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+---- Thread: find your wings :: project k (/showthread.php?tid=18060)
find your wings :: project k - Zjarr - 08-14-2023
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[div style="margin-bottom: 4px; height: auto; font-family: baskerville; font-size: 26px; letter-spacing: 3px; text-align: center; text-transform: uppercase; color: black;"]OH LORD, DON'T LET ME
BE MISUNDERSTOOD
BE MISUNDERSTOOD
ACTIONS | "SPEAKING" | THINKING | TELEPATHY
Ever since he returned to Tanglewood, the demon was on edge. He wasn't sure why he was surprised — leaving the mainland for work in a secluded location meant that he would be out of the loop. But damn, things really went downhill. In his lack of knowledge on the situation, he worried for Tanglewood. What was going to happen next? Would he stay on the island and watch over the farm's progress, or was it time to get back home and take up arms in this whole Typhoon nonsense?
It was a question he would leave for Aesior. Zjarr hoped to meet with the Luminary soon. Maybe he would have the time tomorrow. For now, it was time to rest up and gather the strength to push forward.
The task of soothing his agitated mind proved to be much more difficult than he thought it would be. The medic he visited had given him some treatment for some of his open wounds, the cuts and burns that would fade away soon enough, though their stinging brought even him to a wince at times. I'm rusty. I am. The care plan was working as intended, but his mind wandered nonetheless, riddled with questions and concerns. Zjarr couldn't sleep in these conditions. The husky threw open the bedroom door and wandered into the exposed space of the rest of his old cottage in the town. The bottle of rum, collected from a previous Typhoon visit as he last recalled, sat on a wooden cabinet with the rest of his liquor collecting dust. It was a decent height up from the floor, partially to ensure that the pups couldn't reach and partially to make alcohol less easily accessible to him. He needed to wean himself off the poison, but perhaps there were nights where he could make exceptions.
He pushed himself up onto the counter, taking the rum into his jaws and leaping back down. For a beat, he stopped to spit out the dust that accumulated on the bottle and entered his mouth, wiping the glass down before he picked it back up once more. The bottle had a little over half of its contents left. It would be more than enough for himself.
Anxious paws led Zjarr out of his cottage and beyond the boundaries of the town, eager for a less confining change in scenery. Each step shot burning fire through his muscles, up to his shoulder and across his back, making him grit his teeth against the bottle. He followed an expansive tributary river as it opened up to a great delta, with the ocean in clear sight. The air was thinner here and void of much of the humidity that plagued the town of Tanglewood's swampy domain. It was easier to breathe. His paws made contact with the wood that made up the shore's docks, some planks old and some newer from recent repairs. This would be a wonderful place for swimming. Not that he planned on swimming.
With the moon as his witness, Zjarr unscrewed the bottle and let the sweet, strong liquid trickle past his lips and down his throat, burning it as it traveled. He never loved rum, but he would accept it as an okay alternative to something better. It was a cute cop in the Typhoon (buying rum from pirates? yes sir!). Whiskey, though, would forever be his first and only love.
It was his first drink in far too long, and he hardly felt the transition between lucidity and madness. It came quickly, heavyweight as he was, but he still held onto the ounce of sobriety he had left. He hadn't gone fully mad yet, nor did he intend to. He just wanted to stop hurting, stop wondering, stop caring.
The stings faded into a deep soreness that only occasionally made its presence known, and Zjarr exhaled a deep sigh of relief. What a night.
It was a question he would leave for Aesior. Zjarr hoped to meet with the Luminary soon. Maybe he would have the time tomorrow. For now, it was time to rest up and gather the strength to push forward.
The task of soothing his agitated mind proved to be much more difficult than he thought it would be. The medic he visited had given him some treatment for some of his open wounds, the cuts and burns that would fade away soon enough, though their stinging brought even him to a wince at times. I'm rusty. I am. The care plan was working as intended, but his mind wandered nonetheless, riddled with questions and concerns. Zjarr couldn't sleep in these conditions. The husky threw open the bedroom door and wandered into the exposed space of the rest of his old cottage in the town. The bottle of rum, collected from a previous Typhoon visit as he last recalled, sat on a wooden cabinet with the rest of his liquor collecting dust. It was a decent height up from the floor, partially to ensure that the pups couldn't reach and partially to make alcohol less easily accessible to him. He needed to wean himself off the poison, but perhaps there were nights where he could make exceptions.
He pushed himself up onto the counter, taking the rum into his jaws and leaping back down. For a beat, he stopped to spit out the dust that accumulated on the bottle and entered his mouth, wiping the glass down before he picked it back up once more. The bottle had a little over half of its contents left. It would be more than enough for himself.
