#renenory

(He looks like he hasn't slept in a week. He has. He's just weird.)

Most people who meet Draft walk away thinking he's harmless.

A lazy skeleton in pajamas.

A guy who naps through meetings, tells awful puns, and somehow smells faintly of Worcestershire sauce.

They're usually right.

Until they aren't.

Draft is one of the few people in the multiverse genuinely trying to help. He spends most of his time wandering between AUs, patching problems before they spread, containing corruption, and keeping unstable worlds from suffering the same fate as his own.

The problem is that Draft stopped being entirely stable a very long time ago.

Years of isolation, failed repairs, broken timelines, and watching his world die around him left permanent damage.

Sometimes he talks to people who are not there.

Sometimes he stares at corrupted code like it's personally insulting him.

Sometimes he becomes so obsessed with fixing something that he forgets everything else around him.

Appearance

Draft wears an oversized purple shirt alongside black sleep pants covered in golden stars.

A drooping purple sleeping cap rests on his head, decorated with fluffy golden trim and ball thingy.

At first glance, he looks like someone who rolled out of bed and never fully woke up.

The patches on his skull and right hand tend to draw more attention.

Each patch is actually a portal connected directly to a personal dimension attached to his soul.

Objects vanish into them constantly.

Weapons.

Tools.

Junk.

Fragments of dead worlds.

Nobody has ever managed to calculate how much is actually stored inside.

Personality

Despite everything, Draft behaves remarkably similar to a normal Sans.

Lazy.

Sarcastic.

Constantly tired.

Addicted to terrible puns.

Will sleep whenever given the opportunity.

Most conversations with him somehow end with a joke nobody asked for.

Draft is also infamous for having absolutely horrific taste in food.

He enjoys overwhelmingly strong flavors and pours Worcestershire sauce onto meals with complete disregard for common sense.

Nobody understands how he survives it.

Underneath the humor, however, something is wrong.

Draft became obsessed with corruption long ago.

He sees corruption the same way someone else might see a contagious disease.

Anything capable of spreading, damaging, destabilizing, or erasing an AU immediately gains his attention.

He does not automatically attack everything corrupted.

But he watches.

And once he decides something is dangerous enough, he becomes extremely difficult to stop.

Draft is intelligent.

Unfortunately, years of loneliness and psychological damage have left him with strange habits.

He sometimes speaks to empty rooms.

Sometimes pauses mid-conversation as though listening to someone else answer.

Sometimes mutters solutions to problems nobody else can see.

Most people assume he's talking to himself.

Draft seems to believe otherwise.

Past

Draft's world did not die all at once.

It died slowly.

His AU was zipped, moved, corrupted, and eventually unzipped incorrectly.

Entire locations became incomplete.

Memories fragmented.

Characters disappeared without explanation.

Data began breaking apart faster than anyone could repair it.

Draft and Gaster spent countless loops trying to save it.

Every repair created new problems.

Every solution revealed deeper damage.

At some point they managed to capture the player responsible for repeatedly influencing their world.

A strange figure who appeared as the son of the king and queen.

Even after the loops stopped, the damage remained.

Draft became convinced corruption itself was the enemy.

If he could understand it, contain it, or eliminate it, maybe everything could still be saved.

Instead, things only got worse.

His own stats became corrupted.

His repairs accelerated the collapse.

His desperation grew.

By the end there was nothing left to save.

The AU was abandoned.

Draft survived.

And after surviving, he left.

Now he wanders the multiverse searching for worlds that can still be saved.

Because if he couldn't save his own, maybe he can save someone else's.

Magic

Draft's abilities revolve around control, containment, and manipulation.

His fighting style resembles someone organizing a messy desktop.

Purple Magic

Draft possesses a unique form of purple magic unrelated to normal Purple SOUL abilities.

Anything struck directly by this magic becomes pinned in place.

Movement becomes impossible until the effect ends.

The moment another attack strikes the target, the pinning effect immediately breaks.

Because of this, Draft often uses it to set up follow-up attacks.

He occasionally manifests glowing purple yield signs through the same magic.

Nobody knows why.

Selection Boxes

Draft's signature ability.

He creates translucent purple dashed rectangles around objects, attacks, environments, or living targets.

Once something has been selected, Draft may manipulate it as though interacting with a file.

He can:

Drag targets through space.

Throw them.

Rotate them.

Lock them in place.

Temporarily contain corruption.

Restrict movement.

Create barriers.

The boxes may also function as portals.

Draft uses them to travel between AUs, access his pocket dimension, or reposition himself during combat.

One of the strangest properties of the boxes is their ability to copy and paste objects.

Inanimate objects duplicate perfectly.

Sentient creatures do not.

The copied body emerges lifeless.

Draft finds this deeply disturbing and almost never uses it on intelligent beings.

Non-sentient animals, however, duplicate normally.

The selection boxes originally served as containment systems in his home AU.

Powerful individuals may resist or break free through sufficient strength or determination.

Pocket Dimension

Time does not function properly inside.

Stored within are:

Weapons.

Supplies.

Random objects.

Pieces of his destroyed world.

Everything remains exactly as it was when stored.

Some items have remained untouched for years.

Others are things Draft simply cannot bring himself to throw away.

The "sky" is what you see on the patches, checkered and endless, and if you look into the portals you can sometimes see stuff stored inside it.

His purple eye is actually inside the dimension. It floats around and is used to look inside it when he needs to find something mid-battle reaches inside his right hand or head and grabs whatever. And yes, he has gotten his eye lost before.

The downside to his right hand is that he can't physically grab anything with it. It just fazes into the dimension.

Corrupted Stats

Draft's stats no longer function correctly.

They fluctuate constantly without warning.

Most notably his HP.

On one day his durability might reach absurd levels.

On another, it may drop to nearly nothing.

He checks his stats obsessively.

Not because he enjoys it.

Because he genuinely never knows what they will be.

Fighting Style

Draft prefers control over destruction.

A typical fight follows a pattern:

Immobilize the target with purple magic.

Surround them with selection boxes.

Move them around the battlefield like misplaced files.

Open portals from strange angles.

Attack using stored objects, bones, or blasters.

Contain anything that looks remotely corrupted.

To most opponents, fighting Draft feels less like a battle and more like being reorganized by an annoyed computer technician.

Weaknesses

Obsession

Draft's hatred of corruption often overrides common sense.

If he becomes convinced something is dangerous enough, he may ignore risks, allies, or better alternatives in pursuit of containment.

Concentration

Large selection boxes require focus.

Disrupting his concentration weakens their effectiveness and may collapse them entirely.

Survivor's Guilt

Draft secretly blames himself for the destruction of his AU.

