"The Leaky Cauldron, thas in London." /Open/

[Deleted]

CRACK!

The domineering man appeared into the damp evening air, stumbling and wiping something against his lapel.The monster of a man, stroked his beard with that same hand, leaving streaks of crimson against the black fur that adorned his face. Hannibal shook his head, trying to shake the blow he'd taken to the temple a few moments prior to apparating. Groggily, with one eye open, he peered around the street; making sense of where he'd brought himself. Glazed eyes looked skyward at the swinging cauldron and Hannibal let out a burp under his breath before trudging forward. Booze, that'd work. He pushed at the door, and like most things pushed by a 6'8 monster, it swung heavily inward; crashing against the wall behind it. 

A hush seemed to fall over the Leaky Cauldron as his body invaded the doorway, he was still hunched as he finally stepped through. Collectively he could smell the fear well up. Not because any of them knew who he was, no he had done his Father proud and kept himself hidden from most of the prying eyes in the UK. Russia, was different. In the small villages he used to raid for fun they had folklore about him and his ilk. The thought made him smirk to himself, slapping the door shut with a lazy flick of his hand. Hannibal ran a calloused claw through his disheveled mane; black eyes bore into the man behind the bar as the stool creaked to hold his massive frame.

"Strongest." He uttered, a thick Russian accent rolling from his tongue. "No price matter." He added, tapping the bar with one thick finger. One shot was placed gingerly in front of him, and upon taking it, the Cauldron seemed to return to its usual drivel. Hannibal would find a new mark, after all all that'd been asked for proof of this last one was an ear. And he'd taken more than that, including the mans child more or less. Those claws scratched at the bar again and he could already hear the whispers. His hair, his claws, the red stains... As if Hannibal made any move to hide what he was. His bloodline, perhaps, but times were changing. A new Dark Lord was rising, and that left room for Fenrir to come out of hiding. Eventually he would run into the purifiers, sniff them out if he had to. For now he'd focus on getting completely pissed.

Eight shots later.

Hannibal scowled to himself, knocking back another. Tasted like swill, but had no punch. He had wanted to ruin his liver, not buy it dinner. With a scowl he slammed a hand against the bar, coins sprawling every which way. "Just leave bottle." He barked, jabbing a thumb at a darkened table in the far corner. "Send barmaid with red meat." He leaned over the bar, his voice low and threatening; when is it not? "Red. Meat. No cook." Whether the man was bothered, or scared, it didn't show on his round face. But he provided Hannibal with his requested bottle, and glared at Hannibals back as he made his way through the small evening crowd like a bull in a china shop. Perhaps in the wild Hannibal was graceful, but in the civilized world he appeared much like an overgrown oaf.

Dare you to say it to his face.

He waited, impatiently, chugging the bottle. When the plate clinked before him his hand snatched the barmaids wrist like lightening. She let out a little squeak and that only served to feed he predator beneath the man. His grip strengthened, claws biting into flesh. He ran his thumb over the softness of her wrist, his claw just above that heartbeat. A familiar hunger rose within him and he slapped her hand away as she tried to yank it. "Another." Was all he barked, not bothering with silverware while ripping into the fresh meat before him.

/OOC: I'm waaaaaay out of practice, come play/

[maxima ruqayyah greyback]

Maxima, being underage for another year, was limited in her transportation options by her inability to Apparate to where she needed to go. For magical locations, her quickest option to get anywhere was via the Floo Network, of which she made use in getting to the Leaky Cauldron.

It was later than she would have liked by the time that she arrived, having intended to make her purchases earlier in the day. The shops would be closing before much longer, she knew, so she needed to hurry.

Bag gripped tightly in hand, she stepped out of the fireplace and into the pub. Max knew that it would be quite busy with people who were eating dinner or—more likely than that—getting drunk, and the last thing that she needed was to run into any trouble.

She looked around to make sure that she wasn’t in the path of anyone or anything and nearly staggered backwards into the fireplace when she saw him. At least a foot taller than she and certainly more than double her weight, there sat a man who easily could have been part giant. From the color of his hair, which wasn’t yet greying, he looked much younger than she anticipated… And he was tearing into some cut of meat.

Cringing as she watched his barbarism and nearly hitting her head on the mantel behind her in the process, she knew that she couldn’t have been seeing what she thought she was seeing: Fenrir himself. She had imagined it plenty of times, crafting what she would do or say if she ever saw her biological father in the flesh. In all of those scenarios, though, she had always had her wand on her, and she’d always pictured the setting as Knockturn Alley or somewhere similarly dangerous—not a place she had been countless times in her sixteen years of life.

She knew that her entire body must have been shaking, though she tried to hold her ground and blend in. Fenrir was a savage, but she knew that he wasn’t stupid. He must have known about Elias, and he must have known about Elias’s death. By extension, that led to her… She was the one who had started the Elias Greyback Memorial Relief Fund. It was publicized; she’d spoken about it on the WWN, for Merlin’s sake, and her name—if not her likeness—had certainly appeared in the coverage of the Triwizard Tournament.

