The Night of the River and Blade [Chat Log]

[Natharai]

((OOC Note))

This is just to help give a little bit of context to what happened between Aren and Nath in the events described in their last journal entries. The flow isn't perfect because it's a slightly prettied up log, but if I wanted to completely fix it I'd have to rewrite everything. So, that being said, here it is.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Another day, another hot early-summer afternoon. Aren has spent the better part of the day fussing over his tomatoes, but as the sun has gotten lower, he's lumbered back to the house to check on Natharai. Whether or not the warlock is aware of it, he's made a point of discreetly checking on him every couple hours or so as long as he's nearby. It gives him a much-needed break from his daily chores, and... well, since the 'book incident', he's felt compelled.

He rarely interferes, and in point of fact, may not even make his presence known if Natharai is busy doing something or another. He doesn't want him to necessarily be -aware- he's being observed and all, but as time goes on, his concern has deepened.

And so, he ambles back to the house onto the porch, peering in the window briefly to see if Nath is inside within easy view.

The warlock, for the most part, has been a bit of a homebody and continuing to take it easy ever since things quieted down on their new homestead. He has not done much today, save write a bit in that green book of his and see to the interior of the house being cleaned (floor swept, rugs beaten, surfaces dusted, and so on). As for where he keeps that journal of his... it is anyone's guess since Natharai takes precautions in trying to be discreet as possible regarding it. Ever since that day when he had that panic attack over it being 'lost', he knows Arenvald is curious about it...and he can't afford to have him know about it–Not yet, at least. However, it does not seem that he keeps it hidden in his study, the living room, or bedroom...but he is usually seen with it in the first two places previously mentioned.

Currently he sits upon the couch in the sitting area of the living room, head tilted up towards the ceiling as an opened book rests on his lap–a novel, from the looks of it. He does not look particularly distressed, far from it really, and just more...spaced out.

Aren frowns vaguely. Hn. That's...odd. Natharai hasn't demonstrated a particular propensity toward daydreaming. He moves silently away from the window, but makes no particular effort to hide his bootsteps up to the door, pushing it open as he pulls his now-habitual towel off his head and drapes it over his shoulder.

"Oi, Natharai," he rumbles, casually smiling at him on his way to the sink. "Thinkin' about 'avin' a nap?" If the warlock is paying any attention, he's likely to tip to the fact that Aren's watching -him- keenly to judge his reaction.

Though it is a good thing that Natharai is hardly paying -any- attention at all to this otherwise obvious fact that Aren's watching him a little too closely... With a startled blink and a mindless 'wuh?', he looks up at the highlander vacantly for a brief period of time while the wheels in his head start turning back to a functional speed (one could likely hear the whirring if you leaned in close enough). "...Ah. No, I just was elsewhere for a moment," he murmurs while rubbing at his eyes, lightly knocking his reader glasses up towards his forehead. "How are things coming in the garden?" A pause follows as his glasses fall back down, crookedly, onto the bridge of his nose. "Do you need help?"

Aren rumbles quietly, wordless for a moment, but shakes his head. ".... Nar, s'gettin' dark," he eventually adds. "Well, will be before too long. Not much else 'ta do out there. Damn squirrels're gettin' th' young tomatoes, but I can't see ye chasin' 'em aroun' lightin' em on fire, so... wouldn't worry 'bout it."

He heads for the sink to wash up. "Wot'che readin'?" It's a casual, offhand question, but... it's one more thing to watch. Is he going to have to look at it to remember what it was?

The comment about setting squirrels on fire earns a faint snort and a lopsided smirk from the warlock. "Chase them...? You must think me as terrible with my fire magic as I am with fist fighting." Which he is pretty terrible at, but he is getting better! "I will be sure to fricassee any wayward critter accosting your tomatoes then..."

However, the reply towards his reading content, thankfully, comes quickly. "Ah," he says with a somewhat pleased lilt to his otherwise casual tone. "It is just a collection of poetry I fancied a couple years ago... I am simply revisiting some of my favorites." He doesn't seem suspicious about the question, being he takes it as just harmless small talk. No shame in being curious in the other's activities and all.

And to some degree it was small talk – It just had an ulterior motive, and one that is satisfied by the smooth response. "A'right. Never was much one 'fer poetry," he rumbles with a lopsided smirk in response to the warlock's amused expression. Gee, THERE'S a big shock.

"S'good 'ta go back an' reread things sometimes, though." He dries his hands off, leaning against the counter. "So. Got anythin' planned for this evening? Could make a nice dinner..." He pauses, then eyes the hearth. "Better go out an' cut s'more wood though, 'fore it gets totally dark." He's been letting the piles get down to sticks lately since they haven't needed it for heating.

Natharai arches his back as he sits up, idly popping a few stiff joints before rubbing gently at the small of it. "Mm... Not exactly, however I was considering on taking a walk and get a bit of air. I have been indoors most of the day and I should go say goodnight to the sun." Another small smirk is offered as he sets the book down upon the coffee table, standing up. "I hope you do not mind, but I should be back in time to help with dinner."

Aren nods amiably. "S'a good evenin' fer it too," he opines, "Mosquitoes ain't bad yet." And he hasn't seen a bandit in a few weeks, so he doesn't worry about the warlock stumbling into an ambush or the like.

He moves over to steal a kiss lightly when the other man moves toward him and for the door. "An' I appreciate it. Th' help that is." That said, he waits for Natharai to pass by and out the door before following him, pulling the door closed behind them.

