03-25-2018, 07:21 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"]Bastille wasn't a particularly artistic person. He wasn't deterred by the arts, as some were; he was simply incapable of managing anything talented himself. His skills had always much more fallen into the realm of combat and thought; he loved to read, of course, and had a strange love for history, but that was all. He couldn't paint, sing, decorate, or anything of the likes. He could, however, appreciate those who could -- even if he didn't initial strike others as an art enthusiast.
As the soft murmur of singing filtered through the Observatory, the bengal found himself intrigued. His head had been throbbing all day, much to his irritation, and it was throwing off his ability to focus; he might as well investigate the noise, since he wasn't accomplishing anything anyway. Shifting to his feet, he milled about until he found her, arching a brow as he watched for a bit. It was only once she'd finished that he drawled idly, "You're pretty good."
Luna had been fairly quiet when she joined, and she struck him as more of solitary type. She had wanted to show herself around, after all, and was never that talkative as far as he could tell. Shy, maybe, but Bastille's analysis would lean more towards withdrawn. Luckily for her, Bast wasn't the type to force small talk.
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]