Post by Dorien on Oct 26, 2010 20:47:08 GMT -5
((After Luri did her first version of punishment on Dorien!))
"You learned something today, yes?"
"Remember, Ginger. I feel you don't understand that I have no qualms about hurting you."
The two voices melted together in his head. While different, her accented Common, with poor grammar, and the man's cultured, proper tone, they both said the same thing.
Don't fuck up, or there will be more.
The ape, or was it an undead they raised?, let go of him. He didn't even bother catching himself, there wasn't much of a fall, as he was already weak in the legs. Just gently leaning forward, telling the ground meet him. It didn't hurt. The grass, or was it loose
pebbles from the floor?, tickled the cuts on his chest.
"We have spent too much time here."
"I have business to attend to."
Watch out, we have our eyes on you.
He watched out of the corner of his eyes as the woman with the ape, and the man with the undead monster beside him walk off. They occupied the same place, the monster as hunched over as the undead, using it's hands to move faster, as it's master walked, cloak whispering softly against the ground.
Dorien lay there for a few moments, the pain sharp from his chest, but his mind too dull to do anything about it. This was normal. Routine. He was used to it. What was he waiting for again?
He forced himself to roll over onto his back, and just looked up at the sky, not at all focused. Wasn't there supposed to be a ceiling above him, and not this blue? What was he waiting for again?
Oh, right. Hands. Soft, feminine. Thin fingers, good for detailed work, like cleaning and bandaging him, when he was too weak to do so after the punishment. She'd work hard, trying her best to be as gentle as possibly with the cuts. She'd tell him to stop being such an idiot, trying to fight what was happening to him. It had been suspect, back then, but the blood loss got to him. She would tell him there was nothing he could do. What was he waiting for?
He didn't have anything to wait for here. Annaleah was dead.
He wasn't back there again. He was pretty sure he wasn't, anyway.
Dorien sat up slowly, looking out to the water. Was the water safe to clean the cuts with? No, probably not. He stood up slowly, and tried to button up his shirt a few times before realizing he couldn't. He stood there, for a moment, staring at his shirt with confusion, before just holding it close with his hands.
The fabric scratched against the cuts, they made them hurt more.
He walked, one foot in front of the other, in a somewhat dream-like state. His legs were okay. He could walk. He wasn't starving, weak from lack of food. He could walk.
But to where?
Blonde hair flashed in his mind, a woman with eyes downcast.
"... I don't want them to use you to hurt me."
He went right past the boarding house with the green roof, making sure to be on the otherside of the street, and walking quickly.
Dorien kept his quick pace, doing his best not to look suspicious, clutching his shirt together, probably having some blood staining it already. Who knew. He wasn't really paying attention to his surroundings, his mind completely focused on his destination, which he now knew.
--
It's rather amazing the redhead managed to make it to the door, at this time of the evening. Well past dark, with several of the population heading in for the evening, while the nocturnal portion started to head out. Dorien, with his... Not entirely there mental state, one would have expected that he may have been shoved into the Canals in his wander, just because he wasn't paying attention to his surroundings. This wasn't the case. His single minded drive (or desperation?) got him safe and sound to his destination.
Dorien pauses at the door, holding his shirt shut with his hands, wondering for a moment what he was supposed to do again when presented with the door.
Ever since the pair have returned from Zul'drak, things have been relatively calm, if not busy. The move to the new house in Elwynn was rapidly approaching, so a majority of the following weeks have been cleaning house and boxing things. In fact, the rather lived in and 'home-y' dwelling is little more than a few couches, boxes, and so on. The bookshelves in the living room are bare, various knick-knacks stored safely away. In terms of public sightings, Natharai has been rather scarce in Stormwind, going to see to jobs that absolutely warranted his attention personally. There has been little fraternizing, hanging out at the Lamb, and so on. At home, he's seemed oddly quiet and at peace, but not extremely motivated to do much else to pack, write, and visit with Aren and the hatchlings.
Before the knock at the door, he was getting ready to turn in for the night (or at least read a book in bed to pass the time), shown by his loose shirt and 'sweat pants' he uses as sleepwear and the fact that he is wearing a pair of reader glasses instead of his rather iconic monocle. "Nn...?" He grunts slightly as he looks towards the door, furrowing his brow. He already had a good idea who it might be, considering there's only really one person who comes calling this late at night. With a tired roll of his eyes and an exasperated frown on his lips, he heads towards the door.
Aren was already in bed, himself, lying as has become his custom on his stomach with his pillow under his jaw. A glint of red indicates he heard the knock, though he waits until Natharai starts shuffling off towards the door to actually respond.
When he does, it's a vague whuffing grunt, of the questioning variety, but when the warlock vanishes down the stairs, he heaves a sigh and rolls out of bed. Literally, in point of fact, landing on all fours with a dull thump and clicking his way after him without bothering to stand up. He doesn't follow all the way, though, instead choosing to remain on the stairs, where he can see the front door across the sea of boxes and disarrayed furniture without betraying his presence in particular.
Dorien, after gathering his thoughts enough to remember to knock, is using his head to do so, again. A different reason this time though, as he needs both his hands to hold his cut open shirt closed. It would have been terribly odd and suspicious if he had been walking around with a ruined shirt and blood on his chest. The knocking is slow, faint, and irregular. Dorien felt a displaced pride that he was keeping upright, and not leaning against the door as he knocked though.
The deadbolt rattles before the door opens a crack, a wary hazel eye peering at Dorien in between it. It narrows slightly as he sniffs the air, soon widening as realization dawns on him. Is that...blood he smells? The door opens fully as Natharai looks Dorien over with a rather bewildered gaze. "What in the hell happened to you, Mydral?" He murmurs somewhat heatedly, betraying his otherwise placid tone of voice. This was definitely not another 'mope night' that he is accustomed to enduring. "Get in and sit down." That is not a request. That's an order.
He moves away and points to a wooden chair, rather than the couch. While the house might be in mid move, he doesn't want you bleeding all over the furniture, ginger.
