[TW: Gore and Blood.]
I looked toward the broken down building in a darkened corner of Old Town, a sense of trepidation seizing my chest. It wasn’t often that I returned here. Only when I needed to remind myself just what the fuck I’m doing with my life. Even so, it was always hard for me to…
After a good night’s sleep and a very stern talking to from his husband, Natharai currently sits upon his chair in such a way it evokes the imagery of a surly cat glaring at you while its tail thrashed behind it.
"…Right," he grumbles faintly before dragging a slender hand down his face, roughly scrubbing at one of his cheeks. Fine. Let’s just get this over with. "There was a question before about how casting magic feels before I, ah, had my episode…"
He pauses to lightly clear his throat. Yes.
"The sensations that one experiences during their spellcrafting varies from person to person and with what sort of magic they specialize in. I cannot speak for everyone, of course, so I will cover what I feel when I utilize my own."
"Once upon a time, I used to be a firecaster, but I dislike handling fire magic since it tends to make the user increasingly angry and violent. There were many times in my youth where I would find myself completely lost in it as I burned my targets to cinders. One time I was pretty sure I ‘came to’ still practically frothing at the mouth.”
He punctuates this with a sigh. “Affliction magic… This one is hard to describe. During the weaving process, I feel a strange, yet comforting, numbness in my mind. Everything seems clearer than before, for whatever reason. But, mind you, prolonged exposure to fel magic gives you a different sensation.”
A hesitant pause follows. “I do not know if you have ever dabbled in recreational drugs, but the siren song of the Fel is not terribly unlike it. …The high you get from using such a thing is sweet, intoxicating, and being deprived of it after prolonged and repeated exposure is not unlike being stuck in a desert without a drop of water to drink.”
"The only problem is," he murmurs unhappily, "it is a desert you can never leave and oases are far and few."
The scent of the sea permeated every ounce of his being, from his skin to his clothing, even though he no longer wandered the shores at that moment.
Yet the smell of brine elicited complicated emotions from the man if he allowed his mind to wander. He remembered Menethil, its land soggy with mud and greenery as freshwater met the sea, and being hidden away in a room where its scent mingled with that of antiseptic, linens, and dust. He remembers the glint of surgical tools, even beyond the encroaching anesthetic haze of that choked him of his sight.
He remembers Stormwind Harbor and his long talks with Miles Campion, man he once detested, but now considers a brother. How often did the two share woes, jokes, and idle banter amidst a cloud of cigarette smoke? Natharai, honestly, had lost track but even then he still goes to Harbor in search for answers, pretending that the red-head was still at his side.
Charcoal was a happy reminder of halcyon days long passed; Of hot and sticky summers and of the festivals his village would hold during Midsummer. Brilliant streamers of red, gold, and blue ran between the eaves of the buildings. Singers warbled joyful folk tunes, accompanied by the soft beat of a drum, as a pair of costumed dancers swayed rhythmically.
His mother, who took the week off just this occassion, would come back from her post from the Zoram Strand and press tender kisses upon her little son’s forehead. While most would have considered her to be standoffish and quietly intimidating, her lionheart always melted when it came to the affairs of her family – whom she missed terribly during the longer stretches of her deployment.
He remembers sitting upon a blanket, overlooking the festivities, as they all noshed upon skewers of barbecued meat: Venison, river eel, boar, and even barbecued fruit. And as the daylight began to cede, they would all go to a well-loved river, its waters warm due to hidden underground hot springs, and swim, play, and laugh well into the depths of the evening.
The slip inside Natharai’s post office box denotes a pickup is required. A rough scrawl of writing is added to the bottom of the official note, saying something about a curse of fleas of a thousand camels, but it is only partly legible. It seems that the mail carrier was less than impressed with having to transport such a heavy crate for such a long distance.
It is in fact the same crate that Natharai had sent to Howling Fjord; however Olliver’s name has been painted over, bearing Natharai’s name and address in it’s place. Tucked securely into the slats of the crate is a note.
I apologise profusely for how long it has taken me to send you these. I had anticipated that I would have the ‘tusk meat to you much sooner, but I had trouble finding a courier.