Aren pauses on the step, watching the warlock make his way down the steps and off across the grass. His eyes narrow slightly, though not in anger or suspicion, merely thoughtfulness. Hnn. Well, a walk should do him some good, if nothing else.

Once he's out of sight in the trees, Aren makes his own way down the steps and around the side of the house to the stump he uses for a chopping block, unlimbering the axe and letting 'nature' take its course. It's much easier to swing an axe in his now-'natural' state, after all.... and it means he can keep an ear out. Paranoid wolf... is paranoid, dagnabbit. But it's -justified-.

Though Aren was right... It is a good evening for a stroll, the cooling air that is ushered along with the gentle coastal breeze is just balmy enough to be pleasant without being sticky. The setting sun hangs heavily in the sky, tinting the clouds brilliant shades of gold, orange, and red while the dimming light illuminates the wings of gnats flitting above in ever-shifting plumes. At first, the warlock does not seem to have much of a destination in mind, but eventually settles on the barely worn footpath that leads down to the river.

Eventually he reaches the northern shore of the winding river that splits pastoral Elwynn Forest from its polar opposite, Duskwood, and begins searching for river rocks to skip across. He finds skipping rocks to be kind of silly, but it is satisfying in its simplicity to see just how many times you can make a stone jump (His personal best is thirteen times). Bit by bit, he plucks up suitable subjects and cradles them in his left palm, quietly humming a folk tune all the while. Now...while Natharai does not sing, hum, or whistle much (if at all) around others, he certainly enjoys doing so when he thinks he's alone.

Out flies a rock across the amber-lit water... Skip. Skip. Skip. Skip... And then another.

Up by the house, long, tufted ears flick at a distant sound carried on the breeze. For a moment, the swing of the axe halts, and a dark nose turns toward the river while he listens. The humming is all but inaudible, even to lupine ears, but for a moment, Aren listens to the distant 'splik splik splik' of the skipping stones before identifying it for what it is.

His ears flick idly, but he smiles faintly to himself before going back to chopping wood. The warlock can probably hear the sound in the distance, the faint, repetitive 'chunk' of the axe as it hits home. Aren is engaged in his own thinking. He has no idea what Campion's been up to.... but it's not going fast enough for his preferences. Letters haven't gotten any useful response so far... so maybe it's time he goes up there and does some cage-rattling in person. He can probably get a portal. Grrf.

After a good while of pitching eight or so aerodynamically-sound river rocks, the warlock soon finds himself out of ammo. Well...good thing that there is plenty around! That is the thing about skipping rocks...it's hard to just stop at one handful sometimes. So the spindly dark-skinned man sets off in this task and, once again, starts scuffing stones around with the toes of his shoes to find just the perfect ballistic candidate–which he finds multiples of...and a bonus prize.

Once enough river stones are scooted around, Natharai catches a glimpse of a damp arc of white nestled beneath the layer. What's this...? He stoops down to carefully pluck up the object between two fingers before standing once again, studying his new find. ...Hm. A bone...a rib, to be exact. Now, being he is what he is and knows what he knows...Natharai is no stranger to the physical anatomy of various humanoids that make up this planet. Judging from the size, curvature, and thickness...this is likely from an unfortunate human male. And judging from the troughs dug out by pointed teeth, he was more than just unfortunate.

While the former owner of this rib bone might have suffered a terrible fate... Natharai was quick to dismiss it as just that. There are bandits, wolves, bears, and the occasional stray worgen from across the river or orcish scout from Redridge and the Blasted Lands. Elwynn, in all its beauty and serenity, is not exactly safe and sound. With a haphazard toss into the shallows of the river, the bone sinks out of sight as he carries on down the path in search for more skipping rocks. Out of sight, out of mind, and all that...

At least that was true until he happened upon a few sun-bleached sections of phalanges lying before him... Okay, finding a stray rib can be written off as chance, but finding one...two...three fingerbones soon afterward was suspicious. Was the whole skeleton of this poor soul around here somewhere?

With a solid clatter of falling rock, the skipping stones were soon forgotten as Natharai picks up the detached finger segments and begins jostling them around upon his palm like oddly shaped dice. While this poor soul could have died any number of ways and his bones were picked clean by wolves and carrion feeders, he does not find the harm in doing a bit of searching of his own. One primary teaching that is shared among all shadowcasters is that if a creature, be it beast or mortal, suffers a traumatic death a 'haze' of negative energy lingers about its remained–steeped in the misery and anguish of its departing (or in some cases, still remaining) soul...all of which have a specific signature. All souls are like fingerprints...every one of them are different.

And after a few moments of quiet concentration...the different pieces of this skeleton begin revealing themselves to him, one by one, and cause him to furrow his brow at the realization. They are, mostly, in the river...in one spot, save a few pieces that were likely knocked free by feeding fish and rough current. Okay, so this paints a different picture... Either this person drown and remnants were gnawed upon by creatures who happened upon them on the shore. Or it was a murder...the person's remains dumped into the water to hide the evidence. The latter is not a far stretch considering that Elwynn has its fair share of bandits...however, there is just something about this whole situation that makes him think that it's not the work of bandits at all.

...Especially when focusing on that specific signature, down in the watery depths, makes him notice another one nearby...and another...and another. WIth each new aura he stumbles upon, the wider his eyes become. How many are down there...?! It reaches a point where he just stops counting and silently concludes on it being 'too many'. This wasn't a river... it was a murder's dumping ground – One that is practically in his own back yard! This is serious...if there is a killer this close to Aren and him, he needs to take a closer look, gather some bones, and perhaps attempt a scrying in his basement lab.

