Post by Dorien on Oct 26, 2010 19:47:23 GMT -5
((Old RP logs! Just for fun. This is... Almost close to a year ago! Aren, Nath, Cade and Dori had gone off to Feralas for fun and whatnot! This is a week later.
Nath is incredibly hot when threatening people. Make it stop.))
Days have passed since the foray into Feralas, Arenvald and Natharai eventually returning into the public eye once this new and... Delicate situation was brought under control. While the trip itself was a successful one, items and knowledge procured, an unforeseen development arose during the late evening of their return to the Stronghold. For the last lock on a curse within the crop-haired highlander, one that lied dormant until now finally gave way...and released a wolf into the world.
The escape off that island was a harrowing one, to be sure, though both made it back to the safety of their home in Stormwind and proceeded to lie low for a few days. Effort and patience for both parties were put forth as they felt out this strange and frightening situation, though when Aren saw that he would not go absolutely berserk and Nath would not abandon him... The two eventually managed to adjust as best as they could to all of this and venture back out into the public eye once more.
Though... That does not mean that they were safe. Not by a long shot. Arenvald still had a tenuous grip on his need to change, but they had to go back to work and try to function as they once did in their workplace.
And work Natharai did... A tried and tested workaholic, he now had a few more projects and issues to add to his ever growing pile of work. Not to mention that due to him taking off work, without word, he was behind and he was scrambling to play catch-up. Reports to be written, items shipped, issues investigated... For many nights he did not come home until very late, tonight being one such evening...
Though tonight...his work is done. It is currently around 8pm, the world around them quieting as the citizens of Stormwind begin to turn in for the day and prepare for a new morning. Currently the warlock is seated on the sofa, legs propped up on the cushion as he flips through a novel.
Arenvald has been taking it easy... he -almost- slipped at the meeting the previous night, so it's back to staying home and working on his necessary projects from there. In his typical mildly-obsessive fashion, he's been trying to ensure he has everything completely and totally thought out before he goes to speak to Campion.
For the time being, though, he's occupying himself with domesticity. Dinner is over, so he's been putting the leftovers away in the icebox and cleaning up. If there's one thing he simply cannot stand, it's a messy kitchen. But where some people might find this a chore, for Aren, it's therapy... he whistles absently to himself as he finishes up, meandering over to flop next to the warlock on the sofa still drying his hands on a dishtowel. There's a brief peek over his shoulder, of the 'wuchu reedin' variety, then he simply leans on him a bit.
Dorien was, simply put, frustrated and hurt, which lent easily to his rather pissed off state. He closed the door leading up to his living quarters with a bit more force than necessary, with a small box under his arm. At dinner, Cadence had mentioned walking it off, or finding someone to listen to his problem. The redhead had thought it to be a capital idea, and he knew just where to walk and who to talk to.
And probably, much to Arenvald's displeasure... The novel is written in Darnassian, though the edition seems somewhat new. No more than a year or so, if the yellowing of the pages and smell of it is any clue. Nath pauses and looks up to Arenvald, smiling faintly as he regards the man. "All finished, hm...?" He murmurs idly, placing an index finger on the page he is reading. "Thank you again for dinner, Aren... It was wonderful, per usual." He pauses for a moment, an amused smirk flitting at his lips. "I would offer to try my hand sometime, though I am wary of disturbing your 'system'." Yep... a gentle ribbing. He knows perfectly well that Aren practically -owns- the kitchen now, much to his amusement and mild chagrin. Likely he'd put things in the wrong place or...something.
Aren's used to the books being in things he can't read.... after all, it seems like they usually aren't. It still gets a faint hrumph of mock irritation, though... you and your moon languages! "Yer welcome," he rumbles, draping the towel around his neck. He gives the warlock a bit of a squint for his offer of help. ".... Mebbe onna these days," he allows, with the air of someone being indulgent in a slightly martyred fashion. Oh, sure, he wouldn't MIND... but... yeah. He's sure nothing would go back where it's supposed to go. That said, he gets comfy. In a way that implies movement is not likely for some time; hope you weren't planning to go anywhere, warlock.
He already knows perfectly well what Aren is harrumphing about, which earns a rather broad, sly grin. "Sorry..." Only he isn't. "It is good practice. Though... I thought the subject matter of this story was rather relevant in light of recent happenings." He pauses to look down at it, a thumb lightly running down the sides of the pages with a quiet 'thkthkthkthkthkthk'. "The writing is a little too dramatic and utilizes a great deal of flowery language... I do enjoy prose, and all, but you know how it is, surely." He flips the cover closed over his finger bookmark for a while, the hardbound cover a deep blue with silver embossing in elegant Darnassian script. Though, beneath it, there is a Common translation of the title; 'The Torment of the Worgen'.
Dorien hadn’t seen either one of them for a week! They had just disappeared sometime during the night last week, and they expected him not to be curious? At all? Or worried? When he had seen Arenvald at the meeting the other night, Dorien had to stop himself from hugging the other man and not letting go for at least an hour. Instead, when he asked him, Arenvald just went and blew him off. Said he didn’t need to know, he was better off not knowing. Oh yeah, like that was true.
The walk wasn’t doing Dorien any help at all, if anything, it was making it worse.
The redhead finally stopped in front of Natharai’s door, glaring at it. It took him a moment to remember he should probably calm down before trying to talk about anything coherent. No one took him seriously when he was angry. Dorien slipped into his usual meditative breathing, and tried his best to clear his head.
Knocking his head against the door probably wasn’t his best plan to help him clear his head, but it was rather routine for the redhead now.
Aren eyes the cover. "Don't feel very tormented," he grumbles, only to be interrupted by a very dull thudding. He glances at the door. "What.... is that?" he grumbles, with a vague frown, then pushes himself to his feet with some reluctance and ambles that way. Dory has a brief warning, the sound of the latches disengaging, before the door swings open to be replaced by something almost as solid... a big scarred warrior dressed in old brown breeches and a shirt that...well.... it's probably going to be about a week tops before Natharai steals it and throws it into the rag bag. It's so worn; you can see the scars -through- the linen. "Hwuh?" he rumbles, by way of greeting. Who goes there.
Dorien, too busy in his own head forcing the anger off elsewhere, doesn't seem to catch on to the fact the door is open. In fact, he knocked his head against Arenvald's chest a few times before he realizes that he's hitting something that, while equally solid, is not wood. He blinks, and looks up at the man. "Hello."
Natharai snorts lightly, his smirk becoming lopsided as he slips an actual bookmark between the pages. "Not any more, at least..." He was mighty distressed a few days ago, rightly so, of course. "However... There -are- others who are far less fortunate than you." It is true... He is almost tempted to show Arenvald the Pyrewood worgen if he was able, if anything for a dose of perspective. He has seen the normal moon-crazed worgen, of course, but the Pyrewood ones were...extremely sad.
He does startle slightly upon hearing that gentle 'knocking', shifting to slide the book beneath the legs of the couch he partially lounges on. Sitting up, turning to drape his arm over the couch backing, he blinks with mild surprise as he hears a familiar voice coming from behind the human wall that is Arenvald. "Oh... Dorien," he murmurs. "Hello." He sounds somewhat pleased to hear it is him, though...a trifle wary.
Aren gives Dorien a slightly peculiar look, brows furrowed, but then plops a hand on his head and ruffles him. After a glance back at Natharai, he steps back, "C'mon in. Dinner's over but I can make tea." He eyes the redhead critically. "Ye look like ye could use it. What's th' matter?"
Natharai pries himself up from the plush comfort of the sofa before wandering over to the wood pile, plucking out a few more logs to stoke the hearthfire for the unexpected company. Though...probably not all that unexpected. Dorien does make a habit, ever since he did bring him here to recover, once upon a time, to show up on a whim... especially if something is bothering him. "Have a seat, Dorien," he murmurs as he straightens the pillows and does a quick impromptu tidying to make it look a little less like he was flopped here for extended periods of time.
He also notices a slight...snag on the rug, nonchalantly grinding the heel of his foot upon it to flatten it. Nope... No unravelling rug here.
Dorien huffs at the hair ruffling, following the bigger man inside as he does his best to flatten out the stray bits of red. He stands off to the side for a moment, looking decided awkward, but then again, when didn't he? "Tea would be nice; I made muffins and cookies, since I said I would when I found out when you would be back." Was there a hint of bitterness there? No sir. Not at all, just like the smile was absolutely real and not at all a bit forced.
The bitter tone does give the warlock some degree of pause, turning his head ever so slightly to pin a vaguely curious stare upon the redhead over the rims of his reading glasses. "...Have a seat..." He repeats again, his tone a little flatter. The archivist could chew them out later, but he is not exactly in the mood for Dorien's passive-aggressive sniping.
Aren gives Dory a strange look, then shrugs and closes the door behind him, waving the redhead to the couch while he diverts to the kitchen to put the kettle on. "Got some Silvermoon White Pearl," he offers while puttering. A glance over toward the box. Ooh... dessert, and he didn't have to fix it. Once the fire's up though, he wanders back to park on the arm of the sofa, watching Dorien with that same vague frown. "So what's eatin' ye?" he asks... blunt as always.
Dorien does sit down finally, opening and setting the box down on the small table nearby. As he said, there are various muffins and cookies in there, just waiting to be eaten. "Made them earlier, so they should still be fresh." The redhead says, a bit quieter than before, wrestling with his emotions inside his head for a moment. Acting like a spoiled child wasn't going to help at all. He shrugs.
With Dorien finally seated, Natharai’s lanky form finally moves away from the hearth and seats himself upon an armchair that is placed nearby it and across from where Dory sits. Back goes on the formal mask, accompanied with the proper demeanour, now that there is an additional person in the room... While Dorien is hardly just a 'business associate', there are very few people he willingly lets himself act comfortable around (plus it is hardly polite to have semi-public displays of affection in front of company). ...Especially if he suspects there is an issue to be discussed.
Loosely hooking an ankle up onto a knee in a sort of semi-casual crossing of legs, hands resting lightly upon the chair's arms, he watches Dorien impassively...and makes no move for the offered treats as of yet. "...Dorien..." Out with it, Mydral. You came here for a reason and, baked goods or no, this is not just a social call.
Dorien sits silently for a few moments, trying to figure out just how to say what he wants. He gives up halfway through the thought. "How was your trip back from Feralas?"