Dorien hovers by the door for a moment, before wandering in, following Natharai's command. He lets go of his shirt finally, letting the cut fabric open slightly, showing a mess of blood, as well as some dirt and grass, giving the idea that he was laying face down at some point after the wound, on the upper right half of his chest. As he walks, Dorien goes through the bag at his side, pulling out a bunch of papers; held together between a larger piece of paper, as well as string. He's managed to smudge blood on it, from his hands apparently.
Dorien doesn't sit down right away; he just stands by Natharai, holding out the papers with a vague look on his face, staring off at middle distance in the other man's direction.
The dim, dark shape in the back remains motionless until the door closes behind Dorien. Once done, he lumbers down the stairs the rest of the way and heads over toward the two. The smell of blood earns a sharp snort and a flattening of ears.... but he glances at Natharai first without saying anything. Then, he turns and heads back off to the back.
When he returns, he's carrying a couple of older towels and a shallow basin. From the way he's carrying it, it likely has some water in it.
What in the world... Great. He's in shock. With another exasperated sigh, he takes the papers and tosses them on a nearby table before coming back to Dorien. "Come on. Sit. The papers will wait," he mutters firmly as he takes Dorien by the arm and leads him towards the chair. Once he has the redhead seated, he sees to removing the remnants of that tattered, bloody, rag that was once a shirt as he looks him over. ...Shit.
"Dorien," he says in a quiet, yet stern, voice as he kneels in front of him. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"
"No," Dorien looks up at him, his eyes unfocused, letting Natharai take off his shirt without any problem. It's a clean cut down the middle, probably made by the same knife that did the cuts on his chest. While the cut is clean, the shirt isn't, patches of blood on the inside, seeping through to the front, with the addition of the dirt and grass there as well.
"This is stupid easy compared to the other times." The redhead makes this comment with a slightly dreamy tone, punctuated by a small snicker. "Strangled me a bit, but that's okay. That's happened before too. Should be used to it." He goes quiet for a moment, before pointing over at the papers, staring at them. "Report, on Ley's kidnap, since I'm better with my hands than my mouth."
"Enough with the Light-damned papers, Dorien," he snaps, looking the picture of displeasure at the moment. The warlock sighs roughly through his nose as he looks back to Aren with a silent 'what in the hell am I going to do with this boy?', shaking his head gruffly before heading towards the kitchen. "See to that for me, will you, Aren?" His voice becomes a little strained, if not tired, as he disappears from view. "I am going to put a kettle on..." He's not sure if Dory will drink, but it wouldn't hurt.
Aren just gives a shrug to Natharai's look. It's Dorien. He's a doormat, what do you want? He plunks the bowl down on top of a box, then takes hold of Dorien's arms and parks him in the chair with deliberate force. There. You sit. Good boy.
Crouching down, he examines the cuts... mentally making a point not to lick them, and blots at them with the corner of a towel. "Nn. Superficial," he gravels, "Most of them. The big one will need stitches but he's not in any real danger."
As the blood starts to get cleared away from the cuts, it becomes apparent that they aren't at all random in their design. They're carefully planned out to spell 'X no x arakalada', which not only looks like a garble to pronounce, but probably Draenei as well. Dorien smiles at Arenvald for a few moments, before grinning. "You're much prettier than Anna," he... Randomly declares.
A pointedly long, and loud, sigh is heard in the kitchen. Really, Dorien. REALLY?
Aren just flicks an ear and squints at him. Which is, frankly, worgen for '....Really?'. "Looks like somebody used 'im fer a note pad. Draenic scribblin's if I'm any judge." He rumbles faintly, though it's a little hard to read.
"You're prettier than Anna too!" The ginger calls over his shoulder towards the kitchen, before staring back in Arenvald's direction. He blinks a few times, before smiling, showing his teeth. "Yep!" Dorien says in a rather cheerful voice, his eyes gaining some focus to them. "I'm a gentleman."
In the kitchen, there is a slight clatter of porcelain upon wood, as if the action of stacking the items onto the tray was abruptly halted. The warlock just scowls at the tea kettle, huffs through his nose, and comes back out into the living room as placid as can be. No... he's not irritated at all. "Draenic, hm..." he drones as he sets the tray upon the table, glancing to the markings on Dorien's chest.
"I'm not so good with my mouth, but I'm still a gentleman, right?" Dorien's cheerful disposition cracks for a moment, his eyes more focused, and he looks a mix of desperate and afraid. The Draenei knife-writing reads out as 'I am a gentleman' when translated, just as the redhead has been saying before.
Slowly the warlock's brow furrows as he looks up to Dorien's face, wordless for the time being. He knows who did this... Or at least he has a damned good idea. There are only so many Draenei in the Kamil, nowadays, and only one has a penchant for the viscerally dramatic. "Quite..." He offers noncommittally as he holds out a cup of tea. "Drink up. We will take care of your wounds..."
"I kept her from cutting into my tattoo," Dorien, reaching out to take the cup of tea. He holds it against his lips for a moment, looking thoughtful, before adding, "I told her the power in me would kill us both and a good chunk of the Harbour." He takes a large gulp of the tea, not entirely noticing the heat of the liquid, other than a mild burning down his throat. His mind is not entirely here.
"A wise idea..." He drones as he continues to watch the redhead as Aren continues to clean his wounds. A bluff, most surely, but who's to say how he'd react if the bindings were physically severed. "I do not recall, Dorien... Do healing draughts work upon you or no? I have a few extra squirreled away." Somewhere.
"Yep! I remember! Hard to forget what happened to my mouth that one time," Dorien smiles again, the cheerful, almost too happy personality appearing again. He pauses for a moment, seeming to realize NOW how hot that tea was, after being reminded of the burns to his mouth that one testing session made.
With a little bit of a bony creak as he stands upright again, the warlock looks down at Dorien tiredly. "I will only be a moment..." He jolts as if he is about to move away, but stopped himself. "...And relax, Dorien. You are safe here." Sure, he's no picture of sanity either when he's worked up, but... Now it is a matter of finding where he put those blasted healing draughts.
