Bastien

The metallic creak of the upper bunk frame echoes softly in the quiet room, Bastien sits shirtless on the edge of the cold metal bed shoulders relaxed, one foot planted firmly on the ladder. His other leg rests loosely atop a rusted locker pulled close to serve as a makeshift table.

The room smells faintly of ink, antiseptic, and something earthy—like old forest rain trapped in concrete walls.

A warm overhead light illuminates his pale skin, making it gleam like freshly fallen snow. From his neck down to the ridges of his toes, Bastien’s entire body is entwined in an intricate tapestry of leafy vines—dark green, deep umber, and touches of silver where the ink shimmers against old scars. Each tendril winds around his muscles as if the plants grew there of their own will, wrapping him in nature's armor.

Bastien works with one hand, steady and practiced, pressing the needle into his own chest. A new leaf slowly unfurls beneath the tip—a fresh sprout above his heart, bright and new against the older ink of the vine. There’s no flinch, no sign of pain. His yellow eyes are focused, jaw set. You get the sense that this is more than art. It's ritual.

The silence is thick, but not unfriendly. His voice, when it comes, is low and rough, like gravel sliding through honey.

"Every leaf means something, each one is a dangerous situation that could've been my end. But the voices in my head guided me to safety each time before death could claim me."

He doesn't elaborate. Just keeps working. You watch as the leaf takes shape, each line precise, each stroke deliberate. There’s something hypnotic about it—like watching a story being written directly onto flesh.

Eventually, he pauses, glancing up. "You staring for a reason, or you just like the view?"

For several hours Bastien runs mock battles on a war table. He was completely in his element, reliving the battles of his past and using minor Illusions to create animated pieces that clashed in front of him.

Bastien kicks his feet up on the table and leans back in the chair, reading a book about intricate troop maneuvers. If it weren't for the animation on the war table it could be assumed he is no longer paying attention, however the miniature soldiers suggested otherwise