Fenrir must have known who she was. He had come back for his children before, yet she had been spared. She took a step forward, towards him, and then she took another. If a fugitive was so brazen as to be in the Leaky Cauldron so casually, what was stopping her?

@hannii
OOC: Hey, bro!

[Deleted]

Hannibal ripped into the piece of bleeding meat, practically warm from slaughter. His head was clear as a bell, considering he'd finished the bottle the tender had provided. His gaze had been preoccupied with the second slab of fresh meat approaching him when she walked in. Hannibal paid her no mind, not recognizing her with food on the brain. He gruffly demanded the barmaid bring back another bottle, sloppily handing her bloody coin. He would have to distill his own drink while visiting this island. Even at Durmstrang they drank stronger spirits. He licked his lips when the scent of fear, fresh fear, filled his nose.

Like a drug, his black eyes rolled into the back of his head. That was a much more intoxicating fear. A familiar fear. Like two black balls of fire his gaze fell on her, setting her ablaze with interest. Kinfolk. His fathers ilk, clearly. She peered at him as if she knew him, flecks of meat still painting his beard. Hannibal watched her like the wolf he'd been raised to be as she moved closer, his massive frame overshadowing the seat he resided. His head tilted to watch her, curious as her intention. She couldn't know who he was, and as the light struck her face at just the right angle it donned on him; her name. Maxima. He'd remembered the photos from Sarah's reports. Memorial... Daddy must be so proud.

Black eyes narrowed and one large boot landed squarely on his table as he dug back into his steak. His bite deliberate, flashing filed teeth meant for ripping. Killing. But closer she came, entranced almost to him. Not a word was spoken, and Hannibal merely glared as he chewed. A man of few words, and rubbish English. He looked her over, trying to recall all the information he'd been given on this sibling of his. Her importance and whether or not her death might stir the mighty Fenrir to return; be it to scold him or praise him he didn't much care. The old man had been a lapdog half his rise to power, and Hannibal would see that remedied. Dark Lord or not, his kind would no longer be looked at in disgust.

Fear would do just fine.

"What?" He barked at her, his voice booming over the patrons. "How can I help you, little pup?" He cracked a wicked smile as the maid finally handed him another bottle. He cackled to himself, biting the cork off and spitting it into his hand before taking a swallow. Of course he was mocking her, why wouldn't he mock her? He motioned to the chair across from him; his boot still firmly on the table, "Please. Be guest." He cackled coldly, leaning forward to tear back into the pile of gore before him. If she was going to bother him while he ate, then she would have to watch the mess that ensued. 

/OOC: Hai! Still getting into my groove, eventually dialogue will improve./

[maxima ruqayyah greyback]

Before she had gotten any closer to him, he noticed her. “What?” Fenrir demanded of her, his voice louder than any other noise in the room. “How can I help you, little pup?”

Max said nothing and kept her expression as neutral as she could. He would be able to smell her fear, she guessed, so she tried not to give him anything to use against her. The more she could seem as though she didn’t care one bit, the better off she was going to be.

It was easier said than done, however. He bit off the cork of the bottle that was handed over to him and spat the thing back out into his hand. Max tried not to flinch at it; the meat was bad enough. To her surprise, he motioned for her to join him at his table, as though he were being… fatherly. His boot was still on the table, though that wasn’t the only consideration he lacked.

“Please. Be guest.”

At those words, Max realized that something was amiss. Fenrir’s English was as unrefined as his manner of eating. It didn’t sound as she’d expected. Fenrir wasn’t Russian. She blinked, watching the man warily.

“You’re… not Fenrir,” she began slowly, almost accusatory in the way she spoke. She hadn’t moved an inch. “Are you?”

@hannii

[Deleted]

He could smell her, and all he wanted was another slab of meat. Fear was always the most intoxicating. The closer she got, the more pungent the sweet aroma. He closed his eyes a moment, he could practically taste it in the air. Feel it split, like weak flesh, in the air. He tore into the remainder of his steak, blinking away a bit of confusion when she mentioned his father. His English was good, in his head, it just didn't connect well with his mouth. Years of hiding in the frozen wasteland will do that. Hannibal raised one scarred brow, her words finally registering. She thought he was Fenrir? He found it both flattering and disturbing. 

The massive man took to massaging his beard, trying to decide whether or not he should be offended to be thought a man well in his 80s. He thought he was a might pretty. He decided it wasn't unlikely for his father to appear younger than he was. Magical folk often did. Hannibal grinned to himself, looking her over again. He swung another boot onto the table, trying to make himself comfortable in accommodations much too small. Linking his clawed hands on his stomach, gaze studying her carefully, he finally shook his head. He thought about saying yes, taking that claim. Mostly because what would piss dear old dad off more than an impostor. However, Hannibal wasn't trying to ruin the steadily cultivated relationship he had with his old man.

No, he wanted that ally; old or not.

