[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

[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.