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+---- Thread: EVERMORE :: open, trespasser (/showthread.php?tid=1594)
EVERMORE :: open, trespasser - Zjarr - 05-26-2018
[div style="width: 360px; line-height: 14px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 13px; color: #383838;"]Travelling between realms was a funny little thing, wasn't it?
Sometimes it worked just as well as you'd expect it; other times it didn't. Quite frankly, the demon wasn't sure what to expect of the magnificent feat. The mere thought of it was chilling and bizarre, yet here he would stand as an alien, essentially, yet he looked just like every other mortal in this...whatever this place was...for the most part, at least. But he was to remain optimistic, surely. As optimistic as a runaway could be.
This would be his third shot of living his life—a different realm for each attempt. The first was where he acquired a less conspicuous physical form; winged lynxes with eerie permanent grins were likely to be a rare occurrence in any place, so he found a domestic feline to take control of. It was a much simpler task than he initially expected, and he'd come to secure more bodies under his belt, thanks to the weak-minded mortals that practically surrendered them over to him. From then on it was smooth sailing: pose as a mortal, survive and thrive, make it to the very top. Soon he'd scale the ranks of the so-called "Clans" until he became the right-hand man to one of their leaders. After that he was gone.
In this next realm Zjarr was posed with great amnesia, a dreadful pothole in his quest for power, but seeing as it was a different place he doubted any of it mattered. A second shot at life, eh? No one knew of his mistakes there...except for one of their high positions, who he had seemingly followed. She knew of his extensive deeds, very much aware of them, but did nothing to stop him from taking control of the group and proclaiming himself their sovereign. A bountiful reign and he was off once more, back to the realm where he came from. It was there that he mastered the art of blacksmithing, and it wouldn't be long before the hand of doom grabbed a hold of the cyborg wolf and whisked him off to another land.
This third and hopefully final destination greeted the devious Zjarr Ignibus with a light itching at his underbelly: the tall grasses of the rolling plains swayed as drunken townsfolk in a tavern and gently scratched at his build, and he rolled his broad shoulders at the feeling. Unlike much of his body, his underbelly was fully natural, and he could feel every little touch down there. If it was his back or his forelegs or the entire left side of his damn face it'd be different.
Unnaturally heterochromatic hues drifted over to a hulking brown sack sitting amongst the tall grasses, the immense lamp of the sun shining down upon the plains to reveal its whereabouts to him. Tentatively Zjarr stepped towards it, extending a prosthetic forepaw to jab at the sack. A cacophony of clanking could be heard and, fortunately, no noise or movement to signify some small inhabitant of the sack. Could it be...? Cautiously the male secured the opening and harshly tugged at it to reveal the sack's contents. Daggers and swords and shields, oh my! All branded with the Ignibus family insignia and to prove that it was their doing and no one else's.
With an amused, faint grin the canine took hold of the sack and tossed it over his shoulder, thankful that his somewhat lanky build was durable enough to secure the weight of the tiny weapons cache he had at his disposal. What was next on the to-do list for this spacious realm? Perhaps it was to get acquainted with its rightful inhabitants, introduce himself as a businessman. Zjarr, boss of his own arms company, a willing merchant and a sturdy blacksmith.
It is here that he would thrive.
Sometimes it worked just as well as you'd expect it; other times it didn't. Quite frankly, the demon wasn't sure what to expect of the magnificent feat. The mere thought of it was chilling and bizarre, yet here he would stand as an alien, essentially, yet he looked just like every other mortal in this...whatever this place was...for the most part, at least. But he was to remain optimistic, surely. As optimistic as a runaway could be.
This would be his third shot of living his life—a different realm for each attempt. The first was where he acquired a less conspicuous physical form; winged lynxes with eerie permanent grins were likely to be a rare occurrence in any place, so he found a domestic feline to take control of. It was a much simpler task than he initially expected, and he'd come to secure more bodies under his belt, thanks to the weak-minded mortals that practically surrendered them over to him. From then on it was smooth sailing: pose as a mortal, survive and thrive, make it to the very top. Soon he'd scale the ranks of the so-called "Clans" until he became the right-hand man to one of their leaders. After that he was gone.
In this next realm Zjarr was posed with great amnesia, a dreadful pothole in his quest for power, but seeing as it was a different place he doubted any of it mattered. A second shot at life, eh? No one knew of his mistakes there...except for one of their high positions, who he had seemingly followed. She knew of his extensive deeds, very much aware of them, but did nothing to stop him from taking control of the group and proclaiming himself their sovereign. A bountiful reign and he was off once more, back to the realm where he came from. It was there that he mastered the art of blacksmithing, and it wouldn't be long before the hand of doom grabbed a hold of the cyborg wolf and whisked him off to another land.