He takes the time to place the fingerbones upon the ground before removing his shoes, socks, and overshirt before wading into the cool river water in only his pants and undershirt. Soon, the warlock descends into the depths and casts a simple breath spell to let him stay under as long as he needs. Sure, he can't see very well due to the light, but as long as he can sense where these bones are...he should be fine.

The bottom of the river is dark and quiet, full of thick reeds and fuzzy green muck, but it's cool and the current is not so strong as to pull the warlock downstream. This has probably had quite a bit to do with the bones he seeks not being washed down toward Westfall as one might have hoped. It does make the remains harder to find, as those fallen further out into the water have in most cases gained a thick coat of algae. Even with the help of spiritual senses guiding him in the proper direction, more than a few 'ribs' have proven to be waterlogged sticks, or 'skulls' proven to be water-worn stones.

But there's still an awful lot of faint echoes lingering in the dark waters, albeit 'incomplete' ones. Some of the bones found are splintered as if something had been seeking the marrow, and most bear the now-familiar gouges of fangs. None of them bear any flesh, though; the fish having long since gotten what scraps the original predator had missed. Nor does he find all the bones of any one skeleton, although of the ones he's found, they've all been human save for one thick gnoll skull that proved to be too heavy for the current to roll away. By the time he's canvassed the riverbottom for the better part of a quarter mile up and downstream, the tally is up to a dozen... bakers, if you count the gnoll.

Even with his panicked 'misses', doing a full canvas to where he feels that he located, and inspected, as many bones as he could find took a great deal of time... The sun was long gone, cloaking the forest in the ever-dimming rays of light until only the moon and stars remained. He was not back in time to help with dinner as he initially mentioned, which, no doubt, certainly worried a certain worgen back at home. It was one thing to find gnawed bones on the bank of the river, but to find them at the bottom of it was another. This wasn't the work of the creatures across the river, nor was it bandit or forest beast. Gnolls have been known to eat humans, but they wouldn't dump them in the river... Hell, they would make crude utensils, tools, and jewelry out of them if given the chance!

No... this was an act of guilt and/or fear. This beast that ended the lives of those who now lie at the bottom of the river had a conscience. So...either there is something out in Elwynn that he doesn't know about or... But as the saying goes, the answer usually lies in plain sight.

Arenvald.

He has seen how he acts during the hunt, how territorial he was of their plot of land when the house was still being built... It does not take a far leap in imagination to figure that these bones, gnoll excluded, belonged to some of the local forest bandits that wandered a little too close to the den of the wolf. A realization that chilled Natharai to the core, which would be bemusing to him, on any other day, since he is not exactly a stranger to taking lives himself. ...But never like this.

Aren was a man-eater. This idea, now fact, in Nath's mind kept repeating over and over in his mind until it got to the point where he simply ended up sitting upon the river floor, clutching a well-gnawed femur tightly in his hands.

The wolf in question is indeed worried, as the sun fades and the wood has been brought in, and there's still no sign of Natharai. At first he occupied himself with puttering around the living room and tidying. He looked at Natharai's poetry book briefly, then went back to puttering. In time, puttering turns to pacing... what if something happened? No. The warlock could certainly handle himself against the minor threats of the forest. Couldn't he? But what if something happened. What if... but he knows Natharai hates being shepherded. But. But.

Pace, pace, pace, first on two legs, then eventually on four, long claws scraping the polished wood of the house as he makes the transit from the back stairs to the kitchen and back again like a caged animal. Eventually, however, he can't stand it anymore. Screw Natharai's propriety, he's going to go look and that's the end of it. Shoving the door open roughly, he lopes down the steps and sets off into the woods in the direction of the river.

The trail is several hours old, but the scent is intimately familiar and he at least knows where to look. It's also not that far to the water's edge. He finds the spot where the warlock was skipping stones, and spends a moment nosing around the churned mud. The scent gets muddled the more the bank is stirred up, but he manages to follow it further down... where he encounters a heap of discarded clothing...which is worrying... and a pile of old and unpleasantly familiar bones. He looks out over the silently rippling surface of the river, black in the darkness... but at least for the moment, just hunkers down on the muddy bank near Natharai's clothing.

He sits there in a shaggy lump on the bank, scarlet eyes gleaming dimly in the shadows, and stews. He should have thrown them farther away, he could've dropped them down the well outside the Lamb, for all that. Or in the harbor. He curses himself for his stupidity, but... it wasn't a decision he spent much time thinking of at the time, of course. Just 'get rid of them'. But that doesn't mean that now, in retrospect, he isn't hating himself.

There is no sign of Natharai whatsoever aside from the remnants that Aren just now happened upon...and it would continue to be that way for a while longer–nearly twenty minutes, to be semi-precise. Eventually there is some distant shimmering of movement and a flash of white, the fabric of Nath's undershirt, that catches the moonlight as he resurfaces. Completely soaked to the bone, the warlock wordlessly trudges out into the shallows with an ominous, seething, weight in his demeanor...

Arenvald doesn't stir when Natharai finally comes trudging up out of the soggy depths, aside from lowering his head subtly and splaying his ears a little to the sides. There's no attempt to make excuses for any of it, or run, though there's a part of him that wants to flee into the woods and not come back. He just crouches there, also without saying a word, gazing somewhat fixedly at the warlock's knees. It's not like there's anything he -could- say that would probably help, anyway.

