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castle_perrault[ a: early on; ]
'He is losing pieces of himself' is an overly alarmist phrasing. The edges of the darkness that clings to him are consistently and constantly flickering, and, yes, detaching themselves to vanish into the air, as if bleeding off nothingness from a source that is continually refilling itself. The phrasing implies that the process drains from him intrinsically in some way, and as best as he can figure it does not. It has not done him any harm thus far and even were it a slow, minute, but steady decline, he would have noticed it.
So then, the faint feeling of... drain, for lack of a better term, he feels somewhere at the core of his being must source from elsewhere. Perhaps a side effect of being as he is, mostly coalesced upon one point in time and able to interact? Perhaps a side effect of possibly having a quantifiable amount of magic again, and not allowing himself to regenerate it? Endless possibilities.
The edges of his self are less clearly defined than they were before the wave of changes had washed across some of the other castle residents. He'd watched and listened and kept his distance, let them settle. He doesn't realize that something has tangibly changed in himself until he attempts to push against a door to open it and instead falls through it and part of the floor on the other side, ending up halfway in the ground with a sharp electronic noise of surprise before he manages to pull himself out.
... He is back to intangible, it seems. He isn't sure where the closest mirror would be (perhaps the fountains would serve as a reflective surface, failing all else), but, looking down at the blurred outlines of his hands, he would not be surprised if it turned out he'd lost whatever solid form he'd had previous as well.
He'd braced himself for whatever his situation had been to be temporary. Ha ha. This is something he'd personally would have rather been wrong about...
... He needs to find. Someone. Wander throughout the castle in pursuit of that, see if he could still be perceived, or. Or if he'd been reduced to something like he was before, present, but nonetheless only ever capable of watching and letting things play out.
(There is a pinprick point of hollowness in him at the thought, and it is only set to grow.)
[ b; varying ]
"That's awful," he mutters to no one in particular, using the exercise of translating his own mismatched vocalizations into Aster as a grounding measure. Normally it isn't a particularly taxing endeavour. Now, though, the effort leaves him slumped as a formless black shadow in some out of the way corner, away from commotion, away from the sun because some exposure is simply an uncomfortably-too-hot and more than that it burns.
His thoughts will not stop intruding on themselves. They tangle in and around themselves to the point he can't tell where one ends and another begins. If he does not focus on his immediate surroundings then other environs overlap and blend together in his mind, some ones he hasn't ever seen himself but others have. Others bearing the name Gaster, whose memories of experimentation and hurt and love and LOVE and cruelty and apathy he possesses in fragments and shards without context but nonetheless are not him.
(Right?)
The ache in his SOUL has grown. Grown from a needle's point of emptiness to something larger, but it would not take much to fill it while it is still small. Better to stave it off while the hunger is a lesser pain. All he has to do is reach out and take.
"Absolutely... absolutely not. I would not." The shadow's form whips around in increasing agitation, tendrils of it lashing out aimlessly.
"I did not, do not, can not, ⌖✋☹☹ ☠⚐❄📬"
[ c; catch-all/wild card, hit me up with whatever and lemme know if you want for a specific kind of interaction; ]
Rather than avoid people, he's taken to trying to shadow the places that get the highest amounts of traffic. Is it out of concern for whatever else has happened and is continuing to happen?
Or does the prowling, looming shadow present a more foreboding figure than that?
[[ ooc planning/permissions post riight over this way. ]]
'He is losing pieces of himself' is an overly alarmist phrasing. The edges of the darkness that clings to him are consistently and constantly flickering, and, yes, detaching themselves to vanish into the air, as if bleeding off nothingness from a source that is continually refilling itself. The phrasing implies that the process drains from him intrinsically in some way, and as best as he can figure it does not. It has not done him any harm thus far and even were it a slow, minute, but steady decline, he would have noticed it.
