07-16-2018, 07:20 PM
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SING, GODDESS, OF THE RAGE OF ACHILLES
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Bastille considered himself a helpful individual, when he felt like it. He could rattle of suggestions and generally would go about finding a solution for his problems or the challenges that were presented to him, if only because he seemed to have a natural inclination to do so. Often times he was convinced that it was a carry over from Grimm, from the host mentality that was engrained in him: he had a drive to help people, to track down the bad emotions, to take them away and the memories that came with. Whatever. It didn't really matter the reasoning: the moral of the story was that he defaulted to helping others.
So, naturally, when he realized that Rin needed their potential Halos to demonstrate knowledge in some way, he knew exactly what he was going to do. He'd been holding onto the plan since she announced the tasks, and as they grew closer to the deadline, it crossed his thoughts once more. With a yawn, the seraph strolled out of the observatory that morning with a clear objection in mind. He didn't go very far: simply far enough to give himself space, inspecting his side idly as he considered. As he set his claws delicately against his shoulder, he felt the memories flicker over him briefly, small glimpses rising up at the back of his thoughts.
The ancient traditions of the small little Tribe, painting their stories and their histories into their skin with delicate swipes of them claws. He remembered their teachings as he traced his claws through his skin now, telling his own story and pressing crushed berries into the wounds. Indigo had asked for art, and he would give her art fit for a ruthless heart such as hers: art that was painful, art that carried meaning in the flesh.
Bastille dug his claws in shallowly, just enough to tear, and drug them down his side slowly. It stung, a precise trail of flames in his wake, but his pain tolerance was high. He seemly grit his teeth and breathed out, reminding himself of how to stay calm, keep his breathing even, to follow the Tribe's teachings. "This... This is what we will do, now. I want your ranks scarred into your skin, I want you all to offer your flesh to me like this," Indigo had breathed, reverent and delighted, and he smiled to himself as he raked his claws through the middle of the wound a bit deeper for good measure.
Once he was content with his "wound", the blood starting to flow faster down his sides and legs, Bast headed back towards the observatory. He slowed his steps a bit, considered for a moment before slamming his right front paw against a tree hard (and that hurt a bit more, jesus), and carried on through the entry with a bit of a limp.
"Hey, Rin?" he called, his voice carrying deliberately. He wasn't actually looking for the Cleric, obviously, but pretenses, here. Bast was nothing if not thorough. He settled back, knowing damned well he wasn't losing blood fast enough to start feeling dizzy for another few minutes, and drawled, with a rueful smile, "I may have had a run in."
So, naturally, when he realized that Rin needed their potential Halos to demonstrate knowledge in some way, he knew exactly what he was going to do. He'd been holding onto the plan since she announced the tasks, and as they grew closer to the deadline, it crossed his thoughts once more. With a yawn, the seraph strolled out of the observatory that morning with a clear objection in mind. He didn't go very far: simply far enough to give himself space, inspecting his side idly as he considered. As he set his claws delicately against his shoulder, he felt the memories flicker over him briefly, small glimpses rising up at the back of his thoughts.
The ancient traditions of the small little Tribe, painting their stories and their histories into their skin with delicate swipes of them claws. He remembered their teachings as he traced his claws through his skin now, telling his own story and pressing crushed berries into the wounds. Indigo had asked for art, and he would give her art fit for a ruthless heart such as hers: art that was painful, art that carried meaning in the flesh.
Bastille dug his claws in shallowly, just enough to tear, and drug them down his side slowly. It stung, a precise trail of flames in his wake, but his pain tolerance was high. He seemly grit his teeth and breathed out, reminding himself of how to stay calm, keep his breathing even, to follow the Tribe's teachings. "This... This is what we will do, now. I want your ranks scarred into your skin, I want you all to offer your flesh to me like this," Indigo had breathed, reverent and delighted, and he smiled to himself as he raked his claws through the middle of the wound a bit deeper for good measure.
Once he was content with his "wound", the blood starting to flow faster down his sides and legs, Bast headed back towards the observatory. He slowed his steps a bit, considered for a moment before slamming his right front paw against a tree hard (and that hurt a bit more, jesus), and carried on through the entry with a bit of a limp.
"Hey, Rin?" he called, his voice carrying deliberately. He wasn't actually looking for the Cleric, obviously, but pretenses, here. Bast was nothing if not thorough. He settled back, knowing damned well he wasn't losing blood fast enough to start feeling dizzy for another few minutes, and drawled, with a rueful smile, "I may have had a run in."
[b]BASTILLEPRISONER — ASTRAL SERAPH — ASCENDANTS — TAGS
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]