At this point, Natharai isn't sure if he finds his silence a wise decision or to be absolutely infuriating. There is so much he wants to say to him right now...so many things he wants to ask. Though no matter how much he knows he wants to hear Arenvald's explanation, it would be highly unlikely he would actually listen to him since he is in such a terrible state. The fury and hurt he feels over this continues to well up inside him, eating at his insides like acid. His throat becomes dry, jaw clenching, heart racing... All of which happen as he has that same fang-shattered femur clenched in one hand with a vice's grip.

What made this sting even worse was that he defended Aren when Campion was giving him the third degree about him hiding a man-eating monster. He knew Aren would never devour another human... While he is not exactly one anymore, he was for almost forty years. He couldn't do it... Right? But he did... And now the warlock feels like his heart is in his feet as he unblinkingly stares down at Aren from the corners of his eyes, wet strands of black hair clinging gracelessly to his face.

Aren of course has no idea of this, since Natharai never mentioned it to him. If he had, it's -possible- (although not likely) that he might have admitted it prior. But be that as it may, that's not how things have gone, and now he doesn't know what to do. He could tell him that it's been well over a month since the last body was thrown in the river. He could try to explain... but the damage is done, and, he reflects, the warlock may well never trust him again. ...Understandably.

He does manage a quiet sigh, though it turns unbidden into a faint whine, still staring fixedly downward. It's not like he can exactly -explain- the red hunting-rage to the warlock, it's just something he's had to learn to deal with on his own.... for better or worse.

The tableaux is allowed to go undisturbed for what seems like forever, with only the night sounds of the forest to break the silence, but in time, it's the worgen that breaks it at last, his voice a barely audible, gravelly growl.

"M' not going to 'pologize," he rasps softly, "'cause it won't change anythin'. I know ye think I'm a monster, an' I was a fool t'try an' hide it from ye." The red embers of his eyes dim slightly as he half closes them, long claws digging into the wet soil he crouches on. Eventually, though, he does move... if only to settle further to the ground and roll over slightly. It is, should the warlock be able to see in the dimness, enough to bare his throat in a submission posture, a silent statement to do what he feels necessary.

If Natharai was actually capable of thinking rationally right now, then he would likely not be one to judge. While the thought of Aren eating humans disturbs him -immensely- on a visceral level, he is no saint...and he knows it. He also knows that Arenvald, too, finds a great many thing that Natharai does to be creepy or distasteful – Monstrous to others. In a perfect world, all of this reasonable knowledge would be available to him and he would, in turn, rationalize what took place and what to do. Alas, it is no such thing...

With a tightening of his hand, the algae-covered femur suddenly breaks into 'black dust' with a very audible series of cracks, much like splintering ice on a pond, and disappears into the air as the tainted particulate floats downward. His head finally tilts to look down at him fully, though no words are offered... Not yet, at least. By every right, he should agree to Arenvald's silent suggestion and strike him down like the beast he is...

Yet no hand strikes out at the submissive wolfman, nor any hateful spell... Only a piercing silence and fixated stare, accompanied by an iron-clad mask of emotional impassiveness, was given as a reply.

Eventually his silence is broken with one of the most cold-hearted, heartless, drones he has likely ever used at Arenvald directly. "...Go home."

And honestly, judging from the warlock's stare, Arenvald would've expected death – Or at the very least to be driven away. Surely, he isn't wanted anymore after this...

The command to return home is actually sort of confusing, in that light, and those dim scarlet eyes flick open to look up at his lover for a moment. But only for a moment, quickly returning to the ground as he rolls over and drags himself back up into a crouch to slink back up the hill toward the house. He doesn't even bother trying to paste any human expression on the process either; it's entirely 'beaten dog', hunched shoulders, lowered head, flattened ears. Once he's partway up the hill, he breaks into a lope, vanishing into the brush.

Though Natharai does not return home for a very long time, to the point where it might have seemed that he wouldn't come home at all. Instead he remained at the river, rooted in his spot as he wordlessly watches Arenvald retreat, before once again returning to the watery depths... He is cold and waterlogged, though he intends to fix Aren's mistakes right here and now, as best as he could, anyway. Normally he would not care at all if the bones lie down in a watery grave...if it wasn't for the fact that there are boats that come by once in a blue moon with a dragnet. While the Footmen do such a thing if there is reason to, most of them are 'treasure hunters' that seek any lost valuables that might have been on a dead body or, perhaps, jettisoned cargo from local bandits... And it might seem really peculiar to have so many skeletons in a relatively small area of water, doubly bad for Aren and him since their residence is closest to that area.

When Natharai reaches the house, though, the door is slightly ajar, but the brown-furred warrior isn't there. At least....inside. If he does a lot of searching, though, (or perhaps just has a hunch given how Aren is acting), he will find a couple of dull red coals burning under the porch. House is for people.

Though he does not look for Arenvald... While he knows he is around, somewhere, the warlock instead skulks into the house with wet footsteps, up the stairs, and remains in their bedroom for several minutes. He then reemerges downstairs with a small satchel slung over his shoulder, clothing changed, and wet hair pulled back in a ponytail. The soles of his boots clip-clop down the wooden steps, over the unseen wolfman, as Natharai heads down the winding way that leads out to the main road. No words, or backwards glances, are offered as he disappears into the night.