So then, the faint feeling of... drain, for lack of a better term, he feels somewhere at the core of his being must source from elsewhere. Perhaps a side effect of being as he is, mostly coalesced upon one point in time and able to interact? Perhaps a side effect of possibly having a quantifiable amount of magic again, and not allowing himself to regenerate it? Endless possibilities.
The edges of his self are less clearly defined than they were before the wave of changes had washed across some of the other castle residents. He'd watched and listened and kept his distance, let them settle. He doesn't realize that something has tangibly changed in himself until he attempts to push against a door to open it and instead falls through it and part of the floor on the other side, ending up halfway in the ground with a sharp electronic noise of surprise before he manages to pull himself out.
... He is back to intangible, it seems. He isn't sure where the closest mirror would be (perhaps the fountains would serve as a reflective surface, failing all else), but, looking down at the blurred outlines of his hands, he would not be surprised if it turned out he'd lost whatever solid form he'd had previous as well.
He'd braced himself for whatever his situation had been to be temporary. Ha ha. This is something he'd personally would have rather been wrong about...
... He needs to find. Someone. Wander throughout the castle in pursuit of that, see if he could still be perceived, or. Or if he'd been reduced to something like he was before, present, but nonetheless only ever capable of watching and letting things play out.
(There is a pinprick point of hollowness in him at the thought, and it is only set to grow.)
[ b; varying ]
"That's awful," he mutters to no one in particular, using the exercise of translating his own mismatched vocalizations into Aster as a grounding measure. Normally it isn't a particularly taxing endeavour. Now, though, the effort leaves him slumped as a formless black shadow in some out of the way corner, away from commotion, away from the sun because some exposure is simply an uncomfortably-too-hot and more than that it burns.
His thoughts will not stop intruding on themselves. They tangle in and around themselves to the point he can't tell where one ends and another begins. If he does not focus on his immediate surroundings then other environs overlap and blend together in his mind, some ones he hasn't ever seen himself but others have. Others bearing the name Gaster, whose memories of experimentation and hurt and love and LOVE and cruelty and apathy he possesses in fragments and shards without context but nonetheless are not him.
(Right?)
The ache in his SOUL has grown. Grown from a needle's point of emptiness to something larger, but it would not take much to fill it while it is still small. Better to stave it off while the hunger is a lesser pain. All he has to do is reach out and take.
"Absolutely... absolutely not. I would not." The shadow's form whips around in increasing agitation, tendrils of it lashing out aimlessly.
"I did not, do not, can not, ⌖✋☹☹ ☠⚐❄📬"
[ c; catch-all/wild card, hit me up with whatever and lemme know if you want for a specific kind of interaction; ]
Rather than avoid people, he's taken to trying to shadow the places that get the highest amounts of traffic. Is it out of concern for whatever else has happened and is continuing to happen?
Or does the prowling, looming shadow present a more foreboding figure than that?
[[ ooc planning/permissions post riight over this way. ]]
(no subject)
Date: 2016-10-31 04:07 am (UTC)For a second, being healed is sort of strange. Can he stand up? Should he? Oop. Yes. He can. Cool. He tugs his jacket more squarely over his shoulder, and he watches the head, studies the body.
"... And what are you gonna do?"
As much as those words put together can sound like it, it's not a challenge. He knows better than that. He wants to know. After all that, what did it mean?
"You're thinking straight again, aren't you?"
(no subject)
Date: 2016-10-31 05:41 am (UTC)It's subdued in tone. Apologetic, in a way. All that, and what?
