05-28-2018, 11:44 PM
(This post was last modified: 05-28-2018, 11:54 PM by BASTILLEPAW.)
![[Image: jgC0ptA.png]](https://i.imgur.com/jgC0ptA.png)
[ human au bc i do what i want
also, for slight clarification if things are Confusing: bast's three souls have been pretty stable, so he carries on living life normally. however, when they are unstabilized, he will find his past lives influencing his thoughts, triggering flashbacks, and/or he can experience complete personality shifts as one or the other becomes more salient. his eyes will also change colors when one overtakes him, such as how his eyes are teal here. ]
His souls were unstable. Bastille knew that, could sense the turmoil and chaos brewing in his gut getting worse and worse with each day -- losing Starry had shaken something in him, and that something was rapidly rearing its ugly head in the days following. It wasn't just the grief, or the shock, or the crushing reality that he had allowed himself to care and suffered the price; it was also the overwhelming pressure that came with being forced to lead, his absolute distaste for power or responsibility, the constant reminder that he was going to fail them and burn the Ascendants to the ground, that the end was inevitable; it was pulling away from those trying to help him, it was trying to tell himself not to care any more, to turn it all off; it was the misalignment of his souls making his moods unstable and his powers dangerously close to slipping.
He was breaking apart, and he didn't know what to do about it. In the wake of Pollutedsoul's surge, he felt even more on edge, the anger quick and ready at the slightest of promptings. The sharp jealousy that he'd felt over the stupidest shit had yanked that soul to the surface, and now he didn't know how to get rid of it. There was a nasty, deranged darkness shadowing his thoughts, and he kept catching himself slipping into Pollie's thought process, kept interrupting his own thoughts in the middle of vicious tirades. Earlier that day, his vision had started to take on that strange, superimposed quality that Pollutedsoul had lived his whole life with: he'd look around and see the past flicker in and out of sight, often directly on top of the present. Earlier an Observer had come to ask him something and he'd spent a few moments ignoring her, because he could see a familiar pelt instead of her grey fur and he'd mistake her for a fucking memory. In sort, he was losing his goddamn mind -- again, seeing how Pollie had already lost it once.
He just needed a way to turn it all off, and the immediate thoughts that came to mind were too quick, too determined -- he knew that Zaniel was becoming more salient, vying for control, trying to out influence Pollutedsoul. Bastille was at a loss, uncertain which was worst: risking accidentally killing a Clanmate or breaking the one promise he'd fought for months to keep. He knew damned well that in his state, the only way to escape Pollie was to give into someone else, because his souls were too chaotic and out of touch to simply rest. He'd experienced this special hell before, the constant battle to decide who he was, and he knew that he just didn't have it together enough to get out of this happily.
There was a brief, flickering temptation to go to Hazel. She was a grounding force, much as he hated to admit it, but thinking of her only brought back the radiance of her aura as she exchanged Latin with Margy and that only brought back the nasty twist in his gut, the primal instinct that surged up and insisted that he kill her for betraying him. It was irrational and delusional, but he couldn't fight how right it felt, couldn't resist the way that he just... slipped into that thought pattern so easily with Pollutedsoul hovering just under the surface.
In the end, he broke down far more easily than he would have liked to admit, but a secret part of himself was relieved when he felt his thoughts shifting gears. Murder was rapidly replaced with vodka, and Bastille lost himself in Zaniel so completely that he forgot there were even traces of someone else to hold onto. It didn't help that an hour in he was so drunk that he didn't even remember that Starry was gone, let alone that he had crushing responsibilities to answer to, a memorial to host the next morning; it all simply washed away in the warm blur of senselessness.
Christ, he had fucking missed this. Why the hell had he ever decided to swear off of vodka? Truly a tragic error, because he was feeling fucking great, the familiar flush warming his skin as he leaned unsteadily towards the girl who had intercepted him on his way out of the Observatory. There was a flicker of concern there originally, but it didn't last long when Bast coaxed her into not trying to parent him and encouraged her to just talk to him, instead. Now, he had a blinding grin as she commented on his eyes, noting the teal blue that had overtaken ice. Pretty, she called them, though she sounded vaguely curious; no matter, though. He was too fucked to process that they might give him away, nor could he even really recall what, exactly, they would be revealing.
"I changed them just for you," he promised, the words slurring together a bit as he ducked his head down closer to peer at her eyes studiously. After a moment of her looking flushed and startled by the proximity, he gave her a sly smile and drawled, slowly, "You win, though. Veeerry nice color, that." He studied her through his lashes, feeling flames light up his skin from the finger tips resting lightly against the inside of his wrist. These dark curls and slightly darker complexion weren't exactly the same as his usual white-blonde hair and pale skin, but hey -- he could work with what he had, here. He'd survived one body switch with his ability to charm any one he wanted in tact, and so far, this girl didn't seem to be questioning him.
