularly feels like wandering through suburbia each time he wants to go from one place to the next. After visiting a friend in Nonah, he winds up listening to the Scarab and cutting through one of the nearby forests to get to the Porter a little quicker when he runs into a stag.

Jaime has not, as a rule, run into much nature. Whenever it is particularly notable, he has to admit that it's usually been tampered with and, unfortunately, dedicated to trying to kill him in some way, shape or form.

Helpfully, Khaji suggests: Unknown: danger. Suggestion: lasers.

"Nuh uh," he mutters underneath his breath, because really, Khaji needs to learn to stop suggesting lasers as the response to everything. That had been his response to Mrs. G earlier that day because Jaime had felt insistently annoyed with her, though Khaji had sheepishly suggested gentle lasers.

Either way, he holds his hands up in front of himself and backs up a couple steps. "Oh, whoa, boy. It's okay, I'm just going to..."

He winces. "Why am I talking to you like you're a dog?"

So, okay, Chrollo has definitely never worn waders before. And he wasn't sure how he'd feel about fishing, despite having volunteered to do it. But actually? It's nice. The morning hair is cooler than he'd expected - pleasantly cool, and the peace is quite welcome as well. For someone with so much happening in his life at any given time, he can't say that any amount of peace is unwelcome.

Still... every time he throws that line out, he can't help wondering how long it would take to learn how to hit someone in the eye with that hook.

...not gonna say that!

"I can see why you enjoy this." Chrollo grins in that pleasant way he has - that no, seriously, i'm a nice guy and not at all a killer or anything way. "You... used to work at a bait shop, didn't you?"

Will mentioned something about that during the fair of many swapped memories, he's pretty sure.

It's from the section that he is purposefully avoiding that Revan glides out and nearly runs into Will, a stack of books tucked in the crook of his arm and one open for his perusal as he walks.

Normally the call wouldn't have been so close to a collision with Revan's ability to perceive space around him. But there's nothing like a good book to cause the rest of the world to fall away.

"Oh. Pardon me." Revan says, stopping just short of an accident, slapping a hand down on his book on jurisdictional precedent to prevent it from sliding free. "I guess I let myself get distracted." Offering a warm smile.

He wanders. It's part of his charm.

No, okay, mostly it's because it's just what he's done since he crash landed on this planet (the one back home) and considering that he can see above the trees, it makes him feel like he can get a better grasp on the world around him. As if height might provide some sort of information he can't gain otherwise. Not to mention he really is just sort of fond of the open spaces in nature, the silence away from the buzz of the big city. He keeps getting lost everywhere he goes in the cities when he's small and mute - at least like this getting lost feels like he's still where he should be. It's never lost, its just new spaces. New trees, new grass, new places to look without the pressure of the swell of people he doesn't know how to adapt to.

Though, it also means stumbling onto people who don't expect a fifty foot robot to be peering over their shoulder.

Hanging back at the edge of brush nearby, Ig just stands, though he really isn't trying to hide so much as he's just plain ol' watching. He might even say hi in a minute but that tends to not go so well, so instead he watches the guy in wanders partway out into the water. He's expecting to be noticed any minute now, though it's possible that the man won't even look up, and so he cocks his head to the side, looking onward. He's jumped into lakes and all that but he's never fishe and well, he's just kind of curious. He can't help it.

He might even shrink himself in a couple of minutes but for now he's pretty cool like this.

Absent one Matt Murdock and one Allison Argent, Kate finds herself a lot more inclined to drink when her hours at work end. Without the secretarial assistance of Allison, she finds herself having to field a lot of phone calls. Matt's lost a number of cases already, and no amount of "oh, I promise, he'll be back" is really helping with them. They need help. Unfortunately, no amount of private detective savvy is going to get them the help they need.

Though she can easily have a glass of red wine after work, she decides to do it in a bar. She has her favorites around Heropa. Some are better for dancing with strangers. Others are better for sitting at the bar and chatting up the bar tender. At this establishment, she is chatting up her favorite bar tender when the woman points out the shaggy-haired Will at the pool tables. She mutters something about his career of choice, and Kate points out that she knows him.

Instead of hanging out, she slides off her stool to go over to the tables as he knocks a ball in. Kate, for what it's worth, knows only the basics of pool. Oh, she knows the rules in those basics, but it's not really her thing.

"Enjoying yourself? I never took you for the type to do this." To play pool. To be social enough to be able to be approached at all. Well, yes. She definitely didn't think Will would ever do that.

Whenever Will returns to his job at internal affairs after lunch, one of the officers will inform him that John Watson is waiting for him in one of their empty interrogation rooms. The good doctor hasn't gotten himself arrested or anything controversial like that. Apparently Will Graham just isn't important enough to warrant his own office. What a great consultant and police liaison officer he must be.

Hopefully he had a light lunch, because John needs to speak to him about certain revelations that recently came to light on Cinco de Mayo. He chose the police station for a good reason: it's a neutral ground for them to discuss what John has learned. Plus it has the least possibility of Mary showing up and shaking his resolve. He briefly considered trying to pin him down at the bait shop, but the ever present aroma of fish would have the same detriment as his wife appearing to subtly influence their conversation.

Yes, sitting in an empty room and looking at his wristwatch is a much better option. Better not keep him waiting any longer.

Red doesn't spend a whole lot of time reading, but she is, fortunately, a fairly quick reader so she can usually get through one before it was due and rendered late, thus incurring fees. A real scam if you asked her, but that's the government for you.

She had just returned a collection of Poe she had had for awhile, and though she had other recommendations from people on the network, the librarian that she had handed the books over to told her she ought to try someone called Lovecraft whom she claimed was "like, way scarier". Sadly, no one has mentioned to her to check out any stories about magical alien cats, but she might have seen something similar while passing the children's section if it ever comes up in polite conversation.

She walks out from between the shelves, staring at the cover image of a squid-headed man, brows furrowed deep in thought, wondering if she's ever met this man before because he looked so familiar.

[What kind of idiot turns down home brew? Will doesn't have anywhere else to be other than home later, and he's done enough damage to his liver in the past year to have helped his tolerance level up. Going to work the next day in a hangover that relates to being slowly burned out by the job isn't anything new to him, either, so who loses here?

Will's there in the twenty minutes he promised, and even though part of him knows he could get in without any problem if he just fiddled with that doorknob, Hank's got other people now. Will has no idea who they are, and he doesn't know what sort of powers he'd risk pissing off, so he opts to be a normal damn human bean and knock on the door/ring the bell as he shoots off a message to Hank that's just the word here. That's all that needs to be said, isn't it?

Though he does feel a little odd about not at least picking up an extra bottle of aspirin or something.]

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for ken;

iv

VI

i.

Maurtia Falls;

II

ii!

i

I

III. ...sorry i hope im not DROWNING YOU