#nathrae

it occurred to me that it was actually criminal that I hadn't drawn Thyneron with the one tav that he actually DOES canonically know

Can't live with them, can't put a worm in their brain and overthrow their legacy

My recent durge run- twins Nathrae (centre) and Vasbryn of house Agrach Dyrr, formerly priestesses before defecting to the cult of Bhaal.

Speak With Dead

askmace said: Nathrae, 12

Of course I am okay with that. But what kind of epilogue :O I am so out of touch with whats happened!

Iiiiiiiiii kinda quit WoW this spring? And since I know how all my characters' "retirement stories" are gonna play out I'd like to do a sort of epilogue comic to show what became of them all. As far as the continued IC stuff is concerned Nathrae is still working out of Orgrimmar, hunting dragons, harassing the Alliance, all that fun stuff...just, yanno, in the background.

Several months ago....

When this burnt-out shell of a building was reconstructed the new owner had taken for granted that he'd be bounding up stairs and leaping between rooftops til the day he died. Today, the idea of climbing the curling ramp between his workshop and his living space seems like trying to cross the Maelstrom in a rowboat. No one else is here to see the muscles at the edges of Nathrae's jaw flex and bulge as he grinds his teeth together.

Fuck that, he's done worse, right? He glares daggers at his crutch and grabs it roughly as if he could hurt it out of pique. If it were a living thing he'd have killed it out of spite days ago.

But for now he needs the fucking thing.

He's so damned sore. His right foot itches madly, hurts wildly, and he knows it's insane and absurd because how the fuck could it itch when it's GONE? Every movement of his leg pulls sheared-off muscle against jagged bone where his shin should be but it's instinct, isn't it, one foot in front of the other. People walk without even registering that they're walking. Now he's acutely aware of every minute detail that makes up the act of taking a step – because they all hurt.

Every fucking time. He knows he needs to keep his right thigh still and let the crutch do the work. Every fucking time he pushes his weight forward on the left, the right comes up to try to take a step on a foot that isn't there, and it makes his body tip one way or the other. The first time he loses his footing, his back slams into the wall; he grits his teeth and lets out a breath between them like an angry snake.

The second time he curses and lurches forward just as fast as he'd fallen back. The third time the crutch jars his shoulder so hard he sees white spots. And by the time he's in range of the door, close enough to swipe madly at the longest point of his reach and grab hold, sweat's beaded up on his brow and in the small of his back.

Thank all the uncaring evil bastard gods he's alone. Not that it matters. It's not like he's shaking with exertion or anything. It's not like his face is flushed with shame at failing something as fucking simple as climbing a ramp. It's not like his mind's wandering back to long summers spent climbing the rigging of his father's ships, or ending a caper with scaling a wall freehand and escaping the Stormwind guard by rooftop. It's not like he's damning fate and the Light and how un-fucking-fair it is that he'd have paid his dues and suffered for the blood on his hands only to have this taken away from him, for some filthy kaldorei to steal his freedom with her teeth.

It's not like his breath hitches uncontrollably as he's loading a pipe with DC. Not like wet tracts form down his cheeks and scatter on the hand that presses against them.