Aren finishes getting everything cleaned, grunts to himself in satisfaction, and looks up after the departing warlock. He was going to go get needle and thread. Buuuut... that will work too. He sits back on his haunches, studies Dorien, then reaches out and bops him lightly upside the head with the flat of a pawlike hand. "Get a grip on yerself, man. Yer gibberin'. It ain't that bad, an' we'll put it right."
"Made me remember," Dorien looks at Arenvald strangely for a moment, before running his left hand up and down his right arm in lines, designs that curled, whatever, not really paying attention what that would do to the cuts on his chest. "I tried to run away a lot." He blinks, eyes almost clear, before reaching forward towards Arenvald's head. He's pretty fast, at least for Dorien, which means he's about a fourth of Arenvald's speed. He makes a grab for the worgen's head.
Aren jerks back. It's instinct, pure and simple, and he very, -very- nearly clamps his jaws down on one of Dory's arms. "The hell you doin', Dorien," he snaps, baring... an awful lot of pointed ivory in the redhead's direction, "Don't ye 'ave -any- sense?"
"You didn't say anything bad to her did you?!" He half falls out of his chair, still trying to reach out for Arenvald, although he gives up trying make a grab for Aren's head, focusing on anything close by. "You just glared and huffed but didn't say anything to her, did you?"
Natharai is only vaguely aware of the commotion in the front room and, initially, dismisses it as Dorien just being... Dorien. But all that frantic pleading, along with Aren's very distinct base toned growling response, now has the warlock worried. The sound of hurried padded footsteps is heard coming down the stairs, the warlock not seeming at all amused (if not concerned).
Aren flattens his ears, slotting a glance at Natharai. Nothing to see! No toothmarks on the ginger.... if only barely. *cough* Not his fault, the idiot ought to know better than to grab for his head! He shakes it firmly, fluffing his ruff out slightly and settles. "Bad 'ta who?" he gravels. "An' I ain't th' sort 'ta just talk, Dory, ye oughta know that much."
"Luri," Dorien sits down finally, happy to have an answer out of Arenvald, before slumping back against the chair. "I... She apparently felt the need to do this over something I said several months ago."
Natharai's expression visibly darkens as he stops a good distance away, with a bottle of healing potion in each hand. While he had his suspicions of who did this to him, having it confirmed did not much help. He sets one of the spares upon the table, reaching to rest his hand upon the crown of Aren's fuzzy head for a brief moment. It's alright...
Once the pleasantry is done and exchanged, he looks back to Dorien humorlessly and uncorks the bottle he holds. "Drink this completely... We will see how well it takes." He still may require stitches, but he might as well see just how quickly this will mend him. If at all.
Aren huffs a sigh at the hand on his head; far from seeming upset by it, it brings his ears out of their slightly-flattened position almost immediately. The statement of the cause of this earns a growl though. "She's thrown 'er unsupported weight 'round long enough, Natharai. I'm done. I'm gonna gut that monkey of 'ers and strangle 'er with it." .... Something sort of implies he's not really being metaphorical.
Dorien takes the bottle, shifting closer towards the two until he deems it safe in his mind, before draining the draught. He coughs after a moment, and shakes his head. The cuts close slowly, and while the smaller cuts close off easily, some of the deeper cuts decide to stick around. "Eugh," the redhead sticks out his tongue a bit, before looking over at Arenvald. "Can I help?"
"You will do no such thing..." He drones firmly, eyes still firmly fixed upon Dorien. "That is not for here and now." And that is that. ...Or at least so it seems until he looks sidelong to the worgen and murmurs in a stoic addendum in...passable Taurahe. "Anohe tawaporah alo nechi... Hale a'ke no mani." 'Others seemingly are upset. Time will be soon.'
The worgen grumbles faintly, but seems to relent, dipping his muzzle in recognition of the statement. "Sha newa," he grumbles, the syllables seeming surprisingly smooth. "K'we pah." Very well. For now. He flexes his fingers, returning his attention to the redhead. "You can help," he grumbles, lapsing back into Common, "By keepin' yer nose clean. Stay away from th' lot of them. S'fer yer own good."
"I killed the other one, right? That's what she said. I want to help." Dorien smiles at Arenvald's response, placing the bottle on the chair he had recently been sitting in. He pauses, his mind finally registering the other part of what the worgen said, and gives Arenvald a look. "I'm unstable, not stupid, thanks."
The other one...? The statement does give the warlock a bit of pause, quirking up an eyebrow slightly as he returns to watching Dorien calmly. "...'The other one'? Clarify, please," he murmurs before going to fixing some more tea, this time for all of them. "After this cup, you will drink the remaining potion..." Hopefully there won't be any side effects, like nausea, which can happen with drinking those in rapid succession... But does Dorien want that script carved into his skin remaining as scars? He knows he wouldn't. Family is Everythang, his ass.
Dorien stares up at Natharai while trying to pull off an innocent face... A very tired one. It doesn't really work out. He decides to try and pet Arenvald on the arm or leg, whichever's closest, to give him something to do with his hands, as well as some sort of comfort. "Anna mentioned I killed Bone Daddy the first time. I don't remember doing though." He shrugs, fiddling with his arm. Dorien's pretty sure he's not much of a killer.
That lifted eyebrow doesn't budge, that's for certain. "I see..." While he does not consider Dorien harmful in the slightest, who's to say that he didn't? There's a lot about himself that he does not remember or fully understand, so it is anyone's guess.
Aren looks.... dubious. But hey, even kittens bite when cornered, so who knows. Besides, for all he knows, Dorien barfed a nuclear explosion on him. For the moment, though, he picks up the second potion and plunks it into Dory's hands. You had an order, soldier.
Dorien stares at the potion sourly, before knocking that one back as well. The cuts heal over finally, although Dorien does look a bit queasy for a few moments, holding a hand over his mouth just in case anything should decide to make a reappearance. The moment passes, and he sighs. "Eugh."