Not a twitch, nor a facial tick, meets that question... Though Natharai knows Dorien suspects something is amiss. Of course he does. He may be somewhat daft, but he is not an imbecile. "...Tiresome," he begins semi-thoughtfully, his eyes drifting partially shut if not only to help enunciate this fact. Though the warlock is quite the storyteller. "I apologize that neither of us let you and Greystone know of our sudden disappearance, though there were complications." There is a reason why Natharai tends to look so aggravatingly impassive and stone-faced when he speaks... It is rather difficult to spin a cover-up story like the bald-faced liar he is if he is full of facial ticks.
"There was an attack on Feathermoon, one that Aren and myself were pulled directly into being we were out in the common grounds. There was a Twilight's Hammer cultist, who had under his sway, somehow, a worgen... Arenvald and myself joined up with the Sentinels after the creature attacked us and thus...we were separated. It took some time to return, being that we still had that issue I mentioned once we, unfortunately, lost sight of the creature and its master."
Aren flicks a brief glance at the warlock for that one. 'And it's master' huh? Somewhere behind that moustache of his is a faint smirk. But he nods a bit to the explanation, turning back to Dorien. "Ye two got back all right, I trust..."
"Curious. Cadence is a very light sleeper, even if she was tired. I'm sure if she heard a call to arms, she would have done something." Dorien leans back, crossing his legs much Natharai had, folding one hand over the other on his lap. "We got back fine."
Aren looks a little dubious. "With all that howlin' an' screamin'? Dunno, Mydral... she must've been more tired than ye thought." There's another period of pointed eyeing. "So... what's eatin' ye, then, eh? Fess up."
Dorien looks up at the bigger man, eyeing him right back. "You’re avoiding the subject. Or more specifically, why can't I know?"
Contrary to what Aren might be thinking, it wasn't exactly an implication that Nath was the 'creature's' master. It was simply just a logical string of events... The Kal'dorei people constantly butt heads with the Twilight's Hammer and what better to explain the howling than saying that one of their members managed to bring a worgen, a creature feared and loathed by the elves, under his command? Though if anyone pegged Nath as Aren-Worg's master... he'd probably play it off just to give others a sense of calm if he absolutely must. Like death knights, the worgen have a rather firm public opinion embedded within the mythos that makes up their race.
The comment about Cadence being a light sleeper earns a faint smirk, eyes narrowing. "That may be... But the woman was exhausted. You saw how riled and rattled she was from her purging the unholy filth that contaminated that section of Eldre'thalas. The guards heard the disturbance, as did we... So I do not know what to tell you."
Dorien frowns, staring at the other man. Well played, well played. He thumbs towards Arenvald. "So why'd he turn into a wolf thing the other night?"
Aren eyetwitches slightly, then gives Dorien a look. "Th' fel ye talkin' about," he rumbles. "You get in'ta Campy's DC again?"
A subtle quirk of an eyebrow, eyes still fixated on Dorien. No matter how much he wants to glance at Aren with an unspoken question of 'WHAT?!', he keeps his eyes focused on Dory. Preposterous. Wolf thing? "Then I would say that you were hallucinating," he says oh-so-matter-of-factly, tone flat as usual. "You were exposed to high quantities of super saturated magic auras of various natures... Perhaps it was playing havoc with your senses." Wolf thing. PAH.
"That's all you can come up with? This was last night. The trip was last week, the only thing I could be suffering from is worry over both of your well beings, seeing how you disappeared with no warning. Go missing for a week and you expect me not to be worrying and wondering what happened..." Dorien trails off, before turning to stare up at Arenvald. "You were also staring at that screeching lady rather intently, not to mention your ears and the growling."
Aren blinks. "... -Wot- 'ear thing'?" This actually seems to confuse him, and he reaches up to rub at his ears a little. Nnnnoooo, they feel okay. "An' I was starin' at her because she was bein' a shrieky li'l prat, that's all." Harrumph. "And -grumblin'-. She rubs me th' wrong way."
"I'm pretty sure you did the same thing to Merosiel." Dorien crosses his arms over his chest. "I told him to leave you alone, by the way."
Eyes narrow slightly, finally allowing himself to glance at Arenvald for a brief moment of time. What. Ear thing? He knows perfectly well that Aren does sometimes half-shift without noticing, so if Dorien did see that... then... There is no hiding this. There is no explaining.
Aren hrufs faintly. "... Thanks. There's somethin' wrong with that elf. More'n is wrong with most of 'em. But I still don't know what yer on about. I've been... twitchy lately, I'll give ye. But it'll pass."
Dorien sighs, and runs a hand through his hair, before tugging at it absentmindedly. "No problem, and sure. You're just twitchy and I'm just a good looking guy with a mysterious past."
Then...the warlock rises, his movements slow and steady as he comes to his feet. There is something unsettling about that impassive facade he wears, it seeming to be barely masking some far darker sentiment. ...Though it could just be the firelight. Where he is located does cast a rather insidious looking veil of shadow and highlights, which surely does not help his already dark physique.
Step by step, Natharai comes closer...the slender fingers upon his right hand unconsciously flexing.
Aren watches him, going silent. It's arguable he wasn't being very persuasive anyway. His brows are furrowed deeply, though, his head subtly lowered.
Dorien settles back on the couch, watching Natharai come closer. Somewhere, in the back of his head, he thinks he probably shouldn't have gone ahead with this, despite how much it bothered him. It isn't a very strong voice though. It had to be a secret; otherwise Natharai probably wouldn't be acting this way.
The redhead watches Natharai impassively, the small voice in his head also telling him, despite his conviction that the warlock wouldn't hurt him for any reason, maybe, just maybe, the man had a reason this time. Ah well, if it pissed Natharai off enough, Dorien probably deserved it.
Magic will not harm Dorien... this much Natharai knows. However, that does not make him exempt from terror. Currently... he feels that Arenvald is being threatened, even if it might not be Dorien's intent... But if this tattooed fool of a ginger talks, then there will be panic among the ranks... and Aren might be driven away, killed, or worse for all he knew. No... This will not do. Especially not in -his- home.
Rounding the table, he lashes his right hand towards Dorien, aiming to clamp down over his neck. In that blur of moment, a brief shimmer of...metal?...appears to cover his hands. Apparently, Natharai's Demon Skin spell is seeing a great deal of use as of late... Dull gray plating now covers his hand like a gauntlet, the tips of his digits adorned with long curved claws. While he has no intent to hurt Dorien... he seems more than comfortable to let himself slip into the role of the monster at the moment.
Dorien winces slightly at the pressure, breathing out slightly through his nose. The redhead doesn't do much else, other than stare up at Natharai. There might be a small flash of fear in his eyes, but it's smothered pretty fast.
Claws flex and resettle around the archivist's neck, their points pressing against his skin uncomfortably with the silent promise of puncturing if he does anything wrong in the slightest. The warlock stands off to Dorien's side as he leans his weight heavily upon his other, normal looking, hand. Slowly, he leans his face in closer, murmuring lowly in a tight monotonous drone as his light hazel eyes narrow ever so slightly. "...Listen to me, Dorien...and listen well."
Aren watches the exchange, eyes narrowed. This is definitely Natharai's territory right now, though his general 'looming state' probably helps the overall atmosphere. He does nothing to halt Natharai's intents... but really, he's listening too.
Dorien doesn't move, or much else. Still staring, breathing quietly through his nose.
Claws shift against his skin, the scales of the 'demon gauntlet' like cold metal while having a slightly disgusting...slick quality to them. "Regardless of your initial intent... You bringing this to my home... -our- home...is a threat, no matter how indirect it may be." Though Nath knows perfectly well that Dorien would not willingly bring them harm, it does not mean that his knowledge about this...no matter how slight...is not dangerous. "So... allow me to make my intent, and this situation, crystal clear for you."
That faint menacing scowl slightly quirks into the ghost of an ever-darkening smirk, eyes narrowing.
"What you witnessed... Was true. You, very likely, did see Arenvald transform into a... 'wolf thing'–a story that may be explained to you in a moment's time." There is an unspoken 'if you behave' tagged on to the end of that sentence. "Though regardless of our relationship between one another, Dorien..." His lips quirk into a somewhat toothy grin, his tone adopting that unsettlingly warm quality that 'Aunt Yeva' employs so often. "I have no issue with gutting you if you tell another living soul about this without explicit permission. I have no issue with hanging you from your spilt entrails from a bridge, leaving you for the carrion feeders."
"If I find that a word was uttered about this...from you...or Riversung... Then you both will die in the worst way imaginable." Oh yes... He will speak with Merosiel soon. He knows the elf is perceptive enough to know that something is up... Plus Dorien said himself that he kept him from harrassing Aren.
"May I speak now?"
The tip of one claw might have dug in a little too far, enough to punch a tiny hole upon Dorien's soft neck, due to the barely restrained flinch of displeasure at Mydral's speaking sarcastic nature. ...But they do let up...a little. "...If you choose your words wisely," he drones lowly. He will not have you backtalk him, sir. Oh no.
By this point, Aren is watching the both of them, unmovingly, and eerily silent. He's also.... staring again. But he doesn't interrupt, move, or hardly even blink. He seems to be waiting for something, though whether it's for Natharai to say something to him, or to pick the redhead up and toss him to his 'tender' mercies is anyone's guess.
Dorien keeps staring at Natharai, making sure to keep eye contact. He doesn't talk much higher than a whisper. "I was really worried; I know you aren't the type to disappear without at reason and then end up dead somewhere a few days later, but..." He reaches up and rests a few of his fingers against the demon arm. "And then I saw Arenvald, and I was glad to know you were okay, very happy and everything, and then Arenvald just went and shut me out." He puffs out a breath, moving some of his hair out of his face, or trying to anyway. "It hurt," he whispers. "Still does, since you seem to think I'm going to tell someone."
The redhead sighs, and twists his mouth into a wryly smile. "But you have a right to act this way, you're right. I'm sorry; I was just wondering what..."
Natharai does not react visibly for a very long while, his eyes still fixed upon the redhead with his claws still in place. Though after a while, the subtle signs begin to show. That partially maddened smirk turning into a faint, yet thoughtful, frown... eyes becoming less narrowed. Eventually he does not look very menacing anymore, save the fact that he still has -claws-, but instead appears emotionally exhausted. Those plated digits pull away, disappearing completely with a faint 'shlk' as his hand hangs at his side. In the kitchen, the kettle begins to whistle...and the warlock straightens, turns on a heel, and heads into the other room to go fetch tea.
