Lecter Might Not Yet Wish To Give The Impression That He's Engaging In Close, Careful Observation, But

"Mira, then." He'll forget her name in no time at all and go back to calling her "child," or perhaps "the observant." Maxwell tends to characterize his pawns by what they do, rather than who they are.

...! "Was that--?"

The victim's ghost...?

Color him impressed. It seems his Mira can do more than just raise Max's spirits.

What an intriguing thing she's turned out to be.

Maxwell is no stranger to ghosts. One of his past deals revolved almost exclusively around keeping one of them tied to the physical realm. He's seen Abigail play, fight, rest, and everything in between. Verbal communication was not her strong suit, at least not to anyone other than her sister, but... still. She was capable of expressing something. Can this spirit not at least give them a hint regarding their killer?

"How did you do that?" he asks Mira with gentle, genuine curiosity. And then: "Did you get anything of use out of it?" Or was she just taking pity on the spirit, allowing it to leave rather than sit around watching people fail to help it?

There's no stopping the utter confusion on her face when he's outright laughing loudly, very uncertain why such information is making him laugh like he is. Was such things funny truly? And it's even more confusing when he's saying such information isn't going to help find this murderer. Then why was he asking?

"Blackmail...?" Mira murmurs out as he's explaining it. This, blackmail makes them rich? Being rich involved money did it not? Which, honestly wasn't something she needed really. Then, he's pulling to stand besides him along the wall, and she lets him for now even if she jumps at the sudden contact, still unused to touch.

"Kid? I am not the age of a child, far from it. Others have taken to calling me Mira."

Gently, she's taking hold of his hand to remove it as she moves away from his side, towards the body in question again and seems to pause for a moment. While it's unseen to the others right this moment, she's watching the soul of the recently deceased as it flickers above it. She knows others touching her physical self don't trigger seeing into their memoires, but does touching a soul in it's purist form for her trigger it?

Without a word, she reaches out, seemingly grabbing at air before suddenly there's a tiny flash of light and floating above her hand is a white form of energy with various spikes rippling and pulsating, giving it the appearance of a multi pointed star. There's an almost pensive look on her face before walking towards the nearest window and the star shaped soul slips through the glass and into the wildness, floating away.

"I am sorry I cannot guide you..."

Her little display is enough to make others focus more on themselves for now and split further up.

{ isola starter call ! || @oriar ! }

Now that he knows he'll never get back to the Constant, there's a strange pull to return there. That's you in a nutshell, William Carter. Always chasing what you can't have.

He doesn't really want to go back, of course. Not to the Throne, and not to the life of a survivor.

But.

It's been so long since he's been in civilization-- really been in it, not crept shadow-like into the real world-- that he finds himself retreating to the semi-familiar isolation of the forest quite soon into his stay on the island. He's indulged himself nonstop in the finer things of society, and now he needs to pause and reset before all of these recent changes completely overwhelm him. He imagines that this forest, with its easy-to-find forageables and mundane fauna, will be a perfectly relaxing alternative to his own spider-infested woods.

He's wrong.

Maxwell tears through the forest, eyes wide and wild. He's seen-- something. Something tall and shaped like Them that made his skin crawl and his sanity fall in an instant. He doesn't know where he's going, just that he needs to get away, and he almost doesn't notice when another figure (human-sized, thank goodness) appears out of the mist in front of him.

He makes a valiant effort to skid to a stop before he runs into them, but doesn't quite succeed; Maxwell slams into the stranger, toppling them both to the ground in a heap of limbs and disturbed leaves.

He scrambles to untangle himself, his gaze darting feverishly back and forth around the misty clearing.

"It's-- there--! It's coming, They're coming--! What are you waiting for, get up!"

“of course, take your time…”

{ isola starter call ! || @allhesaid ! }

Max clearly isn't the only one in this world who gets a sick sort of comfort out of watching other people suffer. He's entitled to it, as far as he's concerned; after what he's been through, it's only right that he gets to enjoy himself at someone else's expense. It's what They did to him it's what They're doing to Charlie right now and he can pass that pain along as much as he wants to, thank you very much.