"Just drink your tea and I'll see about getting you something to eat," he murmurs. He continues to linger near Aren as Dorien treats the poor man like a lapdog. The price of having fur, hm? "...By the way, he adds. It was not you who killed him. It was Rehten. He claimed it to be such and he does not strike me as the lying type." Much, at least.
Aren seems to tolerate being petted, really. After all, it's not like it's unpleasant... and eh. It's Dory. Chances are if anyone outside his little circle of okay tried it they'd get mauled, though. "Well, technic'ly it was 'im," he rumbles, then shrugs, settling into observant silence.
"I'd still like to help..." He trails off, reaching for the cup he forgot near the chair, before dragging it over with one hand, while doing his best to stay connected to Arenvald with the other. He does a fairly good job of it, picking up the cup and sipping from it. "You don't have to feed me. It's fine. I've got something at my place."
Natharai sighs as he gives Dorien a weary look. "Not. Now." He says this in a little more of a clipped and angry tone than he wanted, which he notices quickly... The warlock closes his eyes and clenches his jaw, huffing out a long sigh through his nose. Cleansing breaths, Ebonrook... Cleansing breaths. "Let me get you a spare shirt... you are roughly my size, so hopefully it will do," he murmurs politely before turning to go back up stairs.
Aren leans over to nose Natharai comfortingly before he can get out of range, then turns his attention back to Dory. "'Ow is it that ye can get in'ta any ten men's trouble, eh, firehair?" he rumbles, planting a paw on top of Dory's head.
Dorien stares at Arenvald for a moment, trying to make his way through the drawl. He isn't usually this bad; some parts of his mind must still be wandering. "Skill. Pure lack of skill." The redhead smiles up at Arenvald pleasantly enough. "You're fluffy."
The sound of Natharai rummaging around upstairs is heard for a good long while. It takes a few minutes for him to find a shirt he's willing to part with for an indefinite amount of time, so he settles on a plain grey 'sweatshirt' of sorts. He comes downstairs with padded thumps of barefeet, shirt in hand. He tosses the shirt, aiming for Dorien's head, and murmurs. "Here... Put this on so you aren't wandering back home half naked." Provided he goes home tonight. He never knows.
Aren gives him a red-eyed, deadpan stare. "Yer perceptive," he grumbles. Yeah, okay he's fluffy. You don't have to make a point of it. Thank the Light he hasn't seen the tail or he'd never hear the end of it. "An' drink yer tea," he adds, in a rather stern tone.
Dorien pauses mid-sip, and with a rather surprised look on his face, pulls the shirt off of his head, fingering the fabric slightly. Haaa haaa, this is Natharaaaaai's, too small to be Arenvald's for sure. Don't be weird. Don't be creepy. No funny business, that's what he promised. At Natharai's unsaid comment about him possibly crashing here again gives Dorien pause, making him wonder. Should he? Shouldn't he?
Natharai just...eyes Dorien as he watches him finger his shirt with probably a little bit too much interest. Yeah, yeah, he knows what's going through your head, red. "Well, go on and ask it," he drones flatly. He's stayed here enough times for his asking to stay being commonplace...
Aren's shirts would fit on Dory like a tent, it's true. He just sits back on his haunches and watches Dorien while he gazes off into nothing.
"I-If you don't mind it... Otherwise I'll go." Ha ha! He has a spine! Kind of. In his other pants. He mumbles under his breath about this for a bit, looking somewhat embarrassed, before finishing off the rest of his tea.
Natharai has come to expect this, really, so all he does he gesture to the couch. "I will go find a blanket for you and you can tuck in there, per usual," he murmurs idly as he wanders away. He pauses for a moment and looks over his shoulder, smirking wryly. "...And pardon our dust." Yeah, it's a mess here. Hope you like boxes, man.
Aren was -totally- expecting that. He's also totally expecting this to happen at the new house, only with more leaves and twigs. "We'll be outta 'ere by th' end of next weekend," he rumbles.
"Need help moving stuff? I can stick boxes in the sidecar of my bike." Dorien pauses for a moment, wondering where the hell WAS his bike at the moment. Still down by the docks? Light, he hopes not. "I, uh, don't mind boxes. Used to them." He pulls on Natharai's shirt, a little too happy about how well it fit, and how comfy it was, before getting to his feet.
If anything, Dorien at least has to WALK all the way to their house, which is near the better part of Redridge. So hopefully unexpected nighttime visits will be fewer...that or they just concede to the fact that Dorien might as well LIVE with them. Hopefully it wouldn't come to that. Dorien's a nice guy but he gets touchy about him staying on their damned couch. Imagine upgrading that. Light. Though he does, eventually, come back down with blankets and pillows. Making up Dorien's 'bed' has become a commonplace thing, sadly to say.
Aren gets up, stretching, and heaves a sigh. He scrubs his face with his palm. "A'right, crisis over. I'm goin' ta bed." He gives Natharai an only subtly wistful look. SOMEONE wants more quality time. As he scuffs for the stairs, he grumbles, "We're gonna 'afta install a guest room at this rate."
Dorien watches Natharai fix the bed up, as well as Arenvald's comment, and in his somewhat confused mind, he's struck with guilt. He fiddles with the hem of the shirt they let him borrow, and mumbles something, before repeating it again louder. "Sorry. I'm sorry you have to deal with this. And... Thank you for letting me stay all the time. I can go if you want."
Haha... Yeah...about that. There is one. Why? Well it can serve as storage space, if anything, buuuut... "Just make us some breakfast in the morning and we'll call it square," he jokes wryly as he gestures to the couch. Your lodgings, monsieur. "Good night, Dorien." And with that he follows suit and heads upstairs, joining Aren in their bed and getting some damned rest. Screw reading a book at this point.
"Night," Dorien calls after, before crashing on the couch. As he wraps himself up in the blankets, he wonders if Aren will actually LET him cook tomorrow morning, but he's already got plans in mind if he's able to.