Dorien slumps against the couch further, tension he didn't know was in him disappearing. He touches his neck, finding the small hole, and pulls his fingers away to see some blood. The redhead winces slightly, and presses his finger against the puncture again.
Arenvald sits back slightly, himself, still watching Dorien, though he doesn't seem quite so ominous about doing so now that Natharai has released him. He glances briefly after the retreating warlock, then returns his attention to Dorien. "I shut ye out, as ye put it," he drawls slowly... "Because it's not somethin' we want out. Not into th' world, not in'ta th' 'family' either. Some things oughta stay buried, Dorien. Some things people just don't need to know. It's not like havin' an embarassin' rash."
"I'm sorry," Dorien sighs. "I guess I should have listened to you, I just got..."
The sound of porcelain clicking together, water being poured, and accoutrements being gathered onto a serving tray are heard in the kitchen. It is...taking a while, apparently, which is rather odd since it does not take -this- long to prepare tea. Perhaps the warlock is taking the time to compose himself and simply listen to the conversation taking place.
Aren's absolutely positive that's what he's doing, and isn't about to go pester him. "Carried away? Nosy? Ain't a healthy habit t'be in, Mydral. Bein' inquisitive is all well an' good if ye spend yer life in a mage's tower, but here in th' real world, nine times outta ten, stickin' yer nose where folks don't want it, even if ye mean well, can end up with someone' takin' yer face off." He's not being hostile, but there's definitely something growlishly firm in his tone.
Dorien winces again. "Wouldn't have done it if it wasn't you," he answers awkwardly.
Eventually padded footsteps are heard in the kitchen, the warlock moving back into the open with tray in hand. He glances to the two men briefly before making his way to Dorien first, offering him a hot cup of that Silvermoon White Pearl tea Arenvald mentioned. It is a naturally sweet and delicate, almost floral, bouquet, the liquid a pale amber. Company goes first, of course, but it is also perhaps some silent form of apology for being rough with him. Not that he'd do that, of course, being this was a matter that required being very firm.
Aren gives him kind of a look. "If it wasn't me?" he echoes, brows furrowing. "Why me?" Although... he does have an inkling, he apparently wants it from the archivist himself. He takes his own cup quietly, not seeming to worry about the dichotomy of his appearance with the fact that Natharai's tea-drinking habit seems to have worn off on him. The warlock gets a low, wordless rumble of thanks.
Dorien gives a quiet thank you, before motioning to the baked goods that rest on the table, forgotten in the conversation. He sips from the tea, pausing, remembering Arenvald's question. "Because you're a friend?"
He then moves towards Arenvald and offers him a cup, tray tucked and balanced against his left arm. Once that offering is finished, his free hand reaches up to lightly rest upon that cropped head of hair. Whether or not it was a gesture of indicating things are alright for the time being, one of silently implied possession, or both, remains unclear... Natharai has heard Dorien bumble through his words around both of them enough, so perhaps the unspoken implication that 'He's mine. Back off.' was present after all...?
He sets the tray down onto the table next to the box of treats, which bears a teapot, small plates, and a few folded cloth napkins. They cannot have crumbs scattered around, of course... Such bad manners in front of company. That and he might want to spare Aren from another OCD-fueled cleaning spree on the floor.
Dorien takes another sip. "I'd act same for Nath and Cade too. Maybe Ley, if she didn't drive me up the wall so much." He mutters, as this will help ease the awkwardness.
Like usual... Natharai is not one to pass up dessert. That man and his horrible sweet tooth need to be satisfied at least once in a while, after all! So he takes a few things onto a dish, namely cookies, and snags his cup of tea and a napkin before returning to his armchair he oh-so-recently stalked out of. He returns to that resigned partially cross-legged hooking of his ankle position, plate of treats resting on one of the chair's arms, as he takes a lingering sip of tea.
Aren doesn't object to the hand; if anything it seems to settle him a bit, which probably suits both concerns fairly well. As for Dory's answer, though, he just looks up at Natharai. Well... what -do- you say to that? He glances back to the redhead, "Y'can still get in a world'a trouble harin' off like that without thinkin'."
Dorien looks up at Arenvald, and frowns slightly. "I know, but I was never planning on talking to anyone else about it, other than you two."
"Do try and understand this, Dorien..." He murmurs as he looks down his tea, remaining thoughtful in his little fire-lit nook. "What Arenvald has become is just as I said in my little fabricated story; a worgen. Surely you have heard tales about them... Why... Greystone herself is from Duskwood, which is -infested- with his moon-crazed brethren." The warlock pauses briefly for a sip of tea. "Even though Aren has managed to overcome the difficult part of this change, that social stigma will not be broken so easily..."
He glances up to look at Dorien over the rims of his reader glasses, tone low and distant. "People turn on their comrades in the face of fear, Dorien..."
Aren absently rubs his arm then shrugs slowly. "An' all they've got is my word I'm not going to turn on them an' kill or change -them-. I can't blame 'em. It's still damn hard t'keep things under my thumb, I won't lie. S'why I got so riled the other night. My temper flares, I got no guarantees."
"I've never heard of those, Cadence doesn't talk much of home." The redhead shrugs, before frowning. "I never understood that...” Dorien looks up at Arenvald, and nods after a moment, before looking confused. "Change?”
Natharai gives Arenvald a sidelong glance, a slightly worrisome frown upon his lips just at the mere mention of that. He is sympathetic though, being in some ways he can relate with the having the near constant need to hide. He, however, looks back to his tea and takes another sip...remaining pointedly silent. This is Aren's story and he already has talked a great deal... It is better for Dorien to hear the story from the man who is living this.
Aren glances briefly at Natharai, then back to Dorien. "If a worgen bites ye, an' doesn't kill ye, you'll turn." He huffs a faint sigh, frowning, and scratching vaguely at the deep scars on the back of his left arm. "Course... I didn't know that myself when I got bit. I saw a priest, but... it was too late, I guess." He still sort of thinks said priest bollixed the whole thing, but... then again, he supposes he wasn't very clear at the time about the problem. "Only lucky thing is, the one what bit me isn't like th' ones in Duskwood. Whatever that mage up there's done to th' curse, it's changed it so ye can still think, so th' beast doesn't have control. It's still there, though, believe me," he gravels.
"Huh. And you can change on will or...?"
Natharai glances to Arenvald again, pausing mid sip. ...Well. He seems to be taking this rather decently.
Aren grunts. "Mostly. It's real easy 'ta change, an' not at all easy t'change back. I get too riled up, I can't keep it back. That's why I left so quick the other night. That squalling bint of a draenei had my hackles up." He makes a face, the grimace briefly baring slightly-overlong canines, "Literally. I hope I don't hafta clean her up onna these days."
"How do you change back then? Other than 'it's hard'?"
"...Hn. I heard of one of the old guard resurfacing. I have yet to meet her, though..." He trails off with a faint 'heh', smirking wryly as he picks up a cookie. "Upon hearing this, I cannot say I wish to." Though after that peanut-gallery comment, he goes quiet again and a bite of his treat.
"She's loud and obnoxious. And has an ape or something. Whatever those things are. I saw them in a book."
"... How charming." Great. An attitude and the potential of flying feces to boot.
Aren just gives him a look. "Fel, I don't know," he grunts, irritably. "It just happens. 'Close yer eyes an' think of Lordaeron'. like they say." Or think really hard about being a hairless monkey. "It's kinda like... to go worgen, is to let go. Stayin' human is more like holdin' on tight. Sometimes yer grip slips."
Dorien frowns, before grinning. "Hey, at least we're all screwed in a way, with things we don't want other people to know." He pats Arenvald on his leg, before looking over at Natharai, stupid smile still on his face.
Aren gives Dorien a flat look, then glances at Natharai. Then... back to Dorien. There's a vague suggestion of 'eartwitch' involved.
"What?"
The warlock lifts an eyebrow slightly, looking at Dorien. Yes... Yes, that goes for him too. He does not, most certainly, want Dorien to know about him. -Anything- about him. Though his attention does eventually focus on Arenvald, his lips quirking into another mild pensive frown. "...You seem...tired, Aren," he murmurs quietly. Though the resignation in his voice does possibly point towards a veiled meaning beneath it.
Dorien, thankfully, has been good with the change thus far... So perhaps he could 'relax' in front of him if he really wanted to.
For a moment, he gives Natharai a strange look. Tired? Wha? It's still earl...oh. Aren heaves a faint sigh, offering the warlock a wry smile. "Could be..." If you're -sure- this is a good idea...
He does set his cup down first, though, half closes his eyes for a moment, then seems to heave a sigh. It's... not a sigh, though. He doesn't move from his seat on the arm of the couch, remaining balanced there for the duration of the change. It's saying something, since the abrupt lengthening of limbs and torso are somewhat violent; thick, short brown fur sprouting so fast as to seem like something poured over him. Fingers elongate into talons, his face lengthening into a muzzle lined with long razor-sharp fangs, and the blue of his eyes darkening into ruby-red coals. It's over only moments after it began, thin wisps of shadow curling off his chestnut coat and fading away.
Once it's over, he looks down at the redhead, and grins... which displays an -awful- lot of shiny, pearly-white fang. Hi.
Dorien blinks, his jaw hanging open, before he seems to realize this and snaps it shut. He slowly, gently, places his teacup to the side, and lets his hands wring in his lap. After a moment of this, he tries to reach out towards Aren, before stopping. "Er," he murmurs. "Can I touch you?"
Eyes like dull coals regard him for a long moment. His expression is -very- hard to read, really... for one thing, the scar across his muzzle pulls his lip up into a permanent sneer. But the sort of vague, swivelling flop of one long ear says 'buh?' better than most things. He glances briefly at Natharai in a sort of 'do you believe this?' look, then returns his attention to Dorien. "I...eh. Hrr. I guess so?" he allows? He's got a bit of a lisp, no doubt to the protruding canines he hasn't learned to talk around yet.
Natharai watches this change seemingly impassively, but, truth be told... it has yet to really become uninteresting to him. Granted, Aren has been a worgen for only a week but the change is just so -fast- he finds himself focusing intensely to pick out the finer points of this transition. It is at moments like these that Nath somewhat wishes he had access to one of those Gnomish 'stop motion' cameras. It would probably be -really- interesting to watch slowed down...