This third and hopefully final destination greeted the devious Zjarr Ignibus with a light itching at his underbelly: the tall grasses of the rolling plains swayed as drunken townsfolk in a tavern and gently scratched at his build, and he rolled his broad shoulders at the feeling. Unlike much of his body, his underbelly was fully natural, and he could feel every little touch down there. If it was his back or his forelegs or the entire left side of his damn face it'd be different.
Unnaturally heterochromatic hues drifted over to a hulking brown sack sitting amongst the tall grasses, the immense lamp of the sun shining down upon the plains to reveal its whereabouts to him. Tentatively Zjarr stepped towards it, extending a prosthetic forepaw to jab at the sack. A cacophony of clanking could be heard and, fortunately, no noise or movement to signify some small inhabitant of the sack. Could it be...? Cautiously the male secured the opening and harshly tugged at it to reveal the sack's contents. Daggers and swords and shields, oh my! All branded with the Ignibus family insignia and to prove that it was their doing and no one else's.
With an amused, faint grin the canine took hold of the sack and tossed it over his shoulder, thankful that his somewhat lanky build was durable enough to secure the weight of the tiny weapons cache he had at his disposal. What was next on the to-do list for this spacious realm? Perhaps it was to get acquainted with its rightful inhabitants, introduce himself as a businessman. Zjarr, boss of his own arms company, a willing merchant and a sturdy blacksmith.
It is here that he would thrive.
[glow=#f24b00,2,300]how'd it get so scandalous?[/glow] — ☼
Re: EVERMORE :: open, trespasser - Suiteheart - 05-27-2018
[align=center][div style="width: ##px; height: ##px;"]![[Image: E8agfv5.png]](https://imgur.com/E8agfv5.png)
Baby blue eyes peered at Zjarr, wondering which side of the fence he would fall on.
Suiteheart watched as the half-cyborg canine stepped further and further into the territory, toting some kind of bag. Its contents clattered together, sounding off with his every step. She was curious as to what he had, but she was even more curious as to what the hell he thought he was doing. They did not often have people waltz in. When they did, it was mostly dumb kids without a sense of direction, but Zjarr seemed to have motive. Hm.
Slipping out into the open and padding nearer to the demon, the white feline would arch a metaphorical eyebrow. "Care to explain why you're trespassing on the Ascendants' land?" she inquired, voice cool and sharp. Her azure eyes squinted as she looked over the other. She carried herself bigger than she was, still half-thinking she was in her polar bear form (the idea of being her normal self again had not quite sunk in).
[color=#73B1B7][b]
[color=#73B1B7][b]
Re: EVERMORE :: open, trespasser - ★ HAZEL - 05-27-2018
[align=center][table][tr][td][/td][td][/td][td][/td][td][/td][/tr][/table]
★ WHEN MY HEART IS MADE FROM GOLD AND FORGIVENESS SEEMS TOO BOLD
Indeed, as summer approached, so did the influx of new faces on their borders. Hazel should know, as she'd spent most of her time outside of the observatory now, keeping an eye on Arion and everyone else in the clan. Half the reason had to do with the heavy clouds of grief hanging over most, while the other half had to do with wanting to be as far from her room as she could get for the time being. She couldn't go in there without seeing the broken lamp still dangling against the cabinet, or the glass scattered all over the floor by the wall. She couldn't get near it without feeling Mother's claws rake down her haunches, or without smelling that tang of copper.
No. She'd stick to outside, where she could watch her clan mates and make sure her colt didn't run anyone over.
It was how she wound up at the border, easily picking out Suite's white pelt and making her way over. Her expression was passive but curious, apprehensive and a little on guard. That bag of stuff looked and sounded ridiculously suspicious - like metal on metal. It was odd that the Ascendants, a largely peaceful group, would have weapons on their territory, but Hazel had joined the conversation a bit late, and didn't know for sure what was in the bag. Still, there was something about this stranger that unsettled her, and for that, Hazel remained standing. She offered a curt nod and a fleeting smile, but didn't give her name or any greeting beyond what she had done. Suite had the talking covered; Hazel was merely the nervous peanut gallery.
No. She'd stick to outside, where she could watch her clan mates and make sure her colt didn't run anyone over.
