03-22-2018, 07:03 PM
BASTILLEPAW AURELIUS ✧ ascendants — fireball — tags
[div style="background-color: #e3dfdf; border: 1px black solid; width: 500px; line-height: 110%; word-wrap: break-word; text-align: justify; margin-top: -1px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; color: black; padding: 10px; text-size: 10px"][ this is basically just to explain bastille's three souls/soul shard a little bit with their background + to give bast something to be salty about when he wakes up huhuhu
tl;dr: bast passed out in the middle of the observatory, had a spooky chat with his past lives as they made demands of him, and now he's still unconscious ]
Bastille had been making quite a few trips to the borders lately.
It was almost an accident, the business he had found himself stumbling into. Grimmkit had always encouraged him to listen to stories, to keep track of what he learned, to hoard; somewhere down the line, taking memories from others had just become a means to an end. It was sort of addictive, knowing that he had the power to do for others what he couldn't do for himself; to know that he might be making their lives easier, lighter, happier, even by taking the weight of those memories off of their shoulders. He knew he would have given anything to grow up in ignorant bliss, with no recollection of his pathetic past lives. It could have been... nice, almost. He might be different than the apathetic asshole he was today.
That being said, even he had his limits. He had been born with an extraordinary control over his powers, particularly the mental ones, and had never had to worry about it before. Altering so many memories so close together, however, was finally having its toll; not only was Bastille starting to feel those blocked off memories creep in along the edges, showing him the things he'd stolen from strangers, but his head was killing him, too. As he headed through camp, his mind felt sluggish and his vision was starting to go funny, scenes from his past lives super imposed on top of what he was seeing in the present.
That isn't right, he thought, vaguely befuddled, That... That used to happen to Polluted- but.. 'm not... His dragging thoughts were processing so, so slowly, and then they sort of just stuttered and stopped as Bastille blacked out, sliding to the ground midstep.
He stood at a crossroads, the very center of a three-point star. The sky was dark and the air thick, death-pale mist curling at his paws and stretching out to his ghostly visitors.
Directly in front of him, the first point of the star, stood Echo of Death's Call: a lithe jet black tom with frosty blue eyes, faint silver-y scar lines standing out proudly against his dark pelt. They were intricate, placed there deliberately and carefully; a relic from his time as Stealth-Walker in a distant tribe, serving under Indigo. The bitter boy of many names and many places, the one who walked in Death's trail, borne of a dead mother and plagued by darkness everywhere he went; the one who gave his heart to two, and lost them both. Boo used to be slang in the Tribe; boo is what first Dawn and then Indigo had taunted him as. The word echoed through the clearing now, packed with memories and anger and pain as the tom whispered, "About time you come to face us, boo."
Bastille couldn't see him, but behind him to the left stood the second point of the star, Pollutedsoul: a white-footed black tom with mismatched blue and green eyes. He'd been the patriotic one, the one who lived and bled for his Clan with the fierce sort of dedication that was almost psychotic; the little boy who grew up plagued by morbid memories and nightmares of a past life, the one who saw the world as of old superimposed on top of the present day, the one whose soul was calling out for something he couldn't find. He was the sweet one who fell from grace, who grew bitter and angry and resigned as he searched without fruition and faded from relevance in the Clan he grew up loving so much. He was the freak accident and the death unfulfilled, and within him boiled the misery of the failures and anger of the forgotten. "You still haven't found it for us," he whispered, "Our soul is still seeking, and you haven't found it."
Behind him to the right was the third and last point of the star, Zaniel Facillimous Bellator: a sleek black and white tom with blue-green eyes who stood for a moment before his form shifted and flickered into that of a younger, seal lynx mink with piercing light blue eyes. With him came the most tumultuous emotions; he was the one with a huge family of liars and betrayers, the one who never fit in with his siblings and who abandoned them all in an effort to find himself. He was the one who grew angrier and angrier, who found drugs and she-cats and embraced the twisted image he stumbled into. The one who sought for a family so desperately, who threw himself to the Bellators hoping so fiercely to find that comfort, who lost them and only got angrier. "You think this place will be your family?" he snorted in a murmur, "We don't have family, bitch."
On his left, pressed close to his body, was the flickering and wavering forms of the soul piece that remained lodged in with the rest. Grimmkit: son of Zaniel and one of the many reincarnations of Wilhelm Grimm; the little boy who had lived again and again so many times through so many eras, who carried so many stories in that young head of his. He was more solid, his black smoke fur dark against Bastille's bengal pelt, and with the pieces of his spirit came his memories and powers; it was Grimm he had to thank for his control, for the things he was capable of. He was not quite a part of Bastille's puzzle-piece souls; rather, Bastille was the host, almost Grimm but not quite. He was just... connected. Part of, somehow.
The mist was so think, now; it hung to his frame, darkening his silvery fur, and pulling on his heavy bones. Bastille felt torn and whole all at once: he had his memories and his lives pressing down on him, manifested so clearly before him, and yet they were at a balance. He was not at odds with his past, as he had been his whole life; he felt the failure and the anger coursing through his veins, but it did not poison him as if once had. It was new life, a fiery desire to push forward, the whispering hum of determination; he had three souls, three lives, pushing against him and murmuring of victory, of him redeeming them all. "This is your turn," came the voice of one of them, "This is your time to do what we couldn't."
Bastille closed his eyes, and one by one the souls began to vanish: first Grimm, Zaniel, Polluted. Finally it was only Echo standing across from him, murmuring, "We may be Bastille, but Bastille is also us," before he too was gone. The mist rolled and thickened, washing over the lone tom slowly, drenching him in darkness as the pale whiteness melted into shadow.
Bastille didn't wake up. The dream was fading fast, that clearing vanishing too quickly, but none of that unity, that sense of purpose, was resonating with him; there was simply a void where he should feel something, a void where their voices were moments before. He felt... nothing. Weightlessness.
There was nothing, and for once, he wasn't plagued by his past lives pushing and pulling, demanding his attention. There was just darkness and silence, and Bastille slept on.
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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