"Maybe you should sit down," she said, still blushing profusely as she pulled a little harder on his wrist. Bastille was too unbalanced to fight her attempts at navigating him, so he went willingly -- twisting his hand around to lace his fingers through hers and pulled her down across from him. She started to laugh when he did, and he kept her hand captive as he slurred, "Now, tell me why I'm having all this fun alone, when you could be enjoying this horribly shitty vodka with me." He offered the handle to her with another of those bright, if a little too happy, grins -- and started laughing as she took a sip and made a face. "Easy, boo; I warned you it was shitty. Works like a charm, though."
also, for slight clarification if things are Confusing: bast's three souls have been pretty stable, so he carries on living life normally. however, when they are unstabilized, he will find his past lives influencing his thoughts, triggering flashbacks, and/or he can experience complete personality shifts as one or the other becomes more salient. his eyes will also change colors when one overtakes him, such as how his eyes are teal here. ]
His souls were unstable. Bastille knew that, could sense the turmoil and chaos brewing in his gut getting worse and worse with each day -- losing Starry had shaken something in him, and that something was rapidly rearing its ugly head in the days following. It wasn't just the grief, or the shock, or the crushing reality that he had allowed himself to care and suffered the price; it was also the overwhelming pressure that came with being forced to lead, his absolute distaste for power or responsibility, the constant reminder that he was going to fail them and burn the Ascendants to the ground, that the end was inevitable; it was pulling away from those trying to help him, it was trying to tell himself not to care any more, to turn it all off; it was the misalignment of his souls making his moods unstable and his powers dangerously close to slipping.
He was breaking apart, and he didn't know what to do about it. In the wake of Pollutedsoul's surge, he felt even more on edge, the anger quick and ready at the slightest of promptings. The sharp jealousy that he'd felt over the stupidest shit had yanked that soul to the surface, and now he didn't know how to get rid of it. There was a nasty, deranged darkness shadowing his thoughts, and he kept catching himself slipping into Pollie's thought process, kept interrupting his own thoughts in the middle of vicious tirades. Earlier that day, his vision had started to take on that strange, superimposed quality that Pollutedsoul had lived his whole life with: he'd look around and see the past flicker in and out of sight, often directly on top of the present. Earlier an Observer had come to ask him something and he'd spent a few moments ignoring her, because he could see a familiar pelt instead of her grey fur and he'd mistake her for a fucking memory. In sort, he was losing his goddamn mind -- again, seeing how Pollie had already lost it once.
He just needed a way to turn it all off, and the immediate thoughts that came to mind were too quick, too determined -- he knew that Zaniel was becoming more salient, vying for control, trying to out influence Pollutedsoul. Bastille was at a loss, uncertain which was worst: risking accidentally killing a Clanmate or breaking the one promise he'd fought for months to keep. He knew damned well that in his state, the only way to escape Pollie was to give into someone else, because his souls were too chaotic and out of touch to simply rest. He'd experienced this special hell before, the constant battle to decide who he was, and he knew that he just didn't have it together enough to get out of this happily.
There was a brief, flickering temptation to go to Hazel. She was a grounding force, much as he hated to admit it, but thinking of her only brought back the radiance of her aura as she exchanged Latin with Margy and that only brought back the nasty twist in his gut, the primal instinct that surged up and insisted that he kill her for betraying him. It was irrational and delusional, but he couldn't fight how right it felt, couldn't resist the way that he just... slipped into that thought pattern so easily with Pollutedsoul hovering just under the surface.
In the end, he broke down far more easily than he would have liked to admit, but a secret part of himself was relieved when he felt his thoughts shifting gears. Murder was rapidly replaced with vodka, and Bastille lost himself in Zaniel so completely that he forgot there were even traces of someone else to hold onto. It didn't help that an hour in he was so drunk that he didn't even remember that Starry was gone, let alone that he had crushing responsibilities to answer to, a memorial to host the next morning; it all simply washed away in the warm blur of senselessness.
Christ, he had fucking missed this. Why the hell had he ever decided to swear off of vodka? Truly a tragic error, because he was feeling fucking great, the familiar flush warming his skin as he leaned unsteadily towards the girl who had intercepted him on his way out of the Observatory. There was a flicker of concern there originally, but it didn't last long when Bast coaxed her into not trying to parent him and encouraged her to just talk to him, instead. Now, he had a blinding grin as she commented on his eyes, noting the teal blue that had overtaken ice. Pretty, she called them, though she sounded vaguely curious; no matter, though. He was too fucked to process that they might give him away, nor could he even really recall what, exactly, they would be revealing.
"I changed them just for you," he promised, the words slurring together a bit as he ducked his head down closer to peer at her eyes studiously. After a moment of her looking flushed and startled by the proximity, he gave her a sly smile and drawled, slowly, "You win, though. Veeerry nice color, that." He studied her through his lashes, feeling flames light up his skin from the finger tips resting lightly against the inside of his wrist. These dark curls and slightly darker complexion weren't exactly the same as his usual white-blonde hair and pale skin, but hey -- he could work with what he had, here. He'd survived one body switch with his ability to charm any one he wanted in tact, and so far, this girl didn't seem to be questioning him.
"Maybe you should sit down," she said, still blushing profusely as she pulled a little harder on his wrist. Bastille was too unbalanced to fight her attempts at navigating him, so he went willingly -- twisting his hand around to lace his fingers through hers and pulled her down across from him. She started to laugh when he did, and he kept her hand captive as he slurred, "Now, tell me why I'm having all this fun alone, when you could be enjoying this horribly shitty vodka with me." He offered the handle to her with another of those bright, if a little too happy, grins -- and started laughing as she took a sip and made a face. "Easy, boo; I warned you it was shitty. Works like a charm, though."
[align=center]![[Image: 4ySBjji.png]](https://i.imgur.com/4ySBjji.png)
the ascendants — astral seraph — tags
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Honey, you're familiar, like my mirror years ago, Idealism sits in prison, chivalry fell on his sword, Innocence died screaming; honey, ask me, I should know, I slithered here from Eden just to sit outside your door. [b][sup]▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃[/sup][/b]
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