[div style="width: 45%; line-height: 14px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 13px;"]Zjarr had made his greatest attempt to shift his attention from sheer bitterness and self-loathing to something productive, something he and perhaps those around him could utilize. And this attempt was, shockingly, a successful one, for once. In this great leap he turned to the forge once more, spending his days locked within the seemingly endless and sprawling corridors of the Ascendants' observatory. The walls of his quarters lay bare and freezing to the touch of skin, yet he seemed to not be bothered by it—the flames of the forge kept him warm, as well as his natural layers of fur which he owed tremendous gratitude to. For once he was pleased with himself, pleased with what he still had and not what he longed for. It still tore his black heart into little pieces, but at the very least, he could not drown in his sorrows, and especially not at the mercy of the bottle. Rarely could the cyborg wolf be spotted without some sort of weapon being experimented upon or improved or sharpened or even simply admired. Rarely could the cyborg wolf even be spotted at all.

To put it lightly, he had gotten himself caught up in blacksmithing, denying himself the simple pleasures of suitable nourishment or the drowsy ecstasy of a rewarding slumber, or even the benefit of social interaction with those around him. Generally he could be sociable, extroverted even, but in this instant he bore no desire to meet with those that made up his neighborhood. Occasionally the demon would poke his head out in the search of a quick meal or to bring up some easygoing inquiry to some ongoing passerby. 'ey, what's the time? Day 'r night? Am I causin' a ruckus? And yet he was utterly oblivious to the icy hell that he would return to once he decided to call it quits and hang up his smithing tools and blades for the time being.

Out from the dank darkness emerged the unkempt form of Zjarr Ignibus, his fur a mottled mass that clung to his skin and seemed to hang from his frame. Though a generally physically impressive beast for his species, it was obvious that he had malnourished himself in the time he spent away from the light. His frame was noticeably thinner than it was, and muscles would barely ripple beneath his sunset pelt in place of the rolling waves that he bore earlier.

Most noticeably, the more he walked down the corridors, the more terrified and panicked and agitated the unholy monster grew.

His unnaturally heterochromatic hues flashed back and forth, rapid and shallow breaths erupting from his maw as his tongue lolled out slightly. Hushed whispers blessed (or perhaps cursed?) Zjarr's ears, and perhaps he would realize he was better off in the dark than to learn of his entrapment, their entrapment. They were stuck here, locked inside the Observatory. And the rest? Locked outside. Abruptly the endless snaking corridors felt like mere rabbit tunnels, growing tighter and tighter and threatening to strangle and collapse upon the wolf. He gritted his teeth together and kept moving.

[div style="width: 45%; line-height: 14px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 13px;"]Zjarr hated to admit it, but he could very much consider himself a claustrophobic in quite a few cases, and this whole "stuck in the Observatory with no way out and food rations running low" bullshit especially alarmed him. He was content with wide open spaces or maybe some tight quarters with exits, but this shit? It heightened his anxiety, increased his risk of panic attacks, made him overly finicky and apprehensive. He could hold himself together in similar situations, sure. But in this case there really was no way out. At least, not one that could be easily seen. He didn't know the Observatory that well, frankly, and didn't know all about the mechanisms of it. He was likely the least helpful fellow trapped in this situation.

A vaguely familiar voice echoed in his eardrums, and the cyborg wolf froze in his tracks, reluctantly glancing over his broad shoulders to see the form of the Astral Seraph appear. Hmm, only Bastille. The demon didn't have any explicit emotions or thoughts about the fellow—he was a leader, he was trying to aid the situation, and he welcomed Zjarr like any other newcomer, unlike a great handful of people who took an instant disliking to him at first upon learning who he was and what he had done. That was...respectful. Yeah, maybe. He didn't really know the guy that well.

"Oh. Hey there, Bast," the canine murmured wearily, nodding his head in the feline's direction in acknowledgment. "I was, erm, walkin'. More like pacin', I guess, heh," he added with a brief, visibly nervous chuckle that somehow managed to escape past his lips. "Used to take walks to calm me down. Can't really do that now, so this is the closest thing, really. Hope I'm not disturbin' anyone with it, though." A subtle frown rested upon his maw as he eyed the other male curiously, and he felt the slightest of sympathy for the fellow. Bast was a leader, and naturally, people would feel the need to depend on him in these uncertain times. It was a horribly stressful task, a duty Zjarr had shared as the sovereign of his own group once. Well, it wasn't really mine. I took over it. But y'get the gist. "Y'holdin' up well, man? Reckon just 'bout everyone here either feels like shit or like they'd shit bricks." Panic and anger. A fun duo.