Bastille had spent the vast majority of his relatively short life traveling. He supposed that might sound borderline glamorous and interesting to some, but the reality of it was dry and devoid of life: he had traveled because he did not have the personality to settle in any one place, could not stand to be in such proximity of others. He traveled because he was full of anger and bitterness and chaos, incapable of working past the turmoil of his souls screaming at him; because he could not and would not subject others to himself, equal portions angry that he knew they were scorn him for his nature and miserable knowing that no amount of effort could ever save him — that he might, one day, decide to stay somewhere and find that they would all fall around him, victims to Echo's curse; or maybe they would grow to hate him, would see the truth of his souls and turn him away; or worse yet, even, he would be given the chance to grow accustomed to them and then he would deteriorate into failure like all the rest. So no, his first 9 months of life spent traveling and avoiding all signs of life had not been much of anything; just empty forests and the outskirts of foreign territories and the dragging silence of weeks without speaking.

He rarely, however, looked at his childhood with any significance. He did not carry it with him like baggage he could not drop; rather, it was simply fact. He felt nothing for it, and could not even bring himself to feel that he had missed out on something by not living a normal life in a group. He was still trying to determine if joining one at last had been a mistake or not, and while he was struggling to convince himself that it was a good thing — as he had promised Margy and Suite — there were days when he woke up and was surprised to find that it was all real and not a truly confusing dream. Those mornings, like now, he walked the borders and looked out across foreign land and wondered what it would be like to leave now, to go back to those days. Could he resume the silence?

His pale blue stare fell on a stranger as he walked, and Bast neither slowed or increased his pace. He instead just regarded this guy idly as he eventually reached him, drawling out a languid, [b]"Yo. You're on Ascendants territory. What'd'ya need?" A pause. The sudden remembrance of his manners. "I'm Bastille."

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Small wonder, what humor could do to break Bast's generally terrible manners; he probably would have laughed to hear the quip, but as it was he just found himself eyeing this stranger with vague curiosity. So stiff and formal, if you asked him, but then again there were probably many out there who would consider Bast's nonchalance and colloquial manner to be rude in comparison. Whatever. He spoke the same as he always had, to everyone in his life, and had yet to feel sorry about it.

[b]"Works for me," he returned, shrugging after a sideways glance at Thea, "Thea here can give you a tour, if you want, or we can just find you a room and let you explore on your own." Did he seem sorry about signing the Fireball up for it? Nope.

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