He needs time away to think, to reassess, and he cannot do it here... And so, Arenvald is left by his lonesome as he watches him go from his hiding place, but without saying a word, or even alerting him to his presence. Nor does he as he watches him cross the field and head back to the road. As he makes his way down the main road, however, there's at least something to accompany him as he departs.

A worgen's howl is a terrible thing by nature, but the one that carries past the shadowy trees is worse. To the discerning ear, it's not laced with the usual hunger or rage, but is more a wail of heart-wrenching pain loud enough to still the forest night-birds and probably wake the closest neighbors. It lasts for some time before dying away, but is not repeated, at least, as the spindly warlock continues in his flight from their once safe and warm home.

[Natharai]

Four days has passed since the night at the river.

Four days since the warlock heard that lamenting and pitiful howl of his lover.

Though despite him taking the time away to cool down, thinking about this whole ordeal heavily, Natharai was still at a loss of what to do–if there was anything he could do, that is. While he knows fully well that Arenvald, over the course of these months, has increasingly integrated his human tendencies with his wolfish ones...he still was not sure if it was him losing himself bit by bit or if he was attempting to find some sort of equilibrium between his two states. The only thing he did know was that Aren loved him dearly...and he felt the same in kind. If he did not, he wouldn't even consider on trying to right things again. So that means there is something...right?

Though it was difficult keeping positive throughout all of this mental deliberation he was undergoing... The more he thought about it, the more dead ends he found. The second day of his stay in Ironforge was a grim one, for that was the day he fully considered the negative end of this unfortunate event. He put in a request at the Great Forge for a truesilver dagger and confounded the smith with his statement that it was for practical usage rather than ornamental... It must be sturdy, but small and light enough to where he could conceal it and wield it with minimal effort. He also stressed that this was incredibly important and that it needed to be completed as quickly as possible without compromising the blade's integrity much... Nath did not much care about the rush fees that would be tacked onto his commission.

And on the morning of the fourth day...it was completed. He then found himself in possession of a tool that would end Arenvald's life as 'humanely' as possible, should it come to that...and most likely his own soon after. It was not as if he had much time left on this earth as a coherent being to begin with, after all.

The decision to return back to Elwynn that day was not an instant one, being he sat upon his inn bed, cradling the dagger within its sheath, as his slender physique was weighed down by silent dread. Just to even consider attempting to end the life of someone who was so precious to him, of someone who brought light into his life, was so difficult. But if he could save Arenvald from himself... then that would be the right thing to do. It is the right thing to do..

An hour before noon, Natharai took the long tram ride back to Stormwind to make his ultimate decision.

For the one left back in Elwynn, it was simply the beginning of a long, silent existence. The chicks still look to him, of course, and he's brought them food as he must, but even his bottomless hunger has faded until he barely felt like taking the occasional mouthful from the evening's kill. No Defias either... the bandits have learned long since to avoid going into that part of the forest. Not that any of them have come back to tell the tale, but... in a way, that's it. None of them -have- come back.

Not that he probably -would- have taken them as prey at this point, but with the option removed, it makes things... simpler. Aside from tending to the raptors, he hasn't done much aside from lurk in the barn out of the sun, and after nightfall, pace out into the darkness to skulk up and down the river. Not that he expects to find anything, but more just so he can look over towards Duskwood.

Occasionally, he wanders up towards the house and looks in the window... there's a few nose-prints on the glass, all more or less in the same place... but aside from that, he's done very little. Well... one thing.

In the afternoon on the second day, he made the foray onto 'sacred ground' to retrieve his silver bracelet, the one Natharai gave him so long ago, which he'd stopped wearing because it irritated him. Now, however, he has resumed wearing it... though even he's not entirely sure why. Memory? Penance, perhaps. By the third day of wearing, the hair has started to fall out under it, leaving bare reddened hide, but he still doesn't remove it. Instead, he continues his routine, such as it has been reduced to, pacing around the property after the sun is down, hiding in the barn when it's not.

When Natharai finally makes the journey down that long road towards home, it is well into the night. For hours prior, he remained in Stormwind upon the porch of their former home, that was still empty as could be, while a "For Lease" sign was nailed upon one of the support columns. While his trip there was a nostalgic one, thinking fondly of the days when life was a trifle simpler for both of them. The worgen curse has not manifested in Arenvald yet and they were a clumsy, yet slowly flowering, couple awkwardly in love. One might find such reminiscing contradictory to his plan, but he wanted to at least temper his resolve in ending his lover's life with some compassion for the man he is...or possibly was.

The walk home was a long one...his heart was heavy and his shoes felt as if they were filled with lead. The dagger he commissioned days prior was not concealed as he planned to, but instead secured to his belt so Arenvald would be aware of his possible intent. It is roughly fifteen minutes 'till eleven at night when Natharai makes the turn down the winding path that leads to their forest home.

For the past few days, Aren has allowed himself to revert fully to the nocturnal schedule that's more 'natural' to him; the evening meal for the chicks is roughly the first thing he does every day. By this hour, he's back down by the river where the black shadows of the forest can hide him fully... save for the eyes, of course.

And so when Natharai emerges from the woods into the clearing in which their house sits, the place looks strangely abandoned. The house appears shut up tight, but no lamp glows within, nor is there any sign of life from the barns aside from the door to the raptors' being slightly ajar. Moonlight lays bright on the garden out front, but it already looks slightly unkempt, weeds starting to sprout where the normally-fastidious highlander would've long since ripped them out. It's also silent, save for the sounds of night-birds and insects.

