[div style="width: 45%; line-height: 14px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 13px;"][member=975]Pele N. F. I.[/member]

He wouldn't blame Pele or be spiteful if she hated his guts and wanted him to leave and never come back, just as many a creature thought he would after his...encounter with Lunafreya. She wouldn't be the first of his blood to despise him. Back in another realm, one far more chaotic and dysfunctional than this (admittedly almost serene) one, he had another child. Well, many children. But most of them didn't mind his presence. Some even looked up to him, relied on him for advice. He likely wasn't the best person to turn to, but he very much appreciated the company. One child, a Savannah Ignibus, despised both her mother and him, her father. She was a product of an encounter similar to the Lunafreya situation, but the difference was that the mother in that case was willing to work with him to find their daughter. Lunafreya, he hadn't seen since. Regardless, Zjarr had found her—in a warbound-esque group with a fiery anger in her heart. She hated him, hated her mother, hated everyone.

Even then it didn't hurt as much as what he had done now.

A familiar yet very much unwelcome burn in the back of his throat and a sting in his natural eye caused him to bare his teeth, locking them tightly as he lay alone in his quarters, which were now bare and lacked any furnishings. All that would distinguish the room as Zjarr's own was a little structure of hay and soft cloth that would mock a bed and a hole in the wall—a clear sign of his desperation and sheer rage, likely at himself. He was done pointing fingers at everyone; the unholy digit lay at his own head now. He would lay his olive green military cap in the hollowed void to cover it up. His sack of weapons lay in the dark, murky corner, to be rifled through from time to time should the need for a blade arise. Shockingly there was no container of alcohol to be seen—though a pack of stolen cigarettes would be tucked behind the makeshift mattress. Hopefully it wouldn't evolve into a habit.

For once in his miserable fucking existence, he felt genuine remorse. He was beyond being apprehensive of the consequences of his inexcusable actions. He quaked with despair, standing in the midst of a dark room alone, shivering at the thought of being denied the right to be a father to his child. Not even in the new and improved Thunderlands or the Rift was he this enraged and bitter at himself. He didn't even consider it a possibility for so much hatred to grow in him.

For once a tear was shed, trickling down the wolf's fiery pelt and landing beside him on the stony floor. But only one. No more. His disgusting pride and arrogance would not allow any other expression of emotion to come forth.

[div style="width: 45%; line-height: 14px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 13px;"]Generally Zjarr was known, almost notorious for not giving a solitary shit about the emotions of others. He would stand beside others and defend them when a blade or a barrel was pointed at their backs, but outside of the battlefield? He was uncaring, stern, exceptionally cold. He refused to take anybody's shit, but it seemed that he forced others to take his own whenever he opened his massive fucking mouth. When it was nice and shut, he was...okay. Couldn't provoke anyone, couldn't hurt a sentient soul. Did whatever duties he was assigned and stepped off.

Now, part of the reason Pele's words stabbed into his stony heart so damn hard was because he had an excruciating desire to protect her. One that he didn't even expect to have. When he had his children in whatever other universe, often he didn't care about the ones that didn't go to him. They weren't his problem, they were someone else's headache. But there was a very distinct difference here, fueled and driven by his desire for a massive reformation in himself. Zjarr was alerted of there being four: two for the mother, two for himself. As it turns out, there were only two, both going to the mother. And then, he came along, and there was but one standing with no biological mother tending and an absent father, adopted by the group that adored her so much. He wished that he was there for it. But a dangerous alcoholic as himself was only going to hurt a child and the surrounding members. He had reformed in terms of his addiction. It would be safe for him to go near her, because Lord knows what he could have done under the influence.

Just as his own sorrow seemed to pause, another's began...or at least he could now clearly hear it being manifested into a physical expression. It was his daughter, somewhere nearby. A sharp pang in his chest took him aback, making him audibly distressed as a groan escaped past his lips. Physical, mental, and emotional pain. Nice.

Finally the cyborg wolf retreated from the confined gloomy darkness of his quarters, stepping outside and making his way down the hall until he stopped at the feline's room, where his lips pursed together tightly as he looked inside to see his mess of a daughter sobbing and surrounded by the comforts of a mountain of pillows and blankets.

Look at this. Look at what you've fucking done. You made her, you left her. And you came back and thought it was al-fucking-right. All you fucking do is lie around and do whatever the fuck you want and you hurt people with that. You're a deceiving, useless motherfucker. Your daughter will never love you. She'll call someone else Daddy and look down at you for the rest of your motherfucking life. She probably already did.

You shouldn't have come back, you son of a bit—

A soft clear of his throat. "P-Pele...may I come in?" His natural eye was bloodshot and still gleaming wet, and his voice expressed nothing but weariness and defeat, lacking all of its confidence and proud, snarky drawl. It was solemn, somber, melancholy. "...Pl-l-ease."