He believes that if he had been smarter, stronger, faster, or simply better, his world might still exist.

He rarely speaks about it.

But the guilt never left.

Relationships

Gaster

Gaster was Draft's closest companion during the final days of his world.

Together they spent countless loops searching for solutions.

Together they watched everything fail.

Draft still speaks as though Gaster is nearby.

Whether he is talking to memories, hallucinations, or something else entirely remains unknown.

Papyrus

Papyrus died long before the AU finally collapsed.

When the world was zipped and corrupted, his texture was literally cut apart.

Large portions of his character data vanished completely.

The tragedy isn't that Draft remembers watching it happen.

The tragedy is that he barely remembers Papyrus at all.

Corruption erased too much.

That loss became one of the driving forces behind Draft's growing instability.

Error

Draft despises Error more than almost anyone else in existence.

To Draft, Error represents everything that destroyed his home.

Everything he failed to stop.

Everything he still fears.

◤(THIS IS A LORE DUMP/IDEA AU DUMP, AND IS A WORK IN PROGRESS INDEFINITELY)

Brimstone is the name monsters give to the world beneath the surface, a place sealed away after the war between humans and monsters. The barrier still stands, separating Brimstone from the Above Ground, and the bitterness of that division has shaped everything that followed. The name itself is a joke that never stopped being funny because it never stopped hurting. Brimstone does not burn like hellfire, nor does it glow with sulfurous light. Instead, it grinds its inhabitants down slowly through cold, scarcity, and constant pressure. Survival here is not heroic. It is expected.

Life in Brimstone follows a strict, often violent order. Monsters are not mindlessly cruel, but kindness is dangerous when unprotected. Disputes are settled quickly, usually through strength or reputation, and those who cannot defend themselves learn to stay quiet. Laws exist, but they are enforced by fear rather than faith in justice. Most monsters keep their heads down, trade favors instead of trust, and learn which streets to avoid after dark. Death is common enough that it has become practical rather than tragic.

Snowdin is buried under ash-snow that never fully melts. The cold is harsher than it once was, and storms frequently spill into the Ruins and Catacombs. Heat is scarce, preserved only by torches and old systems barely kept alive. Beneath Snowdin, the Ruins stretch wide and quiet, not safe but less openly hostile. The Catacombs coil even deeper, stone-heavy and suffocating, a place where grief and paranoia fester. Hotland has merged into the central kingdom, forming a brutal industrial landscape of cracked stone, exposed machinery, and unstable heat vents that keep Brimstone from freezing completely.

Brimstone is ruled by the King, once the royal scientist under the Dreemurrs. After the death of the royal children and the withdrawal of Asgore and Toriel from power, he stepped into the vacuum without ceremony. The King governs through systems, laws, and detached oversight, leaving enforcement to the Knights of Blood. He does not care how order is maintained, only that it is. Rumors claim his work continues experiments begun long before the kingdom fell apart, though few understand what those experiments truly aim to accomplish.

The Knights of Blood serve as Brimstone’s enforcers. They are marked by enchanted gemstones embedded into their bodies, indicating rank and strength. The Knights are feared rather than respected, and most monsters avoid crossing them unless desperate. Undyne stands as their spear, relentless and uncompromising, believing that order is the only thing preventing total collapse. While the Knights maintain stability, they also deepen resentment, turning Brimstone into a place held together by pressure rather than unity.

The Dreemurr family remains fractured. Asgore lives alone in Old Home, tending dying gardens and memories he cannot abandon. Toriel hides in the Catacombs, her grief curdled into fear and suspicion. Their absence has left Brimstone without moral leadership, allowing brutality to replace compassion. The scars left by their children’s deaths still shape the kingdom’s silence.

Not all of Brimstone is uniformly dead or hostile. Beyond Waterfall lies Rainbow Fall, a strange and radiant anomaly that should not exist. It is sustained only through the presence of powerful SOUL energy, a truth hidden beneath its beauty. Lime, a synthetic skeleton created by the King using experimental monster soul remnants, tends the Falls. Though cheerful on the surface, Lime has killed before to keep Rainbow Fall alive, feeding it dust and blood. When threatened with its decay, he will do so again without hesitation.

Brimstone's weather is extreme, anywhere it was cold, wet, hot, it more extreme reaching other location, or new ones entirely., Whether this extreme weather is the result the war or the King’s ongoing experiments is unclear.

When Cyr falls into Brimstone, they disrupt a balance that was never healthy to begin with. Humans are not meant to survive here, and monsters know it. Some see Cyr as a threat, others as a resource, and a few as a mistake that should be corrected quickly. In a world built on endurance rather than hope, Cyr’s presence forces Brimstone to confront a question it has avoided since the barrier went up: whether survival alone is worth the cost of becoming something unrecognizable.

Sans carries himself with a lazy, mocking attitude, but the truth beneath his attitude is complicated and worn thin. He spends most of his time sleeping at his post or selling tacos in open violation of food laws, because he finds being a “proper” Knight boring and hollow. The toppings change depending on his mood, though he usually keeps the tacos tucked sideways into his jacket, causing the first one to fall out whenever he reaches for it. He likes vanilla in every form. He smokes vanilla cigars because the smell of ash reminds him of quieter days with his brother, and he drinks vanilla extract straight from the bottle. Sans talks too casually for a Knight of Blood, and when he first meets Cyr, he assumes they’re just another unlucky monster (due to his blindness in his left eye caused by the gem inserted in it) and offers them a taco without thinking. He enjoys teasing new people with crude or absurd jokes, especially when it makes them uncomfortable.

Underneath the humor, Sans is bitter and quick to anger. Mentioning Papyrus cuts straight through his jokes. Papyrus’s death and the brutal fight with Frisk hardened him, leaving him slow to trust and faster to snap than he used to be. Most of Sans’s worst traits come from grief, guilt, and the pressure of being one of the strongest Knights still standing. Despite that, he is fiercely protective of Togore Dreemurr (yes, the creature is in this au). Togore reminds him of Papyrus, not in appearance, but in their honesty and direct way of speaking. Sans often defends Togore when others mock their bluntness, and he listens to them more sincerely than he does anyone else.

Papyrus was not feared because he was vicious. He was feared because he was exact. As Lord of the Knights of Blood, he believed punishment should never be emotional, never impulsive, and never kind. He listened in silence, asked precise questions, and delivered consequences that fit the offense. Those who abused power were stripped of rank and sent into labor posts where survival depended on cooperation. Those who harmed civilians were marked publicly and reassigned to the coldest patrols until their reputation collapsed under exhaustion. Papyrus did not shout. He did not threaten. He simply enforced order with a calm certainty that made resistance feel pointless. Monsters whispered about him not because he enjoyed suffering, but because he made sure everyone remembered what they had done.

