PotHN: The Last Meal [1x1]

A cleaver lands on the cutting board-- inches away from furred tail. It was held, of course, by Julian Zadari-- a premiere chef within the city of Leimor, though that was hardly saying much. With how much smoke was in the air, it was far more likely that most of the cooks had simply gone and killed themselves because nobody could taste their dishes. That was fine, though-- Zadari didn't do well with competition. It was better that he held a stranglehold over fine dining in the area, because that kept him from strangling... well.

You know.

At the moment, though, strangulation was heavily considered upon the little furred bastard that interrupted his cooking. With the cleaver delivered as a threat, Zadari continued to season the cod with a smile on his face, eyes half-lidded as he worked. Customers loved a welcoming, assuring face. Not one that wanted to kill cats.

"And have you claw my hands?" He inquired politely, giving a soft chuckle. "No, I don't think so. I daresay it was a peaceful time out on the water without you pawing at the water every ten seconds."

The elf seemed to level a pointed glare, at that, though the smile still remained.

"And look at you." Julian spoke, voice still a dulcet tone. "Laying upon my countertop, eating food until you fatten up like a dust-cleaner." He pulled the cleaver from the wood, chopping off the head of another fish. "How the roles have reversed. Maybe eat another few mice, you rotund little shit. See how much good that does you."

"Damn right it is." He muttered, working to de-scale and de-bone the fish.

Zadari was a practiced fisherman, and an even better cook; he worked with precision that seemed to suggest experience beyond the ownership of a small upscale restaurant upon the docks of Leimor. Why he was here, of all places, was anyone's guess-- something undoubtedly criminal, like most people who started over within the smoke-laden city. He had owned the restaurant for almost ten years, after all, and had neither been accosted nor harassed for a protection racket-- which suggested he was not one to be pushed around.

Hemlock-laced tea during a sit-down was a strong deterrent, after all.

It had been a long while since he had poisoned anyone, however-- a week, perhaps, or maybe even two-- which seemed to suggest a lull in the usual business beyond the scope of his restaurant. With the amount of spice he worked into half of his dishes to satisfy the populace's diminished palate, though, he might as well have been blighting them.

"Maybe you should do that more, instead of lazing about and talking down to me." The elf replied, giving the cat a ruffle of his fingers upon the head with his clean hand. His dirty-- the one that had touched raw fish-- still remained at work, beginning to coat the second batch of fish in seasoning. "Or maybe you could simply grow fatter, until I find you good enough to stuff and roast for the patrons outside. An exotic delicacy-- talking cat." He gave a chuckle, as if genuinely amused by the prospect. "Of course, I wouldn't be able to provide proof, but maybe if you screamed loud enough while I prepared you..."

"I think I had a dream about that, recently." Among other things. Horrible, odd images that were far more brutal than his usual elegant methods of murder. For a moment, Julian's brow furrowed, though his calm demeanor resurfaced.

"If you ate my eyes, I'd still have my nose and tongue, you fucking idiot." The insult was spoken sweetly, and he set the fish into a pan-- immediately searing it as oil popped and the scent of cooking fish began to pervade the air. "Next time, use that walnut-sized brain of yours to think up something a little better, hm?"

"My nose is plenty good." Julian replied, unbothered by the cat's insult. "Even better, in fact, as of late. Was able to tell one of my guests had a fever from the sweetened smell of his flesh."

He sighed, at that, and wiped at his brow.

"Might've given me something, I think. Been getting horrible chills, as of late. And fever dreams. Waking up in a cold sweat." There was a moment of hesitation before he turned the fish over in the pan, revealing a sear upon the delicate maritime flesh that would no-doubt be replicated upon the posterior side. Another dash of oil into the pan. It lightly hissed, but did not burn. He raised his spoon and swatted at the cat's paw, giving a grimace.

"Awful little nightmares, but none as bad as you. Keep those disgusting paws away from the meat or I'll be serving you to the guests.."