arthim

the narrative will have you believe he is #hot and #mysterious and #polite but you have never met a narrator as unreliable as the one observing mithra from beyond his enclosure.

a northern wizard widely regarded as second in power only to the great oz, mithra speaks formally, looks like he could use at least seven consecutive days of sleep, and is probably not the first image to come to mind when you think "powerful" or "violent" or "STEER CLEAR THIS ONE BITES"

he operates by his own standards and is largely motivated by power, and power alone. he wants to be strong. and he knows he is strong. he just wants to be stronger, you know? and he can't, like, risk his power, youknow? so he has to babysit these two southern wizards because like. you know. not because he's inherently lonely and his mentor knew he could use a family. but because he has to. begrudgingly. stop looking at h-

could use friends. and someone to teach him about foodborne illness. and maybe that one person or two that he accidentally cares about and is like (Carries under his arm like a potato sack) youwill not die on my watch small creature. could also use someone to join #TeamMithra to destroy oz.

simply put, if you are an inconvenience to him (and many things are) he's probably thinking "i should just kill them" or "man i want to nap" with no in-between.

can an emo girl and an op jock fall in love? yes. and they would be mithra. hope this helps!

how noisy—

—is the only throught actively lingering in mithra's mind. one hand curled around a slab of meat (surprisingly, cooked—something worth applauding the wizard for, really, for his bountiful patience) and the other brandishing some sea creature, shell and all.

there's a chip in the shell: something suspiciously and dangerously shaped as though someone might have taken a curious bite out of it. the remaining taste of sand and something crunchy at the back of mithra's mouth is, of course, only sheer coincidence.

but he isn't complaining about the food. certainly not the grating, almost inhuman, noise of the shards of shell left in his mouth (crrrrchh, crrrrrnnnch, ccruuuunch).

no; he's a patient person. almost managnimous in spirit. it takes a great deal to get on his nerves, of course—but the poor shopkeep at the market stand is coming dangerously close, teeth chattering and eyes darting nervously back and forth as they harp the same thing over and over again: "your payment, sir..?"

fate is a bit of a finicky concept, and mithra is inclined to believe that it has been nothing but a chore to him. but he shelves the immediate spike in bloodlust that surges through his veins when he catches sight of a familiar face, just steps away.

out of courtesy for this overcooked slab of meat, and the delightfully textured sea creature he is enjoying, he refrains from "causing a scene." instead, he points—one hunk of meat dangling gracelessly in his hand, acting as an arrow of sorts—in none other than oz's direction.