"You learned something today, yes?"
"Remember, Ginger. I feel you don't understand that I have no qualms about hurting you."
The two voices melted together in his head. While different, her accented Common, with poor grammar, and the man's cultured, proper tone, they both said the same thing.
Don't fuck up, or there will be more.
The ape, or was it an undead they raised?, let go of him. He didn't even bother catching himself, there wasn't much of a fall, as he was already weak in the legs. Just gently leaning forward, telling the ground meet him. It didn't hurt. The grass, or was it loose
pebbles from the floor?, tickled the cuts on his chest.
"We have spent too much time here."
"I have business to attend to."
Watch out, we have our eyes on you.
He watched out of the corner of his eyes as the woman with the ape, and the man with the undead monster beside him walk off. They occupied the same place, the monster as hunched over as the undead, using it's hands to move faster, as it's master walked, cloak whispering softly against the ground.
Dorien lay there for a few moments, the pain sharp from his chest, but his mind too dull to do anything about it. This was normal. Routine. He was used to it. What was he waiting for again?
He forced himself to roll over onto his back, and just looked up at the sky, not at all focused. Wasn't there supposed to be a ceiling above him, and not this blue? What was he waiting for again?
Oh, right. Hands. Soft, feminine. Thin fingers, good for detailed work, like cleaning and bandaging him, when he was too weak to do so after the punishment. She'd work hard, trying her best to be as gentle as possibly with the cuts. She'd tell him to stop being such an idiot, trying to fight what was happening to him. It had been suspect, back then, but the blood loss got to him. She would tell him there was nothing he could do. What was he waiting for?
He didn't have anything to wait for here. Annaleah was dead.
He wasn't back there again. He was pretty sure he wasn't, anyway.
Dorien sat up slowly, looking out to the water. Was the water safe to clean the cuts with? No, probably not. He stood up slowly, and tried to button up his shirt a few times before realizing he couldn't. He stood there, for a moment, staring at his shirt with confusion, before just holding it close with his hands.
The fabric scratched against the cuts, they made them hurt more.
He walked, one foot in front of the other, in a somewhat dream-like state. His legs were okay. He could walk. He wasn't starving, weak from lack of food. He could walk.
But to where?
Blonde hair flashed in his mind, a woman with eyes downcast.
"... I don't want them to use you to hurt me."
He went right past the boarding house with the green roof, making sure to be on the otherside of the street, and walking quickly.
Dorien kept his quick pace, doing his best not to look suspicious, clutching his shirt together, probably having some blood staining it already. Who knew. He wasn't really paying attention to his surroundings, his mind completely focused on his destination, which he now knew.
--
It's rather amazing the redhead managed to make it to the door, at this time of the evening. Well past dark, with several of the population heading in for the evening, while the nocturnal portion started to head out. Dorien, with his... Not entirely there mental state, one would have expected that he may have been shoved into the Canals in his wander, just because he wasn't paying attention to his surroundings. This wasn't the case. His single minded drive (or desperation?) got him safe and sound to his destination.
Dorien pauses at the door, holding his shirt shut with his hands, wondering for a moment what he was supposed to do again when presented with the door.
Ever since the pair have returned from Zul'drak, things have been relatively calm, if not busy. The move to the new house in Elwynn was rapidly approaching, so a majority of the following weeks have been cleaning house and boxing things. In fact, the rather lived in and 'home-y' dwelling is little more than a few couches, boxes, and so on. The bookshelves in the living room are bare, various knick-knacks stored safely away. In terms of public sightings, Natharai has been rather scarce in Stormwind, going to see to jobs that absolutely warranted his attention personally. There has been little fraternizing, hanging out at the Lamb, and so on. At home, he's seemed oddly quiet and at peace, but not extremely motivated to do much else to pack, write, and visit with Aren and the hatchlings.
Before the knock at the door, he was getting ready to turn in for the night (or at least read a book in bed to pass the time), shown by his loose shirt and 'sweat pants' he uses as sleepwear and the fact that he is wearing a pair of reader glasses instead of his rather iconic monocle. "Nn...?" He grunts slightly as he looks towards the door, furrowing his brow. He already had a good idea who it might be, considering there's only really one person who comes calling this late at night. With a tired roll of his eyes and an exasperated frown on his lips, he heads towards the door.
Aren was already in bed, himself, lying as has become his custom on his stomach with his pillow under his jaw. A glint of red indicates he heard the knock, though he waits until Natharai starts shuffling off towards the door to actually respond.
When he does, it's a vague whuffing grunt, of the questioning variety, but when the warlock vanishes down the stairs, he heaves a sigh and rolls out of bed. Literally, in point of fact, landing on all fours with a dull thump and clicking his way after him without bothering to stand up. He doesn't follow all the way, though, instead choosing to remain on the stairs, where he can see the front door across the sea of boxes and disarrayed furniture without betraying his presence in particular.
Dorien, after gathering his thoughts enough to remember to knock, is using his head to do so, again. A different reason this time though, as he needs both his hands to hold his cut open shirt closed. It would have been terribly odd and suspicious if he had been walking around with a ruined shirt and blood on his chest. The knocking is slow, faint, and irregular. Dorien felt a displaced pride that he was keeping upright, and not leaning against the door as he knocked though.
The deadbolt rattles before the door opens a crack, a wary hazel eye peering at Dorien in between it. It narrows slightly as he sniffs the air, soon widening as realization dawns on him. Is that...blood he smells? The door opens fully as Natharai looks Dorien over with a rather bewildered gaze. "What in the hell happened to you, Mydral?" He murmurs somewhat heatedly, betraying his otherwise placid tone of voice. This was definitely not another 'mope night' that he is accustomed to enduring. "Get in and sit down." That is not a request. That's an order.
He moves away and points to a wooden chair, rather than the couch. While the house might be in mid move, he doesn't want you bleeding all over the furniture, ginger.
