Yorak the Great and Terrible is neither great nor terrible, but no one ever bothered to ask him how he felt about the name before they went and assigned it to him.
The word great implies a particular status. Yorak doesn't have that status. He isn't accepted by mortals or by magick folk, so how could he attain that sort of recognition? Great could also imply stature, and Yorak is admittedly not very tall. He doesn't think that he's short, but he is not tall either.
Terrible, of course, is only ever a mean word. Yorak is not always very fond of himself. But he knows that he means well, and that he does not interfere with anyone if he can help it. He keeps to himself. All that he asks is that he be allowed to do so.
The villagers usually leave him alone these days. He sometimes sees them through his windows, through the gaps in his trees, and they flee if they happen to catch his eye or turn their children's heads away from the house. He doesn't find that hurtful. Of course he doesn't. He definitely doesn't, because he wants to be left alone. It's not like the mortals could offer him anything anyway.
Something is stirring, though. His occasional glimpses into his crystal ball and secretive explorations around town have told him that the village is in a state of distress. About the lack of rain, most likely. Yorak can do without it for some time, as his elemental magick is enough to supply his own basic need of water, but he guesses that it is not the same for the village. Even he could not produce enough for everyone if it was demanded of him.
Yorak spares little thought for the rain and little thought for the village below until it comes storming up his walkway. He wakes one morning to what sounds like a bar fight and peers through his windows to find that a mob of angry villagers armed with blades and bows is making its way, slowly, up the hillside.
He sighs. He turns to his collection of birds aligned in cages of varying shape and size.
"Such arrogance," he laughs. One of them chirps something at him that he interprets as agreement.
The first time, Yorak is lenient. He sends a smoky apparition of what a mortal man might call a "ghost", and then they run away screaming and hysterical, many dropping their weapons as they do so. Yorak laughs. So simple.
He tries to pay little mind to the attempted invasion and to return to his usual routine. No rainfall means that his garden maintenance has changed ever so slightly. But he does have a decent supply of rainwater, so he doesn't have to resort to exhausting his magick just yet.
Yorak grows most of his own food. It is shared amongst him and his animals— the birds and the snakes. He often has to gather small fish or earthworms for the snakes. And he frequently lets the birds out, either giving them free reign of the cottage or taking them into the greenhouse and transforming it into an aviary. He thinks that he is a very good caretaker for his animals. For this reason, he also keeps bees. He has an easier time than a mortal might have avoiding their punishing stings and their sweet honey is a nice supplement to his mostly-vegetable diet. It also serves him well in trades.
On an average day, Yorak greets and cares for his animals as soon as he wakes. Which he does rather late in the day as a largely nocturnal creature, and the shade of his trees combined with his sturdy wooden shutters means that the sun rarely disturbs his slumber. He talks to the birds that can talk back. Better companions, he is sure, than any more sentient being. The sorts of creatures likely to stab you in the back or to grow tired of you.
When his pets are satisfied, Yorak tends to his gardens, if need be, and does whatever chores he must, from dusting to sweeping to washing his clothes. He cooks himself a meal when his stomach reminds him that he is supposed to eat. And then he returns to his studies. Magick is an endless study, as best he can tell. He could live a thousand years and then live a thousand more, and still he would not comprehend everything about it.
Even if he is mostly bound to his home, Yorak would have to say that he has all that he needs. The exterior of it is misleading, and it's far more spacious than one would guess by looking. He is not in want of space, and he supposes he doesn't need companionship because he does have his animals, and he can get his hands on all that he needs to survive.
Still, he finds himself staring out the window more and more these days. He gets the feeling that he is meant to be expecting something. But that thought is a foolish one. There is no one left to return to him. No one is looking for him.
He sees the schoolhouse in the far distance, sees the children being swept up by their parents and skipping eagerly home, often accompanied by a little entourage of friends, tiny feet pitter-pattering along. He swallows. And something tastes bitter. But it's not like it reminds him of anything— he was never able to go out like that.
Maybe that's why he's bitter.
Yorak spends many hours, late into the night, watching the restless village from his crystal ball. He does not know their names, and he does not recognize most of their faces, save for two. But he watches. He doesn't know why. He tells himself that he is trying to find something. He falls asleep on the table and wakes to a pair of tiny striped birds furiously pecking his cheek with their little orange beaks.
A matter of monotonous days pass, and the village is prepared for a second round. Yorak is beginning to get very annoyed, as that bitter taste has become more pungent and he doesn't know why, so he may as well take it out on those who would pick a fight with him. He puts on something of a fireworks show, and this time their departure isn't quite so sudden. Some of them pretend to be brave just long enough to survive the initial lights. The balls of bright green flame are enough to subdue them, and then they join their friends. Yorak doesn't laugh, this time, as he watches them go. He glares into the distance until he is CERTAIN that every last one of them has fled his property. And then he glares some more, reflecting on how absurd mortals look when they're startled, their wrinkled faces illuminated in green.
Yorak tries to forget the disturbances once more. He decides to entertain himself by studying the stars. He likes making star charts. He designates his own constellations. More and more often he finds clusters in the stars that remind him of his mother. When that happens, he misses her, but he marks them down anyway. He likes to imagine that her soul is up there somewhere and that if he finds the right cluster, he can look at her whenever he is lonely. He knows that she is part of the earth here. It's what he was taught. It's why he had to cremate her, had to scatter her ashes on this holy ground. But that knowledge is not always very reassuring. It doesn't bring him warmth in the dark days of winter.
