i will be your ticket taker; come inside, it's a dream [Halloween Event: Begin]

[dustless]

Midnight.

The world goes cold, half the trees seeming to shiver. Leaves crinkle, fading from green to reds, oranges, and yellows; some even further, to brown. They drop to scatter over misty ground; that mist is thick, unnaturally so. The wind whispers, casting it through the darkness. It gains a life of its own, creeping into doorways, crawling over stone, searching.

Where the mist spreads, the castle's shadows grow longer; not all of that can be explained by the moon that seems overfull and glaring orange through every window.

It finds the castle's denizens, whether they are awake to flee or they rest in their beds, enshrouding their forms and sinking into their bodies--until an eerie hiss of wind follows and seems to sweep it away.

For some, there will be no evidence of this mist until later, after the sun climbs over the castle.

Others may not be so lucky.




Frisk wakes up screaming.

It's not their chest, it's not their cell-SOUL piece, it's something worse, it's bigger, so big they can't scream for Judgement (for help, for horror), dragging hot and violent through all their bones, every single one all at once--

--it's only seconds but it can't be, it has to be hours, and they're deafened by a thousand snaps that's their bones shifting and reversing and tearing wetly out of skin that changes too but a heartbeat too late, bursting pink-black blood all over their sheets and pillows--and floor, once they regain enough control of their limbs to thrash and roll off.

Their throat distorts until their screaming's not screaming, and still they're too far gone to realize it's howling.

The whole-body wracking pain fades after the longest half-minute of their life, but not all of it's gone--there's still a dull pain in their chest, and something sharper below (further back).

Their clothes are shredded to almost nothing. At least they hadn't been wearing their scarf to sleep. 

Frisk rolls to their feet, all four of them, and--and they know this pain, of wandering to scavenge from dumpsters and abandoned tables, of not having enough.

They need more. They need to eat something, they need to forget how much everything just hurt, their heart is roaring in their chest and rushing their pulse through too-long ears, they don't know what's happening, they don't care.



There was a window that they could've slipped out before--if there hadn't been glass--but the edges scrape their sides even after the glass shatters, and they don't care about that either, or even feel much beyond the pain in their belly and the cold grass beneath their paws.

They're howling, they're screaming, and maybe if someone listens hard they're be heard-- 'Help, someone, please, give me something, please, please, PLEASE--'



//Event has begun! Characters are transformed into whatever you'd like them to be--unless you'd rather they stay normal or change later through the month, of course that's fine too~

But if they do change, they'll stay that way until Halloween's through! Enjoy! 

Comments

[mercybutton]

Frisk will find, perhaps to wolfish liking, a deer. Prey animal.

But Frisk is different than last year. They are not the same cheerful cervitaur from last year, wild and free. Their antlers seem to curve more like horns; their staff's fire and iron burns less like a placid moonlit lake and more like the vicious, starving, ravenous wildfires. Their eyes, now shown, are hollow; their teeth, numerous, carnivorous, and shaped to always be bared. Ash and blood and bones.

When they hear the wolf they swing their firey lantern-staff in their direction, and Frisk sees the outline of some poor scrambling wolf. Looks hurt and desperate. Probably came from somewhere--no, wait. Someone.



"Whoa. What happened to you?"

[dustless]

What is this? What is that.

Frisk's nose catches prey and ashes, a contradiction that leave thundering paws skidding to a halt.

Bones. Food, but not. Brother, the only more-important thing.

BROTHER.



They slide down, drop down, awkward and uncomfortable and painful, their front legs are a little too long for their body--they were going to do something, but they find their teeth clamping around grass and dirt instead.

Can anyone hear them, there's just strangled whining extra-choked by soil spilling down their throat. 'Help, help me, family, pack, please please please!'

[mercybutton]

... They thought nothing touched them anymore. After everything they'd done, nothing should. Especially after Flowey left.