Dorien hovers by the door for a moment, before wandering in, following Natharai's command. He lets go of his shirt finally, letting the cut fabric open slightly, showing a mess of blood, as well as some dirt and grass, giving the idea that he was laying face down at some point after the wound, on the upper right half of his chest. As he walks, Dorien goes through the bag at his side, pulling out a bunch of papers; held together between a larger piece of paper, as well as string. He's managed to smudge blood on it, from his hands apparently.
Dorien doesn't sit down right away; he just stands by Natharai, holding out the papers with a vague look on his face, staring off at middle distance in the other man's direction.
The dim, dark shape in the back remains motionless until the door closes behind Dorien. Once done, he lumbers down the stairs the rest of the way and heads over toward the two. The smell of blood earns a sharp snort and a flattening of ears.... but he glances at Natharai first without saying anything. Then, he turns and heads back off to the back.
When he returns, he's carrying a couple of older towels and a shallow basin. From the way he's carrying it, it likely has some water in it.
What in the world... Great. He's in shock. With another exasperated sigh, he takes the papers and tosses them on a nearby table before coming back to Dorien. "Come on. Sit. The papers will wait," he mutters firmly as he takes Dorien by the arm and leads him towards the chair. Once he has the redhead seated, he sees to removing the remnants of that tattered, bloody, rag that was once a shirt as he looks him over. ...Shit.
"Dorien," he says in a quiet, yet stern, voice as he kneels in front of him. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"
"No," Dorien looks up at him, his eyes unfocused, letting Natharai take off his shirt without any problem. It's a clean cut down the middle, probably made by the same knife that did the cuts on his chest. While the cut is clean, the shirt isn't, patches of blood on the inside, seeping through to the front, with the addition of the dirt and grass there as well.
"This is stupid easy compared to the other times." The redhead makes this comment with a slightly dreamy tone, punctuated by a small snicker. "Strangled me a bit, but that's okay. That's happened before too. Should be used to it." He goes quiet for a moment, before pointing over at the papers, staring at them. "Report, on Ley's kidnap, since I'm better with my hands than my mouth."
"Enough with the Light-damned papers, Dorien," he snaps, looking the picture of displeasure at the moment. The warlock sighs roughly through his nose as he looks back to Aren with a silent 'what in the hell am I going to do with this boy?', shaking his head gruffly before heading towards the kitchen. "See to that for me, will you, Aren?" His voice becomes a little strained, if not tired, as he disappears from view. "I am going to put a kettle on..." He's not sure if Dory will drink, but it wouldn't hurt.
Aren just gives a shrug to Natharai's look. It's Dorien. He's a doormat, what do you want? He plunks the bowl down on top of a box, then takes hold of Dorien's arms and parks him in the chair with deliberate force. There. You sit. Good boy.
Crouching down, he examines the cuts... mentally making a point not to lick them, and blots at them with the corner of a towel. "Nn. Superficial," he gravels, "Most of them. The big one will need stitches but he's not in any real danger."
As the blood starts to get cleared away from the cuts, it becomes apparent that they aren't at all random in their design. They're carefully planned out to spell 'X no x arakalada', which not only looks like a garble to pronounce, but probably Draenei as well. Dorien smiles at Arenvald for a few moments, before grinning. "You're much prettier than Anna," he... Randomly declares.
A pointedly long, and loud, sigh is heard in the kitchen. Really, Dorien. REALLY?
Aren just flicks an ear and squints at him. Which is, frankly, worgen for '....Really?'. "Looks like somebody used 'im fer a note pad. Draenic scribblin's if I'm any judge." He rumbles faintly, though it's a little hard to read.
"You're prettier than Anna too!" The ginger calls over his shoulder towards the kitchen, before staring back in Arenvald's direction. He blinks a few times, before smiling, showing his teeth. "Yep!" Dorien says in a rather cheerful voice, his eyes gaining some focus to them. "I'm a gentleman."
In the kitchen, there is a slight clatter of porcelain upon wood, as if the action of stacking the items onto the tray was abruptly halted. The warlock just scowls at the tea kettle, huffs through his nose, and comes back out into the living room as placid as can be. No... he's not irritated at all. "Draenic, hm..." he drones as he sets the tray upon the table, glancing to the markings on Dorien's chest.
"I'm not so good with my mouth, but I'm still a gentleman, right?" Dorien's cheerful disposition cracks for a moment, his eyes more focused, and he looks a mix of desperate and afraid. The Draenei knife-writing reads out as 'I am a gentleman' when translated, just as the redhead has been saying before.
Slowly the warlock's brow furrows as he looks up to Dorien's face, wordless for the time being. He knows who did this... Or at least he has a damned good idea. There are only so many Draenei in the Kamil, nowadays, and only one has a penchant for the viscerally dramatic. "Quite..." He offers noncommittally as he holds out a cup of tea. "Drink up. We will take care of your wounds..."
"I kept her from cutting into my tattoo," Dorien, reaching out to take the cup of tea. He holds it against his lips for a moment, looking thoughtful, before adding, "I told her the power in me would kill us both and a good chunk of the Harbour." He takes a large gulp of the tea, not entirely noticing the heat of the liquid, other than a mild burning down his throat. His mind is not entirely here.
"A wise idea..." He drones as he continues to watch the redhead as Aren continues to clean his wounds. A bluff, most surely, but who's to say how he'd react if the bindings were physically severed. "I do not recall, Dorien... Do healing draughts work upon you or no? I have a few extra squirreled away." Somewhere.
"Yep! I remember! Hard to forget what happened to my mouth that one time," Dorien smiles again, the cheerful, almost too happy personality appearing again. He pauses for a moment, seeming to realize NOW how hot that tea was, after being reminded of the burns to his mouth that one testing session made.
With a little bit of a bony creak as he stands upright again, the warlock looks down at Dorien tiredly. "I will only be a moment..." He jolts as if he is about to move away, but stopped himself. "...And relax, Dorien. You are safe here." Sure, he's no picture of sanity either when he's worked up, but... Now it is a matter of finding where he put those blasted healing draughts.
