He has a mess of dark brown hair with strands of a cream-colored blonde lightly around his temples. His eyes are a gold tint of hazel, and facial hair adorns his chin and jawline up to his high cheekbones. Raticus bears a few marks of war, scars from the brutal conflict in fleeing Gilneas, mostly present on his upper arms and chest. They are indiscernable when he is fully clothed. For those who are inclined, his passing scent smells very faintly of roses. As a worgen, his fur is dark brown and cream-colored on his chest and underbelly. His eyes glow with an intense gold color.
You may know Raticus if...
Artwork by talented people that are not me:
It had stopped raining in Darnassus, but you wouldn't readily know it. Fat droplets from the canopy above splattered on marble pillars, on the wooden homes, on the busy people. Plum-colored leaves tumbled down to the cobbled streets, where they stuck to the boots of passersby. Raticus, ending a sojourn to this city, found himself tracing the indented basins that pooled Teldrassil's rainwater around every by-way. The next ship back to the Eastern Kingdoms had not pulled into the harbor (and wouldn't for some time yet), so he was left with a time to respite.
It doesn't hurt much to walk anymore. Mr. Baker's salve has been helping with my back so that it doesn't sting so much when I move around. I'll have to thank him again, fawning over me where there's much more important things for him to do. When I was able to manage the stairs (a slow and trying affair), I gathered up my things and left the office. It seems my timing was spot on, as there's now a corpse (undoubtedly related to our work), to replace me. Can't say I was keen on sticking around.
The moors of Gilneas were a strange place just before dawn. The wind would whip mercilessly across them over the course of the day -- but now it was relegated to random zephyrs. Spring was on its way, and with it came the first of many dense blankets of fog to roll across these dewy slopes. The winds would shoot through them, segregating fog from clarity, and if one were to walk into it (as Raticus was now) it would be like traveling through creeping walls of mist.
A creature loomed above Raticus and Aradelle as they hunched together to pore over the ominous letter written in blood. It watched them with fascination. The bough it was perched on wilted with the beast's weight, shaking with every shift of its limbs. Too small to be a dragon, and definitely not of the same frame. It was a drake. The drake fidgeted on the bough, restless wings undulating to maintain balance. Opening his plated maw, the drake, known as Forthwind, lolled his tongue. With each breath, you could faintly see a putrescent mist escape into the air. This particular drake lived up to the reputation set by its kin -- and something Raticus was particularly familiar with.
Under the glow of stars and moon, Raticus's chilled fingers work to form the bight of a highwayman's knot. His red nostrils puff steamy breaths until his palms pull the rope tight to a sturdy tree trunk. The horse attached to aforementioned rope was given a pat on the nose (though he preferred to be left alone after Raticus's cold digits pressed upon his flesh) before resigning to nibble on the wispy stalks of Arathi grass.
Raticus sits with legs crossed tightly before him. The sea sends swift sinistrals over the deck of a ship to tousle the young man's locks and the silver hood. He seemed to fancy in colder climes. To accompany this, there's a knit wool scarf pulled around his neck -- it's not old, but a bit tattered and dingy. Unbeknownst to Raticus, it's starting to come part a little along his back. A Veil present actually, by one of the elder kaldorei at his father's new orphanage in Darnassus. He sits here alone, out of the way of the crew and the other passengers.
Teldrassil, the Great Tree. Here amongst the ancient boughs, the sound of heavy footfalls pound slowly against the springy turf, clad in decaying leaves and an amalgamation of roots of countless flora. A dark figure waves mechanically between the tight-knit trunks of a secluded glade. The rusty scrapes of his armor bounce along with his stride. The air always feels so thick here, clad with a what seemed like a purple fragrance-less mist. One could only smell the earthy scents of a typical forest-scape, with the chitterings and tweets of critters unseen in the close vicinity.
A heavy wet snow had fallen in the early morning hours of the Gilnean dawn. The long winter months had moved in for a season of bone-chilling northerlies and ocean-borne blizzards. Even the Blackwald could not buffer the storm, and now their barren ebony branches were coated with a carpet of white. Even now, flurries fell from an overcast sky just before sun reached its lofty apex. Here, in this wood, you could hear the snow descend and sweep across the forest floor. If you've never heard it, it sounds like sand seeping through an hourglass. The only sound to break this are the every-so-often zephyrs that swoosh down from above.
The sound of a sword swipe cleaved the air, spitting blood onto the dingy cobblestone. Buildings aflame with bright embers groaned and shuddered as they burned, ash and smoke sputtering from their crevices. Here stood a man, sheathing his blade, peering off down the road and into the night sky. To gaze upon his visage was to find a form most ghastly: a pale, emotionless face with buzzed charcoal hair. A metal crown of thorns adorns his skull, pointing outward and goring you with their gaudy appearance. Only on his cheekbones is there a faint flush of color, but only a gray and sullen shade.
How strange are our dreams? A realm in which the tangible and the sound folds away into nothingness, we are greeted by thoughts beyond comprehension. We wade through this experience, reacting with instinct and emotions we cannot fully understand. We see our past, present, and future within a singular dream-scape, and in a context only we can understand. It is here that we discover a hidden side to ourselves, elemental in nature. We confront the self that has become with the self that cannot be, and from that is born the strange.
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