It was how she wound up at the border, easily picking out Suite's white pelt and making her way over. Her expression was passive but curious, apprehensive and a little on guard. That bag of stuff looked and sounded ridiculously suspicious - like metal on metal. It was odd that the Ascendants, a largely peaceful group, would have weapons on their territory, but Hazel had joined the conversation a bit late, and didn't know for sure what was in the bag. Still, there was something about this stranger that unsettled her, and for that, Hazel remained standing. She offered a curt nod and a fleeting smile, but didn't give her name or any greeting beyond what she had done. Suite had the talking covered; Hazel was merely the nervous peanut gallery.
Re: EVERMORE :: open, trespasser - Zjarr - 05-27-2018
[div style="width: 360px; line-height: 14px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 13px; color: #383838;"]Lingering figures that dared to approach the beast signified that he was, indeed, on another's domain. Two so far would come to address his presence, though he knew from experience that more would arrive in time, unless he were to depart as quick as he could. But what was the rush? These were the folk he could very well be dealing with, forging partnerships, yet they seemed like passive fellows more than a vicious warband. Alas, looks could deceive. This was something he understood very well as some ageless beast.
They called themselves the Ascendants, and that reeked of some sort of valiant gathering. It was a vibe he felt in his previous residences, for despite considering himself a neutral party, he quite liked taking up residence in peaceful homes with relatively pacifist peoples. Maybe that was the inner Flamey in him talking. "I...don't mean to encroach on your land," the cyborg wolf replied, feeling a gentle pair of baby blues resting upon him, as well as little pools of vivid gold. "Really, I jus'...woke up here. Pro'lly a little woozy from the trip I've been on, hrmph." What was most apparent about Zjarr apart from his cyborg appearance was his distinct drawled accent, emphasizing certain phrases and lazily spitting out the rest. Nice job, dickwad, now y'sound like some deadbeat junkie. Nice fucking job.
Shaking his massive cranium a bit the canine took in another deep breath to compose himself and fully rise from the extensive slumber he had been trapped in for so long only to reveal himself to these poor inhabitants that probably didn't even want the fucker around. He knew he wouldn't want someone like himself around anyway. If he was going to be a businessman, he'd have to improve his image somehow. "Regardless! Y'all can call me Zjarr, Zjarr Ignibus. I'm a blacksmith, merchant of arms. This ol' sack?" he barked, gently setting down his precious cargo to rest in front of him. "My wares. 'Course, I can repair any of the stuff you've already got on your hands. Now, I'll be real with ya, y'seem like some nice folk, not lookin' for any trouble with anyone. But who knows? Maybe you'll find yourselves a lil' short handed when the real troublesome fellas try to knock ya down a peg, eh? Doesn't hurt to have the stuff to defend yourself with when the time comes." He had absolutely no clue who the fuck these people were and how politics worked in this world, but he figured it was a similar situation to just about any civilization of feral creatures he'd ever encountered. Some groups are peaceful, others were aggressive, they fought each other, strife, ya da da da da, he'd seen it a million times. He could only assume that things worked just like that in this place too.
They called themselves the Ascendants, and that reeked of some sort of valiant gathering. It was a vibe he felt in his previous residences, for despite considering himself a neutral party, he quite liked taking up residence in peaceful homes with relatively pacifist peoples. Maybe that was the inner Flamey in him talking. "I...don't mean to encroach on your land," the cyborg wolf replied, feeling a gentle pair of baby blues resting upon him, as well as little pools of vivid gold. "Really, I jus'...woke up here. Pro'lly a little woozy from the trip I've been on, hrmph." What was most apparent about Zjarr apart from his cyborg appearance was his distinct drawled accent, emphasizing certain phrases and lazily spitting out the rest. Nice job, dickwad, now y'sound like some deadbeat junkie. Nice fucking job.
Shaking his massive cranium a bit the canine took in another deep breath to compose himself and fully rise from the extensive slumber he had been trapped in for so long only to reveal himself to these poor inhabitants that probably didn't even want the fucker around. He knew he wouldn't want someone like himself around anyway. If he was going to be a businessman, he'd have to improve his image somehow. "Regardless! Y'all can call me Zjarr, Zjarr Ignibus. I'm a blacksmith, merchant of arms. This ol' sack?" he barked, gently setting down his precious cargo to rest in front of him. "My wares. 'Course, I can repair any of the stuff you've already got on your hands. Now, I'll be real with ya, y'seem like some nice folk, not lookin' for any trouble with anyone. But who knows? Maybe you'll find yourselves a lil' short handed when the real troublesome fellas try to knock ya down a peg, eh? Doesn't hurt to have the stuff to defend yourself with when the time comes." He had absolutely no clue who the fuck these people were and how politics worked in this world, but he figured it was a similar situation to just about any civilization of feral creatures he'd ever encountered. Some groups are peaceful, others were aggressive, they fought each other, strife, ya da da da da, he'd seen it a million times. He could only assume that things worked just like that in this place too.