Aren finishes getting everything cleaned, grunts to himself in satisfaction, and looks up after the departing warlock. He was going to go get needle and thread. Buuuut... that will work too. He sits back on his haunches, studies Dorien, then reaches out and bops him lightly upside the head with the flat of a pawlike hand. "Get a grip on yerself, man. Yer gibberin'. It ain't that bad, an' we'll put it right."
"Made me remember," Dorien looks at Arenvald strangely for a moment, before running his left hand up and down his right arm in lines, designs that curled, whatever, not really paying attention what that would do to the cuts on his chest. "I tried to run away a lot." He blinks, eyes almost clear, before reaching forward towards Arenvald's head. He's pretty fast, at least for Dorien, which means he's about a fourth of Arenvald's speed. He makes a grab for the worgen's head.
Aren jerks back. It's instinct, pure and simple, and he very, -very- nearly clamps his jaws down on one of Dory's arms. "The hell you doin', Dorien," he snaps, baring... an awful lot of pointed ivory in the redhead's direction, "Don't ye 'ave -any- sense?"
"You didn't say anything bad to her did you?!" He half falls out of his chair, still trying to reach out for Arenvald, although he gives up trying make a grab for Aren's head, focusing on anything close by. "You just glared and huffed but didn't say anything to her, did you?"
Natharai is only vaguely aware of the commotion in the front room and, initially, dismisses it as Dorien just being... Dorien. But all that frantic pleading, along with Aren's very distinct base toned growling response, now has the warlock worried. The sound of hurried padded footsteps is heard coming down the stairs, the warlock not seeming at all amused (if not concerned).
Aren flattens his ears, slotting a glance at Natharai. Nothing to see! No toothmarks on the ginger.... if only barely. *cough* Not his fault, the idiot ought to know better than to grab for his head! He shakes it firmly, fluffing his ruff out slightly and settles. "Bad 'ta who?" he gravels. "An' I ain't th' sort 'ta just talk, Dory, ye oughta know that much."
"Luri," Dorien sits down finally, happy to have an answer out of Arenvald, before slumping back against the chair. "I... She apparently felt the need to do this over something I said several months ago."
Natharai's expression visibly darkens as he stops a good distance away, with a bottle of healing potion in each hand. While he had his suspicions of who did this to him, having it confirmed did not much help. He sets one of the spares upon the table, reaching to rest his hand upon the crown of Aren's fuzzy head for a brief moment. It's alright...
Once the pleasantry is done and exchanged, he looks back to Dorien humorlessly and uncorks the bottle he holds. "Drink this completely... We will see how well it takes." He still may require stitches, but he might as well see just how quickly this will mend him. If at all.
Aren huffs a sigh at the hand on his head; far from seeming upset by it, it brings his ears out of their slightly-flattened position almost immediately. The statement of the cause of this earns a growl though. "She's thrown 'er unsupported weight 'round long enough, Natharai. I'm done. I'm gonna gut that monkey of 'ers and strangle 'er with it." .... Something sort of implies he's not really being metaphorical.
Dorien takes the bottle, shifting closer towards the two until he deems it safe in his mind, before draining the draught. He coughs after a moment, and shakes his head. The cuts close slowly, and while the smaller cuts close off easily, some of the deeper cuts decide to stick around. "Eugh," the redhead sticks out his tongue a bit, before looking over at Arenvald. "Can I help?"
"You will do no such thing..." He drones firmly, eyes still firmly fixed upon Dorien. "That is not for here and now." And that is that. ...Or at least so it seems until he looks sidelong to the worgen and murmurs in a stoic addendum in...passable Taurahe. "Anohe tawaporah alo nechi... Hale a'ke no mani." 'Others seemingly are upset. Time will be soon.'
The worgen grumbles faintly, but seems to relent, dipping his muzzle in recognition of the statement. "Sha newa," he grumbles, the syllables seeming surprisingly smooth. "K'we pah." Very well. For now. He flexes his fingers, returning his attention to the redhead. "You can help," he grumbles, lapsing back into Common, "By keepin' yer nose clean. Stay away from th' lot of them. S'fer yer own good."
"I killed the other one, right? That's what she said. I want to help." Dorien smiles at Arenvald's response, placing the bottle on the chair he had recently been sitting in. He pauses, his mind finally registering the other part of what the worgen said, and gives Arenvald a look. "I'm unstable, not stupid, thanks."
The other one...? The statement does give the warlock a bit of pause, quirking up an eyebrow slightly as he returns to watching Dorien calmly. "...'The other one'? Clarify, please," he murmurs before going to fixing some more tea, this time for all of them. "After this cup, you will drink the remaining potion..." Hopefully there won't be any side effects, like nausea, which can happen with drinking those in rapid succession... But does Dorien want that script carved into his skin remaining as scars? He knows he wouldn't. Family is Everythang, his ass.
Dorien stares up at Natharai while trying to pull off an innocent face... A very tired one. It doesn't really work out. He decides to try and pet Arenvald on the arm or leg, whichever's closest, to give him something to do with his hands, as well as some sort of comfort. "Anna mentioned I killed Bone Daddy the first time. I don't remember doing though." He shrugs, fiddling with his arm. Dorien's pretty sure he's not much of a killer.
That lifted eyebrow doesn't budge, that's for certain. "I see..." While he does not consider Dorien harmful in the slightest, who's to say that he didn't? There's a lot about himself that he does not remember or fully understand, so it is anyone's guess.
Aren looks.... dubious. But hey, even kittens bite when cornered, so who knows. Besides, for all he knows, Dorien barfed a nuclear explosion on him. For the moment, though, he picks up the second potion and plunks it into Dory's hands. You had an order, soldier.
Dorien stares at the potion sourly, before knocking that one back as well. The cuts heal over finally, although Dorien does look a bit queasy for a few moments, holding a hand over his mouth just in case anything should decide to make a reappearance. The moment passes, and he sighs. "Eugh."
