So...Hazel had no experience with Tanglewood. Absolutely none. When she had first arrived, there had been no drama between the Ascendants and the opposing clan. At least, not that she was aware of. And even now, despite her lengthy stay at the observatory, Hazel still hardly heard of outside clans. Whenever their names were brought up in conversation, she had to backtrack, recalling that Oh, right, they exist. She wasn’t sure if it was just her obliviousness or if the Ascendants just didn’t have anything interesting happening foreign-relation-wise.

She was aware of Bastille’s favored term - Tanglefucks - for the group, and found it rather amusing; or she would, of she could correctly place her emotions at the moment. Sadly, the girl did not arrive in time to hear Pele repeat said favored term, though Hazel did pick up on Luna’s defensive tone and posture with a certain degree of concern. It was strong enough (and obvious enough) to override the rest of the impressions cluttering the air. Pele’s innocence was messing with Hazel’s interpretation of the situation, though...from what she could tell, Suite didn’t look or sound happy to see Beck. That was about all she could say for certain.

The cocoa feline took a seat on her own, assuring her small bubble of personal space and curling her tail far enough over her paws to brush against the golden bandana tied around her foreleg. She was unaware that the movement was a nervous tick, giving away her lack of knowledge on the situation to anyone who truly paid attention. Didn’t matter, though - Hazel was focused on the poltergeist sitting in front of them, regarding him with wary but curious pools of vivid gold. It felt...odd to see a spirit playing the role of something living. It set Hazel even further on edge, even if that was one of the lesser things to be noticed about Beck. She had no opinion of him yet, having lived vicariously through Bastille’s dislike of him and Suite’s glaringly obvious hatred.

She was intrigued by his question: So, whatcha got? Hazel’s immediate answer was along the lines of flipping the question on Beck. But what did he want? Something physical, or something intangible? Was he looking for a deal or for a trophy to bring home? Hazel frowned, waiting for Bastille’s answer.

(Mobile post Yikes)

★ — hazel — "speech" — eight months — the ascendants — tags — ★

Bastille couldn't help it -- Pele's question brought a smile, half-there and brief, because she was fucking adorable and hearing the word Tanglefucks out of her mouth didn't even register as a problem to him. Hell, he'd grown up with swears as a casual extension of speech, chided only idly by his mother before she inevitably gave up on correcting him every other sentence. It wasn't until Luna's anger spiked that he realized his error, and he didn't miss that brief glare -- which. Well. If he could feel he might be hurt, but in reality there was nothing but a faint flicker of exasperation. "Oh, please. You know she picked it up from me. I know she picked it up from me. She knows she picked it up from me. We all know where she heard it, Luna. What's the point in making her say it?"

There was no heat to his words, just... well. Nothing. Bastille used the phrase every time he mentioned the group, in meetings, in casual setting, literally every time, except for recently. It wasn't like he'd intentionally taught Pele, but pretending as if it wasn't likely his fault was just... silly. And if Luna was going to hold it against him, so be it. He was getting used to her anger and her judgment. Hell, he was getting used to them hating him in general -- what was one more strike?

His attention was briefly on Roy and Margaery as they joined him, and then there was the shifting pulse of a familiar aura approaching that had his attention. For a beat there, he saw the boy he'd seen on the banks -- the one who was younger than himself, scared, carried that dreadful fear of abandonment and rejection; he picked up on the flicker of nerves radiating from Beck, the way he suddenly looked his age (or at least his age when he died), the way that if Bast had any fucking feelings he might almost feel guilty for what he had done. And then the moment passed, and he met Beck's stare evenly as that scared kid melted away behind the Beck who had demanded retribution and been happy to see him hang. (Fair enough. They were even now, and Bast didn't so much as feel resentment to see him in person again.)

"Uh, hi," he echoed right back at him, and it seemed like the "uh" was intentional. He couldn't resist fucking with him a little bit, okay? As golden radiance cut across his vision -- Hazel's aura, always so demanding of his attention, always pushing past its boundaries -- he found his gaze shifting from Beck to her, involuntary. He didn't miss the way she fiddled with her bandana or the particular air that clung to her, the traces of something indiscernible in her aura: not quite nerves, but almost a sense of being out of place, lost in a crowd where you didn't belong. He wasn't sure what he would have felt, seeing that, if he could feel anything.

As it was, Beck's words brought his attention back, and Bast snorted slightly as he turned ice blue eyes back to the leader. He echoed Hazel's thoughts without even realizing it, drawling, "Well, what do you want? "Supplies" was pretty fucking vague."