While he knew that the night of his leaving that Arenvald did not go back inside the house (though he could have sworn he was under the porch, but he was not sure about that), he was not entirely expecting for their home to look so...derelict. Perhaps it was the fault of wishful thinking that the house would be aglow with lamplight as it usually is and Aren would be waiting in the living room like he usually does whenever Nath goes away on errands or 'business trips'. The lack of otherwise commonplace sights made his stomach lurch briefly, pausing in his steps for a brief moment to fully survey the lonely plot of land. A distant part of him outright worries that he is now skulking in the woods like an animal or, worse, crossed the river to Duskwood. While he never had confirmation that Arenvald would ever entertain the idea of going over there, he at least seemed to speak about the "pure ones" across the water with more reverence than the pack that spawned him.

But...first thing was first. Walking up to the front door of the house, he reaches into his pocket to retrieve his keys...which is a fruitless endeavor because upon entering the house key, he found that the front door was unlocked. Is...Aren even here at all?

He certainly hopes so... If the highlander retreated to the woods, it would only pain him having to hunt him down.

The house is exactly as he left it four nights ago. Nothing he moved to pack his satchel has been disturbed, the partially prepared meal that Aren had started in preparation for the warlock's return is likewise still precisely where it was left... meaning the greens have gone brown and withered and the meat slimy.

The smell of rotting foodstuff is definitely not missed, but aside from wrinkling his nose and solemnly going about lighting the living room (refilling the oil wells for some of the drier lamps beforehand)...he does nothing. But it is painfully apparent that even if Aren was around...he hasn't come back inside.

While he's tidying up, he -does- hear something familiar... not the highlander's approach, but a distant howl, carried on the night air. It's recognizably Aren's, with its gruff timbre that makes it distinctive from the wolves that populate the forest. It's also not as heartwrenching (or loud) as the last one he heard, but still achingly mournful.

Hurriedly putting down the box of matches and abandoning his task on lighting one of the remaining lamps, Natharai now stands upon the porch and listens for any other howl that might follow. ...If there would be, it certainly didn't feel like it since time, in its infuriating relativity, seemed to grind to a halt as he waits. Licking his dried lips nervously, brow furrowing, he acts upon harebrained impulse and raises his hands to cup around the sides of his mouth and replies with the best wolf howl he could muster. ...One of which that was dry and crackly, his own eagerness and heart jackhammering in his ears stymying the attempt.

Eventually, thought catches up to him... Light, he can't believe he's doing this, but, uh, it's better than calling out his name after that unearthly bellow. That would be giving him away... right? Sure, let's go with that.

Despite his attempt at 'sensible' reasoning, he ignores it and tries again, this time reaching the proper volume and its tone unwavering. Sure, it sounds like a human doing a terrible impression of a wolf, but he hopes that Aren can hear it's his voice and, hopefully, read the intent behind his long howling reply–'Come home'.

On his perch by the riverside, long, shaggy ears perk at the sound. It's... well... not really what one would call 'textbook' but that matters little. The voice is instantly recognizable to his keen ears, as is the desire for him to come. He's already rolled onto all fours and bounded off into the woods before he even comes up with a conscious thought to do so.

Thought -does- catch up with him, although not until he's burst from the underbrush into the house's clearing... partly due to the driving need to respond to the summons, and partly just because he runs so damnably fast when he's really putting effort into it. The hulking shape backpedals to a stop, though, not too far from the edge of the woods, and seems to spend a moment reconsidering before slinking a step or two closer. He's still down on all fours, though, red eyes fixed on the warlock, wide and staring... but his posture is one of being poised to flee rather than spring, and he can't seem to decide whether to have his ears pricked toward the smaller man or laid back against his skull.

Upon hearing the brush rustle, preceded by the oh-so-familiar heavy footfalls of the wolfish form of the highlander, the warlock's eyes widen as a faint, yet toothy, smile spreads across his lips. Seeing Aren rocket out of the forest with such gusto is a relief to him, but the moment is fleeting when he sees Arenvald skid to a halt and, regrettably, seems to reconsider even coming back. The smile vanishes from his face as quickly as it came as he now stares at Aren with a slack expression, though the underlying sorrow he feels is starting to show through thanks to the solemn arching of his brow.

Oh...right. That brief moment of enthusiastic reunion was only that... Brief. Both of them remember all too well the event that took place on several nights prior to this.

Natharai's eyes now focus on the ground as a lengthy soft sigh filters from his nose, soon moving to slowly seat himself upon the top of the porch steps, lower arms resting against his knees as his hands dangle limply between them. He still does not look up, his head bowing a bit, if anything to signify that he is at least sorrowful about what happened so many nights ago. Not to mention that he hopes that the lack of eye contact sends the signal to him that it is alright to approach. And Light...he hopes that he does.

It seems to work. Aren's been far more responsive to body language since his change anyway. To see Natharai so despondent, though, doesn't really make him feel any -less- like he should just leave him to the human world like he wanted. But he also still loves Natharai more than anything. With some hesitation, he stops hunkering down in place and starts picking his way slowly toward the warlock.

Once close, he takes a deep breath of his scent, eyes half closing. He missed him so. But there's a sharpness to it that isn't normally there, something harsh and acrid that isn't brimstone or his usual alchemical reagents. No, this is metallic, and makes his nose burn slightly. It only takes a split second for him to identify what it is, too,

He can't help but withdraw a step, but doesn't retreat beyond that, instead just crouching down in a lump before Natharai with his ears lowered. He doesn't say anything for a long, long time really; possibly long enough that he might wonder if he's lost speech to the wolf in only a matter of days. But eventually he rumbles a few words. "It's.... come to this, then, I suppose."

