Posts by bastilleprisoner

Sure thing to both ! c: Would you like threads?

By the way! We are bringing the Bellator family back to life, so all kits will need to carry the last name. cx

Totally! He's a grumpy little shit, and doesn't like people, but I can make it work. c; Want a thread?

Sure thing ! Zanny doesn't care if his little spawn come with him or never know him, so it doesn't even need to be an even split -- just however many decide they want to go. :J Getting a cougar body right now!

Do you want a thread or just a straight to adoption thread thing?

Maybelline Yes please!! c:

Charlotte Sure thing c; Again, he's a tough guy to be friends with, but he'll come around. Want me to make or you?

Starling Eh, he's anti-Clan and very used to being in the Clan that captures and not being captured, so he'll probably throw a complete tantrum. But for a brief capture, sure!

Telescopic Yes. Much needed. He currently has a raging wrath for the Bellators, so he very very much needs to talk to someone to smack him back into shape. Want me to make?

Sherlock YEEEEEEEEeeeeee. I can make! c:

Daddy track. <3 Only thing to add is that he's a Bellator, so they'll need to carry the name.

Telescopic Cool with me if it is with Sherlock !

Frenchie They can carry both if they need the Deerling name too. c:

Edit, missed Starling -- Yeah, totally works!

[ tracks from sunclan ]

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Madi realized she didn't know where this was going down, so she figured it would be here. Trespassing was fun, right? Right. Zaniel's tail lashed behind him as he prowled through the foreign territory, seeking out chaos, drugs, or pretty she-cats; his priorities narrowed to fucking shit up or just plain fucking. There was no other reason to be there other than the fact that it was fun, damnit, and who cares if someone found him? He'd laugh in their face. There was nothing they could do to him; nothing.

He was already dead on the inside.

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[justify]There wasn't much to show for the litter that had stolen away Frenchpaw's life in private.

There were kits, of course. It wasn't exactly certain of how many, per say, but there had been at least one or two to survive the messy, blood wreck of a kitting-- as far as anyone knew, that was. It seemed that the bright, bubbly she-cat had gone out of the blue, killed by kittens that hadn't even been announced, and there wasn't much information available about the whole ordeal in general. She was gone. There may or may not have been kits. And that was that, a ghost of a cheerful smile to be forgotten swiftly.

Bastillekit stood on the border, head raised high, and stared out over the vaguely familiar territory before him in patient silence. The sleek kitten was pale and willowy, a ghost come to life, and pale baby blue eyes scanned back and forth in a way that seemed too knowing for his age. It was funny, really, how still he was -- a stark contrast to his mother, a cat he only had vague recollection of (warm bodies and milk and bloody fur and death tainting a smell that should have been sweet and oh, this was so familiar, so familiar, weening from a dead mother-- it prompted thoughts and whispers of the past, of other lives, of other kittens and other deadly litters). Even as the vague feeling of unrest blossomed in his chest, had him itching to move, too many pent of emotions fighting for control, some of them his, some of them others', and yet his, too, a strange, conflicting war of feeling and memory and-- and he still didn't move. Just sat.

And waited.

[justify]The tom glanced up and stared for a moment, baby blue gaze intense, before it slowly narrowed to a glare. He felt a rush run through him, too many names dancing at the tip of his tongue at once-- Echo, Polluted, Zaniel-- but he bit them back before they could claw their way free of his throat, before more could spring up. He thought instead of his mother, of the soft murmur in French, of the quiet, slurred voice rumbling in his thoughts. "Bastille," he said, voice cold and challenging, as if he expected an argument, "My name is Bastillekit. I'm looking for my family." He lifted his chin higher, putting the coin necklace around his throat on display, like a declaration.

[justify]His skin twitched and crawled with irritation, a festering wound digging deeper, but he forced himself to remain still. It was like something was withering within him, rearing up to squirm and gnaw at his fragile insides, a swirling mass of rage and failure and loneliness that shouldn't belong to one so young-- it ate at him, and he held it back, feeling dizzy and heady with the souls battering against his insides. Not here for a fight, this other kit, this random stranger; not here for a fight, Bastille told himself, and breathed easier.

"My mother is dead," he said slowly, flatly, gaze shifting to the new cat, and his glare was a little less harsh this time. My mother is dead. Too many mothers. He thought of all of them, of all four of them, and smashed the memories, focused on the present, the mother that mattered now. "Frenchpaw. Frenchpaw-- and, my father, he's dead, too." He didn't remember the tom's name, only vaguely remembered his mother's murmuring in French. "Don't know if I've got any siblings, but-- Morning... Morningcoffee. She's dead, too, isn't she?" He paused, scrambling to remember more names, and with a huff, "Polar? Vivid? Zeph? Peru? Those are the-- those are the names I remember. My family." He didn't realize the error in his words, that those were friends, a ragtag knit together family, but it was what he remembered. He stared them down as if, again, expecting protests. He swallowed the rush of names that rose up from past lives.

[justify]Bastille felt like he was on a tether, his gaze locked on only one femme in particular as he approached the group. His little mouth was taut in a frown, grumpy as usual, but he was-- he was being pulled closer, attracted by her in a way he couldn't describe, like something was drawing him closer. Baby blue gaze boring into her -- her, her, what was her name? -- the kitten came closer, prowling, brooding, and finally addressed her directly, curtly, "Which one are you, then? Not Morning-- Not-- Vivid. Vivi. You're Vivi."

His voice was final, the puzzle pieces clicking together on their own, and once more he thought of soft murmurs in tilting French. Yes, he could see it. He could feel the soft tug and the clicking sensation of a guess made correctly. Bastille stared harder, glaring silent, light blue gaze familiar and yet hostile in a strange way. A challenge, like he was daring her not to be Vivid. [b]"You are, aren't you?"