Outside of command, Papyrus was methodical and unexpectedly warm. He cooked rigatoni in vodka sauce with obsessive care, tasting constantly, adjusting heat and spice until it was right, and Sans loved it enough to steal leftovers without asking. The two of them worked well together, bickering without bitterness, trusting each other completely. Papyrus was always cold, always watching, but at home he loosened the scarf and talked about systems, fairness, and how Brimstone might survive without becoming something worse. He believed fear was a tool, not a goal, and that order meant nothing if it erased the people it was meant to protect.

Rosey The Flower

Rosey exists as a flower with no true SOUL, only a hollow space where it once was and as originally Chara. This emptiness grants them an unsettling clarity. They remember falling into Brimstone and dying there, and little else. Their thoughts move in sharp, efficient lines, stripped of warmth but not intelligence. Rosey is not playful, and they are not cruel. They are protective in a cold, utilitarian way.

When Cyr arrives, Rosey immediately recognizes them as a human who should not still be alive in Brimstone. To Rosey, survival here is not a miracle, it is prolonged suffering. They believe the kindest act is to end Cyr’s life quickly, before Brimstone grinds them down the way it did to everyone else. Chara watches the paths around the Ruins and listens to the hum of lingering magic. They appear without warning, rising silently from the earth. They dislike small talk, but will speak at length about survival, pain, and the nature of SOULs. Their voice shifts unpredictably, sometimes soft, sometimes sharp enough to chill the air. Their goal is simple: spare Cyr from what they believe is inevitable.

Togore Dreemurr

Togore is blunt, literal, and direct in a way that often unsettles other monsters. They struggle with sarcasm, subtext, and social games, preferring honesty over politeness. Togore asks questions plainly, even when those questions are uncomfortable or personal. This makes them seem fearless, though it is simply how they are. They find comfort in routines, patterns, and predictable environments. Togore enjoys dismantling machines, restoring old Dreemurr technology, and studying the gemstones embedded in the Knights of Blood, which makes the fact that his parents forget that he exist half the time even sadder.

They spend most of their free time in Old Home or wandering the edges of the kingdom, looking for anything that catches their interest. Togore is fascinated by Cyr because humans move, think, and emote differently from monsters. Their curiosity is intense but never invasive. They ask questions to understand, not to accuse. Their sincerity eases Sans’s temper, and the two form one of the few genuinely healthy bonds left in Brimstone. Togore does not fear Cyr or Chara. They simply want answers, why Cyr fell, and how a flower without a SOUL can still think.

Undyne, Lord of the Knights of Blood

Undyne is relentless, disciplined, and fiercely loyal to the King. She trains constantly in the Ruins, pushing the Knights of Blood to their limits through sheer force of will. Everything is a battle to her, combat, conversation, even disagreements over authority. She takes pride in her position and often patrols the old borders alone to test herself. In her rare moments of rest, she spars with enchanted training dummies or challenges fellow Knights to duels.

Undyne despises laziness and frequently scolds Sans, though she knows his strength is irreplaceable. She believes in order above comfort and stability above kindness. While she does not openly question the King, she remembers fragments of the world before things broke, and she buries those memories deep. Brimstone needs a spear, and Undyne has accepted that role fully.

The King (W. D. Gaster)

The King was once the royal scientist under the Dreemurrs. After the death of their children and the withdrawal of the royal family, he quietly assumed control. He rules Brimstone through law, systems, and fear rather than spectacle. He is not openly cruel, but utterly detached, consumed by unfinished work and theories that never reach conclusions. He speaks in fractured sentences and ideas that drift mid-thought, as though his mind is always elsewhere.

The King believes the barrier can be broken, not for peace, but for understanding. His research is built on experiments no one else fully understands. He takes immediate interest in Cyr, convinced that their SOUL represents a variable Brimstone has never accounted for. He does not rest. He calculates, writes, and tests endlessly, convinced that only he can impose meaning on a world that has rotted without it.

Asgore Dreemurr

Asgore lives alone in his abandoned castle in Old Home. He rarely leaves and avoids speaking to others. The deaths of his children destroyed his ability to lead. He still tends his gardens, even though the plants struggle under Brimstone’s ash-filled air. Asgore is gentle, apologetic, and hollowed by grief. Monsters treat him with a mix of respect and unease, unsure whether the former king will ever truly return to himself. He does not learn of Cyr’s existence until much later, and the knowledge shakes him deeply.

Toriel

Toriel hides deep within the Catacombs beneath the Ruins. Years of isolation have twisted her grief into fear and suspicion. When she first sees Cyr, she believes they are a hallucination and attacks in a panic, convinced her mind is finally breaking. Toriel is no longer gentle. She is brittle, frightened, and unpredictable, though traces of her protective instincts remain. She collects old books, candles, and dried flowers from her past life. Toriel is not cruel, she is shattered, and Cyr’s presence forces her to face wounds she never allowed to heal.

Grilbe

Grilbe runs a bar in Snowdin where monsters go to forget. His body is made of dense blue fire, with a glass jar for a head containing a green flame. He wears glasses and a light purple and black suit with a white tie. He speaks rarely, but everyone respects him. Beneath the bar, Grilbe operates an illegal food distribution network, passing coded notes and moving supplies for monsters who can’t afford official rations. In his free time, he experiments with recipes, trying to recreate flavors from before the war. Grilbe is calm, observant, and one of the first to sense that Cyr does not belong.

Lime

Lime(Based off the font Limelight) is a skeleton who wears a pumpkin over his head. Whether it is a mask or his actual skull is unknown, and he refuses to explain. He was created synthetically by Gaster using the soul of an experimental monster, part construct, part living essence. He lives near Rainbow Fall, tending its glowing plants and moss, which require a powerful soul to survive.

Beneath his gourd, lies a dark obsession. Lime has a taste for dust and blood, and he has killed before to feed Rainbow Fall, ensuring it stays alive. When Cyr arrives, he initially appears friendly, but quickly snaps, attempting to capture and kill them to use their SOUL. His dual nature makes him unpredictable.

Aleric

Aleric is a bat-like monster inspired by old vampiric myths. He has sharp red eyes and a voice that echoes softly when he speaks. He oversees Snowdin’s expanded library, which stretches deep underground into forgotten halls. Aleric is elegant, curious, and deeply protective of knowledge. He studies ancient texts about Brimstone’s origins, the war, and the Dreemurrs. Polite but intimidating, he becomes fascinated with Cyr upon learning their SOUL resonates with curiosity. To Aleric, Cyr is not a threat, but a question Brimstone has never been able to answer.

