Bastille's head was killing him, but he supposed that was to be expected. He'd woken up with a sour taste in his mouth and a spinning sensation, a clear indication that at least for the first few hours of the morning, he'd still be somewhat drunk. It'd only taken a few minutes for him to remember -- damn, he was impressed that wasn't a black out -- and the resignation to hit him. With Zaniel's influence on him fading, his souls sinking below the surface in a brief reprieve, he had nothing but regret and bitter resentment to reflect on. He had spent his entire 11 fucking moons avoiding the damned shit, because he refused to admit that he liked the taste or allow himself the chance to get hooked, and it'd taken one fucking slip up. God damn it.

Unfortunately, he didn't have the luxury of holing up in his room to mope as he had been for days. When he wasn't walking around destructively or glaring moodily around, he was hiding, trying to live in denial for as long as possible or else simply trying to avoid others so that he wouldn't accidentally set something on fire. Not today, though. Today, he had to honor Starry.

He was hungover as all hell, but he only seemed to be his usual state of sullen as he stood briefly in the center of the Circle. A few of his Clanmates were mumbling things about him -- he could feel their stares -- and he scowled before saying, shortly, "Starpool, 10 minutes." At that he was gone, trusting the little cluster of gossips to at least spread the news if they were going to titter to one another about how he looked like shit. It was easy to see his path to the Starpool from there, seeing how he left a trail of charred grass in his wake.

As he waited for the others to join him, he was silent, pale blue eyes blank as that emotionless -- lifeless, really -- look returned without vodka to drown his demons. He stood completely still, with Starry's pendant resting at his paws, bitterly acknowledging that he was going to be forced to part with it. Damn Starry and his goddamn traditions -- damn him for making him do this, for making himself the first pendant to hang from the tree. He wasn't ready to part with it, but then again, he wasn't ready for any of this.

Hazel didn't want to be angry for Starry's memorial; he didn't deserve it. And she wasn't - until she caught sight of Bast, and remembered the previous day. His drunken flirting, the complete disregard, the tropic, warm, fever blue of his eyes; the electric shock of him lacing their fingers together, the utter fear of him turning into Mother and the anger she had taken out on him because of it. Everything she had said to him was way out of line, but...Bastille was so convinced he was going to fail, and Hazel wanted to do everything to be able to prove him wrong, but he was digging himself in a hole. She didn't know what to do with him.

But today was for Starrynight: the bright, joyous, caring Astral Seraph that had founded the Ascendants. Right now was the time for Hazel to remember what she did know about him and appreciate it to the fullest extent. So she settled in a spot to herself near the shore of the Starpool, waiting for the others to arrive.

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

Bastille stared straight ahead, his expression blank and eyes dark as he waited for the others to arrive. The only way he could think to survive this was to simply shut down, retreat behind the wall of apathy he had grown up knowing, to lose himself to the white noise. His emotions were raging and vicious as he waited there alone, Starry's pendant cold under his paw smoking paw, but as others started to emerge and his throat felt tight -- he couldn't do it. He couldn't look at Margy without feeling Pollutedsoul surge, couldn't see Hazel's aura out of the corner of his eye without her words searing through his thoughts, couldn't feel them all staring at him with expectation and pity without feeling the ground tremor ominously. He couldn't, he didn't have it in him, and instead he just... let go of himself.

He set his shoulders back as he straightened, apathetic stare chilled and devoid of sensation as he let it flicker briefly over his Clanmates and their guests. He reached desperately for Echo, for Grimm, for that removed state of existence and he found that it deceptively easy to step back into it as he spoke evenly, "Today we honor Starrynight, our founder and our leader." No waver in his voice as he said it, and the searing heat from his body seemed to have dimmed, his elementals retreating as he locked himself in, though he did pause briefly before continuing.

"I don't think any of us have ever met someone with more joy or genuine peacefulness than Starry... He was a literal ball of fucking energy, and he put this rag tag family together from scratch. We would be nothing without him." Bast pressed down on the pendant slightly, letting the sharp edge dig into the pad of his paw as he reminded himself to stay steady, to keep his emotions off line, to feel nothing, be nothing. "He left me a lot of ideas to sort through, because that was what he did -- plan and come up with crazy ideas and ways to make the Clan happy. He put his heart into everything."

Bastille lifted his paw, and this time lifted the pendant with it, his stare dropping to it briefly. There was a flicker in his cold, blank eyes as he felt a nasty surge of resistance -- he didn't want to give the pendant up, felt barren without it already -- but he forced it down. Feel nothing. He cleared his throat, and dismissed the hesitation as he said lowly, "Starry wanted to start a tradition for honoring our dead, in which we hang their pendants from the Starpool's tree. Today we lay Starry to rest and give life to one of the many ideas he had prepared for us." He felt something in him, something that was still holding on to that feeling of helplessness, wither as he let the pendant go. It flickered and disappeared from his paw, and moments later appeared hanging from the upper branches of the Oak tree.

"May the Stars accept him with grace," he said, softer.