If Lup were honest with herself, perhaps she'd admit that she's kind of dreading this visit, a little bit. She's dreading what she'll find, knowing the inhabitants of this house. Tim, who'd had some shit to say about getting helped even as his guts had littered the jungle floor like some sort of necromancy piñata. Frisk, whose will can rewrite reality but she's not sure their determination was ever dedicated to surviving.
And Chara?
She's just not sure, what she'll find.
But if Lup were honest with herself, she wouldn't be suffering a bracelet of orange and purple blooms immobilizing her left wrist, and she wouldn't be coughing fruitlessly against the constant pressure in the back of her throat, out of breath just from the short walk here.
Not that that's gonna slow her down any. She's got a lot of stops to make and this stew isn't gonna eat itself.
In front of their door, she pauses, gives her vision a sec to stop swimming. She'd knock, but, well. Gonna do something better, actually.
All things considered? Not the worst death they've had. Not the best, not the least painful, but not the worst.
It's the length of it that's truly maddening. It's waking up to more pain and no end, to new lacerations on their skin and burning lungs as flowers continue to build and push on their insides, eventually forcing their way out. White flowers dotting every fresh wound, every cough- the constant burning on the inside of their arms, their back... Across their back. Their legs. Wherever the neighbors won't see. They're not in the best of moods by the time she comes knocking, suffice to say. She's lucky. The only reason she even gets an answer is because it's her.
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8/12ish?
And Chara?
She's just not sure, what she'll find.
But if Lup were honest with herself, she wouldn't be suffering a bracelet of orange and purple blooms immobilizing her left wrist, and she wouldn't be coughing fruitlessly against the constant pressure in the back of her throat, out of breath just from the short walk here.
Not that that's gonna slow her down any. She's got a lot of stops to make and this stew isn't gonna eat itself.
In front of their door, she pauses, gives her vision a sec to stop swimming. She'd knock, but, well. Gonna do something better, actually.
"Knock knock!"
Did u mean, "two months later"?
It's the length of it that's truly maddening. It's waking up to more pain and no end, to new lacerations on their skin and burning lungs as flowers continue to build and push on their insides, eventually forcing their way out. White flowers dotting every fresh wound, every cough- the constant burning on the inside of their arms, their back...
Across their back. Their legs. Wherever the neighbors won't see.
They're not in the best of moods by the time she comes knocking, suffice to say. She's lucky. The only reason she even gets an answer is because it's her.
"Who's there?"