Cyr

Cyr is the fifth human to fall into Brimstone. They have long blonde hair that hangs over their eyes. They wear a light blue sweater with a single white stripe at the end of each sleeve, already worn thin by the cold. Cyr moves cautiously, curiously, watching how monsters react before deciding how to respond.

Their SOUL is orange, the trait of curiosity. It pulls them forward even when retreat would be safer. This SOUL grants Cyr nine lives. Each death reminds Cyr that they will run out if they keep being to brash, when the ninth is spent, the entire run resets. Brimstone forgets, though, three monsters remember something.

After a genocide run, Cyr begins hearing Frisk’s voice. It urges efficiency, repetition, completion. Frisk frames violence as learning, as optimization, as curiosity taken to its most brutal conclusion. It up to the player if they want to resist. (The player attempting pacifist and attempting to spare everyone is up to the player.

Muffet

Muffet thrives in Brimstone’s scarcity. She runs a web of food, silk, and information, selling survival at inflated prices and calling it generosity. Her spiders control trade routes through the Ruins and Snowdin, and crossing her usually means disappearing quietly. Muffet treats Cyr politely, even warmly, but only as long as they are profitable. Curiosity interests her. Resetting does not. If she ever learns Cyr can come back from death, she will try to monetize it.

Mettaton

Mettaton is no longer entertainment. He is infrastructure. His body has been rebuilt into a broadcast and control system used to relay Knight orders, emergency warnings, and propaganda. He performs only during rare morale events, turning fear into spectacle. Mettaton is charismatic, sharp, and deeply aware that he is being used. Cyr fascinates him because they introduce unpredictability into a system designed to suppress it. He frames danger as drama, but watches Cyr closely for signs of collapse.

Alphys

Alphys works under the King, maintaining failing systems and half understood experiments. She is brilliant, anxious, and drowning in guilt over things she helped create but no longer understands. Alphys recognizes Cyr’s SOUL as wrong almost immediately, not evil, but unstable. She wants to help Cyr survive, then realizes survival might make things worse. The possibility of resets terrifies her. Not because of death, but because it means mistakes can be repeated forever.

Napstablook

Napstablook drifts through the Ruins and Catacombs, untouched by most of Brimstone’s violence. They feel everything, but do nothing about it. Cyr does not scare them. They simply recognize the sadness clinging to them. If Cyr dies nearby, Napstablook lingers longer than usual, listening to echoes that should not exist.

Temmie

Temmie is a timid but determined business monster who survives by selling small handmade goods and scavenging supplies from a hidden shop tucked between collapsing tunnels. She avoids conflict at all costs, stuttering through negotiations and apologizing even when she is being cheated. Her prices are fair, sometimes too fair, and she often throws in extras out of nervous habit.

[I know, I know, I have a lot of citters. I just like making them. And I just wanted to have a trio of characters, so >:P]

Veil is not introduced to guests unless absolutely necessary.

Most residents only know rumors.

Something wrapped in translucent purple wandering restricted halls. Something standing silently behind Vanta during negotiations. Something appearing in rooms nobody saw open.

Nobody is fully certain what Veil originally was before Vanta bound them.

Their face is completely swallowed in shadow beneath a sheer purple veil. Through the darkness, only a dim grey pupil is visible, weak and distant like dying lights.

Their bones are stained dark red and covered in a strange black substance that resembles dried blood at first glance, it is not.

The liquid reflects light strangely, almost oily, and occasionally leaks fresh from cracks in their bones before slowly hardening again into rough black streaks.

Nobody knows where it comes from.

A thick light-purple scarf is wrapped around their neck, while lavender bandages coil around their arms, torso, and hands.

Their soul constantly floats outside their chest.

Unlike normal monster souls, it does not remain stable.

White soul matter drips downward continuously before evaporating into the air like dissolving wax. The soul itself remains untouched by Veil’s own magic. Whatever happened to it existed long before their current abilities fully developed.

Veil barely speaks.

When they do, their voice sounds forced and soft

They appear emotionally hollow, with most people assuming Vanta destroyed whatever personality they originally had years ago.

Veil is believed to be one of Vanta’s first successful soul bindings. The connection between them seems to be deep.

Vanta treats Veil differently from everyone else.

Possessive. Cruel. Protective. "Touchy".

He adjusts their scarf himself. Allows them closer than anyone else. Sometimes casually rests a hand against their melting soul while speaking to guests.

Nobody else is allowed to touch Veil.

Magic:

Red-Blue:

Veil only possesses red and blue soul-separation magic.

When activated, Veil forcibly splits a target’s SOUL into two independent halves.

The split immediately creates two identical versions of the target’s body. Both copies move independently and share the same thoughts, instincts, and awareness. To outside observers, it becomes almost impossible to determine which body is the “real” one because both are equally real while the split remains active.

The effect creates overwhelming confusion during combat.

Attacks aimed at one target may suddenly miss because the second body moved differently. Defensive reactions become delayed because the split soul struggles coordinating two separate physical perspectives at once. Many opponents panic after seeing themselves standing several feet away acting independently.

Bomb Transmutation

Veil may charge any object, inanimate or not, as a bomb simply by touching it.

Relationship with Vanta:

Veil does not love Vanta.

But they no longer seem capable of existing properly without him nearby.

Years of binding have eroded too many boundaries between them. Veil reacts to Vanta’s emotions before he visibly expresses them. Vanta speaks to them less like a servant and more like something personally owned for a very long time.

Whether Veil stays willingly or simply no longer understands the difference is impossible to tell.

Vanta considers Veil one of his favorite creations.

(Not clover from yellow)

Clover is one of the few people allowed to casually touch Vanta without permission. He leans on him constantly, throws an arm around his shoulders during parties, steals drinks directly from his table, and loudly calls him his “best pal” in front of guests without fear of punishment. Most outsiders mistake him for a harmless drunk, a washed-up gambler, or an idiot Vanta keeps around for entertainment.

That misunderstanding usually lasts until Clover starts moving.

Appearance

Two arrows are permanently lodged in Clover’s skull. One pierces directly through the right eye socket, while the second is buried deep through the upper left side of his head at an angle.

Vanta has offered to remove them multiple times, but Clover always refuses.

His left eye glows bright green in the shape of a four-leaf clover. Jagged green claw-like markings spread across the upper and lower right side of his skull.

He wears a dark blue turtleneck, along with a heavy teal cloak draped loosely around his shoulders, and usually smells strongly of expensive alcohol.

His posture and balance constantly shift unpredictably. His speech is heavily slurred nearly all the time.