Dorien's request to pet Aren, however, does earn a rather incredulous blink. Certainly, if he wore his monocle now, it would have popped off.
Dorien smiles, before reaching out again and running his fingers along Arenvald's hand, up towards his talons. The redhead tries his best to bring the hand closer to him without being forceful, so he could get a better look at the details. He brushes some hair behind his ear, and actually looks to be grinning.
Aren lets Dorien take his hand... though he -still- keeps looking at Natharai, in a sort of 'uh... do you believe this?' way. Those claws are razor sharp, with an interior edge that normal wolf-claws don't have. The palm has a thick, leathery pad, as do the undersides of his fingers, separated at the joints by fur. It also seems very strong, despite looking much spindlier than his human fingers do.
Natharai is...silently aware of the fact that this is not a very good first example of what the run-of-the-mill worgen is like. While, in simpler canine terms, Aren would be considered more of a domesticated wolf-like dog, like a husky or wolf-dog, while the rest of his 'kin' are usually nothing more than a bunch of gangly, ravenous, rabid hounds. He knows that Aren has a somewhat tenuous grip on 'the wolf within', so there are certain boundaries he knows he must respect and the presence of mind on when to be careful around him. Because surely, despite all of the warrior's effort, all it takes is once to slip up...
"Dorien... You might find it wise to check out some books from the library regarding Worgen. You might find the subject interesting..." He would tell him to go observe one of the Duskwood packs from a distance, but with the redhead's luck, he'd try and pet them too.
"Mm? Sure..." Dorien presses his hand against Arenvald's, palm to palm, making a thoughtful sound. "Big.. Is there anything more that they'll say other that what you've told me?"
Natharai offers Arenvald a faint shrug, punctuated by a sip of his tea, before smirking lightly. Hey... You might have to get used to this, big guy. His attention focuses on Dorien again, murmuring. "Well...unanimously that they are extremely dangerous. So..." The warlock smirks a little wider, the expression wry. "Petting them is not a wise idea..."
Dorien looks up, and gives Natharai a flat look. "I know that."
Aren gives a vague shrug of his own in return, and eyes Dorien. "T'say th' least," he rumbles... and this time it -is- a rumble; his voice is a low, modulated growl more than anything. "From what I understand, th' first ones weren't ever human. Or anythin' else, s'far as I know." Apparently tired of his perch, he slides off the arm of the sofa and... pretty much onto Dorien. Whumph. That's what he gets for sitting on -his- couch.
That flat look is met with an equally flat one of his own. Sure you do... Says the man who has never -heard- of a worgen until tonight. "...Well," he murmurs slightly, looking down to his teacup idly as he swirls its contents lightly. "...Even around Aren, you might find it wise to exercise respect and caution. While I am not saying be -afraid- of him, of course, it is like...hm..." He trails off as he searches for the right way to put this. "Fzuushon. Yes. My felhunter."
"He might look like a strange, and slightly dumb, dog...to a degree. But most people don't know is that he'll drain the mana from you and possibly your soul out with it."
Dorien yelps and jerks his hands away. No one could say he was touching. He wasn't doing anything, completely innocent. "Oh. Oh, so that's what he does?" Dorien looks thoughtful, absentmindedly fiddling with Aren's fur before catching himself again. "Sounds similar to me, actually..."
Natharai blinks and sighs, eyes drifting shut. "No... He does not do that. That was a bad comparison on my part, I suppose...”
He glances to Aren again, murmuring thoughtfully. "Aren is, still, Aren... Though as he said earlier, the beast is still there...and it can be riled." It is not a condemning tone or look, far from it, but it is...just the state of things. He remembers that look Aren gave him during the first few moments of his initial shift. That is a look he will likely never forget, even if he wanted to.
"No, I meant your felhunter. Mana and whatnot. I didn't know that." Dorien pats Arenvald after a moment, and smiles. "Not to understate the beast part, or the struggle, but this is actually pretty neat."
"Ah..." He glances to Aren again, still a little silently bemused and surprised from Dorien's excitement. "I suppose," he drones idly. Though he would be lying if he didn't find Arenvald's situation to be rather interesting as well. It is not very often you are able to see, or touch, a worgen and not be eaten alive.
Aren snorts, looking kind of amused. "What would I do with magic anyway," he gravels, letting his legs drape over the couch arm. He glances over at Natharai, jaw lolling slightly. ".... Is that why he kind of ignores me?" He is the man with no biscuits for the puppy, one supposes. There has been a subtle shift in the warrior's demeanour, post shift; a certain lack of tension. He probably wasn't kidding about the 'hanging on' part.
"I... guess so," he gravels after a bit. "But it comes with more trouble than I needed." Not that it doesn't have its points. He flicks a glance at Natharai briefly, then makes a faint 'whuf' noise.
Dorien goes back to petting. "Well, at least you can, well, kind of choose to change, and if you try hard enough, you can change back." The redhead looks back at the talons. "And you're dangerous, while being your own self, even with the beast. You can't be controlled, right?"
The warlock ponders this for a moment and answers with another slight shrug. "As far as I can tell, he likes you just fine..." The felhunter does, at times, flop infront of him for tummy rubs, after all. Thankfully Fzuushon has about the guile of a sack of bricks...and the wit of one too. "Though if he swarms around you for no reason then, well, he wants something else."
Nath does catch that glance from Arenvald, earning a slight lift of the eyebrow and a faint smirk–the latter of which he does politely hide behind the rim of his teacup as he takes another sip.
The comment about being controlled does give the warlock pause though, his eyes flitting to Aren again before looking down to his cup. Well... about that.
Aren grunts. "Don't know. If I'd turned while still in Grizzly Hills," he gravels, "Then... yeh. Probably. But I'm not goin' anywhere near there now, so..." He shrugs. It's something he's thought plenty about though.
"Oh. Where's that?"
"Oh... It is very beautiful. Redwood trees, elk and wild horses. Amazing fishing, too. I considered on showing Arenvald its outer borders once but..." Heh. Not a good idea anymore!
"Northrend." The worgen shrugs, stretches again, then pointedly uses Dorien for a pillow. "Had mercenary work up there," he adds. The comment earns a wry jaw-loll. ".... Seen a fair bit of it. S'nice, if not flat enough 'fer m' preferences." He has a bit of trouble with the last word, which means Dory gets slightly drooled on, but there's no real help for it.
Dorien goes back to petting, looking in Natharai's direction, but actually staring off in the middle distance. "Well, that shouldn't be hard to avoid."
Aren stretches a little, seeming less troubled by this "invasive" contact than one would think. It's probably hardwired in somewhere....that and for whatever reason, he seems much less uptight in this form. Logic should dictate the opposite be true, but... there you go. Logic probably doesn't have a lot of bearing on a werewolf anyway.
"Ah, no... But allow to explain with something of a little more... personal level," he murmurs as he breaks off a piece of a cookie. "While some have painted me as a reforming warlock, that is... entirely not true. While I am not as sadistic and out right cruel as I once was..." Light help him, he was a piece of work in his younger years. "I am still just that. A warlock. That being said, there are certain places that I simply must avoid or that I must exercise extreme caution in."
"Tempting fate, as they say, is never wise..."
Dorien focuses on Natharai, and nods. "Makes sense, but he's got an ocean away, not exactly like he can stumble into easily."
Natharai nods slightly, murmuring. "Quite, but we have missions that do lead us to Northrend rather often. Not to mention those within our ranks looking for mercenary work, like Aren and myself indulge in sometimes, find opportunity ripe for the picking in the northern lands." He pauses to take a bite of his snack, eventually continuing. "Sometimes...just because something is far away...it does not mean you cannot hear the call. Light... the place I avoid is a whole -world- away and I still find myself thinking about it."
Dorien makes a thoughtful sound, and slumps back against the couch, if a bit bonelessly. He's still petting though.
Aren cracks an eye open at that, swiveling an ear toward the warlock, but then closes it again. "I've got work in Dalaran. But if they can keep Arthas from callin' back his deathknights, then they can keep out one damn zombie wizard," he grumbles. He'll give you about a month to quit that, Dory.
"Eugh, I'd hate to see how I'd react to Dalaran."
“...Mm. It is a wondrous city, to be sure, but like Shadowmoon is to me, Dalaran is a font of arcane magic of incredible proportions and it is...difficult to not be affected. The city does not agree with me personally..." He frowns slightly before taking another bite. The feel of the place does not exactly agree with his fel saturated senses, along with other things, but at least it isn't the core of light-damned Shattrath. That place makes him feel like he would burst into flames.
Dorien hurms. "Oh, Merosiel just asked why Arenvald smelled funny. So, I don't know, offering that information if you need to work with it."
Aren yawns at the ceiling. It's a very... pointy yawn. "... Dalaran gives me a headache," he offers, blandly. "But I've got work there." A pause, then a grimace, "So does he," he grumbles sourly. "Shark elf to bathe more." Mero makes his nose itch, in more ways than one, but he didn't exactly get the Reference Manual of Humanoid Scents to understand -why-.
Nath pauses briefly, mentally backpedaling to what Dorien said. Wait. What? "... Ah." His brow furrows, tone flat. "Regardless... Writing off scent is not wise. Merosiel has keen senses so... I am certain he is making the connection. If not now, then soon."
"Best to know the ground work," Dorien murmurs, biting down on a knuckle to keep himself from yawning.
"... Though I am curious," he murmurs while looking to Arenvald. "Why do you and Merosiel have business in Dalaran?"
Aren muhs? "I've been workin' on that pet shop owner, an' seein' who I can talk to in th' Underbelly. I dunno 'bout Shark Elf."
"I know I'm helping you with that, but if either of you do need help with anything," the redhead murmurs, looking between the two. "Whether it is mundane or any other sort, I'm here..." He laughs slightly. "Although I've offered it like five times already, I feel as though I should keep bringing it up."
The warlock blinks a few times and offers a faint 'ah'. "That gnomish woman, yes? Hm. Well... Good luck with your endeavours then, Aren." He is genuine about that sentiment, of course, but the comment about Mero smelling odd does give him a brief moment of pause. "...Well, there is likely an explanation for that, though the elf has been subjected to so many procedures, magics, and so on... He has lived a long time, so perhaps it gives him a peculiar scent."
Dorien yawns, finding himself far more tired than he originally thought. Perhaps with all the tension and emotions that had been driving him before slipping away, he finally realized he was spent. His head slips forward, eyes closing, and his hand starts to slow down in the petting, fingers curling slightly in the fur by the end. He drifts off quietly, perhaps muttering a quick sorry under his breath to the company.
