LAY YOUR SOUL TO WASTE :: open, joining/return

[Zjarr]

//tl;dr: zjarr is v angsty and wants to go home but he finds the group and asks if he can join

It was a little like drifting through limbo.

In the past autumn, he could vividly recall seizing power from his former dominant, who had led his old faction. She went missing, and he rose to the occasion. He was a power-hungry fellow, yessir. Wanted a taste of dominance and glory, a piece of that delicious pie, after being a lowly dog for so long. But anxiety had prevented him from going further—he knew that if he remained at the throne, he would become a tyrant as another leader had. Deu something, he didn't remember. Whatever. He was blind to the problems of his group. At least he had appointed a trustworthy ally as his second-in-command. She would have known what to do. And so he fled. That was one of his many mistakes, for in the process he lost a title so valuable, a home so comforting, and a child so sweet: his own. He hadn't seen his daughter since.

And what happened to Zjarr beyond that? Did he simply disappear from the face of the earth without a trace? Not quite, but it almost felt as if he were dead in the time between his abrupt disappearance and now. And he had gone through a significant change, apart from his swearing to cut his cursed lust for alcohol from him: he bore a new form, one that was very familiar. One that he hoped could withstand the wave of radiation that this world was suddenly exposed to, for this body was stronger than his Siberian Husky form, and it wasn't entirely composed of flesh and fur. Metal plates replaced some patches of skin and even the entire left side of his face, creating an artificial crimson red eye that looked almost dead compared to his gleaming, lively brown eye on his right side. Much of his back had been covered by the sturdy plates, including his spine. His natural front legs were replaced by sturdy, responsive and reliable prosthetics. As for the rest of his body, it remained as it should: a normal fleshy, furry russet wolf.

Some could call him a mere cyborg, which he clearly was. Others a deadly beast. He even got a "RoboCop" out of someone one time.

Traversing through the range deemed somewhat inhabitable was the massive feral canine, blood spewing from his maw and coloring both russet fur and shiny gray metal with a gory crimson. Zjarr had been caught by a roving pack of...whatever they were. Dark canine-like beasts with oddly colored tongues, eyes and saliva, and winding horns and antlers upon their cranium. Perhaps it was the radiation that so horribly mutated them. And maybe it was the radiation that drove them off the edge of sanity, as well. It was more than just ferocious aggression that they displayed. It was almost zombielike. Their eyes bore no light, no soul, no life to them. Just a senseless urge to kill and feed. Hell, maybe they'd kill each other and even themselves eventually. The mindless creatures wouldn't know any better.

And for the first time in many a moon, he could swear he felt the presence of sentient creatures. Animals that were like him, before all that radiation bullshit came along and fucked everyone's minds over. Was this a Clan? Could it be ThunderClan? Or what's left of it? God, he yearned to come back home. To see Olive, his Clanmates, Butterflykit...he wanted his friends, his comrades, his family back. For things to go back to the way they were when everyone did their share of work and never complained and still had time to have fun. He was sure that his reign didn't bring a golden age for ThunderClan, but at least they were somewhat stable then. Now the whole world seemed to be a complete disaster, anarchy reigning supreme above all, even those who dared to call themselves proud and militant leaders.

Anxiousness gripped at the cyborg wolf's chest, and he subconsciously fumbled with his dull olive military cap to let it rest upon his large cranium—that cap alone felt reassuring and relieving, a sign that he would triumph through whatever situation if he had the grit and the ambition. Like a true soldier. His sword lay by him too, but Zjarr he wouldn't use it unless he definitely had to; he wanted to solve things with these people as diplomatically as possible, without needing to spill blood.

Finally, he gathered the courage to address them. You're either fucked or saved, boyo. "YO!" he shouted in a tone that pleaded for attention to be called to him. "M'name's Zjarr. There a group here I can join?"
[spoiler=tags :: updated 01/21]basics.
✯ Zjarr Ignibus // formerly known as Flamewhisker or Heatwave
✯ male // masculine
✯ age frozen, adult // mentally 65 months // spiritually unknown
✯ no rank // ex-leader of the late ThunderClan
✯ no titles // gay redneckâ„¢
✯ played since 2012
✯ formerly in the FeralFront universe
✯ recovering memories of past, slow to recognize old friends from past life
✯ demon, stole physical form from a mortal // doesn't act upon demonic lust
✯ former alcoholic, rehabilitated
✯ can speak German and Latin
✯ often fights with a sword (affectionately calls Ignibus Blade)

appearance.
✯ cyborg wolf [ref]
✯ russet pelt with cream hind legs, underbelly and chest
✯ brown right eye (natural), red left eye (artificial)
✯ prosthetic front legs; left side of face; back/spine — attempt to slow any effects of radiation
✯ may occasionally wear a military cap
✯ nicked left ear
✯ American accent, drawled

relationships.
✯ no best friend
✯ no apprentice
✯ [G1] NPC x NPC
✯ biromantic // bisexual
✯ single // no crush
✯ 1 child—0 blood, 1 adopted (many children on FF)
  butterflykisses i.

interaction.
✯ storage // plot
✯ physically hard // mentally difficult // possession
✯ attack in #f24b00[/spoiler]