09-18-2018, 02:12 PM
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BASTILLEPRISONER AURELIUS
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He finds himself in the clearing again, predictably. Maybe this should be expected by now, and it sort of is, in a twisted way. He stands silently looking blankly at the souls around him, chest burning with phantom flames. There's a beat and then Zaniel says, sounding amused and a bit sly, "We really have to stop meeting like this."
The silence breaks, and Bastille glares at him. Echo simply looks highly unimpressed, as if disdainful that Bast seems to have gotten himself into this situation, again. The clear judgment riles his nerves, and Bast gripes a bit childishly, as if somehow comparing stupid deaths could save his pride, "At least I didn't drown."
"At least I didn't bite my wrists," Echo shoots back, immediate, the words crisp and cold. They both look, simultaneously, at Pollie — because it may be a jab at Bastille but technically Pollie was accountable for it, too.
He actually looks a bit apologetic, almost sheepish. Bastille stares at him and realizes that his looks less solid than the others, less tangible; realizes that his eyes are softer and less feral than they've been in the past, voice soft as he provides, "Sorry." Abruptly it occurs to him that he's looking at Pollie as he was before he died, and isn't that a strange development.
Nevertheless, Bastille snorts derisively at his apology, and is irritated that the noise is mirrored in Echo. He hates when he finds himself aligning most with him, of all these assholes, and he snorts one more time as if to make it clear that he is still judging Echo for judging him.
"Well, at least you can't bitch at me about not ODing," Zaniel cuts in, sounding delighted to be breaking the tension with his bullshit. Bast gives him a nasty look, less then pleased to be reminded that somehow, it was Zaniel that he shared a death with. He opted instead for stewing in moody silence, deciding that he had no interest in talking to any one them. To himself. Whatever.
It is in the silence that he realizes that there is no idle heartbeat drumming in the clearing, and he's not sure why that surprises him. He knows that the Pitt bastard took his heart — really? — but somehow the silence is strange and unfamiliar. It is also in the silence that he finds himself looking at Grimmkit, scowling at the tiny, still form.
Green eyes bore into him just as creepily as they always do, and Bastille finally caves. "Why didn't my powers work?" he demands, certain that he had the answers, certain that this was his fault, somehow. The vague chill of deja vu that hit him back there. The eerie sense that he'd been there before, and not just in this clearing. The sudden failure of his powers. It was always Grimm's fault.
No response.
Bastille huffs in irritation but doesn't bother trying to force acknowledgement. Grimm never answers him when they're here, trapped in the quiet stillness of the clearing, hanging in limbo. He just stared expectantly and waited, as if Bast knew how the hell he was supposed to get himself out of here. Maybe this time nothing would happen and the clearing would finally just fade to darkness. Or maybe he'd be trapped here with these assholes, forever.
"This is bullshit," he announces, met with more silence. Great. Now even himself wouldn't talk to him.
In the end, Valkyr leaves him on the border, there and gone. There's a note that only reads "sorry", cryptically enough, but that's about the only indication of how their seraph ended up on their border, fur sticky and matted with blood; the wound gaping in his chest was obscured by the rest of his body, but that amount of blood seemed to suggest that his immobility was a bit more final. Ironically, it was a fairly familiar sight, to those who'd been here in the beginning — it was almost the exact spot on the border he'd been dumped last time, only this time he was bloody.
[align=center][table][tr][td]The silence breaks, and Bastille glares at him. Echo simply looks highly unimpressed, as if disdainful that Bast seems to have gotten himself into this situation, again. The clear judgment riles his nerves, and Bast gripes a bit childishly, as if somehow comparing stupid deaths could save his pride, "At least I didn't drown."
"At least I didn't bite my wrists," Echo shoots back, immediate, the words crisp and cold. They both look, simultaneously, at Pollie — because it may be a jab at Bastille but technically Pollie was accountable for it, too.
He actually looks a bit apologetic, almost sheepish. Bastille stares at him and realizes that his looks less solid than the others, less tangible; realizes that his eyes are softer and less feral than they've been in the past, voice soft as he provides, "Sorry." Abruptly it occurs to him that he's looking at Pollie as he was before he died, and isn't that a strange development.
Nevertheless, Bastille snorts derisively at his apology, and is irritated that the noise is mirrored in Echo. He hates when he finds himself aligning most with him, of all these assholes, and he snorts one more time as if to make it clear that he is still judging Echo for judging him.
"Well, at least you can't bitch at me about not ODing," Zaniel cuts in, sounding delighted to be breaking the tension with his bullshit. Bast gives him a nasty look, less then pleased to be reminded that somehow, it was Zaniel that he shared a death with. He opted instead for stewing in moody silence, deciding that he had no interest in talking to any one them. To himself. Whatever.
It is in the silence that he realizes that there is no idle heartbeat drumming in the clearing, and he's not sure why that surprises him. He knows that the Pitt bastard took his heart — really? — but somehow the silence is strange and unfamiliar. It is also in the silence that he finds himself looking at Grimmkit, scowling at the tiny, still form.
Green eyes bore into him just as creepily as they always do, and Bastille finally caves. "Why didn't my powers work?" he demands, certain that he had the answers, certain that this was his fault, somehow. The vague chill of deja vu that hit him back there. The eerie sense that he'd been there before, and not just in this clearing. The sudden failure of his powers. It was always Grimm's fault.
No response.
Bastille huffs in irritation but doesn't bother trying to force acknowledgement. Grimm never answers him when they're here, trapped in the quiet stillness of the clearing, hanging in limbo. He just stared expectantly and waited, as if Bast knew how the hell he was supposed to get himself out of here. Maybe this time nothing would happen and the clearing would finally just fade to darkness. Or maybe he'd be trapped here with these assholes, forever.
"This is bullshit," he announces, met with more silence. Great. Now even himself wouldn't talk to him.
In the end, Valkyr leaves him on the border, there and gone. There's a note that only reads "sorry", cryptically enough, but that's about the only indication of how their seraph ended up on their border, fur sticky and matted with blood; the wound gaping in his chest was obscured by the rest of his body, but that amount of blood seemed to suggest that his immobility was a bit more final. Ironically, it was a fairly familiar sight, to those who'd been here in the beginning — it was almost the exact spot on the border he'd been dumped last time, only this time he was bloody.
BY THE GRACE OF THE FIRE AND THE [color=#b4d5ee]FLAMES
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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]