Past

In his original AU, Clover accidentally caused the death of his own brother. Whether through recklessness, terrible luck, or a genuine mistake is unclear, but the result led to his execution.

The arrows were part of that punishment.

By all logic, Clover should have died that day.

Instead, he survived.

To Clover, that survival proved something fundamental: luck decides everything.

The arrows are not trophies.

They are reminders of what he did, of the punishment he received, and of the impossible fact he somehow survived anyway.

He refuses to remove them because they remind him both of his guilt and the miracle that allowed him to live.

Personality

Clover is loud, reckless, affectionate, invasive, and constantly intoxicated.

He drinks heavily almost every hour of the day and treats most situations like a game or wager. He laughs during fights, steals food and alcohol from other people casually, and rarely takes anything seriously on the surface.

Despite this behavior, Clover is extremely emotionally unstable underneath the alcohol.

When sober, he becomes deeply depressed and emotionally vacant. He often refuses to socialize, move around, or engage with anything for extended periods of time. Alcohol functions less like recreation and more like the thing keeping him emotionally functional.

He believes almost everything in existence comes down to luck rather than fate, morality, or destiny.

Clover also has a horrible gambling addiction.

He gambles on card games, contracts, races, fights, and occasionally himself.

He once gambled away half the internal structure of his own soul during a reckless wager and lost.

Despite this, Clover does not regret the gamble, and he trusts his luck completely.

Cheating is one of the few things he genuinely dislikes. To Clover, cheating is a bad omen. If luck is truly on your side, there should be no need to fake victory.

He also refuses to intentionally throw games or back down from risks. Even with terrible odds, Clover commits fully.

There are still limits, however.

He refuses to gamble his remaining soul or the lives of his friends.

Relationship With Vanta

Clover is one of the very few people Vanta openly tolerates touching him casually.

Unlike most people in Vanta’s circle, Clover shows no fear toward him whatsoever. He understands exactly how dangerous Vanta is and simply does not care. In many ways, Clover admires him.

Vanta occasionally uses Clover as a bodyguard, debt collector, contract enforcer, and intermediary during dangerous negotiations.

Clover originally disliked collecting people for Vanta, but over time he began enjoying it.

If someone attempts to escape a contract or hide from Vanta, Clover is often sent after them first. Unlike Vanta, Clover is loud about it:

kicking down doors,

drinking from people’s cabinets,

joking while threatening them,

and laughing during violence.

Clover also dislikes how much attention Vanta gives Veil (the other "bodyguard"), though he mostly keeps it to himself. He finds Veil unsettling, but has become used to their presence over time.

Clover does not believe Vanta would ever get rid of him.

Magic

Clover specializes in probability distortion magic.

His abilities subtly manipulate luck itself through accumulated risk. The more reckless, unstable, or dangerous a situation becomes, the stronger his magic grows.

Because of this:

impossible survival becomes more likely,

attacks narrowly miss,

coincidences stack in his favor,

and outcomes begin bending around him unnaturally.

His drunken unpredictability also strengthens this effect. Skilled opponents struggle to read him because his movements appear accidental even when they are deadly.

He may:

stumble around attacks,

bend backward at impossible angles,

trip into advantageous positions,

or dodge fatal strikes without seeming aware of it.

However, Clover’s power depends heavily on risk.

If he becomes too controlled, cautious, or serious for too long, the accumulated instability fueling his luck begins fading. A fully disciplined Clover is actually weaker than a reckless one.

Soul

After gambling away half the internal structure of his soul, Clover’s soul became permanently incomplete.

It no longer behaves entirely like a normal monster soul.

Under certain conditions:

magic interacts with him incorrectly,

attacks partially phase through him,

or damage behaves unpredictably.

During one battle, Clover was pinned down and blasted directly by a Gaster Blaster. A coin flip happened. Instead of fully destroying him, the attack partially phased through his damaged soul structure.

He survived.

Chapter 10: Exit

The Barrier shimmered faintly.

A thin line between everything that had happened-

And whatever came next.

Sans stood in front of it.

The red smoke bled from his body in slow, endless strands, curling into the air and dissolving into nothing. His posture was still loose, hands hanging at his sides, head slightly tilted forward.

The Underground was gone.

Empty.

In front of him-

The human.

Bleeding.

Beaten from the fight, hanging on to the last of their HP.

But still standing.

Determined.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

No words.

No taunts.

No introductions.

Just the weight of everything that had led here pressing down on both of them.

Then-

Drip

They moved.

At the same time.

The fight was not like before.

There was no rhythm.

The air warped violently as Sans stepped forward, his form flickering in and out of place-not teleporting, not quite-breaking space between moments.

The human reacted on instinct.

Their movements were sharp, desperate, fueled by something deeper than thought.

DETERMINATION.

But it wasn’t enough anymore.

Sans didn’t dodge everything.

He didn’t need to.

Attacks tore through him, grazing bone, cracking structure-but he didn’t slow. The damage didn’t matter. He was stronger. More determined.

More determined to kill the human.

His hand moved-

And the smoke whipped the human, throwing them back, their body slamming against nothing as the red smoke twisted around them.

They hit the ground hard.

Got back up.

Kept going.

Again.

Again.

Again.

The loop wasn’t resetting.

But the feeling of it was still there.

Burned into Sans’s mind.

The human lunged forward-

Sans was already there.

A strike-

Blocked.

Another-

Pushed back.

Another-

Too slow.

The world around them began to fracture.

Timelines split through; the coding screamed.

This fight was not programmed to be like this.

The more it split, the higher Sans' LV rose.

Snow from Snowdin flickered into existence for a split second beneath their feet-

Then vanished.

Waterfall’s echoes rang out-

Gone.

Hotland’s heat surged-

Then silence.

Every timeline.

Every memory.

Bleeding into this moment.

The human faltered.

Just once.

That was all it took.

Sans raised his hand.

The human was bound by his smoke, only for a second.

“...you kept going,” he said quietly.

No humor.

No anger.

Just a statement.

“again... and again... and again...”

The human tried to move.

They couldn’t.

Their soul flickering faintly inside their chest.

Sans stepped closer.

Slowly.

“...i used to care,” he continued.

A pause.

“...don’t remember why.”

The human’s eyes widened.

For the first time-

Fear.

Real fear.

“...heh.”

Sans reached forward.

And grabbed.

The soul tore free.

It wasn’t clean.

It wasn’t gentle.

It ripped out of the human’s body with a violent snap, glowing red with raw Determination, pulsing wildly in Sans’s hand.

The human collapsed instantly.

Still alive-

Barely.

Sans stared at it.