[glow=#f24b00,2,300]how'd it get so scandalous?[/glow] — ☼
Re: EVERMORE :: open, trespasser - Margaery - 05-27-2018
[color=#b14767] ❁ ❁ ❁
[color=#b14767]"I want a dagger."
The fae's voice was as quiet as it was dangerous, an edge lacing her unwavering words. She was perhaps the last person anybody anticipated to desire a weapon and yet, here she was, stormy gray eyes trained upon the massive canine. With all that had happened as of late - good and bad -, Margaery had taken to hunting more and more. Her bloodlust was still manageable yes, but there was something utterly intoxicating about feeding all the time. It proved to be a better distraction than alcohol ever was. Tooth and claw only did so much though, and without proper weaponry, the Starstruck Guardian risked harming herself. Of course, she had sustained a few minor scratches here and there, but nobody expected the pretty, soft girl with the quiet voice and charming smiles to be capable of claiming a life so rarely did she ever encounter any real fight. She relished in that element of surprise and even further in what possibilities possessing a dagger would open for her. She supposed now, it was just a matter of price.
[color=#b14767]"Margaery Mikaelson," She greeted in that same voice, permitting one of her honeyed smiles to grace her features, [color=#b14767]"It's a pleasure." The chocolate point would pause for a moment, collecting and organizing her thoughts before continuing, [color=#b14767]"What's your price for such a thing?" Obviously it wouldn't be free, she just hoped that he wasn't of the unreasonable variety. Margaery had much to offer, yes, but she wasn't so sure if she was willing to part with the things that held sentimental value to her. She supposed that that all came down to Zjarr. He'd name a price and she'd try to meet it. Simple as that.
The fae's voice was as quiet as it was dangerous, an edge lacing her unwavering words. She was perhaps the last person anybody anticipated to desire a weapon and yet, here she was, stormy gray eyes trained upon the massive canine. With all that had happened as of late - good and bad -, Margaery had taken to hunting more and more. Her bloodlust was still manageable yes, but there was something utterly intoxicating about feeding all the time. It proved to be a better distraction than alcohol ever was. Tooth and claw only did so much though, and without proper weaponry, the Starstruck Guardian risked harming herself. Of course, she had sustained a few minor scratches here and there, but nobody expected the pretty, soft girl with the quiet voice and charming smiles to be capable of claiming a life so rarely did she ever encounter any real fight. She relished in that element of surprise and even further in what possibilities possessing a dagger would open for her. She supposed now, it was just a matter of price.
[color=#b14767]"Margaery Mikaelson," She greeted in that same voice, permitting one of her honeyed smiles to grace her features, [color=#b14767]"It's a pleasure." The chocolate point would pause for a moment, collecting and organizing her thoughts before continuing, [color=#b14767]"What's your price for such a thing?" Obviously it wouldn't be free, she just hoped that he wasn't of the unreasonable variety. Margaery had much to offer, yes, but she wasn't so sure if she was willing to part with the things that held sentimental value to her. She supposed that that all came down to Zjarr. He'd name a price and she'd try to meet it. Simple as that.
Re: EVERMORE :: open, trespasser - Zjarr - 05-27-2018
[div style="width: 360px; line-height: 14px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 13px; color: #383838;"]She wanted a dagger and nothing less. That subtle edge in her tone said it all.
Zjarr offered the female a faint yet warm smile when she made her presence known. "Good to meet ya, Ms. Mikaelson," he greeted the chocolate feline before redirecting his attention to his cache. There were surely enough blades to go around, and there'd be more in production. He knew for a fact, however, that there was an efficient dagger or two in there somewhere. A prosthetic paw dipped into the sack before a blade could be produced. Out came tumbling an olive military cap that trailed after the dagger, and the wolf's smile only widened at the sight. There it is! Knew it was hidin' somewhere... Leaving the cap to sit beside him, the blacksmith would turn back to Margaery, the blade resting between his metallic paws.