"Just drink your tea and I'll see about getting you something to eat," he murmurs. He continues to linger near Aren as Dorien treats the poor man like a lapdog. The price of having fur, hm? "...By the way, he adds. It was not you who killed him. It was Rehten. He claimed it to be such and he does not strike me as the lying type." Much, at least.
Aren seems to tolerate being petted, really. After all, it's not like it's unpleasant... and eh. It's Dory. Chances are if anyone outside his little circle of okay tried it they'd get mauled, though. "Well, technic'ly it was 'im," he rumbles, then shrugs, settling into observant silence.
"I'd still like to help..." He trails off, reaching for the cup he forgot near the chair, before dragging it over with one hand, while doing his best to stay connected to Arenvald with the other. He does a fairly good job of it, picking up the cup and sipping from it. "You don't have to feed me. It's fine. I've got something at my place."
Natharai sighs as he gives Dorien a weary look. "Not. Now." He says this in a little more of a clipped and angry tone than he wanted, which he notices quickly... The warlock closes his eyes and clenches his jaw, huffing out a long sigh through his nose. Cleansing breaths, Ebonrook... Cleansing breaths. "Let me get you a spare shirt... you are roughly my size, so hopefully it will do," he murmurs politely before turning to go back up stairs.
Aren leans over to nose Natharai comfortingly before he can get out of range, then turns his attention back to Dory. "'Ow is it that ye can get in'ta any ten men's trouble, eh, firehair?" he rumbles, planting a paw on top of Dory's head.
Dorien stares at Arenvald for a moment, trying to make his way through the drawl. He isn't usually this bad; some parts of his mind must still be wandering. "Skill. Pure lack of skill." The redhead smiles up at Arenvald pleasantly enough. "You're fluffy."
The sound of Natharai rummaging around upstairs is heard for a good long while. It takes a few minutes for him to find a shirt he's willing to part with for an indefinite amount of time, so he settles on a plain grey 'sweatshirt' of sorts. He comes downstairs with padded thumps of barefeet, shirt in hand. He tosses the shirt, aiming for Dorien's head, and murmurs. "Here... Put this on so you aren't wandering back home half naked." Provided he goes home tonight. He never knows.
Aren gives him a red-eyed, deadpan stare. "Yer perceptive," he grumbles. Yeah, okay he's fluffy. You don't have to make a point of it. Thank the Light he hasn't seen the tail or he'd never hear the end of it. "An' drink yer tea," he adds, in a rather stern tone.
Dorien pauses mid-sip, and with a rather surprised look on his face, pulls the shirt off of his head, fingering the fabric slightly. Haaa haaa, this is Natharaaaaai's, too small to be Arenvald's for sure. Don't be weird. Don't be creepy. No funny business, that's what he promised. At Natharai's unsaid comment about him possibly crashing here again gives Dorien pause, making him wonder. Should he? Shouldn't he?
Natharai just...eyes Dorien as he watches him finger his shirt with probably a little bit too much interest. Yeah, yeah, he knows what's going through your head, red. "Well, go on and ask it," he drones flatly. He's stayed here enough times for his asking to stay being commonplace...
Aren's shirts would fit on Dory like a tent, it's true. He just sits back on his haunches and watches Dorien while he gazes off into nothing.
"I-If you don't mind it... Otherwise I'll go." Ha ha! He has a spine! Kind of. In his other pants. He mumbles under his breath about this for a bit, looking somewhat embarrassed, before finishing off the rest of his tea.
Natharai has come to expect this, really, so all he does he gesture to the couch. "I will go find a blanket for you and you can tuck in there, per usual," he murmurs idly as he wanders away. He pauses for a moment and looks over his shoulder, smirking wryly. "...And pardon our dust." Yeah, it's a mess here. Hope you like boxes, man.
Aren was -totally- expecting that. He's also totally expecting this to happen at the new house, only with more leaves and twigs. "We'll be outta 'ere by th' end of next weekend," he rumbles.
"Need help moving stuff? I can stick boxes in the sidecar of my bike." Dorien pauses for a moment, wondering where the hell WAS his bike at the moment. Still down by the docks? Light, he hopes not. "I, uh, don't mind boxes. Used to them." He pulls on Natharai's shirt, a little too happy about how well it fit, and how comfy it was, before getting to his feet.
If anything, Dorien at least has to WALK all the way to their house, which is near the better part of Redridge. So hopefully unexpected nighttime visits will be fewer...that or they just concede to the fact that Dorien might as well LIVE with them. Hopefully it wouldn't come to that. Dorien's a nice guy but he gets touchy about him staying on their damned couch. Imagine upgrading that. Light. Though he does, eventually, come back down with blankets and pillows. Making up Dorien's 'bed' has become a commonplace thing, sadly to say.
Aren gets up, stretching, and heaves a sigh. He scrubs his face with his palm. "A'right, crisis over. I'm goin' ta bed." He gives Natharai an only subtly wistful look. SOMEONE wants more quality time. As he scuffs for the stairs, he grumbles, "We're gonna 'afta install a guest room at this rate."
Dorien watches Natharai fix the bed up, as well as Arenvald's comment, and in his somewhat confused mind, he's struck with guilt. He fiddles with the hem of the shirt they let him borrow, and mumbles something, before repeating it again louder. "Sorry. I'm sorry you have to deal with this. And... Thank you for letting me stay all the time. I can go if you want."
Haha... Yeah...about that. There is one. Why? Well it can serve as storage space, if anything, buuuut... "Just make us some breakfast in the morning and we'll call it square," he jokes wryly as he gestures to the couch. Your lodgings, monsieur. "Good night, Dorien." And with that he follows suit and heads upstairs, joining Aren in their bed and getting some damned rest. Screw reading a book at this point.
"Night," Dorien calls after, before crashing on the couch. As he wraps himself up in the blankets, he wonders if Aren will actually LET him cook tomorrow morning, but he's already got plans in mind if he's able to.