[div style="width: 45%; line-height: 14px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 13px;"]//tw for death

Yes, of course he remembered the Ascendants. He'd just been here, after all! Just checkin' in, seeing if they were intrigued by his wares or needed his smithing expertise. The same old routine repeating itself, yet this specific encounter was burned into the demon's mind.

Apparently it was due to the fact that he had overstayed his welcome and had gotten, well, more than what he wanted. Old habits had yet to die, it seemed, and the scandalous, brutal man-whore had done it again, all as the bottle demanded it. It seemed as if the bottle was the true demon and not the cyborg wolf, who had more or less decent intentions for the people around him. He had left the Ascendants in the midst of the night with a sinking feeling in his darkened heart, bitter and enraged with his actions, hoping to compensate and do something to assist in what would come. He was so damn fucking sick of himself, of an addiction to something so useless and something so sacred.

But if there was something he was going to be from now on, it was an attentive father.

His business partner could not comprehend his decision to make a potentially permanent move to the Ascendants. There they would lay, just on the border, sparking up a little flame among the logs to illuminate the starry night that would soon give way to a grand dawn. "Aw, you can't be serious, can you? What've we got there?"

"Look, you're free to fuck off if y'want, see if I fuckin' care," Zjarr retorted with a soft huff, swiping his feline comrade's cigarette with one agile stroke and placing it in between his own jaws, which were half manned by his own flesh, half manned by machine. He wasn't a smoking man, but lately anything to get him off alcohol would suffice. Anything. "That's the perk of Ignibus Arms: y'all can build and sell wherever the hell y'want, so long as you're gettin' customers. So go. I'm gonna try my luck here."

"Come on, Z. Zjarry-boy! We can do this together, eh? You and me, best friends!"

"I'm your only friend, boy. Because you're so damn cute, I could roast ya 'n' eat ya alive," he added with a sly smirk. His comrade wasn't particularly dashing, but he had his decent features. It was the small, munchkin-like size that he found cute. Almost adorable. Naw, definitely adorable.

"Oh...well, f-friends stick together! Come on, we were doing so well with that nomad thing going on...so great...so many new faces. And you see what you're going back to?" Damn, just a little shaken by Zjarr's remark. He was hoping for something more.

"Okay. Tell me, where?"

"You're just going back because you're guilty. What is it, an illegitimate kid? Some baby you wouldn't give a shit about if you didn't know it was yours?"

Zjarr was typically fine with being jabbed at for whatever reason. He had spent countless moons being called names and being teased and insulted. Robocop was a personal favorite. Now, bringing up his family, especially in that tone, that was a massive mistake. Almost immediately his smirk faded into a venomous, bitter scowl, the smoke swirling around his maw to give him a quite menacing appearance. "Now you fuckin' stop there, boy. I dunno what the fuck you want from me, but you don't ever mention my family in that tone. Ever. Don't even think about it, boy."

Silence. He could hear the smaller feline turn away from Zjarr, perhaps in embarrassment. He wouldn't draw it out any further. Zjarr would gaze at the crackling flames, drawing in another huff of smoke as he did so. Was he sure about this, finally settling down after running around the Thunderlands and serving time in another thunder-themed gang? No, absolutely not. But he was sure that a reunion had to be done. A peaceful one. One where no one would be hurt. He wanted his child—or even children—to be safe, no matter what. His grip on the cigarette tightened as he struggled to maintain his cool composure; emotions were a bitch to deal with. He had spent so much time trying to run from them, play it off as if he was fine with everything. But he wasn't. He was so fucking tired of being cold, so tired of just about everything. But at least here, in this new realm, he would be safe. No psychotic mercenaries, no tyrannical dictators, no other spooky-dooky demons chasing after him, none of that fairy tale shit. He had a choice here, and the wolf was choosing to be a nice person for once. Or at the very least a somewhat decent, often grumpy guy that sold weapons.

Zjarr wasn't sure how the hell he perceived the next event to occur, but he simply did. He could feel a presence approaching from behind, a very ominous, malicious one. One that had betrayed him just now. Just as quickly as the shortsword was meant to come down upon him and disconnect his cranium from the rest of his body, the wolf had grabbed hold of a dagger that lay upon the ground near the fire and swiftly turned to jab it into the chest of the feline who would fall to the ground, a shocked expression on his gaping maw. Releasing an exasperating groan, the cyborg tossed the shortsword to the side and leaned into the scrambling body of his ex-partner, a disappointed frown unfolding on his lips. "I did say I could roast ya 'n' eat ya alive. I mean my words. I don't think you mean yours." On that note, he would retract the blade, bringing forth a little pool of blood that would spatter on the once-untouched floor of the plains.

With a soft sigh, he would keep the blade in his grasp, bringing it across the feline and carefully setting to work. Last time I trust some random lil' shit. What would be produced was a freshly-skinned pelt: a pelt that he had no use for, so he stashed it deep in the same sack he always seemed to drag around everywhere, along with the shortsword he was about to be executed with. On that note he would resolve to rest and find some company in the Ascendants later, where hopefully his child would greet him. Perhaps later on before the encounter he would grow peckish and look for a meal.

