07-09-2018, 06:02 PM
[div style="width: 45%; line-height: 14px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 13px;"]//agh this kinda sucks im sorryy
[member=1103]AGENT WASHINGTON[/member]
Zjarr was far past being livid at this point, and he made sure to avoid any interactions that would lead to public dispute. He wanted to say he was finished fighting the uphill battle, but he knew that it was far from complete. Going back to the Ascendants was just the beginning of it. Dealing with those who took his flesh and blood under their wings and redeeming himself as something other than a lowlife, deadbeat dad was going to be the most difficult part of the process. This was likely because he knew that he was nothing more than exactly that—a deadbeat dad. If he was going to be involved in his family, wouldn't he had stayed from birth? Raise Pele and Sylva from children into adolescence and then adulthood? Teach them valuable skills that he had learned and was willing to pass down, maybe even get them into the family business if they were up for it? He had learned that Sylva had disappeared just as Lunafreya did, leaving only Pele taking up residence here. And Pele was rightfully enraged against her absentminded father. He wasn't going to point fingers.
Keeping these interactions fresh in his mind was not going to help Zjarr adjust to life in the Ascendants. He found it painstakingly difficult to do so; it was so much more of a daunting task to settle in and become acquainted with his new groupmates here than ever before. The Thunderlands was easy because he was well respected there, had connections and powerful allies. No need to fret there, he had an okay reputation. The Rift was okay because of Olive's taking up leadership at the time and her personally helping him settle in. The next realm's ThunderClan was a hassle, but that was only due to his frightening amnesia that he struggled with when he first stumbled onto their borders. When he began to overcome his plight, it was smooth sailing, all leading to him securing the throne for some time.
But here, he could remember everything, and he was starting to remember more and more of events that had occurred beyond his feral years. He was aware of being a demon, too damn obvious to ever forget, but just how many life cycles did he fulfill in his time? Anyways, his memory was sharp as ever, though fuzzy on some little details. And that meant that he'd be overcome with guilt, with sorrow, with an unspeakable anger for himself. Taking up residence in this realm meant that he'd have a chance of developing an image, one of an easygoing, businesslike fellow who sold weapons and helped those in need. Instead he went in the complete opposite direction. Here he was in the process of attempting to go back to that desired image, but it would be more difficult than ever to do so.
Nonetheless he still had a business to run, but Zjarr swore to himself that he would conduct its operations from the Ascendants, though those that worked beneath him—surprise surprise, no one—would be free to smith and sell their wares wherever they pleased so long as they were secure and working hard. The cyborg wolf could be found beyond the reaches of the camp, though still remaining well within the confinements of the Ascendants' plain-smothered domain, with a portion of his collection of blades sitting carefully beside him, a whetstone and a container of honing oil before his paws.
Gingerly he had lubricated the stone with the honing oil so to keep the steel shavings from clogging the stone's pores, as well as making it simpler for the blade to pass over the stone itself. The wolf turned his attention to his blades, selecting a dull-looking baselard to begin his work, setting it upon the whetstone at an angle.
[member=1103]AGENT WASHINGTON[/member]
Zjarr was far past being livid at this point, and he made sure to avoid any interactions that would lead to public dispute. He wanted to say he was finished fighting the uphill battle, but he knew that it was far from complete. Going back to the Ascendants was just the beginning of it. Dealing with those who took his flesh and blood under their wings and redeeming himself as something other than a lowlife, deadbeat dad was going to be the most difficult part of the process. This was likely because he knew that he was nothing more than exactly that—a deadbeat dad. If he was going to be involved in his family, wouldn't he had stayed from birth? Raise Pele and Sylva from children into adolescence and then adulthood? Teach them valuable skills that he had learned and was willing to pass down, maybe even get them into the family business if they were up for it? He had learned that Sylva had disappeared just as Lunafreya did, leaving only Pele taking up residence here. And Pele was rightfully enraged against her absentminded father. He wasn't going to point fingers.
Keeping these interactions fresh in his mind was not going to help Zjarr adjust to life in the Ascendants. He found it painstakingly difficult to do so; it was so much more of a daunting task to settle in and become acquainted with his new groupmates here than ever before. The Thunderlands was easy because he was well respected there, had connections and powerful allies. No need to fret there, he had an okay reputation. The Rift was okay because of Olive's taking up leadership at the time and her personally helping him settle in. The next realm's ThunderClan was a hassle, but that was only due to his frightening amnesia that he struggled with when he first stumbled onto their borders. When he began to overcome his plight, it was smooth sailing, all leading to him securing the throne for some time.
But here, he could remember everything, and he was starting to remember more and more of events that had occurred beyond his feral years. He was aware of being a demon, too damn obvious to ever forget, but just how many life cycles did he fulfill in his time? Anyways, his memory was sharp as ever, though fuzzy on some little details. And that meant that he'd be overcome with guilt, with sorrow, with an unspeakable anger for himself. Taking up residence in this realm meant that he'd have a chance of developing an image, one of an easygoing, businesslike fellow who sold weapons and helped those in need. Instead he went in the complete opposite direction. Here he was in the process of attempting to go back to that desired image, but it would be more difficult than ever to do so.
Nonetheless he still had a business to run, but Zjarr swore to himself that he would conduct its operations from the Ascendants, though those that worked beneath him—surprise surprise, no one—would be free to smith and sell their wares wherever they pleased so long as they were secure and working hard. The cyborg wolf could be found beyond the reaches of the camp, though still remaining well within the confinements of the Ascendants' plain-smothered domain, with a portion of his collection of blades sitting carefully beside him, a whetstone and a container of honing oil before his paws.
Gingerly he had lubricated the stone with the honing oil so to keep the steel shavings from clogging the stone's pores, as well as making it simpler for the blade to pass over the stone itself. The wolf turned his attention to his blades, selecting a dull-looking baselard to begin his work, setting it upon the whetstone at an angle.
[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