Anxious paws led Zjarr out of his cottage and beyond the boundaries of the town, eager for a less confining change in scenery. Each step shot burning fire through his muscles, up to his shoulder and across his back, making him grit his teeth against the bottle. He followed an expansive tributary river as it opened up to a great delta, with the ocean in clear sight. The air was thinner here and void of much of the humidity that plagued the town of Tanglewood's swampy domain. It was easier to breathe. His paws made contact with the wood that made up the shore's docks, some planks old and some newer from recent repairs. This would be a wonderful place for swimming. Not that he planned on swimming.
With the moon as his witness, Zjarr unscrewed the bottle and let the sweet, strong liquid trickle past his lips and down his throat, burning it as it traveled. He never loved rum, but he would accept it as an okay alternative to something better. It was a cute cop in the Typhoon (buying rum from pirates? yes sir!). Whiskey, though, would forever be his first and only love.
It was his first drink in far too long, and he hardly felt the transition between lucidity and madness. It came quickly, heavyweight as he was, but he still held onto the ounce of sobriety he had left. He hadn't gone fully mad yet, nor did he intend to. He just wanted to stop hurting, stop wondering, stop caring.
The stings faded into a deep soreness that only occasionally made its presence known, and Zjarr exhaled a deep sigh of relief. What a night.
bio — attack in [b]#f24b00[/b]
Re: find your wings :: project k - Project K - 08-14-2023
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[div style="margin-bottom: 4px; height: auto; font-family: baskerville; font-size: 26px; letter-spacing: 3px; text-align: center; text-transform: uppercase; color: black;"]NO CHANCE THAT I'LL BE OKAY
ACTIONS | "SPEAKING" | THINKING | TELEPATHY
Ah, alcohol. One of life's toxic pleasures, up there with tobacco and other natural remedies. It seemed that no matter where Project was, the lovely temptation to drink would present itself. Fortunately, he was no stranger to the stuff, having even made his own batches of rum, mead, whiskey and moonshine before, but only when he was completely dry on the rest of his stash.
However, he had yet to learn of the tension between the Typhoon, his lovingly called "pirate guys" and the Tanglewood. Since he had washed up, little over a week before this, he hadn't really had the chance to learn about what was what, and who was who. This meant that, unfortunately for Zjarr, the vampire would wander at night, spending the sleepless midnight hour drinking his horrific visions away as he walked the land, trying to decode them.
This very night was even more unfortunate, as the black and orange wolf had wandered perhaps too far, leading the husky to be discovered by the newcomer, the porcelain mask giving the Typhooner away immediately, the shadows forsaking him as he appeared from the underbrush, bottles slung in an ancient cloth bandolier.
"Ah, shit. You up too? Guess that nightmares are common here? 'Specially by that cursed ship?" Came the tired, gruff question, corn liquor heavy upon his breath. The other canine could, even in his own drunkenness, tell that Project had been drinking heavily, or at least consumed it on a regular basis, as the sharp smell of controlled decay clung to his neat jet black fur.
However, he had yet to learn of the tension between the Typhoon, his lovingly called "pirate guys" and the Tanglewood. Since he had washed up, little over a week before this, he hadn't really had the chance to learn about what was what, and who was who. This meant that, unfortunately for Zjarr, the vampire would wander at night, spending the sleepless midnight hour drinking his horrific visions away as he walked the land, trying to decode them.
This very night was even more unfortunate, as the black and orange wolf had wandered perhaps too far, leading the husky to be discovered by the newcomer, the porcelain mask giving the Typhooner away immediately, the shadows forsaking him as he appeared from the underbrush, bottles slung in an ancient cloth bandolier.
"Ah, shit. You up too? Guess that nightmares are common here? 'Specially by that cursed ship?" Came the tired, gruff question, corn liquor heavy upon his breath. The other canine could, even in his own drunkenness, tell that Project had been drinking heavily, or at least consumed it on a regular basis, as the sharp smell of controlled decay clung to his neat jet black fur.
Re: find your wings :: project k - Zjarr - 08-15-2023
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[div style="margin-bottom: 4px; height: auto; font-family: baskerville; font-size: 26px; letter-spacing: 3px; text-align: center; text-transform: uppercase; color: black;"]OH LORD, DON'T LET ME
BE MISUNDERSTOOD
BE MISUNDERSTOOD
ACTIONS | "SPEAKING" | THINKING | TELEPATHY
Nothing good ever lasted for long. Tonight was no exception.
The relaxation that filled Zjarr's body as his mind wandered off elsewhere would disintegrate as he heard a grating, unfamiliar voice. His drooping eyelids fluttered open, chocolate eyes on the lookout for whoever the hell was talking to him. Can't a fella have some goddamn peace 'round here? As if the smell of rum wasn't enough, the reek of another form of liquor permeated the air around him, something he did not bring with him tonight. Amid the darkness of the night, his eyes finally focused on the black wolf that manifested itself near him at some point and just now made its presence known.
