who'd you think you'd fool baby | open + :fire: :rose:

[div style="background-color: white; width: 100%; font-family: Georgia; color: #576a6e; text-align: center; margin: auto"]WALKING STORM™
angstendants — #demotebast2k18 — rapsheet

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When all else fails, Bastille likes to pretend that reading actually calms him down. It doesn't always have a therapeutic effect, but sometimes it can help. Today, however, he couldn't seem to get anything under control. Even his old fucking powers were on the fritz, leaving the bengal randomly disappearing either entirely or partially as he moved through camp. His invisibility was clearly fucking around, there had already been three earthquakes that morning, a brief flash of rain, and random things kept conjuring up at his paws. He tripped over a book earlier that decided to appear directly under his paw as he was walking, like fuck, really? He was getting sick of the strange looks thrown his way, so eventually the corporal decided to get the fuck outta Dodge and get some air.

At some point, he ended up by Margy's garden. It was highly possible he was just subconsciously seeking her out, honestly -- he tends to take comfort in her and Suite's presence, using them in the same way he used Luna as a comfort zone. For a while there, before Tanglefuck took her, he'd gone to find her whenever his temper was flaring and asked to patrol with her, or train, or anything. Now he tended to just follow her around anyway, lest she wander into danger again.

The ground kept cracking under paw as he walked. They were fine, slender lines that branched off only a short distance, but still -- it was starting to annoy the fuck out of him. Frustrated, he tried to concentrate on the ground, to force it to bend to his will, but the harder he glared the larger the cracks seemed to get with each step. "God damnit," he hissed, smacking at the cracks with an paw, as if hitting it would make any difference.

Instead, all he got was a minor rumble of an aborted earthquake -- and behind him Margy's roses went up in flames.

Bastille jerked around in alarm at the sudden burst of warmth, and swore under his breathe. "Fuck, no, bad, stop that," he hissed, frantically trying to reign the fire back in as he batted at the flames with a paw, "Stop, stop, stop-- fucking hell, why doesn't this shit ever listen--" He was getting more and more frustrated, trying to force water to conjure at his command, or simply to get the flames to listen, but it seemed his frustration was only making things worse. The flames leaped higher, and the ground started to shake under paw once more.