(He thinks about the wave of Hounds that came three days before the completion of the portal. The fear in Wilson's eyes hadn't sparked any sort of joy that time, not like it did before. It's a lot harder to want to see someone hurt when they're sacrificing their safety to keep you alive. When they sacrificed everything to give you back your life in the first place--)

But these wannabe gladiators aren't Wilson, and Maxwell doesn't owe them a single thing. Besides, they volunteered for this, probably. All of the fun of watching people get hurt, none of the nagging guilt and regret for his past actions. What could be better!

He waves over his server, his eyes never leaving the fight.

"A Clover Club, please. Two, actually."

Fuel is important, duh 🙄

Maxwell's lip remains curled in a snarl. There is... a point to be made, yes, that the Librarian's words were nothing more than an empty threat. At the same time, it's a matter of respect. And lack thereof.

"Oh, please. As I said before, I always hold up my end of a deal. Just because you'd resort to violence doesn't mean I'd do the same."

Is Maxwell really trying to claim the moral high ground after everything he's done?

"If it's such a non-issue, then just apologize and let us get on with things. Unless your pride is more important to you than your pursuit of knowledge, Mr. Librarian."

The Librarian chuckled, a deep noise.

"Between us...if I have assessed you correctly...an empty threat as it was, for I did admit that I did not have my blade on me...should be nothing more than a trifle, yes?"

"Or are you such a stickler for this polite, respectable folly that you won't admit that, if within your power, you'd attack and peel the knowledge from my bones?"

Has anyone noticed Maxwell rips his own poster in half?

Is he here to perform? He hadn't thought about it; he had simply been wandering through town, carefree, until he had found somewhere that caught his eye. Naturally, that had been somewhere with a stage.

"I don't have any of my usual gear, unfortunately..."

But he doesn't need his Codex or props to wow an audience. He's the Amazing Maxwell! All he needs is his charm and some playing cards, and he has both of those in spades.

"But as a matter of fact, yes, I think I will perform. Once you've completed your lesson, of course. Are you a professional tutor, madame?"

(Her friends go ignored for the moment, all attention on Anne.)

Maria scoots to the side when the stranger sits next to her. She's still giving him a dirty look.

Anne seems more appreciative of the new audience member. "Aw, thank you!" she says with a smile and a curtsy.

"Yep, these are my friends!" she answers for them. "Are you here to perform, or you just droppin' by?"

Maria eases up on the glaring, though she keeps her arms crossed. Pearl smiles slightly, and Umbra nods in greeting. (Mister Blue, still standing by Maria's side, simply waves his tail and snorts.)

What an apt observation. How refreshing it is to meet someone else who recognizes the value of looking one's best!

"Correct." He'll take it as a good sign that Lecter can read people well. That is his job, isn't it?

Maxwell, for his part, does not take a seat. Good, Doctor. You sit. Forever. For some reason, the idea of settling into a chair in this enclosed space is utterly appalling.

"..." How to begin? Being honest, vulnerable... it's certainly not something he's used to. But he expects he'll be asked to pay a pretty penny just to be here, so he might as well get something out of it.

"I expected that being cut off from the dangers of my 'home realm' would likewise sever their hold on me, but I find that I am experiencing just as many nightmares now as I did before."

If anything, the nightly visions seem to have only grown worse since his arrival. It's as though the Stars have tampered with his very ability to mentally recover from moments of distress; he doesn't think that's possible, but he supposes it would be foolish to assume that anything is beyond their capabilities. And since he can no longer rely on a dapper suit and natural confidence to reassure him and sooth his nerves, it seems appropriate that he seek outside guidance.

He does not intend to spend his vacation in paradise plagued by terror.

"So what do you think? Is that something you can fix?"

it's not often that hannibal encounters someone dressed as well as him. in fact, he's noticed how rare it is to find someone dawning a suit for the sake of it, undistracted from the need of any social gathering. the man in front of him - maxwell, his file tells him - is dressed as if he will attend a networking event right after therapy, and so hannibal immediately knows he'll have much fascinating to say.

" ah, looks like we both dressed up for the occasion, " he says with a polite but amused grin, observing maxwell enter the room from where he's sat. " come on in, maxwell. you don't look like the type to pursue a psychiatrist's opinion, if you don't mind me saying. what brings you here? "

@codexvmbra liked for a starter!