But it's been more than a year. And this is different. Frisk can smell the fear, the desperation, a stench that hits them like a stone to the face when the wolf rushes towards them, and then--

--then it's eating, swallowing, choking on the dirt, and it's such a painful and visceral sight that... well, this is the most they've felt in a while, a bad feeling in their stomach, a panic in their heart. It's like something oily black seeped into their center, staining everything it touched. They don't like it. It feels bad. The wolf probably feels worse.

Frisk drops to their foreleg's knees. Their hands, ashy and soot-stained, try to control the wolf's jaws, try to move its head down--"Still, boy!"--to try and get at least most of the dirt out. Don't eat dirt. That's bad.

[dustless]

That's not smart. What they're saying, that's weird, but what they're doing is worse--dirt is bad to eat, and a hand, sooty or not, is a hand.

'Help me, I'm empty, my insides are caving in--'

Right there, in front of their mouth.



Head jerking, their jaw clamps down hard.

[mercybutton]

Well.

That's no good, either.

Their black hand comes clean off, crumbling to flakes and fine ash, and now instead of only soil, the wolf's got a mouthful of that too, and Frisk is missing a hand. It's a fact that they don't process at first, but they lose feeling there, see a thousand outlined dots signaling dust, and when they bring up their arm all there is is a jagged end. They don't see that it is lit up inside like a cigarette stub.

When they realize what the wolf has done, a great fury sparks in their chest. The ember threatens to burn into an inferno.

"You--!"

They clamp their mouth shut before the instinctive words can finish; grind the fury into little shards between their teeth. They can't blame the wolf, but that won't stop them from being mad. Being mad won't help, either. Frisk takes a breath and hauls up their staff with their one remaining hand and leans it on their shoulder. The flame burns hot and red. Suppressed fury.

"Are you hungry? Is that it?"

[dustless]

The wolf throws their head to the side and convulses, flakes adhering to their throat, leaving them choking and wheezing and hacking it up along with an ugly spray of gleaming pink.

But they know what they did, oh yes, oh no, oh hell why did they do that--

Frisk staggers steps to the side and shoves their head down again, but not eating this time. They move their paws to their face, and parts are just too long for a normal wolf.



Perfect to hide under. 'Sorry, sorry, yes, sorry sorry sorry!'

yikes sorry for the delay! my motivation for rp straight up up and died rip

[mercybutton]

... at least, Frisk knows where to get food. Meat for wolves. Raw, if nothing else, though Frisk wonders if they could roast it. They seem awfully firey this October.

... No, nevermind, they shouldn't do that. They're still at least half-blind; they can see shapes and nothing else. Still no good for judging meat quality. They're not even that good of a cook.

"I'm gonna go grab something for you," they huff, their tone underlain with simmering heat. "Follow me if you want. Or don't. I'll come back if you don't want to."

no worries~

[dustless]

Stay? Here, alone? A shard of thought says yes go run before you hurt ▓▓▓▓ any more, splintered to nothing by the lure of food. They can't wait.



'Sorry,' they whine one last time. 'Coming.'

And they will, in the shadows. They don't want to try to bite them again--and the garden is full of other things; twitching spiders on webs stretched across bushes, leaves and flowerheads that dare to stick out enough that they can brush against the wolf's fur. Hopefully none of those turn out to be toxic later on.

[mercybutton]

Frisk walks. God, they'd almost forgotten how much easier it is to navigate the castle with some form of sight. It's not the most optimal, but it's far better than being totally blind. Really, they just need to find the kitchen, and they're pretty sure it provides stuff for people to cook. Ingredients include meat.

It takes longer than they'd like, but maybe it was for the best--it afforded them time to cool down. They do find the kitchen, and they can smell the meat waiting in the cabinets.

"You picky?" they hum. It feels weird that their new sense of smell lets them actually sniff out the difference between types of flesh.

