05-26-2018, 11:49 PM
[div style="width: 360px; line-height: 14px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 13px; color: #383838;"]Travelling between realms was a funny little thing, wasn't it?
Sometimes it worked just as well as you'd expect it; other times it didn't. Quite frankly, the demon wasn't sure what to expect of the magnificent feat. The mere thought of it was chilling and bizarre, yet here he would stand as an alien, essentially, yet he looked just like every other mortal in this...whatever this place was...for the most part, at least. But he was to remain optimistic, surely. As optimistic as a runaway could be.
This would be his third shot of living his life—a different realm for each attempt. The first was where he acquired a less conspicuous physical form; winged lynxes with eerie permanent grins were likely to be a rare occurrence in any place, so he found a domestic feline to take control of. It was a much simpler task than he initially expected, and he'd come to secure more bodies under his belt, thanks to the weak-minded mortals that practically surrendered them over to him. From then on it was smooth sailing: pose as a mortal, survive and thrive, make it to the very top. Soon he'd scale the ranks of the so-called "Clans" until he became the right-hand man to one of their leaders. After that he was gone.
In this next realm Zjarr was posed with great amnesia, a dreadful pothole in his quest for power, but seeing as it was a different place he doubted any of it mattered. A second shot at life, eh? No one knew of his mistakes there...except for one of their high positions, who he had seemingly followed. She knew of his extensive deeds, very much aware of them, but did nothing to stop him from taking control of the group and proclaiming himself their sovereign. A bountiful reign and he was off once more, back to the realm where he came from. It was there that he mastered the art of blacksmithing, and it wouldn't be long before the hand of doom grabbed a hold of the cyborg wolf and whisked him off to another land.
This third and hopefully final destination greeted the devious Zjarr Ignibus with a light itching at his underbelly: the tall grasses of the rolling plains swayed as drunken townsfolk in a tavern and gently scratched at his build, and he rolled his broad shoulders at the feeling. Unlike much of his body, his underbelly was fully natural, and he could feel every little touch down there. If it was his back or his forelegs or the entire left side of his damn face it'd be different.
Unnaturally heterochromatic hues drifted over to a hulking brown sack sitting amongst the tall grasses, the immense lamp of the sun shining down upon the plains to reveal its whereabouts to him. Tentatively Zjarr stepped towards it, extending a prosthetic forepaw to jab at the sack. A cacophony of clanking could be heard and, fortunately, no noise or movement to signify some small inhabitant of the sack. Could it be...? Cautiously the male secured the opening and harshly tugged at it to reveal the sack's contents. Daggers and swords and shields, oh my! All branded with the Ignibus family insignia and to prove that it was their doing and no one else's.
With an amused, faint grin the canine took hold of the sack and tossed it over his shoulder, thankful that his somewhat lanky build was durable enough to secure the weight of the tiny weapons cache he had at his disposal. What was next on the to-do list for this spacious realm? Perhaps it was to get acquainted with its rightful inhabitants, introduce himself as a businessman. Zjarr, boss of his own arms company, a willing merchant and a sturdy blacksmith.
It is here that he would thrive.
Sometimes it worked just as well as you'd expect it; other times it didn't. Quite frankly, the demon wasn't sure what to expect of the magnificent feat. The mere thought of it was chilling and bizarre, yet here he would stand as an alien, essentially, yet he looked just like every other mortal in this...whatever this place was...for the most part, at least. But he was to remain optimistic, surely. As optimistic as a runaway could be.
This would be his third shot of living his life—a different realm for each attempt. The first was where he acquired a less conspicuous physical form; winged lynxes with eerie permanent grins were likely to be a rare occurrence in any place, so he found a domestic feline to take control of. It was a much simpler task than he initially expected, and he'd come to secure more bodies under his belt, thanks to the weak-minded mortals that practically surrendered them over to him. From then on it was smooth sailing: pose as a mortal, survive and thrive, make it to the very top. Soon he'd scale the ranks of the so-called "Clans" until he became the right-hand man to one of their leaders. After that he was gone.
In this next realm Zjarr was posed with great amnesia, a dreadful pothole in his quest for power, but seeing as it was a different place he doubted any of it mattered. A second shot at life, eh? No one knew of his mistakes there...except for one of their high positions, who he had seemingly followed. She knew of his extensive deeds, very much aware of them, but did nothing to stop him from taking control of the group and proclaiming himself their sovereign. A bountiful reign and he was off once more, back to the realm where he came from. It was there that he mastered the art of blacksmithing, and it wouldn't be long before the hand of doom grabbed a hold of the cyborg wolf and whisked him off to another land.
This third and hopefully final destination greeted the devious Zjarr Ignibus with a light itching at his underbelly: the tall grasses of the rolling plains swayed as drunken townsfolk in a tavern and gently scratched at his build, and he rolled his broad shoulders at the feeling. Unlike much of his body, his underbelly was fully natural, and he could feel every little touch down there. If it was his back or his forelegs or the entire left side of his damn face it'd be different.
Unnaturally heterochromatic hues drifted over to a hulking brown sack sitting amongst the tall grasses, the immense lamp of the sun shining down upon the plains to reveal its whereabouts to him. Tentatively Zjarr stepped towards it, extending a prosthetic forepaw to jab at the sack. A cacophony of clanking could be heard and, fortunately, no noise or movement to signify some small inhabitant of the sack. Could it be...? Cautiously the male secured the opening and harshly tugged at it to reveal the sack's contents. Daggers and swords and shields, oh my! All branded with the Ignibus family insignia and to prove that it was their doing and no one else's.
With an amused, faint grin the canine took hold of the sack and tossed it over his shoulder, thankful that his somewhat lanky build was durable enough to secure the weight of the tiny weapons cache he had at his disposal. What was next on the to-do list for this spacious realm? Perhaps it was to get acquainted with its rightful inhabitants, introduce himself as a businessman. Zjarr, boss of his own arms company, a willing merchant and a sturdy blacksmith.
It is here that he would thrive.
[glow=#f24b00,2,300]how'd it get so scandalous?[/glow] — ☼
✰ — I'M JUST A SOUL WHOSE INTENTIONS ARE GOOD
zjarr ignibus / tanglewood / hellcat / weapons dealer / plot