#gaster 01

      Oh, gosh, it’s... It’s not someone with a weapon, but it’s definitely a walking, talking skeleton. This one seems more partial to turtlenecks than to pumpkins, though. Maybe... All skeletons have different societal norms, much like people? Is there skeleton culture?

      ... Focus, Wirt, you can ask those things later!

      “E-Excuse me, sir,” he says, approaching the other. He’s... A lot taller than he was expecting. Oh no. “Have you... Have you seen a little boy? Teapot on his head? Brown hair? His name’s Greg, and I, uh, lost track of him.”

Echoes are auditory reflections, mirroring back what you’ve said as ripples of noise slowly losing ground. In the vast number of sounds and stimulations that one could experience within this valley of sound and fury, it did not surprise Kimblee that if he called out every so often his own voice came back. Even so, this place was perfect. The Valley of Cacophony, apparently, filled with a cavalcade of different auditory delights. Screams, moans, explosions and more. Truly, this was paradise.

Or at least it was until someone else had decided to wander nearby. Even with his eyes closed Kimblee could hear the footsteps, although one couldn’t discount the possibility of illusions.

“Oh, Maker,” she says putting her head in her hands, coming upon an odd skeletal figure while she walks the streets of an unfamiliar city. Boredom still manages to take hold of her, despite the jarringly new setting she finds herself in, so she decides to strike up conversation. She’s never been known to have the best ideas.

     Was alcoholic ketchup a thing? Could he make it a thing? Sans hummed as he held up a bottle of whisky, flies moving around his face, in his other hand, a packet of ketchup. Alcohol and ketchup shouldn’t be how he deals with his problems but it’s worth a shot. Sans though to himself, laughing under his breath at his own internal dialogue. He ripped open the packet and brought the half-drank bottle to his lips, downing each at the same time. 

     NOPE. NOPE. NEVER MIX TWO GOOD THINGS. TWO RIGHTS DON’T MAKE A RIGHT. WHO THE HELL TOLD HIM THAT? HE WANTED THEM DEAD. He forced himself to swallow anyway, scowling. He wouldn’t dare get rid of good ketchup, or whisky. He couldn’t get like, diseased from drinking dumpster whisky, right? Cinnamon was his favorite. Not nearly as good as one of Grillby’s Fireball Shots, though. Sans would murder for one now. Not saying much, he thought to himself, self-loathing written in his thought process. More alcohol. More ketchup. Sans leaned out of the overflowing dumpster, placing it delicately on the ground beside his pink slippers before moving through the trash once more.

For a moment, Plague Knight thought he saw a familiar face.

A glimpse of a skeletal hand, a tall and intimidating figure, a dramatically billowing cloak- the hallmarks of his old acquaintance, Specter Knight. Even if the two got along rather poorly, finding someone from back home who isn’t a complete idiot would be ideal in preparing for the upcoming battle.

Plague Knight wastes no time in using the small, controlled blast from one of his bombs to propel himself through the air over to who he thought was Specter Knight. It really was nice to have his bombs back; walking is terribly inefficient, after all, and launching himself above a crowd is so much faster.

“SPECTER KNIGHT!”

Hopefully he’s not still mad about the time Plague Knight took his scythe. And called him quite a lot of insulting names. 

But as soon as he lands, he realizes that this is not the knight he’s looking for. While this person is a skeleton, the resemblance ends there; what Plague Knight thought was a cloak is actually some sort of lab coat, and the vaguely puzzled expression on his face is one that Specter Knight would never wear.

Still, a lab coat indicates a scientist, and an ally with an interest in science similar to Plague Knight’s wouldn’t hurt. He does have to crane his neck to see the other’s face, though.