//someday i might bring in another character but for now i’ll only pop on oocly from time to time
the pendant event will still continue so don’t abandon that
bye

It was hard to believe the Ascendants were a group of distrusting rogues just a few months ago, wasn’t it? He had to admit, despite all of his hopes at the time, he had the fear that no one would accept his invitation. Then, when strolling through the territory, he’d found Bastille- and it had all gone from there. The observatory was constantly under renovation. The artists created murals to cover the bland concrete walls in the underground complex. The workers cleared the dirt and vines to restore the building to its original state. The observatory seemed alive, much unlike it had been at the beginning- bland, empty, and a little creepy.

Each day, when he strolled out in to the Grand Circle, joy filled his heart and a smile was brought to his face when he saw members talking and laughing and bonding. They were a family. Maybe not a blood family, but families like these were always the best kind. Friends that acted like family. Who could ask for more? Had he really started all this? It was hard to believe.

His room was a different story. Many seldom went into the room Starrynight had chosen as his own. Those who did, however, struggled to politely keep their attention on their outgoing leader. The control room was an absolute mess. Glittery pawprints and papers were scattered everywhere. The place seemed to have a charge to it- the kind that would make hair stand on its end. If anyone paused to read the papers all around, they would find dozens of notes and discarded ideas. If anyone searched hard enough, they could possibly find some of the cutout stars he’d created as confetti during the very first promotion. The organization of the room was atrocious, but it was his own room, after all. The milky feline was quite an airhead as times. He’d toyed with the controls on the desk for months, labeling what each button and lever did- and he even put description and key sheets on the wall. Stars above only know how many times he forgot what each did. Some would wake up on the middle of the night to the deafening sound of the ceiling hatch in the observatory, leaving him to grin awkwardly and apologize rapidly when confronted by sleepy and aggravated observers.

Today Starrynight was on top of the telescope, humming quietly and cheerfully to himself as he checked it for any damage. He worried for its wellbeing. It was important to him as well as old. He’d been warned by NPCs before about the danger of standing up so high and so precariously. Unfortunately, their leader was the type to learn the hard way.

It was a simple slip - a sleight of foot - but it was enough.

After skidding forwardand banging his jaw on the body of the telescope, he jerked backwards with a yelp of pain before falling backward. Starrynight’s eyes flew wide. He was falling. No- no- change! His body had only just begun to shrink when he crashed down on the sharp corner of the pedestal that held up the telescope like a trophy.

He felt his ribs snap, and felt the gash stabbed into his side, but he couldn’t make a sound as his body finished its descent, crashing into the floor. His jaws parted in wordless pain. His lungs had been punctured by his broken ribs. He couldn’t breathe. Panic was setting in, and his heart beat faster. He wanted to get up. Why wouldn’t his legs move? Blood began to spread around his wound. The aura from his paws had already disappeared, a subconscious act to preserve energy. A soft wheeze bubbled at his lips. It hurt- it hurt so bad. What was he supposed to do? He’d never been hurt this bad before. Stuck in place, the Astral Seraph continued to bleed.

ATTACK IN BOLD #876494 - TAGS

Say what you will about Starrynight, but he was one of the most genuine and purely good being that Bastille -- hell, Grimm -- had ever encountered. He had plenty of lifetimes and memories to reflect on, and he could say with confidence that there were a rare few who could rival the Seraph in happiness, enthusiasm, and raw positive energy. His aura literally shone and was so intense that it oozed out into the air around him, frequently alighting the air around his paws or electrocuting someone literally from his joy alone. Who the fuck did that? Bastille couldn't count the number of times he'd asked himself within those first few days of joining if it were possible that Starry was even real. He didn't seem real, with so much ridiculous happiness, and yet... and yet he was.

He didn't always agree, but Bastille had tried hard to see the world even the slightest bit like Starry did. He would never be able to look at Tanglewood and see that same willingness to forgive, to make amends -- he just wasn't wired that way, and yet, when it was Starry imploring him (imploring all of them) to give it a chance, to see things from Beck's point of view, he tried. There weren't too many people who compelled him to be better in the same way that Starry did. He greeted strangers and offered tours and tried to help, because he knew that it was what Starry had expected of him when he first joined. Because Starry had been so thrilled that someone had shown up, that he didn't have it in him to admit that he wasn't responding to any invitation and didn't know who the hell the Ascendants were. Because he'd decided in those first few minutes that Starry was good, and he was willing to follow someone with such purity of soul.

It was the first time that Bastille ever got the impression that someone actually cared about him.

Oh, sure, his mother had cared for him fiercely -- but she was a ghost, haunting her miserly son, nothing more; he couldn't really count someone who'd died before he'd even been alive for more than an hour. When he finally was drug back to her Clan, discovered by somebody, they hadn't really cared for Bastille. They'd looked at him and seen the memory of his mother, their lost friend, their dear Clanmate -- he was just an extension of her, a cute little miniature to pity. He had never felt anything for them, and in truth, they had never felt anything for him. In his entire 9 months of life before running into Starrynight, Bastillepaw could honestly say that there wasn't a single soul out there who gave a damn about him. And then there was Starry.

