Unsettling Was Never The Right Word To Him. Unsettling Implies Something Shifted, Something Afraid, Something

unsettling was never the right word to him. ━ unsettling implies something shifted, something afraid, something external made internal and how that scares you, absorbed like dust in water, water in wood, wood in fire ; but what he's unsettled by is something already in him. something that keeps getting taken out.

Scared of himself. Scared of something else. Scared of something he can't name, but knows isn't Toba. The castle looms like a threat of something that does not exist. The castle looms and it exists anyway. He has to go, eventually. The knight's sword like a reminder on his knee.

you can see his hands twitch in their faltering when the offer is laid flat, a consequence of asking, he knows. It's not as if he didn't expect a response ━ it would've been worse without one ━ but he still finds himself taken aback, the words he has never enough to articulate something the way other people can, the way he's not the same as other people at all.

the fogging heat of the simmering broth laying into his bare hand is a comfort, here, as the other hand holds the spoon ━ a tentative thing around the smooth wood.

like ghosts, like something else between his fingers.

"I..." the quiet bubbling, creaking, crackle of the pot fills the quiet "I don't know." ━━━ statement too hollow to be taken as answer, he knows, so he keeps going. ( what is there to be unsure about? )

"It's just... I'm not..." Link struggles to find the words, the confliction of which to use abundant on the tense edges of his face. "I'm good with a sword, sure, but I don't get why you'd trust me with it. I don't know if I could... Do something like that...? I have, but with you it's almost like its... different. ━ not in a bad way! just..."

"... I don't know. I'm not used to this. ( um... ) the... saving people thing. the ones who aren't strangers."

he doesn't know Toba, and yet, and yet, he still more resembles a friend than a blank face to him.

( ... quiet enough to almost be missed, like an insult hidden with no insult at all; "I... I guess it's kind of... inherent, since I was the one asking, and all... that you'd say..." )

"I- uh..." he remembers the curiosity of the start of this at all like a snap of a trap on his leg ━ metaphorical, but still jarring. ".. I was just curious, you know? At night there's a lot of dangerous things out, so my mind kind of... wandered?"

Despite the hero fidgeting and taking quite a bit to respond, the Gerudo says nothing. Toba may not have been in this variation of the world for long, but it's plain to see he somewhat unsettles the other. He must have never met any Ganondorf, seeing his kind disposition (and the hesitancy).

He shifts a little on the log as Link continues. They're glad he's able to trust them? It's a sweet thought, but he focuses on how the hero can't finish his sentence. There's more to it than simple trust, but trust him with what exactly? Again, Toba notes how he's trying to divert his attention, watching as they stir and add ingredients. It's almost enough for the Gerudo not to hear him speak, yet he can't help but glance at Link now. He can only imagine how the thoughts must be racing in his head; time seems to catch up to him as he apologizes. It's a heartwarming sentiment, but Toba's curiosity demands an explanation. (That, and he knows it's better to explain oneself than let it fester.)

Now he turns his head to face the hero, a faint smile on his lips. "Please, do not hesitate to speak your mind to me. I take no offense. In truth, I am curious as to why you asked me that question, but if you truly cannot say, that is alright as well."

Megaera can taste, or rather sense misdeeds and wrongdoings. A portion of the reason shes as hostile to Zagreus in battle in particular as she is, is merely due in part to the amount of fiendish shades he had to dispose of to arrive to her station. he is dripping with it, almost soaked in their blood, even his wounds are fresh with the scent of it from their weapons, each bruise shines sickly with it. Usually, this isn’t a problem, as Meg has been within the Underworlds keep and under Hades’ rule for a very long time, and almost reluctantly, restraint is a facet she is arguably most skilled with alongside her sisters. ━━━ But when its concentrated unto a single target, of whom she’s been granted full freedom to her violent whims ━ even encouraged to act upon them, to lay her wrath down as vehemently as she can ━ paired with Zagreus’ lighthearted, sarcastic, determined nature, and violence always being the language she speaks with  most fluent a tongue … well, its very easy to see why she’s called a fury in more than just her blood.

[ umber ] For any deltarune or undertale muse. I can't read your roster on my phone for some reason

[ umber ] for a repressed memory.

Once, Frisk snapped. ━ they snapped like a bungee cord during storage, not during the fall ; less like someone slashed it like people slash tires and more like how a vase only realizes its broken once it hits the ground, and they were. 

It was Gyftmas Eve, and they were throwing a party at the capital. It was the 2nd year they were staying with Asgore after saying they wouldn’t be leaving, that the decision could be put off for a time. ( “ delay the execution, won’t you? for right this moment, it doesn’t have to happen. not here. not now. ” ) Asgore had relented to the groups begging to do so, after a while, and everything had been set up. streamers & lights hanging from the walls, gifts laid out on a table, even snow had been exported from Snowdin to make it feel more festive. 

