05-28-2018, 02:04 AM
![[Image: jgC0ptA.png]](https://i.imgur.com/jgC0ptA.png)
Bastille had always carried a fascination for reading, no doubt some sort of cross over from Grimmkit's influence; after all, reading stories was just another form of absorbing them, if a slightly different fashion than Grimm's usual methods. There was something about his fondness for books that was unique to him, however -- none of his souls had cared for books, and Grimmkit himself hadn't cared for them during his brief lifetime as a host, either. So, it may be vaguely related to his role as Wilhelm Grimm's host, but it was still his thing. There were no bad memories attached to reading, no flashbacks rising up when he picked up a good book.
Classics in particular had always been on interest to him, as well as fairytales and histories; he figured that it was because of the classics, though, that he'd realized he wanted to really read them. He wanted the originals, the Latin -- and he knew that Grimm could speak it. Knew that some host, in some time period, had the fluency he wanted, just out of his reach. He just had to dig up the memories and brush up on his pronunciation. He still remembered that time he had gotten lost, 4 months old and too careless to worry about the potential of losing himself in the centuries of memories; he'd been in a coma for three days, trying to find his way back, and in the end he'd emerged triumphant but properly humbled. He had yet to go questing for another language in similar fashion, but Latin was the one he'd truly cared about, anyway. It was the one he'd suffered to get.
Now, Latin had a more nuanced meaning to him. For one thing, it one of his few connections to Hazel. He was convinced that if not for his willingness to teach her to read or to exchange brief conversations in Latin, she would not be nearly as willing to tolerate his presence. Hell, why would she? It wasn't like Bastille was exactly the best of people, let alone the type of person she would ever befriend normally, and her aura outshone him so thoroughly that he didn't even question that fact. Sure, she liked Octavia, but at this point he was convinced she liked the filly more than him. Still, though, he'd take it. He actually liked the quiet hours spent reading old Classics or myths to Hazel, the warmth of her skin radiating off of her and sinking into his bones.
He heard the familiar lit of her speaking Latin, and resisted the urge to retreat back into his room, to avoid her. Because he had been avoiding her, since Starry's death. He knew that he was a fucking trainwreck, and he couldn't stand Hazel's judgment, didn't want her to look at him and realize that he was so far out of control that he was too chaotic to come close. For whatever reason, he didn't want to push her away -- and the only way he could seem to do that just then was to avoid her like the plague. Still, however, he felt a burning need to know why she was speaking Latin to anyone else.
He would have just gone back to his damn room if he had anticipated what was going to happen, honestly.
Instead, he followed her voice, trying to push down the turbulent emotions raging in him, to ignore the weight of Starry's pendant clinking against his French coin with every step. He tried to look less listless and moody, but when he saw that it was Margy and stopped short a few paces away from them, he forgot that he was trying not to act like an asshole. No, he was too busy staring at the two of them, processing the fact that Margy knew how to speak Latin, too. Margy, whom Hazel actually adored and was growing increasingly close to; Margy, whom Hazel was looking at with such hope and excitement, her aura nearly blinding with the happiness that flared out in response to more lilting Latin from the Observer; Margy, whom Hazel would probably rather speak Latin with and learn to read from.
As his stare flickered between them, Bastille felt something dark and nasty surge through him. It was not something he could place, and it took him by surprise, but it was twisting and bitter and he realized, abruptly, that he could feel this more strongly than he'd felt anything in the days following Starry's death. It was soul-consuming and horrible, and he had the sudden, brief urge to rip Margy's throat out -- an impulse that felt so natural and right that it took him a second to realize what had just crossed through his thoughts. And by the time he took notice, the flickering memories were sinking in -- this vicious, angry jealousy that Pollutedsoul felt, the deranged edge that had overtaken his soul, the sticky warmth of blood on his paws.
Bastille realized, with crisp clarity, that he was being irrational. He knew that Starry's death had him in a shitty fucking state, but in that moment, he was fighting a losing battle against the surges of Pollie's soul, the flickering impressions of his thoughts and memories as he felt that nasty jealousy erupt in his chest. The ground shuddered briefly, a minor earthquake reacting to his instability, and he found himself speaking before the words even registered in his thoughts, "Well, I guess Margy will make a much better teacher than me, anyway."
He scowled once he realized the words were out there, but he didn't even care at this point -- his skin felt warm and tight, and for a moment, his irises flashed -- ice blue flickering an odd, mismatched tropical blue and green before they melted back into that cold blue. He could feel Pollutedsoul simmering on the surface, that vicious anger clawing at his thoughts, and he struggled to force it down as he took a step back. He could feel his control slipping even more, the raging heat in his gut more than just low-thrumming violence; his paws were heating up, little flames sparking across the ground in front of him as his dark stare avoided Hazel and found Margy instead. He felt that snap of animosity, the irrational urge to lunge for her, and he turned away instead. The boy was gone within moments, evidently deciding that he was less dangerous far, far away from them.