Nath is incredibly hot when threatening people. Make it stop.))
Days have passed since the foray into Feralas, Arenvald and Natharai eventually returning into the public eye once this new and... Delicate situation was brought under control. While the trip itself was a successful one, items and knowledge procured, an unforeseen development arose during the late evening of their return to the Stronghold. For the last lock on a curse within the crop-haired highlander, one that lied dormant until now finally gave way...and released a wolf into the world.
The escape off that island was a harrowing one, to be sure, though both made it back to the safety of their home in Stormwind and proceeded to lie low for a few days. Effort and patience for both parties were put forth as they felt out this strange and frightening situation, though when Aren saw that he would not go absolutely berserk and Nath would not abandon him... The two eventually managed to adjust as best as they could to all of this and venture back out into the public eye once more.
Though... That does not mean that they were safe. Not by a long shot. Arenvald still had a tenuous grip on his need to change, but they had to go back to work and try to function as they once did in their workplace.
And work Natharai did... A tried and tested workaholic, he now had a few more projects and issues to add to his ever growing pile of work. Not to mention that due to him taking off work, without word, he was behind and he was scrambling to play catch-up. Reports to be written, items shipped, issues investigated... For many nights he did not come home until very late, tonight being one such evening...
Though tonight...his work is done. It is currently around 8pm, the world around them quieting as the citizens of Stormwind begin to turn in for the day and prepare for a new morning. Currently the warlock is seated on the sofa, legs propped up on the cushion as he flips through a novel.
Arenvald has been taking it easy... he -almost- slipped at the meeting the previous night, so it's back to staying home and working on his necessary projects from there. In his typical mildly-obsessive fashion, he's been trying to ensure he has everything completely and totally thought out before he goes to speak to Campion.
For the time being, though, he's occupying himself with domesticity. Dinner is over, so he's been putting the leftovers away in the icebox and cleaning up. If there's one thing he simply cannot stand, it's a messy kitchen. But where some people might find this a chore, for Aren, it's therapy... he whistles absently to himself as he finishes up, meandering over to flop next to the warlock on the sofa still drying his hands on a dishtowel. There's a brief peek over his shoulder, of the 'wuchu reedin' variety, then he simply leans on him a bit.
Dorien was, simply put, frustrated and hurt, which lent easily to his rather pissed off state. He closed the door leading up to his living quarters with a bit more force than necessary, with a small box under his arm. At dinner, Cadence had mentioned walking it off, or finding someone to listen to his problem. The redhead had thought it to be a capital idea, and he knew just where to walk and who to talk to.
And probably, much to Arenvald's displeasure... The novel is written in Darnassian, though the edition seems somewhat new. No more than a year or so, if the yellowing of the pages and smell of it is any clue. Nath pauses and looks up to Arenvald, smiling faintly as he regards the man. "All finished, hm...?" He murmurs idly, placing an index finger on the page he is reading. "Thank you again for dinner, Aren... It was wonderful, per usual." He pauses for a moment, an amused smirk flitting at his lips. "I would offer to try my hand sometime, though I am wary of disturbing your 'system'." Yep... a gentle ribbing. He knows perfectly well that Aren practically -owns- the kitchen now, much to his amusement and mild chagrin. Likely he'd put things in the wrong place or...something.
Aren's used to the books being in things he can't read.... after all, it seems like they usually aren't. It still gets a faint hrumph of mock irritation, though... you and your moon languages! "Yer welcome," he rumbles, draping the towel around his neck. He gives the warlock a bit of a squint for his offer of help. ".... Mebbe onna these days," he allows, with the air of someone being indulgent in a slightly martyred fashion. Oh, sure, he wouldn't MIND... but... yeah. He's sure nothing would go back where it's supposed to go. That said, he gets comfy. In a way that implies movement is not likely for some time; hope you weren't planning to go anywhere, warlock.
He already knows perfectly well what Aren is harrumphing about, which earns a rather broad, sly grin. "Sorry..." Only he isn't. "It is good practice. Though... I thought the subject matter of this story was rather relevant in light of recent happenings." He pauses to look down at it, a thumb lightly running down the sides of the pages with a quiet 'thkthkthkthkthkthk'. "The writing is a little too dramatic and utilizes a great deal of flowery language... I do enjoy prose, and all, but you know how it is, surely." He flips the cover closed over his finger bookmark for a while, the hardbound cover a deep blue with silver embossing in elegant Darnassian script. Though, beneath it, there is a Common translation of the title; 'The Torment of the Worgen'.
Dorien hadn’t seen either one of them for a week! They had just disappeared sometime during the night last week, and they expected him not to be curious? At all? Or worried? When he had seen Arenvald at the meeting the other night, Dorien had to stop himself from hugging the other man and not letting go for at least an hour. Instead, when he asked him, Arenvald just went and blew him off. Said he didn’t need to know, he was better off not knowing. Oh yeah, like that was true.
The walk wasn’t doing Dorien any help at all, if anything, it was making it worse.
The redhead finally stopped in front of Natharai’s door, glaring at it. It took him a moment to remember he should probably calm down before trying to talk about anything coherent. No one took him seriously when he was angry. Dorien slipped into his usual meditative breathing, and tried his best to clear his head.
Knocking his head against the door probably wasn’t his best plan to help him clear his head, but it was rather routine for the redhead now.
Aren eyes the cover. "Don't feel very tormented," he grumbles, only to be interrupted by a very dull thudding. He glances at the door. "What.... is that?" he grumbles, with a vague frown, then pushes himself to his feet with some reluctance and ambles that way. Dory has a brief warning, the sound of the latches disengaging, before the door swings open to be replaced by something almost as solid... a big scarred warrior dressed in old brown breeches and a shirt that...well.... it's probably going to be about a week tops before Natharai steals it and throws it into the rag bag. It's so worn; you can see the scars -through- the linen. "Hwuh?" he rumbles, by way of greeting. Who goes there.
Dorien, too busy in his own head forcing the anger off elsewhere, doesn't seem to catch on to the fact the door is open. In fact, he knocked his head against Arenvald's chest a few times before he realizes that he's hitting something that, while equally solid, is not wood. He blinks, and looks up at the man. "Hello."
Natharai snorts lightly, his smirk becoming lopsided as he slips an actual bookmark between the pages. "Not any more, at least..." He was mighty distressed a few days ago, rightly so, of course. "However... There -are- others who are far less fortunate than you." It is true... He is almost tempted to show Arenvald the Pyrewood worgen if he was able, if anything for a dose of perspective. He has seen the normal moon-crazed worgen, of course, but the Pyrewood ones were...extremely sad.
He does startle slightly upon hearing that gentle 'knocking', shifting to slide the book beneath the legs of the couch he partially lounges on. Sitting up, turning to drape his arm over the couch backing, he blinks with mild surprise as he hears a familiar voice coming from behind the human wall that is Arenvald. "Oh... Dorien," he murmurs. "Hello." He sounds somewhat pleased to hear it is him, though...a trifle wary.
Aren gives Dorien a slightly peculiar look, brows furrowed, but then plops a hand on his head and ruffles him. After a glance back at Natharai, he steps back, "C'mon in. Dinner's over but I can make tea." He eyes the redhead critically. "Ye look like ye could use it. What's th' matter?"
Natharai pries himself up from the plush comfort of the sofa before wandering over to the wood pile, plucking out a few more logs to stoke the hearthfire for the unexpected company. Though...probably not all that unexpected. Dorien does make a habit, ever since he did bring him here to recover, once upon a time, to show up on a whim... especially if something is bothering him. "Have a seat, Dorien," he murmurs as he straightens the pillows and does a quick impromptu tidying to make it look a little less like he was flopped here for extended periods of time.
He also notices a slight...snag on the rug, nonchalantly grinding the heel of his foot upon it to flatten it. Nope... No unravelling rug here.
Dorien huffs at the hair ruffling, following the bigger man inside as he does his best to flatten out the stray bits of red. He stands off to the side for a moment, looking decided awkward, but then again, when didn't he? "Tea would be nice; I made muffins and cookies, since I said I would when I found out when you would be back." Was there a hint of bitterness there? No sir. Not at all, just like the smile was absolutely real and not at all a bit forced.
The bitter tone does give the warlock some degree of pause, turning his head ever so slightly to pin a vaguely curious stare upon the redhead over the rims of his reading glasses. "...Have a seat..." He repeats again, his tone a little flatter. The archivist could chew them out later, but he is not exactly in the mood for Dorien's passive-aggressive sniping.
Aren gives Dory a strange look, then shrugs and closes the door behind him, waving the redhead to the couch while he diverts to the kitchen to put the kettle on. "Got some Silvermoon White Pearl," he offers while puttering. A glance over toward the box. Ooh... dessert, and he didn't have to fix it. Once the fire's up though, he wanders back to park on the arm of the sofa, watching Dorien with that same vague frown. "So what's eatin' ye?" he asks... blunt as always.
Dorien does sit down finally, opening and setting the box down on the small table nearby. As he said, there are various muffins and cookies in there, just waiting to be eaten. "Made them earlier, so they should still be fresh." The redhead says, a bit quieter than before, wrestling with his emotions inside his head for a moment. Acting like a spoiled child wasn't going to help at all. He shrugs.
With Dorien finally seated, Natharai’s lanky form finally moves away from the hearth and seats himself upon an armchair that is placed nearby it and across from where Dory sits. Back goes on the formal mask, accompanied with the proper demeanour, now that there is an additional person in the room... While Dorien is hardly just a 'business associate', there are very few people he willingly lets himself act comfortable around (plus it is hardly polite to have semi-public displays of affection in front of company). ...Especially if he suspects there is an issue to be discussed.
Loosely hooking an ankle up onto a knee in a sort of semi-casual crossing of legs, hands resting lightly upon the chair's arms, he watches Dorien impassively...and makes no move for the offered treats as of yet. "...Dorien..." Out with it, Mydral. You came here for a reason and, baked goods or no, this is not just a social call.
Dorien sits silently for a few moments, trying to figure out just how to say what he wants. He gives up halfway through the thought. "How was your trip back from Feralas?"