They remember having fun, talking to people and friends as they helped hand out gifts, drinks & food on a platter. They don’t remember the conversation changing to Chara & Asriel. They don’t remember the way it twisted their guts like a punch in the stomach with a specific kind of upset bitter anger. They don’t remember it leading them to fumble on their own feet ( or were they tripped? ) hard enough that they dropped a platter of drinks, it crashing to the floor and them crashing with it shortly after. 

They don’t remember how a large piece of glass gouged their hand so badly they were half certain they couldn’t move their fingers. They don’t remember the upset whirlwind building, a spiral within a spiral turning a strong wind into a hurricane in 2 minutes flat. They don’t remember frantically excusing themselves with a wide-eyed buzzing flickery gaze that jumped from person to person, a crooked smile on their face, tears already beginning to rush to their eyes even if they didn’t notice it yet. They don’t remember the commotion, the clamor to help & find out what happened, or themselves rushing to the bathroom and locking themselves inside. 

They don’t remember spiraling inside that bathroom. They don’t remember Asgore, or Sans, or Papyrus, or Alphys, or Undyne, or anyone calling out to them, frantic and worried. They don’t remember the way they screamed, overwhelmed, to stop. They don’t remember they rambled about things they shouldn’t know, that they couldn’t tell them, drowning in a pin-trigger of a season’s death they were never a part of but always compared to. They don’t remember dissolving into sobs, refusing to unlock the door, their friends desperation rising. 

They don’t remember Asgore breaking down the door. cracking it as wood splintered, terrified in that one, split moment, and how they suddenly couldn’t tell his kindness from his violence, and how they became the terrified stray dog more than they were the kindly human, too much teeth in a mouth too small and eyes too wide to see anything but their own death. They don’t remember how-

...They only remember waking up again, in that golden flower patch, with a migraine, and those 2 years gone in one night. They don’t remember resetting, or the means they went to achieve it, but they remember waking up alone, --- with nothing but dread in the pit of their stomach, and a cold, cold feeling. You called, but no one came.

character development anon! what are anatoly's three favorite types of flowers?

Anatoly has never really been a flower guy, believe it or not!

Anatoly focuses himself on herbs & edible plants as a whole, which by all means encompasses flowers, but the focus is the food of it, not the flower itself. He sees the rose for the tea, not its petals, in a sense. Though, he’s not completely ignorant to the aesthetic beauty of flowers, he simply prefers other kinds, such as the golden fields of wheat, the bright red shine of lingonberries, or the sturdy cultivation of thick stems from sugar beets all lined in fields.

If he did have to pick, however, he’d probably pick the carpathian snowbell, erysimum hungaricum, and the bird's-eye primrose. He is very fond of buttercups, angel’s trumpets, dandelions and as well bluebells however.

but I knew how to dress it up

[ obsidian ] for frisk!

[ obsidian ] for a traumatic memory.

They can still taste the first time they died. ― their mouth was full of blood, the world was hazy and scalding red, they could feel themselves burning in every nerve and entirely too distant all at once. like the pain was in a different room, and pressed taut to their form like an oil-fire on skin, glowing hot iron against shaking begging muscle, tendons tearing themselves in efforts to flee- to fight, to do anything. they can still feel the way they’d slammed their head against the indigo stones, brick crumbling and how they never saw her falter, never saw past the way her eyes were cold like polished rubies you’d never crack- and then they cracked instead, and they only caught the half-second twitch of movement ( her eyes went so wide, hands flying to her mouth as the trial dictated an execution, and god, they wish they’d stayed dead. they wish ― ) before the world went black and they lost themselves. they lost it ―― with the sound of themselves shattering, reverberating in their ears like a promise they broke ― she broke, somewhere along the way, blood pouring from their mouth, head ringing ― ringing ― ringing.

and then they wake up again, and she’s all soft hands and white fur and fresh laundry and they hate it ― god, they hate it ― does that make them a bad person? to loathe it like they do? to taste the fire, burn the sugar and get sweet poured into their jaws breaths after blood? does that make them loathsome? ― god, they want to be if it means they wont feel that again, they want to be, they want ――― but what they want doesn’t matter. it never has. so they keep getting thrown back, again and again and again, and Undyne is almost respite because at least she hates them as much as they hate themselves, and Asgore is almost grief because he can’t do it, and they can’t blame him ― god, they can’t blame him. hang the angel off the cross by the wings, nailed down and sacrificed and ever the heart continues beating  ―― and they wish it didn’t, they wish it didn’t, they wish wish wish― but wishing is not enough.