[dustless]

Time for one Frisk to cool down, time for another to find...other things. There are spiders in the halls as well, don't you know? And mice and rats they've never noticed before, though most are lucky enough to escape their snapping jaws. Aiming with a mouth is not a strong point.



What was that? Picky? Perhaps the fact they're crunching through the nearest door's wood is enough of an answer.

[mercybutton]

"Don't do that," is the only thing they say in response. They're not gonna try and get them to stop again. They already lost one hand.

Chicken's leaner, red meat's got more fat. They figure that for this kind of hunger, the general choice would not be lean meat.

They put their staff down on a counter to lean down and grab at a slab of... oh, venison, very funny, ha ha. They snatch the hunk of what their best guess is beef and, holding the edge with one hand and leaving the rest dangling, they call, "Hey, here, don't eat wood! Here, I have this!"

[dustless]

The call's pointless. Glinting yellow eyes are trained in that direction as soon as they can smell it--when they can see it, they tear it from their hands and swallow it down on the floor in a few oversized bites.



Perfect.

...Well, better. The weight of food in them is comforting, but they want more, and they manage to balance on crooked back legs to look around higher, and at...

...the other one.

'Brother?' Which one is it? Or this one of their brothers at all? The bones are right, but the rest means it's hard to tell.

[mercybutton]

"There's--hm?" They turn, and there's the wolf, up on its hind legs. Strange thing.

"Sorry? What was that?"

[dustless]

It isn't made to do that--still hunched, twisted out of shape. They put almost-hands on the counter. They're taller this way, and they can reach a hunk of bread there. Not as good as meat, but something they swallow down in a single throw of their head.



Frisk--thinks, growls, tries to ask again: 'You? Who are you?'

[mercybutton]

Yeah, that's a weird sight, and slightly disconcerting. Still. The wolf's hungry, but thankfully whoever it is has still got enough sense in them to try and not assault them again with forceful application of teeth.

Frisk pauses and tries to discern words. After working it out in their head, they think they got the gist of it. They gesture to themself with their free hand. "Me? You mean me? I'm Frisk. Who are you?"

[dustless]

A snarl flies loose. 'No you're not!'

This thing isn't them--

...This body isn't them, either. They've met other thems before, from different times and worlds and everything, idiot, just a little empty stomach and they're already losing a grasp on the rules.

Ears swiveling to imaginary threats, Frisk shrinks away.



'No. Me too.'

[mercybutton]

... wait.

Wait.

"Frisk?" Of all the people--of everyone in this castle, having Frisk turned into a ravenous and starving, half-lost wolf was the last thing they would have thought. Frisk, a wolf, who bit off their hand. Of all people. Of all people.

"Geez," they say, putting their free hand on their forehead, which only smudges black ash up there. (It doesn't make much of a difference--their face is already filthy with soot.) "I... wow. Are you, like--are you a, um, a werewolf? Or just a wolf? Do you know?" It's only been the first day, but hey, maybe.

[panaceaa]

Someone is walking in the dark. Their cloak looks to fit uncomfortably around a bulky frame, and the helmet doesn't seem to be quite in place. But likely this would only be evident to an astute observer, this late at night, and even more likely that Frisk is not that.

Not right now, anyway.

Guardian is walking in the dark, and their pace quickens at the obvious sounds of distress. It doesn't take much to guess that if they've been changed, others have as well; the howls make them want to reach for their gun on reflex, but they have yet to meet a true monster here, and they would not like to shoot a friend.

To see the wolf does not help that impulse.

"Peace," they say, forgetting that their mouth is shaped different, and the word forms awkwardly, nearly mangled. Try again. Step no closer, though. "I can help. Tell me how to help you."

[dustless]

Eyes snap over, gold circles in the dark. Frisk's tongue lolls from their jaw, staring, staring. They haven't stopped, they only slow--going from running like hell to a crooked half-circle around them. Whoever it is, they say magic words.

I can help.

'Please help. Please. I'm gonna die,' they cry.