Not a twitch, nor a facial tick, meets that question... Though Natharai knows Dorien suspects something is amiss. Of course he does. He may be somewhat daft, but he is not an imbecile. "...Tiresome," he begins semi-thoughtfully, his eyes drifting partially shut if not only to help enunciate this fact. Though the warlock is quite the storyteller. "I apologize that neither of us let you and Greystone know of our sudden disappearance, though there were complications." There is a reason why Natharai tends to look so aggravatingly impassive and stone-faced when he speaks... It is rather difficult to spin a cover-up story like the bald-faced liar he is if he is full of facial ticks.
"There was an attack on Feathermoon, one that Aren and myself were pulled directly into being we were out in the common grounds. There was a Twilight's Hammer cultist, who had under his sway, somehow, a worgen... Arenvald and myself joined up with the Sentinels after the creature attacked us and thus...we were separated. It took some time to return, being that we still had that issue I mentioned once we, unfortunately, lost sight of the creature and its master."
Aren flicks a brief glance at the warlock for that one. 'And it's master' huh? Somewhere behind that moustache of his is a faint smirk. But he nods a bit to the explanation, turning back to Dorien. "Ye two got back all right, I trust..."
"Curious. Cadence is a very light sleeper, even if she was tired. I'm sure if she heard a call to arms, she would have done something." Dorien leans back, crossing his legs much Natharai had, folding one hand over the other on his lap. "We got back fine."
Aren looks a little dubious. "With all that howlin' an' screamin'? Dunno, Mydral... she must've been more tired than ye thought." There's another period of pointed eyeing. "So... what's eatin' ye, then, eh? Fess up."
Dorien looks up at the bigger man, eyeing him right back. "You’re avoiding the subject. Or more specifically, why can't I know?"
Contrary to what Aren might be thinking, it wasn't exactly an implication that Nath was the 'creature's' master. It was simply just a logical string of events... The Kal'dorei people constantly butt heads with the Twilight's Hammer and what better to explain the howling than saying that one of their members managed to bring a worgen, a creature feared and loathed by the elves, under his command? Though if anyone pegged Nath as Aren-Worg's master... he'd probably play it off just to give others a sense of calm if he absolutely must. Like death knights, the worgen have a rather firm public opinion embedded within the mythos that makes up their race.
The comment about Cadence being a light sleeper earns a faint smirk, eyes narrowing. "That may be... But the woman was exhausted. You saw how riled and rattled she was from her purging the unholy filth that contaminated that section of Eldre'thalas. The guards heard the disturbance, as did we... So I do not know what to tell you."
Dorien frowns, staring at the other man. Well played, well played. He thumbs towards Arenvald. "So why'd he turn into a wolf thing the other night?"
Aren eyetwitches slightly, then gives Dorien a look. "Th' fel ye talkin' about," he rumbles. "You get in'ta Campy's DC again?"
A subtle quirk of an eyebrow, eyes still fixated on Dorien. No matter how much he wants to glance at Aren with an unspoken question of 'WHAT?!', he keeps his eyes focused on Dory. Preposterous. Wolf thing? "Then I would say that you were hallucinating," he says oh-so-matter-of-factly, tone flat as usual. "You were exposed to high quantities of super saturated magic auras of various natures... Perhaps it was playing havoc with your senses." Wolf thing. PAH.
"That's all you can come up with? This was last night. The trip was last week, the only thing I could be suffering from is worry over both of your well beings, seeing how you disappeared with no warning. Go missing for a week and you expect me not to be worrying and wondering what happened..." Dorien trails off, before turning to stare up at Arenvald. "You were also staring at that screeching lady rather intently, not to mention your ears and the growling."
Aren blinks. "... -Wot- 'ear thing'?" This actually seems to confuse him, and he reaches up to rub at his ears a little. Nnnnoooo, they feel okay. "An' I was starin' at her because she was bein' a shrieky li'l prat, that's all." Harrumph. "And -grumblin'-. She rubs me th' wrong way."
"I'm pretty sure you did the same thing to Merosiel." Dorien crosses his arms over his chest. "I told him to leave you alone, by the way."
Eyes narrow slightly, finally allowing himself to glance at Arenvald for a brief moment of time. What. Ear thing? He knows perfectly well that Aren does sometimes half-shift without noticing, so if Dorien did see that... then... There is no hiding this. There is no explaining.
Aren hrufs faintly. "... Thanks. There's somethin' wrong with that elf. More'n is wrong with most of 'em. But I still don't know what yer on about. I've been... twitchy lately, I'll give ye. But it'll pass."
Dorien sighs, and runs a hand through his hair, before tugging at it absentmindedly. "No problem, and sure. You're just twitchy and I'm just a good looking guy with a mysterious past."
Then...the warlock rises, his movements slow and steady as he comes to his feet. There is something unsettling about that impassive facade he wears, it seeming to be barely masking some far darker sentiment. ...Though it could just be the firelight. Where he is located does cast a rather insidious looking veil of shadow and highlights, which surely does not help his already dark physique.
Step by step, Natharai comes closer...the slender fingers upon his right hand unconsciously flexing.
Aren watches him, going silent. It's arguable he wasn't being very persuasive anyway. His brows are furrowed deeply, though, his head subtly lowered.
Dorien settles back on the couch, watching Natharai come closer. Somewhere, in the back of his head, he thinks he probably shouldn't have gone ahead with this, despite how much it bothered him. It isn't a very strong voice though. It had to be a secret; otherwise Natharai probably wouldn't be acting this way.
The redhead watches Natharai impassively, the small voice in his head also telling him, despite his conviction that the warlock wouldn't hurt him for any reason, maybe, just maybe, the man had a reason this time. Ah well, if it pissed Natharai off enough, Dorien probably deserved it.
Magic will not harm Dorien... this much Natharai knows. However, that does not make him exempt from terror. Currently... he feels that Arenvald is being threatened, even if it might not be Dorien's intent... But if this tattooed fool of a ginger talks, then there will be panic among the ranks... and Aren might be driven away, killed, or worse for all he knew. No... This will not do. Especially not in -his- home.
Rounding the table, he lashes his right hand towards Dorien, aiming to clamp down over his neck. In that blur of moment, a brief shimmer of...metal?...appears to cover his hands. Apparently, Natharai's Demon Skin spell is seeing a great deal of use as of late... Dull gray plating now covers his hand like a gauntlet, the tips of his digits adorned with long curved claws. While he has no intent to hurt Dorien... he seems more than comfortable to let himself slip into the role of the monster at the moment.
Dorien winces slightly at the pressure, breathing out slightly through his nose. The redhead doesn't do much else, other than stare up at Natharai. There might be a small flash of fear in his eyes, but it's smothered pretty fast.
Claws flex and resettle around the archivist's neck, their points pressing against his skin uncomfortably with the silent promise of puncturing if he does anything wrong in the slightest. The warlock stands off to Dorien's side as he leans his weight heavily upon his other, normal looking, hand. Slowly, he leans his face in closer, murmuring lowly in a tight monotonous drone as his light hazel eyes narrow ever so slightly. "...Listen to me, Dorien...and listen well."
Aren watches the exchange, eyes narrowed. This is definitely Natharai's territory right now, though his general 'looming state' probably helps the overall atmosphere. He does nothing to halt Natharai's intents... but really, he's listening too.
Dorien doesn't move, or much else. Still staring, breathing quietly through his nose.
Claws shift against his skin, the scales of the 'demon gauntlet' like cold metal while having a slightly disgusting...slick quality to them. "Regardless of your initial intent... You bringing this to my home... -our- home...is a threat, no matter how indirect it may be." Though Nath knows perfectly well that Dorien would not willingly bring them harm, it does not mean that his knowledge about this...no matter how slight...is not dangerous. "So... allow me to make my intent, and this situation, crystal clear for you."
That faint menacing scowl slightly quirks into the ghost of an ever-darkening smirk, eyes narrowing.
"What you witnessed... Was true. You, very likely, did see Arenvald transform into a... 'wolf thing'–a story that may be explained to you in a moment's time." There is an unspoken 'if you behave' tagged on to the end of that sentence. "Though regardless of our relationship between one another, Dorien..." His lips quirk into a somewhat toothy grin, his tone adopting that unsettlingly warm quality that 'Aunt Yeva' employs so often. "I have no issue with gutting you if you tell another living soul about this without explicit permission. I have no issue with hanging you from your spilt entrails from a bridge, leaving you for the carrion feeders."
"If I find that a word was uttered about this...from you...or Riversung... Then you both will die in the worst way imaginable." Oh yes... He will speak with Merosiel soon. He knows the elf is perceptive enough to know that something is up... Plus Dorien said himself that he kept him from harrassing Aren.
"May I speak now?"
The tip of one claw might have dug in a little too far, enough to punch a tiny hole upon Dorien's soft neck, due to the barely restrained flinch of displeasure at Mydral's speaking sarcastic nature. ...But they do let up...a little. "...If you choose your words wisely," he drones lowly. He will not have you backtalk him, sir. Oh no.
By this point, Aren is watching the both of them, unmovingly, and eerily silent. He's also.... staring again. But he doesn't interrupt, move, or hardly even blink. He seems to be waiting for something, though whether it's for Natharai to say something to him, or to pick the redhead up and toss him to his 'tender' mercies is anyone's guess.
Dorien keeps staring at Natharai, making sure to keep eye contact. He doesn't talk much higher than a whisper. "I was really worried; I know you aren't the type to disappear without at reason and then end up dead somewhere a few days later, but..." He reaches up and rests a few of his fingers against the demon arm. "And then I saw Arenvald, and I was glad to know you were okay, very happy and everything, and then Arenvald just went and shut me out." He puffs out a breath, moving some of his hair out of his face, or trying to anyway. "It hurt," he whispers. "Still does, since you seem to think I'm going to tell someone."
The redhead sighs, and twists his mouth into a wryly smile. "But you have a right to act this way, you're right. I'm sorry; I was just wondering what..."
Natharai does not react visibly for a very long while, his eyes still fixed upon the redhead with his claws still in place. Though after a while, the subtle signs begin to show. That partially maddened smirk turning into a faint, yet thoughtful, frown... eyes becoming less narrowed. Eventually he does not look very menacing anymore, save the fact that he still has -claws-, but instead appears emotionally exhausted. Those plated digits pull away, disappearing completely with a faint 'shlk' as his hand hangs at his side. In the kitchen, the kettle begins to whistle...and the warlock straightens, turns on a heel, and heads into the other room to go fetch tea.