Besides -- he didn't want to sit around and watch Hazel light up in excitement over Margy's Latin any more than he wanted to stab a fork in his eye.
Classics in particular had always been on interest to him, as well as fairytales and histories; he figured that it was because of the classics, though, that he'd realized he wanted to really read them. He wanted the originals, the Latin -- and he knew that Grimm could speak it. Knew that some host, in some time period, had the fluency he wanted, just out of his reach. He just had to dig up the memories and brush up on his pronunciation. He still remembered that time he had gotten lost, 4 months old and too careless to worry about the potential of losing himself in the centuries of memories; he'd been in a coma for three days, trying to find his way back, and in the end he'd emerged triumphant but properly humbled. He had yet to go questing for another language in similar fashion, but Latin was the one he'd truly cared about, anyway. It was the one he'd suffered to get.
Now, Latin had a more nuanced meaning to him. For one thing, it one of his few connections to Hazel. He was convinced that if not for his willingness to teach her to read or to exchange brief conversations in Latin, she would not be nearly as willing to tolerate his presence. Hell, why would she? It wasn't like Bastille was exactly the best of people, let alone the type of person she would ever befriend normally, and her aura outshone him so thoroughly that he didn't even question that fact. Sure, she liked Octavia, but at this point he was convinced she liked the filly more than him. Still, though, he'd take it. He actually liked the quiet hours spent reading old Classics or myths to Hazel, the warmth of her skin radiating off of her and sinking into his bones.
He heard the familiar lit of her speaking Latin, and resisted the urge to retreat back into his room, to avoid her. Because he had been avoiding her, since Starry's death. He knew that he was a fucking trainwreck, and he couldn't stand Hazel's judgment, didn't want her to look at him and realize that he was so far out of control that he was too chaotic to come close. For whatever reason, he didn't want to push her away -- and the only way he could seem to do that just then was to avoid her like the plague. Still, however, he felt a burning need to know why she was speaking Latin to anyone else.
He would have just gone back to his damn room if he had anticipated what was going to happen, honestly.
Instead, he followed her voice, trying to push down the turbulent emotions raging in him, to ignore the weight of Starry's pendant clinking against his French coin with every step. He tried to look less listless and moody, but when he saw that it was Margy and stopped short a few paces away from them, he forgot that he was trying not to act like an asshole. No, he was too busy staring at the two of them, processing the fact that Margy knew how to speak Latin, too. Margy, whom Hazel actually adored and was growing increasingly close to; Margy, whom Hazel was looking at with such hope and excitement, her aura nearly blinding with the happiness that flared out in response to more lilting Latin from the Observer; Margy, whom Hazel would probably rather speak Latin with and learn to read from.
As his stare flickered between them, Bastille felt something dark and nasty surge through him. It was not something he could place, and it took him by surprise, but it was twisting and bitter and he realized, abruptly, that he could feel this more strongly than he'd felt anything in the days following Starry's death. It was soul-consuming and horrible, and he had the sudden, brief urge to rip Margy's throat out -- an impulse that felt so natural and right that it took him a second to realize what had just crossed through his thoughts. And by the time he took notice, the flickering memories were sinking in -- this vicious, angry jealousy that Pollutedsoul felt, the deranged edge that had overtaken his soul, the sticky warmth of blood on his paws.
Bastille realized, with crisp clarity, that he was being irrational. He knew that Starry's death had him in a shitty fucking state, but in that moment, he was fighting a losing battle against the surges of Pollie's soul, the flickering impressions of his thoughts and memories as he felt that nasty jealousy erupt in his chest. The ground shuddered briefly, a minor earthquake reacting to his instability, and he found himself speaking before the words even registered in his thoughts, "Well, I guess Margy will make a much better teacher than me, anyway."
He scowled once he realized the words were out there, but he didn't even care at this point -- his skin felt warm and tight, and for a moment, his irises flashed -- ice blue flickering an odd, mismatched tropical blue and green before they melted back into that cold blue. He could feel Pollutedsoul simmering on the surface, that vicious anger clawing at his thoughts, and he struggled to force it down as he took a step back. He could feel his control slipping even more, the raging heat in his gut more than just low-thrumming violence; his paws were heating up, little flames sparking across the ground in front of him as his dark stare avoided Hazel and found Margy instead. He felt that snap of animosity, the irrational urge to lunge for her, and he turned away instead. The boy was gone within moments, evidently deciding that he was less dangerous far, far away from them.
Besides -- he didn't want to sit around and watch Hazel light up in excitement over Margy's Latin any more than he wanted to stab a fork in his eye.
[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]