Hearing Aren stop in his tracks once again, along with the sorrowful rumbling of words, urges Natharai to look up from the floorboards and at cowering creature before him. Only briefly does his eyes glance down at the dagger at his side, a solemn frown tugging down at his lips. Truth be told, even with the backlighting of lamplit house behind him, which shadows much of his expression, Natharai looks like...well...hell. He has not slept much in the past few days and, like the highlander, has eaten very little. How could he with these thoughts plaguing him so...?

The warlock does not respond right away, the silence hanging between them thick and smothering, but when he does his voice is quiet and aching – Raw in its sadness to the point where he doesn't bother to cover up his accent. "...Tell me why I shouldn't, Aren..." He murmurs with eyes downcast once again.

The worgen doesn't respond immediately, likely considering his words. "It was difficult to control at the start." Most of his drawl is gone now, though it's hard to say if it's because he's focused on speaking clearer, or just because it's slower. "It's not a matter of decisions made, but of thought traveling slower than instinct. I cannot explain it more clearly, because... I don't think you can understand. Any more than I can truly understand what you must endure."

He heaves a sigh, then, settling to the ground and resting his head on Natharai's shoes, letting his eyes all but close. "I only wanted to protect you," he mutters awkwardly through his fangs. He knows it sounds kind of pathetic, but... it's true. Both in the general sense, and the fact that he was trying to protect Natharai from the knowledge of how difficult it was adjusting. Aren's never liked to be a burden.

And, oh, how he hates this... The warlock hates this weight in his heart from the knowledge that he came here not to make amends, but to be his beloved's executioner. However, at least he seems open to the idea of the 'convicted' pleading his case to try and change his mind. The mention of 'thought traveling slower than instinct' does make some degree of sense to him, but it is, as Aren said, not something he can fully understand. Humans, for the most part, are far removed from nature and a majority of the reactive instincts that Arenvald now possesses. But he can understand things being hard to stop...

When the wolfcreature rests his head upon his shoes, it takes an extraordinary amount of willpower to not reach down and reassuringly stroke his fur. However, he does reach down...but towards the dagger. In a slow and intentionally non-threatening motion, he draws it from its sheath and holds the blade in front of him at eye level, studying it with distant eyes.

"...Not long after your change, you made me promise to make sure that you did not lose yourself fully. And...seeing what I have over the past few months...coupled with what I recently discovered," he murmurs absentmindedly, not really paying close attention to what he's saying if his expression is any clue. "...You seem to be on the precipice of losing yourself. And I do not know what to do, Aren..." A short mindless bark of a laugh. "I don't. I have tried so hard... And I am so scared for you." As well as himself... "Hah. Hah..."

"I have given you a home... two, currently. You are sheltered, loved, and well fed... And yet," his words hitch for a moment as he struggles to throttle the telltale signs of an unwanted noise–though if it was uncertain if it was the beginnings of a sob or a laugh. "And yet I find those bones... and fear returns to me. Will you continue to kill and devour others...? Will one of them be a friend or ally of ours? How far does this hunger go, Aren...? Will you lose all control when I am gone...?" He is not aware of the slip in his words as he carefully fingers the tip of the truesilver blade with the pad of an index finger. "...So I made this. To save you."

Arenvald listens to the explanation silently, without moving. Briefly, he toys with shifting back, but that would likely only make matters worse. Better that he continue to see the beast rather than the man. "You've given me more than I could've ever hoped for. I only regret that I couldn't do more for you." And that's the truth, really. His only solution to Natharai's problem is causing the same situation that now brings him to this point.

As for what he'd do if he lost Natharai... that's something he's actually very studiously NOT been thinking about. "As... for killing. That's all I've ever done," he murmurs. "It's what I did for my homeland, it's what I did for the Kamil until I walked away from it. Just because some monsters are easier to see doesn't mean others don't exist." He sighs, quiet for awhile before continuing. "As for... the rest of it... I've not fed from...that sort of kill in months." A pause, this one slightly longer, then almost inaudibly, "....Have I been fading?" Maybe he has. Maybe the eccentricities he thought were Natharai's are failures in his ability to comprehend. He -thought- he'd finally begun to come to grips with it, but.... then, he's always considered Natharai the careful observer, and now he's afraid he's missed something grave.

He's trying not to stare at the certain death hovering over his head, though, even though he can -feel- its proximity. But he still doesn't move. "My.. control is not perfect. I know it's not. I always have to keep it in mind, how things will cause reactions whether I want them to or not. But I'm trying, Natharai. With all my soul, I'm trying." He's quiet for a little while, but then his brawny shoulders sag slightly. "But.... if you think I am too weak, that in the end it won't matter... then I trust your judgement," he rasps, almost inaudibly. "I would have let you four nights ago, and I will let you now."

The mention of not feeding off of human flesh in months is a bit...disarming, to say the least, and manages to make his resolve on the matter dwindle somewhat. Though, honestly, he had no idea of the timeline these kills took place in. For all he knew, he could have had a bit of human tartare as a snack a week ago and hid the remains elsewhere. He could have asked this earlier, but he was hardly of sound mind... It is rather difficult to do when you find a miniature aquatic graveyard filled with the half-eaten victims of the one he holds dear..