Dorien slumps against the couch further, tension he didn't know was in him disappearing. He touches his neck, finding the small hole, and pulls his fingers away to see some blood. The redhead winces slightly, and presses his finger against the puncture again.
Arenvald sits back slightly, himself, still watching Dorien, though he doesn't seem quite so ominous about doing so now that Natharai has released him. He glances briefly after the retreating warlock, then returns his attention to Dorien. "I shut ye out, as ye put it," he drawls slowly... "Because it's not somethin' we want out. Not into th' world, not in'ta th' 'family' either. Some things oughta stay buried, Dorien. Some things people just don't need to know. It's not like havin' an embarassin' rash."
"I'm sorry," Dorien sighs. "I guess I should have listened to you, I just got..."
The sound of porcelain clicking together, water being poured, and accoutrements being gathered onto a serving tray are heard in the kitchen. It is...taking a while, apparently, which is rather odd since it does not take -this- long to prepare tea. Perhaps the warlock is taking the time to compose himself and simply listen to the conversation taking place.
Aren's absolutely positive that's what he's doing, and isn't about to go pester him. "Carried away? Nosy? Ain't a healthy habit t'be in, Mydral. Bein' inquisitive is all well an' good if ye spend yer life in a mage's tower, but here in th' real world, nine times outta ten, stickin' yer nose where folks don't want it, even if ye mean well, can end up with someone' takin' yer face off." He's not being hostile, but there's definitely something growlishly firm in his tone.
Dorien winces again. "Wouldn't have done it if it wasn't you," he answers awkwardly.
Eventually padded footsteps are heard in the kitchen, the warlock moving back into the open with tray in hand. He glances to the two men briefly before making his way to Dorien first, offering him a hot cup of that Silvermoon White Pearl tea Arenvald mentioned. It is a naturally sweet and delicate, almost floral, bouquet, the liquid a pale amber. Company goes first, of course, but it is also perhaps some silent form of apology for being rough with him. Not that he'd do that, of course, being this was a matter that required being very firm.
Aren gives him kind of a look. "If it wasn't me?" he echoes, brows furrowing. "Why me?" Although... he does have an inkling, he apparently wants it from the archivist himself. He takes his own cup quietly, not seeming to worry about the dichotomy of his appearance with the fact that Natharai's tea-drinking habit seems to have worn off on him. The warlock gets a low, wordless rumble of thanks.
Dorien gives a quiet thank you, before motioning to the baked goods that rest on the table, forgotten in the conversation. He sips from the tea, pausing, remembering Arenvald's question. "Because you're a friend?"
He then moves towards Arenvald and offers him a cup, tray tucked and balanced against his left arm. Once that offering is finished, his free hand reaches up to lightly rest upon that cropped head of hair. Whether or not it was a gesture of indicating things are alright for the time being, one of silently implied possession, or both, remains unclear... Natharai has heard Dorien bumble through his words around both of them enough, so perhaps the unspoken implication that 'He's mine. Back off.' was present after all...?
He sets the tray down onto the table next to the box of treats, which bears a teapot, small plates, and a few folded cloth napkins. They cannot have crumbs scattered around, of course... Such bad manners in front of company. That and he might want to spare Aren from another OCD-fueled cleaning spree on the floor.
Dorien takes another sip. "I'd act same for Nath and Cade too. Maybe Ley, if she didn't drive me up the wall so much." He mutters, as this will help ease the awkwardness.
Like usual... Natharai is not one to pass up dessert. That man and his horrible sweet tooth need to be satisfied at least once in a while, after all! So he takes a few things onto a dish, namely cookies, and snags his cup of tea and a napkin before returning to his armchair he oh-so-recently stalked out of. He returns to that resigned partially cross-legged hooking of his ankle position, plate of treats resting on one of the chair's arms, as he takes a lingering sip of tea.
Aren doesn't object to the hand; if anything it seems to settle him a bit, which probably suits both concerns fairly well. As for Dory's answer, though, he just looks up at Natharai. Well... what -do- you say to that? He glances back to the redhead, "Y'can still get in a world'a trouble harin' off like that without thinkin'."
Dorien looks up at Arenvald, and frowns slightly. "I know, but I was never planning on talking to anyone else about it, other than you two."
"Do try and understand this, Dorien..." He murmurs as he looks down his tea, remaining thoughtful in his little fire-lit nook. "What Arenvald has become is just as I said in my little fabricated story; a worgen. Surely you have heard tales about them... Why... Greystone herself is from Duskwood, which is -infested- with his moon-crazed brethren." The warlock pauses briefly for a sip of tea. "Even though Aren has managed to overcome the difficult part of this change, that social stigma will not be broken so easily..."
He glances up to look at Dorien over the rims of his reader glasses, tone low and distant. "People turn on their comrades in the face of fear, Dorien..."
Aren absently rubs his arm then shrugs slowly. "An' all they've got is my word I'm not going to turn on them an' kill or change -them-. I can't blame 'em. It's still damn hard t'keep things under my thumb, I won't lie. S'why I got so riled the other night. My temper flares, I got no guarantees."
"I've never heard of those, Cadence doesn't talk much of home." The redhead shrugs, before frowning. "I never understood that...” Dorien looks up at Arenvald, and nods after a moment, before looking confused. "Change?”
Natharai gives Arenvald a sidelong glance, a slightly worrisome frown upon his lips just at the mere mention of that. He is sympathetic though, being in some ways he can relate with the having the near constant need to hide. He, however, looks back to his tea and takes another sip...remaining pointedly silent. This is Aren's story and he already has talked a great deal... It is better for Dorien to hear the story from the man who is living this.
Aren glances briefly at Natharai, then back to Dorien. "If a worgen bites ye, an' doesn't kill ye, you'll turn." He huffs a faint sigh, frowning, and scratching vaguely at the deep scars on the back of his left arm. "Course... I didn't know that myself when I got bit. I saw a priest, but... it was too late, I guess." He still sort of thinks said priest bollixed the whole thing, but... then again, he supposes he wasn't very clear at the time about the problem. "Only lucky thing is, the one what bit me isn't like th' ones in Duskwood. Whatever that mage up there's done to th' curse, it's changed it so ye can still think, so th' beast doesn't have control. It's still there, though, believe me," he gravels.
"Huh. And you can change on will or...?"
Natharai glances to Arenvald again, pausing mid sip. ...Well. He seems to be taking this rather decently.
Aren grunts. "Mostly. It's real easy 'ta change, an' not at all easy t'change back. I get too riled up, I can't keep it back. That's why I left so quick the other night. That squalling bint of a draenei had my hackles up." He makes a face, the grimace briefly baring slightly-overlong canines, "Literally. I hope I don't hafta clean her up onna these days."
"How do you change back then? Other than 'it's hard'?"
"...Hn. I heard of one of the old guard resurfacing. I have yet to meet her, though..." He trails off with a faint 'heh', smirking wryly as he picks up a cookie. "Upon hearing this, I cannot say I wish to." Though after that peanut-gallery comment, he goes quiet again and a bite of his treat.
"She's loud and obnoxious. And has an ape or something. Whatever those things are. I saw them in a book."
"... How charming." Great. An attitude and the potential of flying feces to boot.
Aren just gives him a look. "Fel, I don't know," he grunts, irritably. "It just happens. 'Close yer eyes an' think of Lordaeron'. like they say." Or think really hard about being a hairless monkey. "It's kinda like... to go worgen, is to let go. Stayin' human is more like holdin' on tight. Sometimes yer grip slips."
Dorien frowns, before grinning. "Hey, at least we're all screwed in a way, with things we don't want other people to know." He pats Arenvald on his leg, before looking over at Natharai, stupid smile still on his face.
Aren gives Dorien a flat look, then glances at Natharai. Then... back to Dorien. There's a vague suggestion of 'eartwitch' involved.
"What?"
The warlock lifts an eyebrow slightly, looking at Dorien. Yes... Yes, that goes for him too. He does not, most certainly, want Dorien to know about him. -Anything- about him. Though his attention does eventually focus on Arenvald, his lips quirking into another mild pensive frown. "...You seem...tired, Aren," he murmurs quietly. Though the resignation in his voice does possibly point towards a veiled meaning beneath it.
Dorien, thankfully, has been good with the change thus far... So perhaps he could 'relax' in front of him if he really wanted to.
For a moment, he gives Natharai a strange look. Tired? Wha? It's still earl...oh. Aren heaves a faint sigh, offering the warlock a wry smile. "Could be..." If you're -sure- this is a good idea...
He does set his cup down first, though, half closes his eyes for a moment, then seems to heave a sigh. It's... not a sigh, though. He doesn't move from his seat on the arm of the couch, remaining balanced there for the duration of the change. It's saying something, since the abrupt lengthening of limbs and torso are somewhat violent; thick, short brown fur sprouting so fast as to seem like something poured over him. Fingers elongate into talons, his face lengthening into a muzzle lined with long razor-sharp fangs, and the blue of his eyes darkening into ruby-red coals. It's over only moments after it began, thin wisps of shadow curling off his chestnut coat and fading away.
Once it's over, he looks down at the redhead, and grins... which displays an -awful- lot of shiny, pearly-white fang. Hi.
Dorien blinks, his jaw hanging open, before he seems to realize this and snaps it shut. He slowly, gently, places his teacup to the side, and lets his hands wring in his lap. After a moment of this, he tries to reach out towards Aren, before stopping. "Er," he murmurs. "Can I touch you?"
Eyes like dull coals regard him for a long moment. His expression is -very- hard to read, really... for one thing, the scar across his muzzle pulls his lip up into a permanent sneer. But the sort of vague, swivelling flop of one long ear says 'buh?' better than most things. He glances briefly at Natharai in a sort of 'do you believe this?' look, then returns his attention to Dorien. "I...eh. Hrr. I guess so?" he allows? He's got a bit of a lisp, no doubt to the protruding canines he hasn't learned to talk around yet.
Natharai watches this change seemingly impassively, but, truth be told... it has yet to really become uninteresting to him. Granted, Aren has been a worgen for only a week but the change is just so -fast- he finds himself focusing intensely to pick out the finer points of this transition. It is at moments like these that Nath somewhat wishes he had access to one of those Gnomish 'stop motion' cameras. It would probably be -really- interesting to watch slowed down...
Dorien's request to pet Aren, however, does earn a rather incredulous blink. Certainly, if he wore his monocle now, it would have popped off.