[justify]Fine. That was fine. He didn't care for her apologies -- he knew death well, lived in death, was born in death, embodied so many deaths, felt them swirling under his skin (a river, a cliff, and claws) -- and the look he gave her said as much. The next moment his gaze was sharpening, however, and that vivid intensity was back, the glare relaxed as he took in the information greedily. "Zephy, Vivi," he muttered, repeating the names, angling a sideways look at the femme before he was straightening. "Good. Great. That's all that matters. Don't say sorry for no reason. It's annoying." He frowned at her, wounds itching under his pelt.

omfg bramble and bastille need a thread

"oh mom liked you let's be shitheads together 5ever"

snark competitions mhm

Yooo. So, while Frenchie may be dead (sob), her baby boy that I've been plotting for ten years is here now. Come hither and plot with this grumpy grump (because that sounds appealing, right?).

Bastille is 3 moons, generally rude and pretty grumpy, very intense, and a little crazy. He's got the souls of three dead toms in him (all of whom died unfulfilled / with wasted potential) and is basically a ticking time bomb, so to speak. He's got loads of memories of loss and failure and sucking and missing the mark, so he's a pessimist and sees only damnation for himself. Hence, grumpiness. Also sassiness. And snark galore.

However, he's also going to be the one to fulfill all of those goals of his past lives, which means as he gets older he'll be a busy boy. He's open to a lot of plots, mostly any plots, even has a love plot planned out to fulfill one soul's destiny. The works.

It'll be fun. He's got 10 different powers, so he's open on that front for power-y plots too.

Just throw anything and everything at me. Random threads are chill. Plot ideas are chill. Friends of Frenchie hitting him up?? So chill.

[justify]"Who are you?" he questioned dryly, ambling up to the older she-cat, his slim pale body in stark contrast to someone so much older than him. Bastille stared her down with intense pale blues, head cocking, and narrowed his eyes slightly. "I don't know you," he decided, despite the fact that he knew no one and no one knew him, and tilted his chin up slightly. "Are you returning?" was his next round of questioning, intent on putting a name to the face, a history to it.

[justify]No, he didn't recognize that name. He didn't remember his mother ever mentioning it, and it certainly wasn't one of the names from the past that were whispered in his head (he clamped down on the murmurs, on indie and dawn, stella and libby, theron). Bastille felt his soul twitching, his skin itching, and stared her down for a solid moment before huffing, "Bastillekit." His pale gaze skittered to the tom, and he glared, frowning, unfamiliar with the strange response.

Taking a step back, the tom watch the two -- the siblings, apparently -- reunite, getting the distinct impression that something was not right here. A faint buzz under his fur, a vague impression of missing pieces, and it was enough to have the tom reluctant to associate any more with the two of them. His tail lashed, and his gaze turned from cat to cat, and though he sort of didn't want to see what would happen -- well, he was sort of curious, too. He stayed.

[justify][ giggles bc i love the band too
but bast is named after the prison
//morbid right ]

[justify]Bastille shot a vaguely annoyed look at the she-cat, because, really, Waywordrose was kind and all, but she was just so... So. He felt vaguely creeped out by her, like her over abundant kindness and sugary sweetness would somehow infect him and suddenly he'd be all soft murmurs and pretty, nice smiles. The grumpy tom was, understandably, quite appalled by the plausible threat to his terrifying case of grouch. He liked to avoid her like the plague.

"Vivid," he concluded, baby blue stare locked on her once more, and she was the only one stopping him from getting the hell outta dodge. He was willing to risk his pissy demeanor in order to talk to this girl. "It's you, then. I'm Bastille." A pause, in which he stared at her intently, felt a faint stirring of too many souls crowding inside, and went on, [b]"You were... You were my mother's friend. Sister, maybe. I'm-- Frenchpaw mentioned you."

[justify]Bastille was... lost.

Yeah, that was a good word for it. He was lost, stumbling blind through his own head, trapped in his own body, tangled up in the gnarled knots of too many souls vying to overcome him. It was confusing, and he was turning round and round in a flurry of names, not sure if he was Zaniel or Echo or Pollutedsoul or-- or if he was Bastille at all, if ever, couldn't tell where one identity began and the other ended. It was a mess, and he struggled against it, desperate to escape, to scramble free of the pit of failure and defeat and broken promises and lost potentially and--

And he was just sitting there, glaring down at the ground, a grumpy little scrap of fur staring straight down. He looked pissy as usual, but-- but vacant, lost. His aura was throbbing in distress, his soul untethered and wandering, and he was lost deep within himself, struggling to make sense of it. Like he'd gone asleep with his eyes wide open, glaring without really seeing. It was unnerving, and to top it off there were shards of ghosts flickering closer, popping into existence near him in broken fragments every few minutes. Pieces of souls trying to reform and get at him, to add to the swell of memories and lives and feelings, but thankfully, thankfully, none of them took.

It didn't get rid of the three already in his head, though. Those were there to stay, and just then, he could swear he was Echo, could taste the fresh crispness of ToRW on his tongue, could see flashes of bright red fur and dark red fur and hear two names chiming in his head -- Indie, Dawn -- and just as quickly he was Bastille again.

Shaking his head furiously, the tom-kit angrily cast as the press of memories, and jerked his head up, staring across the clearing. After a blink, he was frowning again, snorting irritably. His name was Bastille, damnit, and he may be damned-- may be ruins-- no hope for him, clearly, never was, not for any of them-- but he was still Bastille, and only Bastille.

"I hate souls," he announced to no one, frowning.