08-14-2023, 04:16 PM
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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]
✰ — I'M JUST A SOUL WHOSE INTENTIONS ARE GOOD
zjarr ignibus / tanglewood / hellcat / weapons dealer / plot