The soul.

Beating.

Fighting.

Refusing.

“...this is what did it, huh,” he muttered.

The red smoke thickened.

Wrapped around the soul.

Sank into it.

It screamed.

Not a sound.

Not a voice.

Something deeper.

Sans clenched his hand.

And began to drain it.

The Determination didn’t flow.

It resisted.

It fought back.

But Sans forced it.

Pulled it apart.

Stripped it down.

Took everything.

Every reset.

Every save.

Every ounce of will that had kept the world looping.

The human twitched weakly on the ground.

Their body failing.

Empty.

Sans’s form shifted.

The red smoke flared violently, his hollow soul pulsing brighter-stronger-hungrier.

“...not enough,” he whispered.

The soul dimmed.

Faded.

And then-

He crushed it.

It shattered completely.

No fragments.

No absorption.

No second chance.

Gone.

The Barrier trembled.

Cracked.

Shattered.

Silence.

Sans stood there for a moment.

Then stepped forward.

Through where it had been.

Mount Ebott

The wind hit him first.

Cold but different.

Sans stepped onto the cliff.

For the first time-

There was no reset behind him.

No timeline waiting.

Freedom.

“...heh,” he muttered.

“...finally.”

“...not quite.”

Sans stopped.

Slowly-

Turned.

A figure stood behind him.

Still.

Watching.

Chara.

Their eyes glowed faintly.

Not angry.

Not calm.

Knowing.

Sans didn’t react much.

“...figured you’d show up,” he said.

Chara tilted their head slightly.

“You’ve changed the path,” they said.

Their voice wasn’t loud.

But it carried.

Everywhere.

Sans looked away.

“...yeah,” he said. “kinda the point.”

A pause.

“You consumed the Determination,” Chara continued.

“You destroyed the soul.”

Another pause.

“...you ended their loop.”

Sans’s eye flickered red.

“good,” he said. “that’s what i wanted.”

Chara smiled faintly.

Not kindly.

“No,” they said.

“You didn’t.”

Silence.

Sans frowned slightly.

“...what.”

Chara stepped forward.

“You’ve mistaken what happens 'after'. You've never seen what happens 'after'.”

They gestured behind him.

Toward nothing.

Toward everything.

“There is no ‘after.’”

The wind stopped.

“The code ends here.”

Sans didn’t move.

“...doesn’t matter,” he said. “i’ll make more.”

Chara shook their head.

“You can’t.”

A beat.

“You are still inside it. And there's only one man that's ever left it.”

Sans’s expression darkened.

“...then i’ll leave it.”

Chara’s smile widened slightly.

That same wrong expression.

“You can’t.”

A long silence followed.

“If you cross that boundary,” Chara said, pointing toward the cliff's road-

“The game will reset. Credits roll.”

The words struck harder than anything else.

Sans’s hand tightened.

“...no,” he said.

“Yes.”

“...i broke it.”

“No.”

“...i killed everything.”

“Yes.”

“...there’s nothing left.”

“Yes.”

“then why-”

“Because this is where it ends.”

Silence.

Heavy.

Unavoidable.

Sans looked out over the cliff.

The sky stretched endlessly.

Real.

So close, yet untouchable.

“...so that’s it,” he said quietly.

“No freedom.”

Chara watched him.

Closely.

“You have two options.”

Sans didn’t turn.

“...figures.”

“Stay,” Chara said.

“And exist in a dead world.”

A pause.

“Forever.”

Sans’s eye dimmed slightly.

“Or leave.”

A longer pause.

“And erase everything.”

The wind returned.

Soft.

Cold.

Sans stood there.

Thinking.

For the first time in a long time-

Actually thinking.

Not about stopping.

Not about saving.

Not about winning.

Just...

Choosing.

Behind him-

Nothing.

In front of him-

The end.

Sans took a step forward.

Stopped at the edge.

“...heh,” he muttered.

“...guess it really is the point of no return.”

Chara didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Sans looked down at his hand.

At the red smoke.

At the hollow space where something used to be.

The human was gone.

The Underground was gone.

Everything he had fought for.

Everything he had destroyed.

Gone.

And yet...

He still felt trapped.

"...kinda funny."

Chara raised an eyebrow.

Sans glanced back at them.

“you know, for someone giving me a lecture about all this..."

His eye flickered.

"...didn't you help them?"

Silence.

A beat.

Another beat.

Then Chara looked away.

"...partially."

Sans stared.

"partially!?"

"I stopped halfway through."

"...you stopped halfway through."

"Yes."

"that's your defense?"

"It seemed reasonable at the time."

Sans blinked.

For the first time since killing the human, he actually looked confused.

"you spent who-knows-how-many timelines helping them kill everyone..."

A pause.

"then just quit?"

"Correct."

"why?"

Chara thought about it.

Then shrugged.

"I lost interest."

Silence.

Sans stared.

Chara stared back.

"...that's the dumbest thing i've ever heard."

"Thank you."

"that wasn't a compliment."

"I know."

The wind blew between them.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Chara's expression became serious again.

"The choice remains."

Sans looked back toward the road ahead.

The path stretched beyond the cliff.

Simple.

Ordinary.

One step.

That's all it would take.

"if i cross..."

"The game ends."

"...and resets."

"Yes."

Sans frowned.

"...then what's the point?"

Chara looked toward the horizon.

"You misunderstand what a reset means."

Silence.

"The player is gone."

That got his attention.

Sans slowly turned.

"what?"

"The one who guided the human."

"The one who forced the loops."

"The one who repeated this world until nothing remained."

Chara folded their arms.

"They do not come back."

Sans narrowed his eye.

"...you're sure?"

"As sure as anyone can be."

The wind carried their voice across the cliff.

"This world has reached its conclusion."

"The story has been exhausted."

"The player got what they wanted."

A pause.

"Or perhaps they didn't."

Another pause.

"It no longer matters."

Sans looked at the road again.

"The reset creates something new." (killer reff OMG! He did it again!!!!1!)

His eye flickered.

"...new?"

"Possibly."

"No guarantees."

The red smoke curled around Sans's shoulders.

"What happens after the reset is unknown, except a few knowns."

"There will not be another Frisk."

"There will not be another Sans."

For the first time, Chara's voice sounded almost honest.

That probability hung in the air.

Heavy.

Strange.

Because for once...

There wasn't an answer.

Just uncertainty.

Sans laughed quietly.

A tired laugh.

"...heh."

"...that's kinda terrifying."

"Yes."

"But it's also freedom."

Silence.

The thought settled into him slowly.

The player would be gone.

No more resets.

No more endless loops.

No more watching the same story play out forever.