It was that thinking that lead to Zjarr being accompanied by the roasted corpse of a small, insignificant, annoying cat that dared to talk any shit about him, to blaspheme an Ignibus. He was careful not to set the body to flames and burn it altogether—he wanted it just right in case anyone wanted a piece as well. As such he had removed some of the corpse's identifying features and left only choice cuts—mere bits of meat along with legs that would be revealed, and nothing more. Sniffing with delight at his barbecue, he proceeded to munch upon the flesh of his comrade, who was far from distinguishable as anything but a meal now.

"So, uh, it's me again. Zjarr. The knife 'n' sword guy. I'm, uh, comin' back to join now. Made a lil' somethin' if y'all like barbecue." Ooh, smoooooooth.

[div style="width: 45%; line-height: 14px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 13px;"]//thanks!!

His stony heart would practically leap with joy had he heard of the other female's attempts to discover his child's roots. For once, he would be fine being hunted down in that case. He wanted to reconcile with his daughter far more than anyone else thought he did, perhaps because many considered him heartless and cruel. If that was true, if he did not have a heart as many a stranger figured, he would not have dared to show his face here, to witness and address the awful consequences of his dreadful actions. But he had arrived here, driven by a powerful love for his family and a passionate desire to repair something more than a blade. To repair the bridges between others and himself.

Zjarr looked upward to notice a vaguely familiar white feline approach him. A, well, friend of  one of his customers, who just so happened to be one Margaery Mikaelson. And this, that would mean, was Suiteheart, if his memory did not fail him. "Good to meet ya again, Suite," the cyborg wolf would drawl, offering her an amused smile. So she did not fail to forget him either. How pleasant. "Oh, I haven't anywhere else to turn. Consider me a comrade, then."

His smile slowly faded as Suiteheart continued. Things to explain? Of course he was willing to give an explanation. Anything to see his flesh and blood once more, to see if she had grown well. Pele, show me you're here. "Maybe you've got an idea of why I'm really here. The kiddo, kiddo. Pele, my daughter. I want to know that...that she's s-safe, eatin' well, kickin', everythin'. I want to see my child." He did not come to the Ascendants to quench his thirst for power as he had done with a distant ThunderClan, or to have some fun as his intentions were with the Rift. He was here to help raise and nurture his child of blood, to have a purpose. Some sort of purpose.

[div style="width: 45%; line-height: 14px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 13px;"]Zjarr never really had parents in the sense. He was a demon, born from the shadows, after all. He had, once in a realm far away, a master named Jupiter, a "creator." And then there was the family of his physical self. His physical identity was, of course, stolen. Stolen from a housepet named Gelato, who would journey into the wilderness under the name Flamewhisker. And Flamey's family? Boy, what a fucking wreck. A mother that gave zero fucks, a father that spilled blood for his own sick pleasure, and two siblings that would turn the other way in the end. Once Metus was out of the picture, things seemed to escalate. The heat was on both Flamey and Zjarr, but they still marched onward, one being unaware of the other's presence. And then, eventually Flamey just kind of...got...consumed by Zjarr's soul, or lack thereof. Whoopsy-daisy. But that wasn't the point. The point was that he never really had a family. His children left him to wallow in his own despair, his lovers eventually dying. He was, in a sense, adopted by the Thunderlands, or ThunderClan at the time. Wildlife, Samuel, Frostbite, Olive, Ventus, Nagito, even Deutschland to an extent, he would consider a family. Nymeria, too, maybe, but it was gross to be infatuated with a family member. And if he was going to be honest with himself, he was so infatuated with her. Of course he was guilty about it, since she was married to his good friend Samuel for such a long time. In the end he found a loving friendship with her, and perhaps he was content with that. Even in the next realm he would hop to, he had an adorable adoptive daughter who he had dedicated his attention to, even in spite of the demands of being a leader.

Here? Here his own daughter spat in his fucking face and turned on her heels and left him there, in absolute shock.

"I...I-I do ca..." Zjarr's voice immediately faltered at the end, overcome by a wave of grief and awe. He didn't expect this to be an easy transition, but holy shit, it was painful. It struck him more than Nagito being slaughtered by Deathstroke, more than having every claw pulled from his feline body in the name of torture, more than learning that Wildlife and Samuel and Ventus and Frostbite all disappeared at some point, or would disappear in his time. His jaws remained hung, sustained in the air as his eyes widened, his whole body beginning to tremor.

You disgusting motherfucker. Did you expect anything else?

Zjarr could hardly process the events that had recently unfolded, but he found himself stumbling past Suite and all that had gathered, his surroundings fading into a frenzied blur as his breaths grew more shallow. You had your chance, you stupid son of a bitch. And you blew it. Look at you, you fucking dumbass. Go back to hell and burn, you ignorant, despicable, awful motherfucker. You call yourself a father? YOU CALL YOURSELF A FATHER?

The cyborg would rush off in another direction, marching off to whatever part of the territory he'd end up in eventually. He was too tired to drink, too shaken to sleep. And he most certainly did not seek to speak to any lil' shit that came in his way. Welcome to the motherfucking Ascendants.