Dorien smiles, before reaching out again and running his fingers along Arenvald's hand, up towards his talons. The redhead tries his best to bring the hand closer to him without being forceful, so he could get a better look at the details. He brushes some hair behind his ear, and actually looks to be grinning.
Aren lets Dorien take his hand... though he -still- keeps looking at Natharai, in a sort of 'uh... do you believe this?' way. Those claws are razor sharp, with an interior edge that normal wolf-claws don't have. The palm has a thick, leathery pad, as do the undersides of his fingers, separated at the joints by fur. It also seems very strong, despite looking much spindlier than his human fingers do.
Natharai is...silently aware of the fact that this is not a very good first example of what the run-of-the-mill worgen is like. While, in simpler canine terms, Aren would be considered more of a domesticated wolf-like dog, like a husky or wolf-dog, while the rest of his 'kin' are usually nothing more than a bunch of gangly, ravenous, rabid hounds. He knows that Aren has a somewhat tenuous grip on 'the wolf within', so there are certain boundaries he knows he must respect and the presence of mind on when to be careful around him. Because surely, despite all of the warrior's effort, all it takes is once to slip up...
"Dorien... You might find it wise to check out some books from the library regarding Worgen. You might find the subject interesting..." He would tell him to go observe one of the Duskwood packs from a distance, but with the redhead's luck, he'd try and pet them too.
"Mm? Sure..." Dorien presses his hand against Arenvald's, palm to palm, making a thoughtful sound. "Big.. Is there anything more that they'll say other that what you've told me?"
Natharai offers Arenvald a faint shrug, punctuated by a sip of his tea, before smirking lightly. Hey... You might have to get used to this, big guy. His attention focuses on Dorien again, murmuring. "Well...unanimously that they are extremely dangerous. So..." The warlock smirks a little wider, the expression wry. "Petting them is not a wise idea..."
Dorien looks up, and gives Natharai a flat look. "I know that."
Aren gives a vague shrug of his own in return, and eyes Dorien. "T'say th' least," he rumbles... and this time it -is- a rumble; his voice is a low, modulated growl more than anything. "From what I understand, th' first ones weren't ever human. Or anythin' else, s'far as I know." Apparently tired of his perch, he slides off the arm of the sofa and... pretty much onto Dorien. Whumph. That's what he gets for sitting on -his- couch.
That flat look is met with an equally flat one of his own. Sure you do... Says the man who has never -heard- of a worgen until tonight. "...Well," he murmurs slightly, looking down to his teacup idly as he swirls its contents lightly. "...Even around Aren, you might find it wise to exercise respect and caution. While I am not saying be -afraid- of him, of course, it is like...hm..." He trails off as he searches for the right way to put this. "Fzuushon. Yes. My felhunter."
"He might look like a strange, and slightly dumb, dog...to a degree. But most people don't know is that he'll drain the mana from you and possibly your soul out with it."
Dorien yelps and jerks his hands away. No one could say he was touching. He wasn't doing anything, completely innocent. "Oh. Oh, so that's what he does?" Dorien looks thoughtful, absentmindedly fiddling with Aren's fur before catching himself again. "Sounds similar to me, actually..."
Natharai blinks and sighs, eyes drifting shut. "No... He does not do that. That was a bad comparison on my part, I suppose...”
He glances to Aren again, murmuring thoughtfully. "Aren is, still, Aren... Though as he said earlier, the beast is still there...and it can be riled." It is not a condemning tone or look, far from it, but it is...just the state of things. He remembers that look Aren gave him during the first few moments of his initial shift. That is a look he will likely never forget, even if he wanted to.
"No, I meant your felhunter. Mana and whatnot. I didn't know that." Dorien pats Arenvald after a moment, and smiles. "Not to understate the beast part, or the struggle, but this is actually pretty neat."
"Ah..." He glances to Aren again, still a little silently bemused and surprised from Dorien's excitement. "I suppose," he drones idly. Though he would be lying if he didn't find Arenvald's situation to be rather interesting as well. It is not very often you are able to see, or touch, a worgen and not be eaten alive.
Aren snorts, looking kind of amused. "What would I do with magic anyway," he gravels, letting his legs drape over the couch arm. He glances over at Natharai, jaw lolling slightly. ".... Is that why he kind of ignores me?" He is the man with no biscuits for the puppy, one supposes. There has been a subtle shift in the warrior's demeanour, post shift; a certain lack of tension. He probably wasn't kidding about the 'hanging on' part.
"I... guess so," he gravels after a bit. "But it comes with more trouble than I needed." Not that it doesn't have its points. He flicks a glance at Natharai briefly, then makes a faint 'whuf' noise.
Dorien goes back to petting. "Well, at least you can, well, kind of choose to change, and if you try hard enough, you can change back." The redhead looks back at the talons. "And you're dangerous, while being your own self, even with the beast. You can't be controlled, right?"
The warlock ponders this for a moment and answers with another slight shrug. "As far as I can tell, he likes you just fine..." The felhunter does, at times, flop infront of him for tummy rubs, after all. Thankfully Fzuushon has about the guile of a sack of bricks...and the wit of one too. "Though if he swarms around you for no reason then, well, he wants something else."
Nath does catch that glance from Arenvald, earning a slight lift of the eyebrow and a faint smirk–the latter of which he does politely hide behind the rim of his teacup as he takes another sip.
The comment about being controlled does give the warlock pause though, his eyes flitting to Aren again before looking down to his cup. Well... about that.
Aren grunts. "Don't know. If I'd turned while still in Grizzly Hills," he gravels, "Then... yeh. Probably. But I'm not goin' anywhere near there now, so..." He shrugs. It's something he's thought plenty about though.
"Oh. Where's that?"
"Oh... It is very beautiful. Redwood trees, elk and wild horses. Amazing fishing, too. I considered on showing Arenvald its outer borders once but..." Heh. Not a good idea anymore!
"Northrend." The worgen shrugs, stretches again, then pointedly uses Dorien for a pillow. "Had mercenary work up there," he adds. The comment earns a wry jaw-loll. ".... Seen a fair bit of it. S'nice, if not flat enough 'fer m' preferences." He has a bit of trouble with the last word, which means Dory gets slightly drooled on, but there's no real help for it.
Dorien goes back to petting, looking in Natharai's direction, but actually staring off in the middle distance. "Well, that shouldn't be hard to avoid."
Aren stretches a little, seeming less troubled by this "invasive" contact than one would think. It's probably hardwired in somewhere....that and for whatever reason, he seems much less uptight in this form. Logic should dictate the opposite be true, but... there you go. Logic probably doesn't have a lot of bearing on a werewolf anyway.
"Ah, no... But allow to explain with something of a little more... personal level," he murmurs as he breaks off a piece of a cookie. "While some have painted me as a reforming warlock, that is... entirely not true. While I am not as sadistic and out right cruel as I once was..." Light help him, he was a piece of work in his younger years. "I am still just that. A warlock. That being said, there are certain places that I simply must avoid or that I must exercise extreme caution in."
"Tempting fate, as they say, is never wise..."
Dorien focuses on Natharai, and nods. "Makes sense, but he's got an ocean away, not exactly like he can stumble into easily."
Natharai nods slightly, murmuring. "Quite, but we have missions that do lead us to Northrend rather often. Not to mention those within our ranks looking for mercenary work, like Aren and myself indulge in sometimes, find opportunity ripe for the picking in the northern lands." He pauses to take a bite of his snack, eventually continuing. "Sometimes...just because something is far away...it does not mean you cannot hear the call. Light... the place I avoid is a whole -world- away and I still find myself thinking about it."
Dorien makes a thoughtful sound, and slumps back against the couch, if a bit bonelessly. He's still petting though.
Aren cracks an eye open at that, swiveling an ear toward the warlock, but then closes it again. "I've got work in Dalaran. But if they can keep Arthas from callin' back his deathknights, then they can keep out one damn zombie wizard," he grumbles. He'll give you about a month to quit that, Dory.
"Eugh, I'd hate to see how I'd react to Dalaran."
“...Mm. It is a wondrous city, to be sure, but like Shadowmoon is to me, Dalaran is a font of arcane magic of incredible proportions and it is...difficult to not be affected. The city does not agree with me personally..." He frowns slightly before taking another bite. The feel of the place does not exactly agree with his fel saturated senses, along with other things, but at least it isn't the core of light-damned Shattrath. That place makes him feel like he would burst into flames.
Dorien hurms. "Oh, Merosiel just asked why Arenvald smelled funny. So, I don't know, offering that information if you need to work with it."
Aren yawns at the ceiling. It's a very... pointy yawn. "... Dalaran gives me a headache," he offers, blandly. "But I've got work there." A pause, then a grimace, "So does he," he grumbles sourly. "Shark elf to bathe more." Mero makes his nose itch, in more ways than one, but he didn't exactly get the Reference Manual of Humanoid Scents to understand -why-.
Nath pauses briefly, mentally backpedaling to what Dorien said. Wait. What? "... Ah." His brow furrows, tone flat. "Regardless... Writing off scent is not wise. Merosiel has keen senses so... I am certain he is making the connection. If not now, then soon."
"Best to know the ground work," Dorien murmurs, biting down on a knuckle to keep himself from yawning.
"... Though I am curious," he murmurs while looking to Arenvald. "Why do you and Merosiel have business in Dalaran?"
Aren muhs? "I've been workin' on that pet shop owner, an' seein' who I can talk to in th' Underbelly. I dunno 'bout Shark Elf."
"I know I'm helping you with that, but if either of you do need help with anything," the redhead murmurs, looking between the two. "Whether it is mundane or any other sort, I'm here..." He laughs slightly. "Although I've offered it like five times already, I feel as though I should keep bringing it up."
The warlock blinks a few times and offers a faint 'ah'. "That gnomish woman, yes? Hm. Well... Good luck with your endeavours then, Aren." He is genuine about that sentiment, of course, but the comment about Mero smelling odd does give him a brief moment of pause. "...Well, there is likely an explanation for that, though the elf has been subjected to so many procedures, magics, and so on... He has lived a long time, so perhaps it gives him a peculiar scent."
Dorien yawns, finding himself far more tired than he originally thought. Perhaps with all the tension and emotions that had been driving him before slipping away, he finally realized he was spent. His head slips forward, eyes closing, and his hand starts to slow down in the petting, fingers curling slightly in the fur by the end. He drifts off quietly, perhaps muttering a quick sorry under his breath to the company.