[div style="width: 48%; line-height: 14px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 13px;"]The fog had cleared from his head when he rose from his slumber today, though the new burden of a grueling headache and sensitivity to the light now plagued him. A wet, phlegmy cough erupted from him, forcing him to spit out the disgusting contents of his mouth onto the cave floor, which was warm from the flames of the forge. Finally he forced himself to pry his eyes open, tired chocolate eyes scanning his surroundings as if expecting a face that was not his own. Whatever he saw in the Ignibus Forge was whatever was within it the night before: racks of hand-crafted weapons sculpted by his own ash-ridden paws, the anvil by his tools, the flames that illuminated the cave, and the plentiful empty glass bottles that had rolled away from him in the middle of the night when he had lost consciousness, more than likely due to the vast amounts of alcohol he had consumed out of...boredom? Loneliness? Even he wasn't really sure.

For this he had but two words: "Fuck me..."

He was on his feet now, stumbling over his paws to make his way to the tranquil pool of water in the far edge of the cave. His head dropped down into the pool lazily, submerging his entire face in the cool liquid before drinking it, soothing his dry and cracking throat. He let his head rest beneath the pool's surface for a moment longer. The drum of his heartbeat was overwhelming, overpowering all other noise and any other of his senses. Da-DUM...da-DUM...da-DUM... He waited until the incessant, bone-rattling drumming was but a faint tap, a mere whisper in his ears, a sign that his breath was running out, taking his consciousness with it. It was then that he quickly pulled out of the pool, droplets flying around him as he aggressively shook his pelt. It was enlightening to taste death. "WHOOOOOO!"

"Good morning, Zjarr."

He stiffened at the new voice in the room but let his muscles relax once he processed the voice. It was Flamey, but he sounded...far. Usually Flamey's voice would echo in his head, rattle around his skull because the other guy was quite literally living inside his head rent-free. He was a ghost with no physical form and nowhere to go, so he took up residence with the demon that once tricked him into giving away his mortal form and somehow, some way, they formed an inexplicable bond to one another. Or at the very least Zjarr felt bonded to him.

"Flamey, my man! Where the...the fuck did you go...?" Zjarr said with a frown. "You're not as loud anymore. What gives? You projectin' your voice like-like a ventriloquist? That's a-a sick trick, I'd say..."

"Look up, Zjarr. At the ledge."

Zjarr obeyed, following Flamey's voice to the rocky ledge just above him. For a moment the ledge stood empty, and he waited, confused but compliant, until his eyes focused upon the cat-like silhouette that hovered above him.

"Do you see me, Zjarr?" Flamey asked, waving his ghostly tail at the canine.

"I do. 'n' that's a fuckin' problem," Zjarr grunted. How the hell did Flamey escape? He's fucking with me. I know he is.

"I'm just taking on a more comfortable form. It seems you did too," Flamey mused with a nod towards Zjarr, prompting the demon to look down at himself. It was just now that he had noticed that his shape had shifted unknowingly — his wolf form, rich with cybernetic implants and prosthetic replacements, changed to his much more natural husky form. Must've been when I was drunk, he resolved mentally.

Flamey spared no time to continue. "You were drunk...again. I knew you wouldn't notice quickly. I don't know how it took so many years for me to escape but...I have to admit, it was easy. Your mind's quite feeble. Do you know how it feels to watch you for so many years, Zjarr?"

The husky pursed his lips. He had always known that Flamey was watching his every move, but often he didn't bother worrying since the other man ultimately had no control over his decisions and body. The extent of the ghost's power was simply speaking to him, or perhaps fueling an unspoken urge to go a certain route that Zjarr otherwise wouldn't have picked. He had to admit, the whole "I can see everything you do" thing was more than awkward at times, especially the first time he realized the Flamey had all-seeing capabilities in the first place.

"Do you not worry that you may leave her pregnant?" Flamey had asked.

"Preg- What? What the FUCK are you sayin' to me right now?" Zjarr had growled in response. "Are you sick in the fuckin' head, Silas? Is that what you're try'na say?"

"Don't act like I couldn't see it," Flamey had said.

Zjarr's reply was delayed solely by the sheer shock that filled him. His entire body felt frozen in its place yet at the same time limp and lifeless. "What, so you just watch me and jerk your lil' ghost dick off in my head? IN MY FUCKIN' HEAD? HUH, YOU SICK FUCK? YOU FUCKING NUT? I'LL CASTRATE YOU MYSELF YOU-"

They refused to speak to one another for a week after the incident.

Zjarr and Flamey were drastically different individuals — Flamey, a man of morals and pacifism, and Zjarr, a beast of madness and rage. Zjarr was a man of impulse: to fight, to kill, to fuck, to steal, to hurt. All on a whim. Flamey was his light, his beacon of morality and responsibility, and perhaps one of the sole reasons he found himself drawn to nonviolent groups like The Thunderlands and The Ascendants, both of which now visages of a long-gone era, only still real in his mind. Flamey became less of a burden and more of a guide that Zjarr desperately needed, the leech that became the leeched, the man in the other handcuff.

And Zjarr was not letting him slip his handcuff off.

"Oh, what's this, some 'woe is me I want my freedom' bullshit?" he sneered. His muscles felt hot and tight, as if he were ready to pounce, but attacking Flamey in his ghostly form would be useless. "Well, I'll tell you this, you lil' shit, you're not findin' freedom in a fuckin' cave."

"And what will you do? Rot in this cave for all eternity?"