No more fighting an enemy that could simply reload and try again.

The next world-

If there even was a next world-

Would belong to itself.

Not to him.

Not to Frisk.

Not to anyone standing here now.

Something new. (OMG HE DID IT AGAIN!!1!!111!)

Something unknown.

All he had to do...

Was cross the line.

The sky stretched endlessly ahead.

For the first time since he had become aware of the timelines-

For the first time since everything began-

The future wasn't visible.

It was blank.

And somehow...

That felt real.

Sans stood quietly.

Thinking.

The red smoke drifted away into the wind.-

As if even it was waiting.

Waiting for him to decide.

Behind him was eternity.

Ahead of him was oblivion.

Or possibility.

Maybe both.

"...heh."

He shoved his hands into his pockets.

Looked up at the sky.

"...guess that's the thing about shortcuts."

Chara watched him.

"you eventually run out of them."

Sans smiled.

A small one.

A real one.

For once.

Then he took another step forward.

And stopped.

Right at the line.

The very last boundary.

The edge between what was...

And whatever came next.

The wind blew.

Chara remained silent.

And for the first time in forever-

Sans didn't know what would happen.

For a moment, everything went quiet.

No flickering.

No shifting timelines.

No distant echoes of resets.

Just him.

And the choice.

“...guess i’ll find out,” he said.

And then he stepped through."

It didn’t feel like breaking through something.

It felt like being removed.

The moment his body crossed the threshold, the world didn’t react.

It didn’t shatter.

It didn’t resist.

It simply... stopped including him.

Sound vanished first.

Then weight.

Then direction.

Sans tried to move-

There was nothing to move through.

For a split second, something tore.

Not outside.

Inside.

Like every connection he had to everything else had been cut at once.

Then-

White.

He hit something.

Not hard.

Not soft.

Just... something.

A surface.

Flat.

Endless.

Sans didn’t move at first.

His body lay where it had landed, limbs still, mind struggling to catch up to what had just happened.

There was no sound.

Not even the faint hum of existence he was used to ignoring.

No wind.

No background noise.

No distant anything.

Just silence.

Slowly, Sans pushed himself up.

His joints felt wrong.

Not damaged.

Not broken.

Just... delayed.

Like his body had to remember how to work again.

He stood.

Looked around.

White.

In every direction.

Above.

Below.

Beyond.

No walls, no sky, no edges. Just a blank, empty space that went on forever.

“...huh,” he said.

The word didn’t echo.

It didn’t even feel like it fully left him.

Sans took a step forward.

His foot hit solid ground.

There was something here.

A floor.

Even if nothing else existed.

“...so this is it,” he muttered.

(This art was made by my beloved boyfriend @ilkuuk)

[Hi hi! It's me, the author! I'm going to open up asks for him right here after this piece of art in the story! And it may or may not be canon based on the questions! So ask Smokey a question, and there may or may not be art made for the answers! Keep reading for the canon ending for this story!~] Check out asks here: link

No response.

Of course not.

Sans turned slowly, scanning the empty expanse again.

Nothing changed. Nothing moved.

“...kinda over-whitening,” he said.

The joke fell flat.

There was no one to hear it.

No one to react.

The silence pressed in. The silence was loud.

Sans shoved his hands into his pockets.

“...alright,” he said quietly.

“guess i’ll just...”

He trailed off.

There was nothing to finish the sentence with.

Time didn’t pass here.

Or maybe it did.

Sans couldn’t tell.

There was no day.

No night.

No markers.

Just endless, unchanging white.

At first, he walked.

No destination or direction.

Just movement.

Because standing still felt worse.

“...left, right, left, right...” he muttered to himself.

His voice became the only thing that proved he was still there.

“...heh. guess i finally found a place where shortcuts don’t matter.”

He tried one anyway.

Nothing happened.

The space didn’t respond.

Didn’t bend.

Didn’t acknowledge him at all.

Sans stopped.

“...figures.”

After a while, or what felt like a while, he started talking more.

Not to anyone.

Just... out loud.

“...so this is the part where something shows up, right?”

Silence.

“...big scary thing, mysterious voice, cosmic explanation...”

Nothing.

“...no?”

Still nothing.

Sans laughed again, but quieter this time.

“...yeah. didn’t think so.”

He stopped walking eventually.

Not because he reached anything.

Because there was no point.

Every direction was the same.

Every step led nowhere.

Sans sat down.

The ground was solid.

Real.

That was something.

“...hey, paps,” he said suddenly.

The name hung in the air, Unanswered.

“...you’d hate this place.”

He looked around again.

“...no puzzles, no colors, no... anything.”

A pause.

“...no spaghetti either.”

Silence.

Sans’s grin twitched slightly.

Then stilled.

He didn’t know when the thoughts started changing.

At first, it was just boredom.

Then irritation.

Then something sharper.

“...there’s gotta be something,” he muttered.

He stood again.

Walked.

Faster this time.

“...there’s always something.”

His voice echoed inside his head more than in the space around him.

“...rules. systems. code. something.”

Nothing responded.

Nothing existed to respond.

Sans stopped abruptly.

“...don’t tell me this is it,” he said, quieter now.

The silence didn’t answer.

He started trying things.

Magic, it still worked.

Shortcuts, which he didn't know if they worked, everything was the same.

Sans clenched his hands.

“...i know you’re there,” he muttered.

He didn’t know who he was talking to.

But he kept talking anyway.

“...you gotta be. something’s gotta be running this.”

The white space remained perfectly still.

Unchanged.

Unaffected.

Time passed.

Or didn’t.

Sans changed anyway.

It started small.

At first, it was a subtle flicker in his bones.

A hesitation in his movements.

A twinge in his vision that didn’t belong.

Then it became color.

Not natural.

Not flesh or bone.

Not even fully himself.

A static blue seeped through him.

Like a broken signal caught between worlds.

It started at the edges.

Fingers. Eye sockets. Joints.

A cold, electric hum that he could feel in the marrow of his bones.

The red smoke never stopped.

It leaked from him in thin threads, curling through the static like liquid fire.

It was constant.

A reminder.

A pulse.

His overall hue darkened.

Shifting through patterns that resembled flickering television static.

It went on forever.

Or at least, it felt that way.

Time did not exist here.

Hours passed, then days, then years-though he had no way to measure them.

The white Anti-Void stretched infinitely.

No horizon.

No sky.

No markers.

Just him.

And the floor.

And the impossible nothingness around him.

And the static.

And the smoke.

He began to hate.

Not anyone he could name.

Not anything that existed here.

He only knew some things that were left behind in his mind.

Player.

It burned in him.

And he did not remember why.

He knew the Player had done something.

