Concepts, pushed forward tentatively. "Swords," the ones in her head, face, a few decorating the walls in rooms with metal blades eaten away by time, "doors," halls and halls and halls and halls, hundreds, thousands, doors where there can be anything, but sometimes they're just bedrooms full of soft things to jump on, "locks," doors have locks, but it's usually just blocking the way in and out with chairs and stuff, or at least that's what they do--and a tower with a door locked shut, their face leaning down and pressing against the keyhole Chara? Hello, it's me.
No manacles, not that Frisk knows of. There's no need for those, after all.
"There's not--" they shiver, rhythm of their feet changing over the stones and dislodging thoughts. Pink sound slipping down bones. That's nonsense, isn't it?
"...the ocean. Isn't here. That was home. This is somewhere else." They don't know how to communicate that as well, off-kilter again, and they try to move a little faster. The gardens are where they want to be now, but there's stairs and they hope they're not going to fall down them. "But there's blue in the sky, and it's nice too."
Who was killed? They were killed, but that's not what she means, is it?
Chara, again, pinning them down, face contorted with pain like they're the one being stabbed instead, silver dripping red in one and gold in the other--but there's nothing from Frisk there, almost nothing; an echo of frustration of a ruined voice and pity and complicated worry, snapped closed like a locket. That's not a memory they need to spill out in front of her.
"Nobody got killed for me. Here." A fuzzy fanged goatface, smiling and crying--does Asriel count? He's already dead but and alive in a different sort of way. No, he didn't die for them. "It's just a place to live. Some people think it's just a big prison." Locks, again, and bars flashing across the sky. But they only imagined that.
The castle's not really being free. Except from death. That's important for some people.
no worries~
No manacles, not that Frisk knows of. There's no need for those, after all.
"There's not--" they shiver, rhythm of their feet changing over the stones and dislodging thoughts. Pink sound slipping down bones. That's nonsense, isn't it?
"...the ocean. Isn't here. That was home. This is somewhere else." They don't know how to communicate that as well, off-kilter again, and they try to move a little faster. The gardens are where they want to be now, but there's stairs and they hope they're not going to fall down them. "But there's blue in the sky, and it's nice too."
Who was killed? They were killed, but that's not what she means, is it?
Chara, again, pinning them down, face contorted with pain like they're the one being stabbed instead, silver dripping red in one and gold in the other--but there's nothing from Frisk there, almost nothing; an echo of frustration of a ruined voice and pity and complicated worry, snapped closed like a locket. That's not a memory they need to spill out in front of her.
"Nobody got killed for me. Here." A fuzzy fanged goatface, smiling and crying--does Asriel count? He's already dead but and alive in a different sort of way. No, he didn't die for them. "It's just a place to live. Some people think it's just a big prison." Locks, again, and bars flashing across the sky. But they only imagined that.
The castle's not really being free. Except from death. That's important for some people.