05-19-2018, 02:46 PM
(This post was last modified: 05-19-2018, 02:46 PM by BASTILLEPAW.)
![[Image: jgC0ptA.png]](https://i.imgur.com/jgC0ptA.png)
Bastille didn't quite get what Margy's hang up with vampirism was. She seemed hungry all the fucking time, which was odd, because he assumed that she just drank regularly from prey animals as opposed to eating their meat. She went on hunting patrols, didn't she? Bast didn't seem the issue here, or how she could possibly be struggling so much. Did she just not like it? He found that hard to believe, seeing how liking blood seemed to be in her nature as, you know, a vampire. Eventually he decided that she felt bad actually doing it, or something of the sort, and ended up running through various ways to combat her reluctance.
Bastille was, more or less, a problem solver. He probably wouldn't say so himself, but the only realm of creativity he possessed was that of thought -- his usual knee-jerk reaction to a problem was to start figuring out how to solve it, to offer suggestions. The bunker was a product of him realizing that their dragon newcomer was fucking huge and needed a place to sleep; the subsequent needs that he encountered after that just got roped into the bunker project until it was multi-functional. He didn't seem like a helpful person, but he could ramble off several suggestions or ideas for a stranger if they presented him with an issue. Hence: when he realized Margy somehow wasn't eating, he started plotting.
He had several shitty plans before he settled on one that seemed more reasonable. If her issue was actually hunting the blood, then they just needed to remove that aspect from the equation. He knew human vampires liked to store blood (after some poking around through Grimm's stories) -- why couldn't Margy? Of course, an initial test proved that blood would go bad particularly quickly, which he should have anticipated. Bottled blood was no better -- it got rank smelling and nasty if left out. He supposed that meant it needed to be preserved coolly, which... well. Required some hunting through the basement rooms until he tracked down a mini-fridge. Bastille kept note of it, and conjured it to the bunker, but eventually realized that the damn thing required power. So, back to the Observatory he went, eyeing around for one of those holes in the wall. There wasn't exactly a convenient looking location in his mind, so he abandoned his project for a patrol instead, letting his thoughts wonder on the way.
When he came back to camp, it was with the new plan he'd been looking for. The general tracked down extension cords, trekked along the outside of the Observatory, and eventually found the outside outlet he was looking for. Thank god for humans and their ever pressing desire to have electricity available everywhere. He snaked the cords across the ground, and forced a hole into the back wall of the bunker -- one just small enough to pop the end of his chain through. Pleased, Bast went around to the entrance and positioned the mini fridge accordingly before plugging it in. The soft hum it emitted seemed promising.
Next up: getting the blood he needed. He had deduced that Margy didn't like bird blood, which meant he just needed to collect everything else. He scoured for small glass bottles -- old mini Coke ones, apparently -- and got to work cleaning them out before he went hunting. It wasn't that difficult, really -- kill a prey animal, conjure empty bottles, fill with blood, send them back to the bunker. It took him less time to compile his blood than anticipated, and last he just needed a few bottles of his own. Satisfied, Bast arranged them by type, and stuck little colored stickers beneath the sections on the shelves. There. Variety, and no bird blood for Margy to scowl at.
Pleased with his stash, Bastille headed back into the Observatory, yelling for Margy himself this time.
Bastille was, more or less, a problem solver. He probably wouldn't say so himself, but the only realm of creativity he possessed was that of thought -- his usual knee-jerk reaction to a problem was to start figuring out how to solve it, to offer suggestions. The bunker was a product of him realizing that their dragon newcomer was fucking huge and needed a place to sleep; the subsequent needs that he encountered after that just got roped into the bunker project until it was multi-functional. He didn't seem like a helpful person, but he could ramble off several suggestions or ideas for a stranger if they presented him with an issue. Hence: when he realized Margy somehow wasn't eating, he started plotting.
He had several shitty plans before he settled on one that seemed more reasonable. If her issue was actually hunting the blood, then they just needed to remove that aspect from the equation. He knew human vampires liked to store blood (after some poking around through Grimm's stories) -- why couldn't Margy? Of course, an initial test proved that blood would go bad particularly quickly, which he should have anticipated. Bottled blood was no better -- it got rank smelling and nasty if left out. He supposed that meant it needed to be preserved coolly, which... well. Required some hunting through the basement rooms until he tracked down a mini-fridge. Bastille kept note of it, and conjured it to the bunker, but eventually realized that the damn thing required power. So, back to the Observatory he went, eyeing around for one of those holes in the wall. There wasn't exactly a convenient looking location in his mind, so he abandoned his project for a patrol instead, letting his thoughts wonder on the way.
When he came back to camp, it was with the new plan he'd been looking for. The general tracked down extension cords, trekked along the outside of the Observatory, and eventually found the outside outlet he was looking for. Thank god for humans and their ever pressing desire to have electricity available everywhere. He snaked the cords across the ground, and forced a hole into the back wall of the bunker -- one just small enough to pop the end of his chain through. Pleased, Bast went around to the entrance and positioned the mini fridge accordingly before plugging it in. The soft hum it emitted seemed promising.
Next up: getting the blood he needed. He had deduced that Margy didn't like bird blood, which meant he just needed to collect everything else. He scoured for small glass bottles -- old mini Coke ones, apparently -- and got to work cleaning them out before he went hunting. It wasn't that difficult, really -- kill a prey animal, conjure empty bottles, fill with blood, send them back to the bunker. It took him less time to compile his blood than anticipated, and last he just needed a few bottles of his own. Satisfied, Bast arranged them by type, and stuck little colored stickers beneath the sections on the shelves. There. Variety, and no bird blood for Margy to scowl at.
Pleased with his stash, Bastille headed back into the Observatory, yelling for Margy himself this time.
[align=center]![[Image: 4ySBjji.png]](https://i.imgur.com/4ySBjji.png)
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