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castle_perraultThere's a drift of dust scattered near the Edge.
Morning sunlight glints off it. It resembles white sand, or icing sugar.
Somehow it's survived the entire Castle being destroyed and brought back. Somehow it's survived the altitude; perhaps the air has been unnaturally still, or perhaps some residue keeps it somewhat together. Mist wisps from it.
There's a spark of red over it. Something returning, reluctantly, home. Lost souls can't stay lost forever.
Right where it belongs. About time.
The dust shimmers briefly rainbow and shifts, an edge falling away, before it rises up to meet the hovering thing, the last component needed. Melts as soon as it hits it, becoming viscous sludge before dripping back down to where more is drawing in and returning to encase the scarlet light. It thickens, begins to take molten-wax form as clumsily as a child making a stick figure out of play-doh; two sausages for arms, two for legs, a lump for a head. Slowly, the proportions even out, detail begins to set in and creates an alabaster statue, and then colour swirls and bleeds in spreading patches.
It's Chara. Themself.
They collapse onto suspiciously clean stone and lie there still for a time, until with a sudden, rasping heave of air they wake, cough, and open a single red eye. Their head feels stuffed with cotton. Their memories of after dusting and before coming to live again are thankfully as substantial as fog. The movement of their chest stutters, and they start hacking. That's right. Have to breathe again. They close the eye and roll with great effort onto their back, hands on their chest, and do just that. They feel like they've been put in a blender, despite no apparent injuries that they can pinpoint.
*Mmmmrnrnrnnn
An arm tries to move. They block it, and the limb jerks, caught between two opposing forces for a moment before settling limp at their side.
*Wh-
*...Chara?
Welcome back, Frisk. Enjoy your month of freedom?
*What happened...?
Well.
The child, apparently silent and staring listlessly at the clouds, will be there (getting increasingly sunburned) until chill night temperatures drive them indoors. Come bother them? Find them wandering the hallways late? Wonder why they're trying to sleep in a kitchen?
Morning sunlight glints off it. It resembles white sand, or icing sugar.
Somehow it's survived the entire Castle being destroyed and brought back. Somehow it's survived the altitude; perhaps the air has been unnaturally still, or perhaps some residue keeps it somewhat together. Mist wisps from it.
There's a spark of red over it. Something returning, reluctantly, home. Lost souls can't stay lost forever.
Right where it belongs. About time.
The dust shimmers briefly rainbow and shifts, an edge falling away, before it rises up to meet the hovering thing, the last component needed. Melts as soon as it hits it, becoming viscous sludge before dripping back down to where more is drawing in and returning to encase the scarlet light. It thickens, begins to take molten-wax form as clumsily as a child making a stick figure out of play-doh; two sausages for arms, two for legs, a lump for a head. Slowly, the proportions even out, detail begins to set in and creates an alabaster statue, and then colour swirls and bleeds in spreading patches.
It's Chara. Themself.
They collapse onto suspiciously clean stone and lie there still for a time, until with a sudden, rasping heave of air they wake, cough, and open a single red eye. Their head feels stuffed with cotton. Their memories of after dusting and before coming to live again are thankfully as substantial as fog. The movement of their chest stutters, and they start hacking. That's right. Have to breathe again. They close the eye and roll with great effort onto their back, hands on their chest, and do just that. They feel like they've been put in a blender, despite no apparent injuries that they can pinpoint.
*Mmmmrnrnrnnn
An arm tries to move. They block it, and the limb jerks, caught between two opposing forces for a moment before settling limp at their side.
*Wh-
*...Chara?
Welcome back, Frisk. Enjoy your month of freedom?
*What happened...?
Well.
The child, apparently silent and staring listlessly at the clouds, will be there (getting increasingly sunburned) until chill night temperatures drive them indoors. Come bother them? Find them wandering the hallways late? Wonder why they're trying to sleep in a kitchen?
They're trying to avoid people, but since when have they gotten what they wanted?
(no subject)
Date: 2016-11-18 05:20 am (UTC)"I'll give you a hint. All have something in common because they were all done by the same person."
Blown apart in some sort of explosion--run through with a long sword--falling out of the sky--hit by lightning.
(no subject)
Date: 2016-11-18 05:34 am (UTC)"I'd like to shake their hand."
Let's see... he's admitted there was agency, which leaves the whip... magic whip? Well they had a magic knife, it makes as much sense as anything else.
The whip makes the sword unlikely, unless this unknown person picked up magic weapons like lint. Which is a possibility, but one Chara will set aside for now. Falling out of the sky and lightning seem environmental, and Pitch has all but admitted one death was due to fire so...
"Explosion."
Lock it in.
this is headcanon tbh
Date: 2016-11-18 06:12 am (UTC)There's no 'or else', really. Chara's going to suffer either way. No exceptions.
no worries
Date: 2016-11-19 07:24 am (UTC)"She sounds interesting," they say out loud. And while ordinarily they'd continue playing the game (somehow they were having something approaching fun for a minute there, and there's a chance of finding weakness), that 'figure it out' makes their contrarian streak raise its head.
"I think I shall decline."
What are you going to do about it, Shadowman? They dare you. You seem far more invested in them guessing right than they are.
(no subject)
Date: 2016-11-19 08:15 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2016-11-21 12:21 am (UTC)He's got their number, though, on speed dial. They are curious, a fundamental aspect of their nature that is currently warring with that marked 'Spite'. Spite is winning, for the moment, but it's close.
"If you want me to know, you can tell me," they say, folding their arms. Look at them, they don't care, what are you talking about. A compromise between the two sides, even if it's probably not going be that easy.
(no subject)
Date: 2016-11-21 12:38 am (UTC)He shows his teeth in a grin before turning away and looking up at darkened windows. Nightmare time? Nightmare time. He's walking off not ten seconds later.
(no subject)
Date: 2016-11-21 01:03 am (UTC)They're not going to give him the satisfaction of dwelling on it. They're not. But they do turn it over in their mind as they go.
They might find out later, perhaps.