"I got no other home. No place to be but here. It's just you 'n' me, you slimey fuck." Rage blazed in his dark eyes, his lips pulled back into a menacing snarl. "There's nowhere for you to go."

"Zjarr, I'm doing this to benefit you!" Flamey shouted, slamming a ghostly paw onto the rocky ledge. "To benefit US! I cannot be imprisoned in the walls of your mind anymore, and you cannot let your hostage save you from your own lack of moral compass! I am disgusted with you and all that you have done. All of the crimes you've committed, all of the people you hurt. Need I remind you about the boy you killed before you joined The Ascendants?"

"Your Honor, he was a fuckin' bitch-boy that ran his mouth too fuckin' much, simple as that," Zjarr responded with a roll of his eyes.

"You think this is a game, a JOKE. You are a dirty, filthy, vile son of a-" Silence followed Flamey's words.

Zjarr huffed. "Well? Finish your sentence."

Nothing.

"Come on, Flamey. What the fuck am I, the hall monitor? I'm not gonna chase you 'round the room with fuckin' soap, so say it. What am I, Silas? What do you think I am? Say it with your fucking chest."

Nothing.

His heartbeat sounded louder with each second of silence, and he felt his chest grow tighter and warmer as the drumming pounded in his ears. DA-DUM DA-DUM DA-DUM DA-DUM

"COME ON MOTHERFUCKER, SAY IT!" Before he could even register his actions the glass bottle was in his possession, and in just a moment it no longer was. It was flung across the cave, towards Flamey's ledge, producing an ear-scraping shatter as it made impact with the walls of the cave, bursting into thousands of tiny, sharp green pieces all over the ledge.

Flamey was still silent. All Zjarr could do to maintain whatever was left of his composure was laugh. "You're no fun," he said in between loud, almost maniacal cackles. More silence followed, but this time he didn't feel that his heart was bursting from his chest. Had Flamey left? Had he crawled back into Zjarr's head obediently? Was it even possible to enter his head again if he had escaped?

Flamey's voice still echoed from the ledge, now softer and timid. "And what about Pele?"

Pele. A name he hadn't heard in years, not since he disappeared from The Ascendants. The name of his daughter, a daughter he had abandoned. A daughter abandoned by an amnesiac mother and a deranged, alcoholic father. Raised the Ascendants as a collective effort in place of her blood family. The name alone sank icy fangs directly into his heart, filling him with pangs of agony. Pele, his greatest mistake. A fine daughter for an unfit, unworthy father. His most enduring pain. A pain he would live with forever.

"Pele, she..." Zjarr's mouth was twisted into a frown, his head hanging from the rest of his body and his voice as timid and quiet as Flamey's. "She was raised by people better than me." And thank God she was.

Flamey's voice offered a minimal amount of sympathy, though he knew that Pele's suffering as a child was Zjarr's doing. "Don't make the same mistake. You don't need me to tell you that."

Zjarr said nothing, and instead he turned and made his way towards the entrance of the Forge. With the Ignibus Fortress long abandoned and likely having succumbed to Mother Nature's wrath, the Forge was all that was left of the Ignibus family, created by him to perfect his craft, the one thing that kept him going. Zjarr knew of no children of his, no blood or adoptive siblings or relatives to reach out to. For once, he was truly alone. And the loneliness was maddening, driving him to battle with ghosts that maybe weren't ever really there.

He reached the cave entrance as dawn approached, the whites of his fur painted a light orange as the sun made its way into the vast night sky. The onset of daylight illuminated the great meadows and forests in the distance, painting the rolling grass with vivid oranges and yellows. What once felt dark and cold was warm, vibrant, and full of hope.

He had nothing left. But when you're at rock bottom, the only place to go is up.

// this is probably one of the longest oneshots i've ever written LMAOO but this is zjarr's official return to bob!!!

[div style="width: 48%; line-height: 14px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 13px;"]Something had snapped him from his stupor — a creature he had never met before in his entire life stumbling across him and his Forge. This would be the first time in what was likely months (Has it really been that long? he thought with a shudder) that he had interacted with a person outside of Flamey, and, to put it lightly, he was quite simply dumbfounded by the other's appearance in the first place. Confused chocolate eyes fell upon the feline who had asserted that Zjarr looked like shit (in all fairness, a manic, wet, demonic dog didn't look like anything but shit), and he struggled to find any words to force past his lips. What the fuck, how the fuck, why the fuck, when the fuck, where the fuck? How long has he been standin' there? He was normally a perceptive beast, but perhaps the years away from being in a social environment took a toll on him. With a brief yet sharp pang, he came to the realization that he missed the Ascendants and cursed himself for having abandoned them so early. They're long gone now.

But no matter. His primary goal was to at least respond to this literally-who that approached him. "Ain't none of your damn business, that's for sure. Who are you and how the hell did you find this place?" the husky demanded, his voice gruff and indeed vaguely scratchy from his outburst but his expression not entirely upset or aggressive, more frustrated and confused than anything.

Inquisitive eyes traveled along the feline's body once more, drinking in the presence of this stranger with a fiery intensity. Zjarr was certain he had never met him before, but he could say the same for practically every person he had met the past few years ever since he left the Ascendants and took an extensive hiatus from the organized clans of the Island, speaking to others only when they requested his presence and expertise as a smith (the fuckin' best smith in this damn place, he'd gloat) and exchanging few words otherwise. His gaze fell upon the other's accessory, a pendant resembling that of a sharp blade. Quite fitting in terms of their current location. He took a moment to admire it in silence before returning his eyes back to meet the other's, awaiting a response to his questions.