"✋︎ ✌︎💣︎ ❄︎☟︎✋︎☠︎😐︎✋︎☠︎☝︎ 👍︎☹︎☜︎✌︎☼︎☹︎✡︎ ☼︎✋︎☝︎☟︎❄︎ ☠︎⚐︎⌖," Gaster reaffirms, expression tight. He might be thinking of worst case scenarios, but they aren't so far-fetched as to be discarded. "📬︎📬︎📬︎✋︎ ⌖⚐︎✞☹︎👎︎ ☼︎✌︎❄︎☟︎☜︎☼︎ ✡︎⚐︎✞ ☠︎⚐︎❄︎ 👌︎☜︎ 🚩☼︎☜︎💧︎☜︎☠︎❄︎ ⌖☟︎☜︎☠︎ ❄︎☟︎✌︎❄︎ 👍︎☟︎✌︎☠︎☝︎☜︎💧︎📬︎ ✋︎☞︎ ✋︎❄︎ 👍︎☟︎✌︎☠︎☝︎☜︎💧︎📬︎
"❄︎☟︎☜︎☼︎☜︎☞︎⚐︎☼︎☜︎📬︎ 🚩☹︎☜︎✌︎💧︎☜︎📬︎
"☹︎☜︎✌︎✞︎☜︎ 💣︎☜︎📪︎ ✌︎☠︎👎︎ ✋︎ ⌖✋︎☹︎☹︎ 👎︎⚐︎ 💣︎✡︎ 👌︎☜︎💧︎❄︎ ❄︎⚐︎ 😐︎☜︎☜︎🚩 ⚐︎✞❄︎ ⚐︎☞︎ ❄︎☟︎☜︎ ⌖✌︎✡︎📬︎"
His countenance gains a wry quality to it as he moves his left hand from its position. Though the gouges are less prominent now, the SOUL is still dim. Gaster is staunchly avoiding thinking of what happens if it darkens entirely, as he echoes himself from earlier:
"⌖✋︎❄︎☟︎ ✌︎☠︎✡︎ ☹︎✞👍︎😐︎📪︎ ❄︎☟︎✋︎💧︎ ⌖✋︎☹︎☹︎ ❄︎✌︎😐︎☜︎ 👍︎✌︎☼︎☜︎ ⚐︎☞︎ ✋︎❄︎💧︎☜︎☹︎☞︎📬︎"
(no subject)
Date: 2016-10-31 04:46 pm (UTC)Sans doesn't want to. If Gaster could was still his soul, he'd probably feel it ache again. Or maybe it just shows in his face, for all the still slight, subtle changes in his expressions.
He brings a hand to his shoulder where he can still feel the tear in his jacket, reminding him that Gaster was probably right. Sans just doesn't want him to be.
He looks down.
"... Okay."
Another pause.
"It usually does around here. Work itself out, I mean."
(no subject)
Date: 2016-10-31 05:06 pm (UTC)I'm sorry, he signs.
He keeps saying that. Not in as many words, but still useless apologies all the same.
Gaster breathes out, a long, shaky gesture.
Are you... are you unhurt? No permanent physical damage?
Will you be all right from here?
(no subject)
Date: 2016-10-31 07:31 pm (UTC)Fine, he signs abruptly. It was an blunt language anyway. Fine on my own.
He hesitates for a second.
You?
(no subject)
Date: 2016-10-31 08:14 pm (UTC)Gaster looks off into nothing for a moment before tentatively flickering forward to briefly curl around Sans without any actual touch, as if in reassurance. He's signing again as soon as he pulls back, a weak amount of humor in his expression.
'Be good.' Stay out of trouble.
(no subject)
Date: 2016-10-31 11:22 pm (UTC)Wow. Even though there's no touch involved, it feels as good as a hug should. Sans stills briefly, then suddenly smiles and bows his head.
"... Heh. I'll try. You too, old man."
(no subject)
Date: 2016-11-01 01:27 am (UTC)"❄︎☟︎✌︎❄︎ ✋︎💧︎ ✌︎💧︎ 💣︎✞👍︎☟︎ ✌︎💧︎ ✋︎ 👍︎✌︎☠︎ ☜︎✠︎🚩☜︎👍︎❄︎ ☞︎☼︎⚐︎💣︎ ✡︎⚐︎✞📪︎ ✋︎💧︎ ✋︎❄︎ ☠︎⚐︎❄︎✍︎
"✋︎ ⌖✋︎☹︎☹︎ 👎︎⚐︎ ⌖☟︎✌︎❄︎ ✋︎ 👍︎✌︎☠︎📬︎"