* Smells like salty slush.

[bleakdrake]

It stands near the edge. Not for any particular reason; the edge is merely where they first appeared.

She's barely aware of the change, expressions as blank as they could manage. The clouds are close enough to the room in the Lab where it stayed that they're almost comfortable, or at least as comfortable as a mass of creatures fused together and kept from their families (and so losing itself) could ever possibly be.

Anyone else stumbling over them, however, will likely be...far more uncomfortable. An icy-dusty-melting creature, looming in the foggy banks where it'll seem she simply appears despite not moving a step.

The only warning--the only clue that she's even there for those not particularly searching for something along the edge--that they're there is her voice, cracking and exhausted and chilling, drifting over the wind.

"Sn...ow...y..."

Comments

[mediadarling]

"Sn...ow...y..."

Mettaton stumbles mid-stride, only just righting himself in time before he falls. Oh...oh. He knows that voice. After Alphys had told him just how the amalgamates like Lemon Bread had come to be, she'd taken him to meet the others.

Frostdrake...had made an impression. He'd been able to comfort himself with the knowledge that she was back with her family, but, unless he's missed a great deal of going-ons lately...that's not the case here.

He draws himself upright. Well, he can hardly leave her alone. He can only hope she'll remember him.

"Frostdrake, darling, where are you?"

[bleakdrake]

Frostdrake-- a familiar word. Not as familiar as it could be, as it should be, but it's enough to get their attention.

Again, it calls the only word she remembers best for now: "Sn...ow...y..."

[mediadarling]

It's enough for him to work out the right direction to go, at least. It takes him a moment, but he makes himself take that first step forward, and then the next, and the next.

"I'm coming, sweetheart. Just stay where you are, all right?"

[bleakdrake]

They do. There's nowhere for her to go, after all.

A few of its bullets make their way through the fog.

...They probably won't help him find her. The way the spinning blades move don't make much sense.