04-15-2018, 11:04 PM
[table][tr][td][/td][td][/td][/tr][/table]
[div style="background-color: #e3dfdf; width: 305px; border-bottom: 1px solid black; border-left: 1px solid black; border-right: 1px solid black; padding: 10px; line-height: 110%; word-wrap: break-word; text-align: justify; margin: auto; color: black; font-family: Georgia; text-size: 6pt"]Bastille had considered the foreignness of these lands and groups to be vaguely frustrating. Sure, he was looking for a change -- he had left the realm of his mother's Clans for a reason, and had wondered on his own for most of his life specifically because he had no interest in their idle lives. He had no interest in most group-living, really. His early life had been plagued with anger and resentment, the sense of hopelessness that came along with knowing that he was ultimately damned to failure.
At some point, the anger had faded. Bastille wasn't sure when, nor could he put a paw on what had led to it. Maybe he had just gotten tired of so much aggression. Maybe he had simply accepted the inevitable; there was a certain calm in acceptance, in moving forward with little regard for what the future held. Of course, he knew it wouldn't end well -- look at his souls. Look at the lives all three of them lived. He couldn't fathom why Grimm had chosen such a fucked up set of degenerates to attach himself too, but at this point Bast had stopped trying to figure it out. He had stopped caring. Sometime around 7 months, it stopped mattering to him -- and 2 months later, he was finally ready to start living in something other than apathy again.
Still, though. He had not been prepared to be the first true joiner Starry encountered. He had expected something more established, something with tradition. Instead, he got a leader who looked confused by even the most simple of Clan norms: a leader who knew nothing of warrior naming styles (despite having a warrior name), who thought weekly tasks and ranks were novel, who seemed confused when Bast asked too many questions that simply felt normal to him. Even if he had left them young, Bast was still influenced by the Clanners, and he had found it frustrating to be forced to explain the customs of a group he had never wanted to belong to.
It had been a month or so since he'd joined them, though, and things seemed more normal. More as he expected it. It wasn't the same as those Clans, not really. But it was home for him, finally -- and Bastille would defend it to the death, which was all that mattered, he supposed. He had regained a sense of purpose.
At her request, he paused slightly, weighing his options. His footsteps didn't falter as he headed towards the Observatory, but he was clearly considering his response. Their rooms were in the underground complex, and the nature of the dome meant that there weren't really "above ground" floors -- not really. There was the central area, but the walls steepled up into the retractable roof. So, there wasn't really any floor to host rooms with windows.
Bast didn't seem to care much about people, but he could be astonishingly helpful in an off-hand way. "Well, we don't really have rooms with windows at the moment," he said, straight-forward. No point in lying to her or offering false comforts. "I'm thinking of trying to build an off-shoot to the Observatory, though -- something for our larger members." Well, mostly, for dragons like Daunte who didn't quite fit any where but the Great Circle. "Maybe we can come up with a rooming system in there, with windows. For now, we have paintings." He shrugged, as if admitting that a painting of the outside world didn't really compare to the real thing.
Maybe someone else would have apologized for the inconvenience. Bastille saw it as simple fact of the matter -- there was nothing he could do about it, and besides, he didn't design the Observatory. It's not like the structural lack of windows was on him. After a moment, he commented as an after thought, "The roof of the Observatory is usually open all the time, though, so at least there's one giant ass window above the main portion of camp all day. Our leader is fond of stars."
He didn't ask any questions himself. As he let that rest, he felt no need to interrogate her about her past or ask her if she had any nicknames (ones that sounded more accurate and fitting than "Margaret"). He was more of the sort to let others talk as they wanted, and he'd match their level of interest.
At the next prompting, he glanced sideways at her as they walked. They were near to the Observatory now, a few minutes away; the border she'd come upon had been a close one. He nodded towards some place beyond the dome-like structure emerging ahead of them, though. "There's a flower field on the other side of camp, a ways off. Lots of... well, flowers and shit. We don't have any cultivated garden yet, though. I'm sure Starry would be fuckin' thrilled to make one, if you wanted." Starry was fucking thrilled about everything, to be fair.
It wasn't exactly kindness or comfort, the way he seemed to address her issues and wants. It was more of practical suggestion: she wanted things, and Bast could provide ideas. He didn't seemed too concerned with making her happy, as if some altruism guided his words; in reality, he was just a thinker, and tended to think aloud in conversation. That, and despite his sometimes gruff speech, he wasn't a complete asshole.
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]