Something terrible, something that left him here.

But what exactly?

He could not remember.

It was just a shadow at the edge of his mind.

He cursed it silently.

Player.

He clung to memories.

Fading, fractured, incomplete.

Papyrus.

His brother.

The scarf.

Still around his neck.

The Underground.

The shapes.

The ruins.

The towns.

That was it.

Nothing else.

And yet, he remembered a word he couldn’t fully understand.

LOVE.

It pulsed in his chest.

An idea, A tether.

And somehow, he knew it was tied to happiness, His happiness.

The only thing left.

And something had been broken.

The Player.

LOVE.

He came to a simple conclusion.

"I had left... to fix them... to fix Player."

He walked.

Not forward.

Not in circles.

Not toward anything.

He moved, because moving was all there was to do.

The static shifted around him.

Patterns flickered over his bones and skull, changing constantly, but always cold.

Always sharp.

Always him.

The red smoke leaked from his body.

Trailing behind him like a ribbon of fire in frozen water.

The only warmth in the endless white.

Every step pressed him further into obsession.

Player.

LOVE.

Papyrus.

The Underground.

Everything else was gone.

Years passed, or what passed for years.

His body continued to warp.

Bones elongated slightly.

Edges blurred.

His skull cracked here and there, never fully broken, never fully healed.

His eye sockets remained hollow.

Empty.

Dark.

But the static inside them moved.

Like something alive.

Like something watching.

His voice, too, changed.

A low, constant static beneath the words he still spoke aloud.

“...Player,” he whispered one day.

“...LOVE.”

He spoke them endlessly.

To the void.

To himself.

To the white space around him that couldn’t respond.

“...LOVE...Papyrus...fix...Player...”

And so he moved.

Endlessly.

Through the Anti-Void.

Through the nothing.

Through forever.

Every step, every pulse, every flicker of static and smoke reminded him:

He had a mission.

He had a reason.

He had LOVE.

And he had to fix it.

He became something new.

Not human.

Not skeleton.

Not exactly what he had been.

A walking flicker of blue static,

Red smoke spilling from his bones,

Carrying memories, hate, and obsession.

The Anti-Void listened.

Shifting subtly as he passed.

Responding to him in ways that were not words,

Not commands,

But awareness.

And he walked on.

Forever.

Through endless white.

Toward a goal he barely understood.

Player.

LOVE.

Papyrus.

The Underground.

Everything else was gone.

But he would not stop.

He won't stop.

(I'm working on a bigger sprite for him, I just made him small for some reason, I like it tho)

My partner calls him cunty sans, so I might refer to him as that now and then!

Feel free to ask me or Vanta about anything, asks and questions are open for him!

Vanta presents himself as charming, refined, and approachable. He hosts luxury gatherings, drinks late into the night, flirts like it’s second nature, and speaks with a smooth confidence that makes people lower their guard almost immediately. Most people mistake it for charisma.

It isn’t.

Nearly every interaction is leverage in disguise. Kindness, affection, protection, and even generosity are all tools for control, loyalty, information, or entertainment. Vanta chose exactly who he is and shows very little remorse for what it costs others. Basically, think Jack Horner from Puss in Boots, and unredmeable mess.

He has one eye. The left side of his skull is shattered, kinda like Horror!Sans but down to the eye socket, and when he uses magic, desaturated blue flames ignite through the cracks while a faint glowish aura around his body.

He enjoys high-class parties, jazz music, pool, gambling and card games, and collecting rare artifacts (mainly souls, like different types of souls).

Oddly, he genuinely enjoys childish card games like Go Fish alongside more serious gambling.

Vanta values loyalty, usefulness, and control. But none of it guarantees safety.

Vanta dislikes people he cannot manipulate or gain leverage over. If someone becomes inconvenient, they are already replaceable.

Soul:

Vanta willingly allowed concentrated soul matter(DT, specifically the fan-made Deceit Soul DT) to be injected into his body to gain more power beyond what his normal abilities provided.

He barely needs sleep anymore due to the effects of the DT, though he still enjoys resting and maintaining his appearance. The inside of his shattered skull remains permanently burned from the strain of his magic and enhancements, and is thought to be busted because of it.

Magic:

Vanta’s primary magic revolves around teleportation pushed to an extreme level.

His body is surrounded by an automatic spatial barrier that “shortcuts” anything touching him into a separate AU he owns. To outsiders, attacks simply vanish on contact without sound or impact.

In reality, they have been displaced elsewhere.

This ability extends through connected physical contact within roughly 23 feet. If something is connected to Vanta physically, directly or indirectly, he may teleport it at will unless the target is significantly stronger than him mentally or magically.

For example:

touching his socks connects to his high heels, which connect to the floor, which connects to nearby objects or people.

This allows Vanta to displace individuals, groups, attacks, structures, or large sections of environments simultaneously.

That “separate AU” is The Empty AU, a dimension originally an actual AU that has since been filled with discarded objects, failed experiments, contract victims, and an entire growing civilization that now survives independently under his indirect influence.

Vanta also specializes in supernatural contracts known as Soul Deals.

A Soul Deal allows Vanta to exchange something he already possesses for something another person has. He cannot create something from nothing. Every agreement is limited to powers, objects, magic, conditions, or resources he personally owns or gained through previous contracts.

Because of this limitation, his deals are often technically truthful while still deeply manipulative.

Vanta strongly prefers deals that continue benefiting him long after the original exchange is complete. Sometimes another form of magic is hidden inside contracts, allowing him to bind them like a dog.

If a contracted person dies, their children may inherit the contract depending on the wording.

Vanta can also physically feel when contracts are broken.

Mentioned before, Vanta also uses another form of magic called Soul Bindings.

Unlike temporary deals, Soul Bindings permanently tether souls together through magical force, though more one-way. The bound individual still retains free will, but part of their soul becomes attached to Vanta permanently.

Welcome to my insanity!

This was made before I thought of posting FatedRed to Tumblr and has sat in my Milanote gathering dust (no pun intended), so if you're wondering how I'm posting so fast, it's because I am dingus. Also, I can't draw well, so all you guys get is pixel art T-T (If you do see some, it's most likely made by my partner @ilkuuk.)

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◤!FatedRed Chapters!

1: Start!

2: The True Lab

3: The Fight

4: Repetition.

5: Voidfall.

6: Smoke.

7: The Weight of Dust.

8: The Throne Room.

9: The Monster

10: Exit

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◤Other Stuff!

Common Bluebell

Filter!Sans (Planning on a rework!)

Vanta!Sans, Clover!Sans, Veil!Sans

Draft!Sans

Brimstone!UnderFell

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