Though Arenvald has never been much of a liar... probably due to the fact that he is not really good at it – not to mention he knows all too well that his life hangs in the balance as of now.

The half-questioning if he has been fading or not does give Natharai further pause, since it really could be, once again, the warlock's own uncertainties and failure to understand this newly adopted worgen 'culture'. But, rather than admit to possible fault on that matter, he looks to the side slightly before sheathing his dagger once again. Alright... Aren has managed to sway him, for the time being, and now he is listening with rapt attention for the worgen's further explanation. "...What would you have done if I had not come back?" Upon uttering that quiet question, he looks back down at Arenvald and watches him–closely.

He shrugs slightly. "Tend to the raptors. Guard," he murmurs. "I thought... you weren't coming back. I wanted to keep the house just like you left it." There's something... a little eerie there, but at least it's fairly harmless. "I wanted to remember when I was happy. That's all. Stay here, and guard."

His tone shifts slightly as he speaks, as his words simplify. Perhaps it's a bit more of the wolf-mind responsible for his actions post Natharai's leaving, yet still colored with human sentiment. Would he have killed trespassers? Well... probably, if only to prevent them from telling anyone what was here. But that's not the worst of sins, after all. He's killed an awful lot of people in his life. "I... have nowhere else to go."

Natharai does not react save for furrowing his brow at the unnerving shift in tone, remaining silent as he takes this in. "...I want you to promise me something else, Aren," he murmurs, his own tone evening out to his usual 'standard' Stormwindian manner of speaking. "No matter what may happen, whether you stay in the world of man or regress to a more natural state. I ask you, no, I implore you to engrave this upon the core of your mind from this point on. I need you to promise me that you will not consume the flesh of humanoid races. Killing them out of self-defense is one thing, eating them or, heaven forbid, hunting them is not. I... do not want to believe that you are a monster, Aren... And I will not have you face a monster's end." He has done terrible, -horrible-, things, yes, but so has Natharai... Though he had the chance to atone, somewhat, so why should he deny Aren his chance when he so determinately says that he is trying?

Aren nods as best he can with his jaw still resting on Natharai's boots. There really isn't anything he feels he can say... and what's more, he can't grovel any more completely without embarrassing himself. But... he promises not to eat people, yep.

It's arguably a good thing that...well, the races he considers 'not-people' he doesn't think taste good. But that's not something he's putting much consideration toward at the moment. He just wants things to be like they were. "Anything you ask, Natharai," he rumbles softly. "Anything."

Hearing Arenvald agreeing to this earns a faint, if not trembling, sigh of relief as he lets those hazel eyes drift closed behind the windows of his reader glasses. The highlander answered honestly and he, in turn, believes him. As a result, his judgement will be delayed, but at least the consequence for any future 'slips' has been presented...

The hand that sheathed his dagger, which still rests upon the butt of the pommel, shifts once again...but to unfasten the ties that binds the weapon to his belt. Once freed, he picks up the deadly object and tosses it to the side of the porch – which bounces and clatters with all sorts of noise as it skids far from harm's reach.

Freed from the role of judge and executioner at last, Natharai's hands move to press their palms flush against the porch steps, gripping the edges lightly as he bows his head with eyes closed. A distant nagging part of him finds this giving in to be weak and that he will, likely, live to regret this decision... But he is so tired...and like Aren, he wants nothing more but to be just a bad dream and that they would wake up and continue on like nothing happened.

"...Can you ever forgive me, Aren...?" He pauses for a moment in his remorseful question. "...Can you ever forgive me for coming to our home with a weapon crafted to bring about your demise...? For even considering using it upon you...?"

Aren finally lifts his head from the ground, placing a paw on the step below the one Natharai sits on and drags himself up slightly. The point of the maneuver is to wedge his shaggy head between the warlock's upper body and his lap. It means he gets his muzzle kind of squished against his stomach, but right now, he can't really think of anyplace he'd rather be.

Something gets mumbled completely unintelligeably into his gut. It sounds really heartfelt and quiet, but... apparently physical logistics have won out over social for the moment. But... he does forgive him. Rationally or irrationally, as the case may be.

The feeling of Arenvald pressing himself against him so eagerly causes the warlock to choke on another sound that threatened to escape his throat, one that was much louder than the one prior and is, unmistakably, the beginning of a sob. It is a pitiful, relieved, and repentantly solemn noise as his hands unbuckle from the steps he grips to pull Arenvald closer for an embrace. On any other day, the warlock would be loathe to show any signs of distress like this but they are alone...and the last four days have been soul-draining, to say the least.

Any sane and normal couple would have likely fled in terror at even the mention of semi-cannibalism and premeditation on assault with a weapon...but the two of them are hardly normal and have enough issues to likely fill a book. He just wants Aren back... sensible reasoning could go to hell, for all he cared.

There's a soft, rumbling whine from Aren as he lets Natharai wrap his arms around his shoulders and shifts his head into a more comfortable position. He also settles his arms around him carefully, resting his weight on his knees. He's honestly not in too much better condition than Natharai emotionally, it's just that he's not currently suited to tears. There is a hint of a soft whine in his breathing, though, as he noses and licks at the man in his arms. "I'll do anything and everything for you, Natharai," he gravels softly. "Never doubt that."

[Lilifred]

I can't... I feel like I should say something more artful than this, but just...

O... OTP. ♥

There is such a beautiful balance between how sweet and how completely fucked up these two are. B'aaaaaw.