Of course they've died before, a hundred times, a thousand, but this is worse than throat-slitting or lungs filling or SOUL burning, they'd rather be doing all three at once instead of this.

[panaceaa]

They swivel in place. Keep the wolf in view. And then, at the words, confirmation enough of -- something, they take a few slow steps closer.

"You won't die," they promise. Their words are firm enough that maybe Frisk will even believe it. "Are you inm- hurt?"

[dustless]

'Yes! No! My body, my stomach,' they whine.



It would sound pathetic if Frisk could think. Oh, their body tore itself apart, but it's that they're hungry that's messing them up.

'I need, need, need--'

[panaceaa]

It's difficult to tell whether the vagueness comes from Guardian's inability to concentrate enough to understand, or due to the wolf's own obvious distress, but they do their best to piece it all together regardless. They're not sure they know what to do. But they want to do something.

But they know better than to step too close to something with that many teeth, in pain.

"Let's...go inside?" they suggest, choosing their words more carefully now. "Is that okay?"

[dustless]

Frisk's head rolls strangely. They're trying their hardest to pay attention.



'Food. Food's inside? Please!' Awfully single-minded. They make their way in a staggered path towards Guardian, aiming to go past. No matter which way they'll walk, there's gonna be a door eventually.

[panaceaa]

Food. That's what they want. Guardian would be relieved at the clear objective if they weren't still lost.

It's at least a step in the right direction. Or -- several, unsteady steps at that. The wolf's path does lead to a door (the one Guardian just came from, a few yards back), so Guardian makes no move to correct them on their course, walking with them.

The way is dark.

...They don't recognize this path.

The castle doesn't seem to be forthcoming quite yet, and the brush grows denser. Did they just hear something move?

They're just going to keep walking thanks.

[dustless]

Who in their right mind would want to be out here--in the dark, in the wrong form, with a beast that can barely walk straight. A beast that growls and whines in one breath and fall silent as the grave the next, dwelling on what they don't have and must have.

It's being drunk on emptiness.

They're hungry. They're afraid. They're hungry.

Instinct has them twist their head, snapping something off a nearby bush, staring back at Guardian. What is it? A bird, perhaps, and now their mouth is full of bones and leaves, and their too-big teeth tear off a few more twigs besides, 'cause that's not enough.

A death knell, through all their bones.



'It's not enough,' they say.

Tell. Plead.

The walls are so far away.

[boogerman]

Boy, does he ever know the feeling of h u n g e r, the kind that will never ever be satisfied with food, no matter how much you eat. He's always hungry. Just like them.

And he's not worried about them trying to eat him--he's fought off wild things for millennia. Besides, there's something better to eat. He's got a nice, fresh caught fish and he's throwing it their way.

[dustless]

They whip around and snap the thing out of the air with instinctive skill that would make any fetch-happy dog jealous.

Frisk doesn't even know what it is until two-thirds of it's been unceremoniously shredded and falling down their throat. They could've been thrown a knife and they would've torn their insides apart from ravenous hunger.

But that's not what happened.

After swallowing every last bit, scales and bones and all, they pad towards the one that threw them the meal. Is there more?

[boogerman]

It's not even poisoned, aside from being raw fish and full of who knows what sort of nasties. This is it, this is his good deed of the decade...

He chuckles darkly at them, knowing who it is, and empties an entire net made of shadow of fish. Jackpot!

[dustless]

Frisk falls upon it, gulping fish after fish down, numb to the scratches that half-crunched bones leave in their mouth.



This hunger knows no end...but an edge can be dulled. They pause with half a fish in their mouth to stare up at him. 'None for you?' they growl in query. Can he eat? They can't remember.

[boogerman]

"I'm not eating raw fish!" Sashimi and sushi doesn't count, okay, at least that's prepared and not raw-raw.

"You're the animal, not me. What the hell have you done to yourself this time?"

[dustless]

'Food's food.'