Under normal circumstances, Zjarr would have offered a more outgoing, laidback response to this fellow. He was inebriated, and the man before him seemed to have slipped from sobriety as well. But even with the overpowering scent of alcohol covering them both, he could still make out the scent of a different clan on the other male. And not just any group — the Typhoon.
The demon's reflexes kicked in as fast as they could given their current impairment, his physical form rising to its full height and stepping away from the stranger. "What the hell do ya think yer doin' here?" he spat, his lips pulled back into a menacing snarl. "Wanna cause a ruckus, huh, pirate? Where's the rest'a y'all hidin'? Tell yer friends to-to come out." His words slid from his mouth with relative ease, though they were hardly checked for coherence or anything of the sort. On guard he may be, but sober he was not.
Zjarr stood his ground on the docks now, his dirtied paws planted firmly on the wooden planks that suspended him over the shallow waters that lapped at the nearby sandy coast. Instinctively, he tapped into his magical energy and tugged at the presence of his sword, testing its boundaries. After its use during the raid, he had cleaned it thoroughly and left it in his cottage not too far from the Tanglewood shore. If he needed to summon it tonight, he would not need as much channeled energy as he did earlier.
"You'd best tell me what business ya got this side of the channel, pirate, 'fore I beat it out'a ya." Though the Tangler was visibly agitated and prepared to throw hands with the intruder, there was no doubting the weariness of the male. Bitter and aggressive came out his words, but his expression detailed very little actual interest in the situation. Drunkenness aside, the man was simply exhausted, physically and otherwise. His first day back in the mainland, and he was forced to take up arms when the Typhoon decided to show up and attack the town. The only thing the demon wanted more than to defend his clan from intruders was getting to sleep in his goddamn bed.
The relaxation that filled Zjarr's body as his mind wandered off elsewhere would disintegrate as he heard a grating, unfamiliar voice. His drooping eyelids fluttered open, chocolate eyes on the lookout for whoever the hell was talking to him. Can't a fella have some goddamn peace 'round here? As if the smell of rum wasn't enough, the reek of another form of liquor permeated the air around him, something he did not bring with him tonight. Amid the darkness of the night, his eyes finally focused on the black wolf that manifested itself near him at some point and just now made its presence known.
Under normal circumstances, Zjarr would have offered a more outgoing, laidback response to this fellow. He was inebriated, and the man before him seemed to have slipped from sobriety as well. But even with the overpowering scent of alcohol covering them both, he could still make out the scent of a different clan on the other male. And not just any group — the Typhoon.
The demon's reflexes kicked in as fast as they could given their current impairment, his physical form rising to its full height and stepping away from the stranger. "What the hell do ya think yer doin' here?" he spat, his lips pulled back into a menacing snarl. "Wanna cause a ruckus, huh, pirate? Where's the rest'a y'all hidin'? Tell yer friends to-to come out." His words slid from his mouth with relative ease, though they were hardly checked for coherence or anything of the sort. On guard he may be, but sober he was not.
Zjarr stood his ground on the docks now, his dirtied paws planted firmly on the wooden planks that suspended him over the shallow waters that lapped at the nearby sandy coast. Instinctively, he tapped into his magical energy and tugged at the presence of his sword, testing its boundaries. After its use during the raid, he had cleaned it thoroughly and left it in his cottage not too far from the Tanglewood shore. If he needed to summon it tonight, he would not need as much channeled energy as he did earlier.
"You'd best tell me what business ya got this side of the channel, pirate, 'fore I beat it out'a ya." Though the Tangler was visibly agitated and prepared to throw hands with the intruder, there was no doubting the weariness of the male. Bitter and aggressive came out his words, but his expression detailed very little actual interest in the situation. Drunkenness aside, the man was simply exhausted, physically and otherwise. His first day back in the mainland, and he was forced to take up arms when the Typhoon decided to show up and attack the town. The only thing the demon wanted more than to defend his clan from intruders was getting to sleep in his goddamn bed.
bio — attack in [b]#f24b00[/b]
Re: find your wings :: project k - Project K - 09-26-2023
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[div style="margin-bottom: 4px; height: auto; font-family: baskerville; font-size: 26px; letter-spacing: 3px; text-align: center; text-transform: uppercase; color: black;"]NO CHANCE THAT I'LL BE OKAY
ACTIONS | "SPEAKING" | THINKING | TELEPATHY
Other side of the channel? What in the hell was this guy on about? "Sorry? Am I a bit too far from home?" The wolf asks, his words slipping from his mouth as easy as water over stones. "New 'round here. Name's Project, just got here, or there, like a week ago. I don't know what your people and my people have issues about, but I'm not involved." He promised, offering the clear, dark bottle to the other canine.
It was an offer of peace, of camaraderie, and Project's intentions were clear, he just wanted someone to sit and drink with for a little bit.
It was an offer of peace, of camaraderie, and Project's intentions were clear, he just wanted someone to sit and drink with for a little bit.