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castle_perraultHe wakes up in the garden.
It feels a lot like sleeping, actually. He knows he died. He remembers it in terrifying clarity, and he guesses he must have ended up here. How much time has passed? He's got no idea, but he's face up half-way in the dirt and covered in vines like he's been sleeping for ages. There's lots of flowers. Lovely little blooms of white. His eye, it should be destroyed beyond repair but it's not damaged in the slightest. Brighter, maybe. Stronger. But not damaged.
His wounds. Kubo struggles to lift out of the rest of the dirt, vines and roots snapping, grass and dirt pushed aside to give way to his rise. Everything looks relatively the same, unless someone has been maintaining the garden for years. Hurriedly he brushes off the dirt, probably unnecessarily meticulous about it, but he doesn't really care--these robes seem repaired, thank the Gods, but his wounds.
His elbow, his shoulder, his chest, his side. When he pats them, checks them, he finds flowers. White flowers. Strangely unsmushed and lively, like they weren't smothered under silk robe and heavy dirt or anything. Right below his eye and his thumb were small enough damages to have healed without scars--must have been, if there aren't any flowers. He has no idea why they're there, but most of them hide under his robes anyway, so it's not too big a deal. They only show across the line on his neck. Tugging them out hurts. He leaves them.
He's also avoiding any and all hints of sharp knives or red eyes. Turn-tail-and-run-slash-sneak-and-hide kind of avoiding. He's not eager to repeat that accident again.
[ yep ]
Kubo, of course, is hungry. And thirsty. He makes a careful beeline for the kitchen.
Anyone will find him cooking, with fire and pot and water. He's pulling generic things from the cabinets, rice, eggs, chicken--having had to essentially raise himself, he knows very well how to cook.
It feels a lot like sleeping, actually. He knows he died. He remembers it in terrifying clarity, and he guesses he must have ended up here. How much time has passed? He's got no idea, but he's face up half-way in the dirt and covered in vines like he's been sleeping for ages. There's lots of flowers. Lovely little blooms of white. His eye, it should be destroyed beyond repair but it's not damaged in the slightest. Brighter, maybe. Stronger. But not damaged.
His wounds. Kubo struggles to lift out of the rest of the dirt, vines and roots snapping, grass and dirt pushed aside to give way to his rise. Everything looks relatively the same, unless someone has been maintaining the garden for years. Hurriedly he brushes off the dirt, probably unnecessarily meticulous about it, but he doesn't really care--these robes seem repaired, thank the Gods, but his wounds.
His elbow, his shoulder, his chest, his side. When he pats them, checks them, he finds flowers. White flowers. Strangely unsmushed and lively, like they weren't smothered under silk robe and heavy dirt or anything. Right below his eye and his thumb were small enough damages to have healed without scars--must have been, if there aren't any flowers. He has no idea why they're there, but most of them hide under his robes anyway, so it's not too big a deal. They only show across the line on his neck. Tugging them out hurts. He leaves them.
He's also avoiding any and all hints of sharp knives or red eyes. Turn-tail-and-run-slash-sneak-and-hide kind of avoiding. He's not eager to repeat that accident again.
[ yep ]
Kubo, of course, is hungry. And thirsty. He makes a careful beeline for the kitchen.
Anyone will find him cooking, with fire and pot and water. He's pulling generic things from the cabinets, rice, eggs, chicken--having had to essentially raise himself, he knows very well how to cook.
(no subject)
Date: 2016-12-09 05:20 am (UTC)Sans turns one of the sticks around and studies it, like there's some untold secret on the pointy end. He knows there isn't, but he might as well believe it because he has no idea how to use them.
"I've seen them before, but... yeah. I never used them before."