The upside to this delay, is that I also managed to procure the Worg fangs and clean the Shoveltusk bone. There should only be the venom left, yes? It would appear that the notice you originally pinned up has gone astray somewhere in my house. I’ve had the pleasure of babysitting several young kittens, so as you can imagine many of my possessions are no longer in their original state. This includes my toes and fingers.
I do hope you find the meat to your liking. If you decide you’re feeling brave enough to try the black pudding, let me know what you think!
I hope you’ve been well otherwise.
P.S. I think I had trouble with the courier because of the blood. Because of the delay I went and stunned another ‘tusk (they’re coming more north now) and bled it so that it would be fresh for you to cook with. I only asked that he stir the bucket every so often to keep it from clotting. People are so squeamish!
The crate contains the following items:
A medium sized burlap pouch containing assorted sized Worg canines, with a few molars thrown in for good measure.
1 x Shoveltusk femur, fastidiously picked clean (though still mottled with discolouration due to lack of bleaching)
2 x Shoveltusk shoulder roast, each approx. 15kg apiece.
10 x Shoveltusk steaks, approximately 700g apiece.
12 x Shoveltusk ribs, approximately 100-200g apiece.
A small pouch of what appears to be several meaty pieces of tailbone. ‘For stock’ is inscribed on a small card attached to the twine binding the pouch. All pieces of meat are carefully wrapped in damp cloth.
The warlock’s hazel eyes have gone bright yellow as he stares in horror at yet another person. Who are these people and how do they keep getting into his home…?!
An eye twitch here, a nervous tic there, and soon Natharai’s lips slowly press together as his irritation is reaching catastrophic levels.
Natharai just…stares at the question asker, unbridled annoyance visible in his eyes, as he felt something bump up against one of his legs. With a quick glance, he looks down and sees it is one of Scooter and Sparky’s hatchlings… Oh. Great! The raptors are loose! AGAIN! JOY OF JOYS!
But…wait. This might be the moment he needs. Swiftly, the dark man scoops up the hatchling in both of his hands and holds it out in front of him like he is brandishing a weapon. “You are to LEAVE my home or, so help me, I will command this creature to bite you like you never thought possible.”
His eyes squint with near manic desperation as he grumbles, firmly tapping an index finger upon its flat head. “Do you know this little monster has more than seventy-five razor sharp teeth in its mouth and it is compelled to teethe on EVERYTHING?!” He gives the hatchling a good squeeze, causing the little critter to squawk dumbly as Nath comes ever closer – holding the raptorling dangerously close to the person’s face.
Once he drives the unwanted question asker back enough, he slams the door shut and the tiny raptor flops out of his hand – plopping onto the floor with a dull bounce.
The warlock bristles and soon lets out a comically tormented wail of aggravation as his knees bow inwards and his hands reach above him in abject frustration. “I LIVE IN HELL…!” He looks down at the raptor briefly, which makes a gurglely burping noise.
"…AND IT IS A ZOO!”
Natharai’s eyes narrow at this person’s insistence on persecuting him. “Oh for pity’s…” His sentence abruptly cuts off with a huff. “Why don’t you chase after the succubi-toting wantons crawling around Stormwind? No? Perhaps the ones with bloody demon horns growing out of their skulls?! If you are just that desperate for someone to affix condemnations on, I am very sure they will give you more than ample fuel for your mob’s pyre.”
"Now, please leave me be," he mutters with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I have better things to do than entertain your suspicions."
A little detail shot of my current W.I.P. painting that just sorta started happeningbecause of NATHARAI
Anyway Cadence is best for painting people who are pissed and or tragic.
It’s been a long time since I felt inspired to paint, and honestly I kinda feel like quitting that job was the best for my mental health because I actually have energy to be creative again? Iunno~
((Cadence looks so lovely! Haunted, but lovely nonetheless. <3))
Natharai lifts an eyebrow slowly at the questions, sniffing once as he takes a moment to gather his thoughts.
"I do. Regrettably. While I was technically ‘retired’ for a few years, I was, ah, ‘encouraged’ to rescind that decision of mine. I am sure that this is nothing more than a fool’s folly, but I have been attempting to find beneficial applications of my…craft."
The slender man shrugs before settling into his seat. “Whether or not one should trust me is entirely up to the individual. I tend to be mum on the subject of my magic, if only so I may be judged on the merits of my actions rather than that.”
"Alas, nothing in life is ever simple…"