Picking his teeth with his tongue Hannibal lazily took another swig from his bottle. "No. Am not Fenrir." He stated clearly, gingerly stroking his beard with his free claw. "Though, am flattered." He chuckled to himself, bowing his head in mockery. "But why does Maxima seek her Da?" He chided, swirling the bottles contents before throwing it back again. Finally his head was feeling the slight fuzz of an alcoholic buzz. He grinned to himself, finding solace in that numbing sensation. It wouldn't last long, he knew, but for now it was all he longed for. Hannibal leaned forward, one boot slapping the ground as he did. "Approval?" He joked sarcastically. "Or vengeance?" He growled, his tone deepening. 

Honestly he didn't care much, unless she had useful information on where he was hiding out her reasons were of no real consequence. Fenrir had vanished with the last battle of Voldy. Like a puff of smoke and fur. Just gone. How his dad, a man who honestly wasn't that bright, managed to do so was still a mystery. One he'd eventually get to the bottom of, but for now he still had to find the man. He wondered, then, if this little lass even knew of his existence. Everyone knew Greyback had kids. The old lunatic never made it private that he planned to spread across the globe. But few knew of the one following his footsteps.


"Hannibal." He finally barked, frisbee-ing his now empty plate across the room. Whether they caught it or not was really of no concern to him; they're lucky he made any attempt to use a plate in the first place. He flashed her another toothy grin, nodding his head and meeting her gaze. "Greyback." He added for emphasis. Hey how's it going little sis... just didn't quite fit this werewolves demeanor. 

Spilled the beans second evening in the UK. Tsk tsk. He was sick of living in shadow and smoke. Sick of pretending to be someone he wasn't, or not claiming his heritage.


If Fenrir wouldn't reign, Hannibal would.

maxima ruqayyah greyback

[maxima ruqayyah greyback]

He wasn’t Fenrir, he said after another swig of alcohol. He stroked his beard and told her that he was flattered by the comparison, which Max knew didn’t bode well for her. She didn’t think that this man—whoever he was—was any more gentlemanly sober than he was when he was intoxicated.

“But why does Maxima seek her Da?”

Although she knew to expect that he might know her by name, Max could feel a chill run straight down her spine when he said it aloud. He looked creepy, almost mad, as he grinned, and she felt as though the barbaric man could see right through her. She jumped when his boot made contact with the floor, not expecting the sudden noise that came from it.

“Approval?” he asked her. “Or vengeance?” He let out a noise that seemed more animal than human, and Max didn’t know how to answer him. She didn’t even have a clear idea of who this man was, even though he seemed eerily similar to how she had always pictured her biological father. Max didn’t want acceptance from Fenrir. She didn’t think that he would be in any way kind to her, though he had done her the favor of not biting her… (That was the only complimentary thing that she had to say about him.)

Neither did Max want vengeance against Fenrir, exactly. Without him, she knew that she wouldn’t have come into existence, nor would she have met her half-siblings by him or her near-cousins… Fenrir had given her a support system. Even though she knew that that had never been his goal, that was what he’d done. There were plenty of things that he’d done wrong, though, too. She had no intention of seeking him out and killing him, but she wanted to see him locked away in Azkaban, where he wouldn’t be capable of hurting anyone else.

Finally, the man gave his name. “Hannibal,” he said it was. His eyes then met hers as he offered his family name. “Greyback.”

It was the same, of course, as her own surname. Yet this man, Hannibal, was as far from being like her as anyone could get. Looking at his features with more clarity now that they had locked eyes, she could see familiar features. Beginning to feel sick to her stomach, she realized how young Hannibal actually was. Granted, he must have been about her mother’s age, but the resemblance was there. With how old Fenrir must have been by comparison, the odds were against Hannibal’s being her uncle.

She put her bag onto her shoulder as she continued to look at Hannibal. If he wasn’t her father and he wasn’t her uncle, there was a chance that he could have been a cousin, perhaps, or even a fanatical devotee to Fenrir’s idea of a werewolf army… No, Max knew. She knew full well.

“You’re my brother,” she stated, her shock past her now. “You’re one of us.” He was just as related to her as Jamie was, yet Jamie was as far from what Max saw in front of her as anyone could get. It would have been almost comical if it weren’t a bitter reminder of who and what had fathered her. The public saw the Greyback name as everything that Hannibal was: crude and almost subhuman. He epitomized everything that Jamie had tried to explain to her, the pressures that she was under as a werewolf with that same infamous name.

How different from that they had managed to turn out, though. The half-siblings of which she had been aware up until meeting Hannibal, they were all reasonably good people. Max now found herself staring straight into the eyes of the flip side of that. Hannibal was who they could have become instead.

There was even a part of her that wanted to ask him what information he had. Did he know of Fenrir’s whereabouts? Did they have even more half-siblings of which he was aware but they were not? It was all wishful thinking, though. Max’s chances of getting anything truthful or substantial out of Hannibal without Legilimency or Veritaserum seemed slim to none.

On the other hand, though, she could at least warn the others that they had another half-brother, one who probably wouldn’t be joining in any of their reunions.

@hannii