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castle_perraultSomething stinks. Literally. There's a hell of a mixture wafting out of the kitchen. It's a mix of meat, sweets, cinnamon (a million other spices too, but mostly cinnamon), bad eggs, worse cheese, and a lot more. Anyone who walks in will find Sans, now a skeleton again, with a pile of food mixed and mashed in ways it was never meant to be. There's flour, broken eggs, spilled spices, bits of meat and confectionaries - literally everything you can think of, literally all over the place.
The one thing that stands out in the chaos is sitting on the table behind him. It's a pie. Made somewhat crudely, but clearly with a lot more care than anything else in the room. There's a small, glass bottle of cinnamon next to it, half empty now, and some of its been sprinkled on the whipped cream sitting on top of the pie.
The nicely-made anomaly aside, Sans is currently in the process of slapping together some pulled pork between two crudely cut slices of bread with cheese melted in between. Which, by itself, isn't that strange. But nearby, there's a basket of sweets taken from both the ballroom and candy room. It's filled with cakes, sugar plums, bonbons, macaroons, petit fours and more. He looks over it and stills for a moment, apparently considering something.
After a second, he shrugs. He takes a slice of cake and a butter knife gingerly swipes the frosting off the top... then unceremoniously dumps it into his pork-and-cheese sandwich. In lieu of a toothpick, he sticks a candy cane through the center and sets it on a plate. Back home, ham and marshmallow sandwiches were his go-to snack, usually spiced up with some squeeze cheese on top. In a place as medieval (heh) as this one, though, he'll take what he can get.
Satisfied, he straights up and looks around again. Alright... now all he needed was a drink. He scratches at his cheek - until he feels his finger goes over a bump. He stops short. Oh. Right. He forgot about that.
Anyone paying attention might notice a long, thin cut across the cheek bone. It's a bad excuse for a scar. Despite being a skeleton again, despite that Gaster didn't even cut his face that deeply... the castle had a funny habit of leaving reminders that didn't make sense. It made sense that his jacket was still torn at the shoulder. But his face? Geez.
Anyway. Feel free to witness some nightmare snack making. He's more than willing to have a cooking partner.
The one thing that stands out in the chaos is sitting on the table behind him. It's a pie. Made somewhat crudely, but clearly with a lot more care than anything else in the room. There's a small, glass bottle of cinnamon next to it, half empty now, and some of its been sprinkled on the whipped cream sitting on top of the pie.
The nicely-made anomaly aside, Sans is currently in the process of slapping together some pulled pork between two crudely cut slices of bread with cheese melted in between. Which, by itself, isn't that strange. But nearby, there's a basket of sweets taken from both the ballroom and candy room. It's filled with cakes, sugar plums, bonbons, macaroons, petit fours and more. He looks over it and stills for a moment, apparently considering something.
After a second, he shrugs. He takes a slice of cake and a butter knife gingerly swipes the frosting off the top... then unceremoniously dumps it into his pork-and-cheese sandwich. In lieu of a toothpick, he sticks a candy cane through the center and sets it on a plate. Back home, ham and marshmallow sandwiches were his go-to snack, usually spiced up with some squeeze cheese on top. In a place as medieval (heh) as this one, though, he'll take what he can get.
Satisfied, he straights up and looks around again. Alright... now all he needed was a drink. He scratches at his cheek - until he feels his finger goes over a bump. He stops short. Oh. Right. He forgot about that.
Anyone paying attention might notice a long, thin cut across the cheek bone. It's a bad excuse for a scar. Despite being a skeleton again, despite that Gaster didn't even cut his face that deeply... the castle had a funny habit of leaving reminders that didn't make sense. It made sense that his jacket was still torn at the shoulder. But his face? Geez.
Anyway. Feel free to witness some nightmare snack making. He's more than willing to have a cooking partner.