What would lay in his grasp was a blade tucked within a black metal sheath, and the cyborg carefully unsheathed it to reveal the blade itself: a shimmering, double-edged dagger with a steel cross guard and a lightly-colored wooden handle. A distinct logo is carved into the wood of the handle [⚘], a personal Ignibus family insignia. "This is a carbon steel, double-edged Swiss dagger with a satin finish. The handle is made of a fine cherry wood with a slight swell for a sturdy grip, and the cross guard and pommel are both made of stainless steel. Sheath's made of metal, too. Comes with the blade. Now, if this blade isn't to your liking, I'm sure there's somethin' else I've got that you can check out, just ask. As for payment...unless they've got somethin' that catches my eye, I let the customer decide what they want to pay and we work from there."
As he spoke his eyes occasionally flickered over to the feline, partly to check for a reaction and partly to try to piece together just who this Margaery Mikaelson might be. Zjarr had to admit, she didn't look like the person to ask for a blade, but he'd swear to keep his lips pursed on the matter. She seemed gentle, brought out an almost motherly aura. But he knew, lord did he knew, that looks could deceive. And when he was in the arms business, he knew far better than to judge his customers.
Zjarr offered the female a faint yet warm smile when she made her presence known. "Good to meet ya, Ms. Mikaelson," he greeted the chocolate feline before redirecting his attention to his cache. There were surely enough blades to go around, and there'd be more in production. He knew for a fact, however, that there was an efficient dagger or two in there somewhere. A prosthetic paw dipped into the sack before a blade could be produced. Out came tumbling an olive military cap that trailed after the dagger, and the wolf's smile only widened at the sight. There it is! Knew it was hidin' somewhere... Leaving the cap to sit beside him, the blacksmith would turn back to Margaery, the blade resting between his metallic paws.
What would lay in his grasp was a blade tucked within a black metal sheath, and the cyborg carefully unsheathed it to reveal the blade itself: a shimmering, double-edged dagger with a steel cross guard and a lightly-colored wooden handle. A distinct logo is carved into the wood of the handle [⚘], a personal Ignibus family insignia. "This is a carbon steel, double-edged Swiss dagger with a satin finish. The handle is made of a fine cherry wood with a slight swell for a sturdy grip, and the cross guard and pommel are both made of stainless steel. Sheath's made of metal, too. Comes with the blade. Now, if this blade isn't to your liking, I'm sure there's somethin' else I've got that you can check out, just ask. As for payment...unless they've got somethin' that catches my eye, I let the customer decide what they want to pay and we work from there."
As he spoke his eyes occasionally flickered over to the feline, partly to check for a reaction and partly to try to piece together just who this Margaery Mikaelson might be. Zjarr had to admit, she didn't look like the person to ask for a blade, but he'd swear to keep his lips pursed on the matter. She seemed gentle, brought out an almost motherly aura. But he knew, lord did he knew, that looks could deceive. And when he was in the arms business, he knew far better than to judge his customers.
[glow=#f24b00,2,300]how'd it get so scandalous?[/glow] — ☼
Re: EVERMORE :: open, trespasser - Suiteheart - 05-28-2018
[align=center][div style="width: ##px; height: ##px;"]
"The name's Suiteheart. And are you just passing through, Zjarr?" she questioned. Her tone remained neutral, falling somewhere between the welcoming tone she offered regular joiners and the cold indifference she presented to those she disliked. The title of blacksmith caught her ears though, and she opened her mouth to ask about that when her wife arrived.
Margaery seemed to be very intrigued by the whole thing, and Suite allowed herself to relax a little more. If her wife was giving the cyborg smiles and kind words then surely the Cosmic General had no need to worry. Still, those lingering anxieties rested in the back of her mind. Flicking her white tail, she listened to her wife and Zjarr exchange pleasantries. Baby blue eyes brightened a bit as information on the dagger was brought up while the merchant displayed the stunted blade. Her stare would shift from the canine to her wife and back again. She wondered how this would play out.
"I'm not really interested in whatever you're selling, but I am interested in your blacksmithing abilities," she explained, settling herself into a sitting position. The tradition Starrynight had proposed before his untimely demised required a few members to know how to blacksmith, and finding those capable was difficult. She herself had had to learn the task as was her job, but if the Ascendants were to gain someone who knew what they were truly doing, well, that would be a big fucking bonus. [color=#73B1B7][b]"Tell me about them, if you would."