07-08-2018, 11:15 PM
[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.
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.
[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