It was... strange. Uncomfortable. He didn't particularly like being on the receiving end of so much happiness and excitement. It put him on the spot, and made him feel awkward as all hell, and he constantly got the impression that his tendency to ask questions was making Starry feel... bad, for whatever reason. Like, what did it matter that some fucking degenerate kid was asking questions? It shouldn't have mattered, and yet it mattered to Starry, because he actually... cared. Cared about what Bastille said or asked, cared what he thought, cared about him. They'd spent a few days together, alone, before the next few newcomers streamed in -- it was simultaneously one of the most awkward and confusing few days of his life. Within 24 hours, Starry seemed to have just developed this attachment, and Bastille felt... a strange sense of loyalty in response.

He may seem difficult to warm up to others, but in reality, Bastille didn't require too much to decide that he was pledging life long allegiance and loyalty to someone. Generally speaking, he required a good aura, a good soul, and someone who seemed to just deserve it. He'd realized relatively quickly that Starry fit all of those categories, and one may call him cliche for supporting his leader with unwavering respect, but Starry commanded it. Even when he was grouchy, or difficult, or viciously at odds with what the Seraph had to say; even at his lowest moments, he knew without a doubt that he would follow Starry into hell and back if he asked. Somehow within those first few days, he'd won him over and won him completely.

He'd tried to deny it to himself, briefly. Tried to ignore the sense of belonging, the fierce loyalty; tried to tell himself that he didn't just bond with people. Bastille was not built for bonding, or fucking imprinting on strange new leaders, for that matter. But even when he shied away or retreated, Starry met him with that same level of optimism and welcoming. There was just no escaping his unlimited joy or the loyalty he drew out of others through sheer kindness and genuineness alone.

Oh, there were times when he drove Bastille absolutely crazy. Like when he insisted that they be nice to the Tanglefuckers, or when he refused to train with them or learn to defend himself, or when he insisted on doing stupid things like visit enemy leaders without an escort; when he tripped and got injured because he was too distracted by staring up at the stars, or when he forgot to take care of himself and sleep when he was fretting over some grand new idea, or what he climbed the telescope without anyone to look out for him at the bottom.

Gods, how many times had Bastille griped at him to quit climbing that fucking thing?

He knew the second that he heard the commotion and heard people frantically yelling about the telescope. The panic and terror was tangible, a physical tension throbbing in the air, and what else could cause them to dissolve to such chaos? Rather, who else could it fucking be? There was a brief, agonizing moment when Bastille stood frozen, his thoughts locking down with denial, because of course not. That was fucking ridiculous. As much as he nagged and worried and got pissy with Starry for endangering himself all the damn time, it wasn't like anything would actually happen to him. That was... Impossible.

And then it all shattered, the denial giving way to the sudden, surging panic, and Bastille was suddenly just there -- teleporting before he even had a conscious thought of where he was going, the ground shaking ominously in a low-humming earthquake as he suddenly just found himself in the middle of it all. The twisting tremor of emotion was thicker here, in the midst of it, and there was blood -- so much blood everywhere, sticky and pick and glittery, and... and it was Starry. He had known and yet seeing it still made something seize inside of him, made something vicious and angry claw forward in his chest with a level of intensity that he hadn't felt in ages.

"Starry," he choked, strangled, and was hit instantly with a flurry of sensations. They were memories, almost, half-formed impressions of loss and sorrow and agony, this fucking burning alighting his blood as the waves of, of... he wasn't sure what, though he knew acutely that they were his, his memories, cross over from his past lives bleeding over as the divide between his souls wavered and blurred, as the very core of his stability shuddered and broke. And at the heart of it all was the crushing, brutal realization that he was losing Starry -- the white-hot rage and misery and pain clawing him apart and trying to devour him whole.

He couldn't even process that there was any more else. He knew that they were there, distantly, vaguely -- fuzzy auras in his peripheral, shouting orders and calling for help, murmuring soft reassurances, but he was dead to it all. There only thing he could focus on with any clarity was the blood, Starry's broken form, the dull pulse of his aura growing weaker, the dying light -- a fucking star reaching supernova and taking them all down with him in the explosion.

Bastille inhaled, once, sharply, felt something within him snap, and the storm erupted immediately. Thank whatever gods there were that the Observatory hatch was actually fucking closed today, because the winds were vicious, the rain pounding hard over head, thunder rolling in the distance as the earth shook harder. It was as if that paralysis broke in him the moment the storm did, and he surged forward, blindly stumbling past those who were crowding too close, muttering about the inevitable.

"No, no, Starry-- you can't just fucking die," he sobbed, unaware of when the tears had even formed -- Bastille hadn't cried since he was a child, barely moons old, and yet he tasted salt as he stumbled, pressing clumsy paws against the wounds weakly as if he could force the fucking blood to stop. He knew better, knew that first aid couldn't fix this, knew his goddamn blood was fucking radioactive or some shit, but he didn't care if it shocked him. He didn't care if the world ended tomorrow when Starry was bleeding out and there was nothing he could fucking do to save him.

Why didn't you save me, Echo? Indi murmured, a throbbing flare of memory, and Bastille buried his face in the Seraph's side as he pleaded, "We need you, we need you, you can't-- we can fix it, Starry, you can't leave, not like this, please-- Starry--" It was a jumbled mess of babble, the words tumbling out with no sense or reason as Bastille realized with crushing clarity that he cared. He cared, because Starry had shown him what caring looked light and forced him to care, too. He'd shown him what it meant to care and want to be good and try to achieve something greater than himself. Shown him how to belong, shown him family. And the ground started to splinter and crack under his paws as he realized that he was losing him and he cared, the Seraph's name dissolving into sobs as he gave up begging.