[Open] Catgroove.

[regalduchess]

The cat; small, lithe, and scared; runs through the aviary chased out by chirping birds, their beady eyes vindictive.

Once upon a time, there was a cheerfully tinkling bell on her collar. Now, it lies on the aviary floor as a trophy to the birds. The entire castle she runs through has a strange feeling to it, like everything is dead. Or asleep, or in mourning.

She finally comes to the throne room. Even cobweb-encrusted as they are, the silk seats are soft and comforting. The musty warmth reminds her of Bonfamille and her pink boas, her soft skin, the perfume she always wears-- always used to wear.

With a soft sigh, Duchess curls into a circle with her tail hanging off the edge of the throne, and tries to sleep.

Comments

[dustless]

They gently tap their thumb over his fingerbones.

"...glad I don't now. You're a nice friend to have." Another wave of dissatisfaction washes through them at the thought of the 'they' he was referring to. Those scientists really should've done better.

Once the pair get to the door, finally, Frisk pushes it open with their foot. "Okay. If there's anywhere that's colder than the rest, there's probably gonna be meat there. So it doesn't rot."

[antitemporal]

Because all Sanses are more than a little prone to embarrassment where strong motion is concerned, Sans-Serif is suddenly, piercingly grateful that he's in the lead all of a sudden. That way, hopefully Frisk can't see the overjoyed smile that breaks out over his skull at their words. The skeleton doesn't know what a fistpump is. But he's seized with the urge to do one, anyway.

"you, too, frisk." He's very, very glad everyone stopped him from hurting them.

Once Frisk gets the kitchen door open, Sans-Serif moves without hesitation. There's a pile of barrels and sacks against one wall, haphazard enough that the gap might not be immediately apparent. However, he's taken this path enough times to know where to look. He hops up onto one barrel near the wall, and then drops down onto a small segment of empty floor on the other side, between that and another barrel. There on the floor is a trap door that, with a bit of hauling, he's able to heave up and over with a loud clatter of wood and creak of hinges. Colder air wafts up from below.

[dustless]

And they don't. He might be pleased about it, but Frisk would doubtless enjoy seeing it. Maybe some other time.

They follow his climb a bit more clumsily, climbing over the barrel instead of hopping up. "That looks right. Thank you for showing me the way." They squint--it's sort of dark--and start descending.

Ah. There is meat down there, hanging from hooks. Frisk makes a face. They're not sure what kind they are, but they all look kind of disgusting like that.

[antitemporal]

Sans-Serif makes an identical face, because it all looks quite disgusting hanging like that. "that's meat?" He points at it, staring skeptically at Frisk. "people eat that?"

Cats are weird. He shakes his head wearily, before moving over to a line of clay jugs along the opposite wall. "milk's over here," he adds, glancing back over his shoulder.

[dustless]

"Usually after it's cooked, though." At least for humans. Maybe cats in Duchess' world?

"Can you get it?" Frisk asks over their shoulder, creeping towards the nearest whatever-it-is. They can probably rip off a chunk with their fingers...or one of those big square-looking knives. They hum, thinking.

[antitemporal]

"maybe."

First, he has to remember where the almost-empty jug was. The full ones are too heavy for him to even move, let alone lift back up out of the pit.

On his third attempt, he finds one where the sound of milk is just the barest sloshing at the bottom. Perfect. Sans-Serif heaves it up into his arms, just barely managing to wrap them all the way around, before pointing the best he can towards the ladder. "if you go up first, i can pass it up to you." This is good. A lot of meat, a lot of milk. Duchess will be full up in no time.