And Frisk's not much of a picky eater when stuff's going normally.

They were sort of hoping he wasn't going to want it anyway, and they keep on crunching down, nearly as fast as before. Nearly.

Can a wolf shrug? This one can, shoulderblades sticking out too-far already doing so even more. They didn't do anything. They can barely care if they did. All that stuff can wait until their belly's not screaming.

[boogerman]

"You're an idiot and you'll never learn. I can't wait until your stupid friends find out about this." It'll be hilarious--they're sure to be worried, if not fully afraid.

Anyway. That's all the fish he has at the moment. It's clearly not going to last long.

[dustless]

There's a snarl of rage--at least that's warning, they finish their fish before they react the way their heart screams for them to. Disgusting, this idiot insulting their friends--!



Frisk flings themselves at Pitch, all roaring claws and teeth.

[boogerman]

He's cackling, laughing over the thought of a fight, not cowering. And he swings the scythe like he thinks he's the real grim reaper... meaning to hit them with the dull side of the blade, not cut them in half. Wouldn't want to kill his entertainment for the day or so. A staff would have worked better to beat off a dog without hurting it than a scythe... hmm.

"What did I say?"

[dustless]

Say? Said bad. He said bad things.



Frisk's struck hard, knocked to the side, nearly off their feet--their body's a solid thing and the moon's light is thrumming from above, so it doesn't do as much as it could've. The wolf still howl-screams in pain, splatters of pink-to-black blood smearing down their fur and to the ground, 'cause he hit the cuts they already got by escape.

They spin and try snapping their jaws around the scythe's hilt.

[boogerman]

That's sort of what he does: creep around and say bad things. Lots of bad things. This isn't new.

Stupid. He lets them clamp down on the hilt, and it crumbles to sand in their jaws. The whole thing is sand, and it's falling apart... swirling and reshaping itself into black glittery ropes to wrap around their muzzle and stop this nonsense. Bad dog!

(He's backing off, well out of reach. Fight the sand, not him.)

[dustless]

(They usually have a mite more impulse control than this. Later--much later--there's going to be embarrassment.)



Choking and flailing, their focus goes from trying to tear him apart to trying to tear the sand apart, shaking their head like a terrier with a rat.

He might like the rush of panic that's bursting from them beneath that rage. This isn't the first time they've been muzzled.

[boogerman]

“Bad dog.” he says, with laughter in his voice. At least half the people here are having a good time, right? The sand-ropes (or vines?) reshape into something more like a real muzzle, prompted by the fear.

“No more fish for you.“

[dustless]

'LET GO LET GO LET GO LET GO--'

They can't hear a thing they're scared they're angry they're scared they're angry they're leaving scores in the ground with their edges they're bleeding again they're howling they're screaming they're

they're

they're

seeing grey and sinking down.

[boogerman]

Best not to question how he knows the exact moment to relent, and dissolve the ropes of sand before they pass out.

(Admit it--he knows fear. People faint sometimes, it's a thing that's been known to happen.)

[dustless]

They're loose. They can move.

...They're not moving.

Their body's a traitor again and Frisk's just stuck lying there on their side, pink-specked flanks heaving.

[boogerman]

That watered-down looking blood is so weird. But hey, at least they’re not up and trying to bite him again for ‘saying bad things’.

“Not going to run away?”

[dustless]

No. Yes. Maybe.



Are they trying to say something? Nothing's coming out of their head or from their teeth.

(What's a panic attack? They don't know the word, but they know that feeling.)

[boogerman]

He knows the word in every language that has a word or two for it...

Heh.

“I’ll take that as a no. You fit in well with all your idiot friends.”

(It’d be funny if that got them jumping up and attacking again. Loyal dog!)

[dustless]

They gnash their teeth.



But nothing else. Go away, you stupid mean nightmare man. They'll knock you flat later.

[boogerman]

And pigs will fly!

But. There is only silence. Looks like he took the hint and buggered off. For now.