05-27-2018, 11:19 AM
[div style="width: 360px; line-height: 14px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 13px; color: #383838;"]Lingering figures that dared to approach the beast signified that he was, indeed, on another's domain. Two so far would come to address his presence, though he knew from experience that more would arrive in time, unless he were to depart as quick as he could. But what was the rush? These were the folk he could very well be dealing with, forging partnerships, yet they seemed like passive fellows more than a vicious warband. Alas, looks could deceive. This was something he understood very well as some ageless beast.
They called themselves the Ascendants, and that reeked of some sort of valiant gathering. It was a vibe he felt in his previous residences, for despite considering himself a neutral party, he quite liked taking up residence in peaceful homes with relatively pacifist peoples. Maybe that was the inner Flamey in him talking. "I...don't mean to encroach on your land," the cyborg wolf replied, feeling a gentle pair of baby blues resting upon him, as well as little pools of vivid gold. "Really, I jus'...woke up here. Pro'lly a little woozy from the trip I've been on, hrmph." What was most apparent about Zjarr apart from his cyborg appearance was his distinct drawled accent, emphasizing certain phrases and lazily spitting out the rest. Nice job, dickwad, now y'sound like some deadbeat junkie. Nice fucking job.
Shaking his massive cranium a bit the canine took in another deep breath to compose himself and fully rise from the extensive slumber he had been trapped in for so long only to reveal himself to these poor inhabitants that probably didn't even want the fucker around. He knew he wouldn't want someone like himself around anyway. If he was going to be a businessman, he'd have to improve his image somehow. "Regardless! Y'all can call me Zjarr, Zjarr Ignibus. I'm a blacksmith, merchant of arms. This ol' sack?" he barked, gently setting down his precious cargo to rest in front of him. "My wares. 'Course, I can repair any of the stuff you've already got on your hands. Now, I'll be real with ya, y'seem like some nice folk, not lookin' for any trouble with anyone. But who knows? Maybe you'll find yourselves a lil' short handed when the real troublesome fellas try to knock ya down a peg, eh? Doesn't hurt to have the stuff to defend yourself with when the time comes." He had absolutely no clue who the fuck these people were and how politics worked in this world, but he figured it was a similar situation to just about any civilization of feral creatures he'd ever encountered. Some groups are peaceful, others were aggressive, they fought each other, strife, ya da da da da, he'd seen it a million times. He could only assume that things worked just like that in this place too.
They called themselves the Ascendants, and that reeked of some sort of valiant gathering. It was a vibe he felt in his previous residences, for despite considering himself a neutral party, he quite liked taking up residence in peaceful homes with relatively pacifist peoples. Maybe that was the inner Flamey in him talking. "I...don't mean to encroach on your land," the cyborg wolf replied, feeling a gentle pair of baby blues resting upon him, as well as little pools of vivid gold. "Really, I jus'...woke up here. Pro'lly a little woozy from the trip I've been on, hrmph." What was most apparent about Zjarr apart from his cyborg appearance was his distinct drawled accent, emphasizing certain phrases and lazily spitting out the rest. Nice job, dickwad, now y'sound like some deadbeat junkie. Nice fucking job.
Shaking his massive cranium a bit the canine took in another deep breath to compose himself and fully rise from the extensive slumber he had been trapped in for so long only to reveal himself to these poor inhabitants that probably didn't even want the fucker around. He knew he wouldn't want someone like himself around anyway. If he was going to be a businessman, he'd have to improve his image somehow. "Regardless! Y'all can call me Zjarr, Zjarr Ignibus. I'm a blacksmith, merchant of arms. This ol' sack?" he barked, gently setting down his precious cargo to rest in front of him. "My wares. 'Course, I can repair any of the stuff you've already got on your hands. Now, I'll be real with ya, y'seem like some nice folk, not lookin' for any trouble with anyone. But who knows? Maybe you'll find yourselves a lil' short handed when the real troublesome fellas try to knock ya down a peg, eh? Doesn't hurt to have the stuff to defend yourself with when the time comes." He had absolutely no clue who the fuck these people were and how politics worked in this world, but he figured it was a similar situation to just about any civilization of feral creatures he'd ever encountered. Some groups are peaceful, others were aggressive, they fought each other, strife, ya da da da da, he'd seen it a million times. He could only assume that things worked just like that in this place too.
[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