God help the outcasts, the tattered, the torn
Seeking an answer to why they were born
Somehow, the cursed water not only fell everywhere within the building, it somehow denied it's very nature only to set him alight. Bastien yelled, reaching up to pat and grab at his hair: it immediately was out, but there was clearly damage. Unable to feel any pain he was only scared and upset, crouching down where he stood and grabbing at his missing hair with a desperate motion.
He was vaguely aware of Oliver's voice somewhere nearby but didn't acknowledge it, too wrapped up in his own panic and the still-falling water. When it finally stopped he looked up, only to see Amalia sat in the roof? It had to be some kind of hallucination, but he was having trouble deciphering if this whole thing was a dream, at this point.
"Why did you hurt my hair?!" He called out towards the rafters, before roughly elbowing Amun off him and stumbling more towards the middle of the temple, trying to crane his neck to look up at Amalia.
He was vaguely aware of Oliver's voice somewhere nearby but didn't acknowledge it, too wrapped up in his own panic and the still-falling water. When it finally stopped he looked up, only to see Amalia sat in the roof? It had to be some kind of hallucination, but he was having trouble deciphering if this whole thing was a dream, at this point.
"Why did you hurt my hair?!" He called out towards the rafters, before roughly elbowing Amun off him and stumbling more towards the middle of the temple, trying to crane his neck to look up at Amalia.
Winds of misfortune have blown them about
You made the outcasts, don't cast them out
BASTIEN