More days.
More nights.
A week more, and then the villagers return. They come in the evening and there are more of them this time. They are more heavily armed, and many carry torches. Yorak has almost missed that bit of apparent tradition. It's so very rustic.
At the front of this newly invigorated crowd is a mustached man with a posture so rigid that his knees will likely lock. He's trying to project confidence, but Yorak can see his desperation. He knows that that must be the new chieftain. He looks just like the last one, Yorak can see— ah, nepotism.
Yorak does try to scare them away once more. He goes all out, and it isn't entirely unsuccessful. Some of the mob members break free from the pack and retreat. The young and scrawny ones, mostly. But the group at large continues its grim procession. The path gets smaller and smaller. And then there is a pounding on the front door.
He groans, at first, and doesn't move. He has a terrible migraine and his dinner has not finished yet. He is really looking forward to having some of his delicious-smelling veggie stew, which he can smell from his living room, and his stomach is growling at the very thought of it. He is not in the mood. So he pretends that he is sleeping and is careful not to make any noise. This, apparently, encourages them, and the pounding grows louder. He's sure there are several fists against his door now. A boot or two, or even an axe, by the sound of it. His birds begin to squawk and squeal in agitation.
Yorak isn't really used to being bothered in this way, so he can't say that he's terribly patient. The birds and the villagers quickly become too much. With a dramatic groan, he marches across his house and throws the door open— almost. Not yet. He remembers, at the last moment, to raise his hood. It conceals his ears and casts most of his face into shadow. Wearing a hood has saved his life on many occasions. Once it is in place, he throws open the door with one arm, making sure to keep his cloak in place with his other hand.
"WHAT?"
The crowd reels back at the sight of him. Most of them are faces Yorak has never seen, and it has been a few years since he has opened his door to anyone. Chances are, most of them thought he wouldn't answer. Or, perhaps, that he didn't exist at all. He has become a legend in the village, a mythical thing, and he often hears stories about himself so grand and horrific that he would laugh at them if doing so wouldn't ruin his disguise.
The man with the mustache takes some time to recover from the shock that nearly knocked him backwards. He raises his torch high.
"You! You there!" He bellows. "Yorak, is it?!"
"Yes? What the hell did you want? I'm trying to make dinner."
The villagers, surprised to hear that, murmur amongst themselves. Yorak hears one of them suggest that warlocks must drink blood for sustenance, while another asserts that warlocks eat live rodents. He definitely doesn't do either of those things, but he doesn't have the time or patience to host a class on the basics of magick folk for foolish mortals. He doubts they would even listen to him if he tried. He has learned that the hard way.
"W-Well!" Coran stiffens his back and his knees once more. Yorak contemplates blowing at him or poking him to see if that would knock him over. "We come on behalf of the entire village of Plaht! We have left you to your own wicked devices for quite some time, young man, but we can tolerate your interferences with our village no more! We demand—"
"Young man?" Yorak gives the onlookers a hollow stare, one he has perfected, that drives them back a ways. He hears the quiet scraping of metal as some of them begin to shake. "How old are you? I would wager that I'm older than every last one of you. I may not look it, but that's magickal lifeblood for you. Probably from all the live mice I swallow whole, you know. Or the blood of virgins."
He's bluffing, slightly. He's only sixty (and definitely doesn't swallow mice or kidnap virgins). This guy might be around his age, and there are definitely some greybeards in the crowd. Mustache man clears his throat.
"Y-Yes, I—"
"Trying to impress the underlings by talking a big game, I guess?" Yorak grins, and he knows that his pointy teeth are probably visible. "Haven't seen you before. You must be new to the job."
"Th-That is ENTIRELY beside the point!" Yorak can tell that he's offended, and he whips the torch about as if to change the subject. "We have had enough!"
"Of what, exactly? I didn't do anything to you. You're the ones who came and interrupted my dinner."
"Do not play innocent with me! We know that you are responsible for this drought!"
Now, that— Yorak wasn't expecting that. He doesn't know when they arrived at this consensus. And a stupid consensus it is, but they don't have any way of knowing that, he supposes. They don't know anything about magick, so they don't know that it would take a horrifyingly powerful warlock much older than him to stop the rainfall for an entire village. An entire quadrant. He crosses his arms and pouts.
"I definitely didn't do that," he grumbles. There is probably little point to it if they've already made up their minds.
"That, er... Your protests will not fool me! Your dark magick knows no bounds!"
"If that's the case, and your flattery is sincere, then what the hell are you doing on my property? Couldn't I just strike you all dead?"
An awkward, pained silence. Yorak sees a few more brave souls forget their bravery and break from the group to head back down the twisting pathway. Mustache man shakes his head to dispel his own fear.
"I-In any case, we are here to deliver a warning!" The torch is pointed directly at Yorak's chest. As if fire will hurt him. "Either rescind your curse upon our village, or leave at once! If you do not, we will be forced to drive you away by whatever means necessary!"
Yorak gives him a terse look, mouth set into a deep and unimpressed frown.
"Will that be all?"
"Well, er—"
"Goodnight, then. I didn't curse your village and you can figure your drought out by yourselves."
With that, Yorak declares the conversation finished with a slam of his door. He waits with his back pressed against it until the villagers take the hint and leave, certain that Yorak has absorbed their message. He brushes a long strand of raven hair behind his ear and holds his breath until he is once again in a quiet home.
He has a feeling that this is going to be a long month.