thisavrou_log | with scarves of red tied 'round their throats

Entry tags:

with scarves of red tied 'round their throats

Who: Sans + lots of people + YOU
When: Throughout March
Where: Around the Moira, not so much planetside
What: Catchall for march + come get drunk with a skeleton
Warnings: Alcoholism, probably some general nihilism bullshit. it's sans, so, y'know.

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Threaded | Flat

afternoon;

The bar was a home away from home at this point. Even if Sans had to sneak in his own food, the liquid menu was unmatched and he intended to take full advantage. Just like every other night, but who's counting?

Settling at the bar, Sans immediately waved at the bartender on duty for a drink. The ketchup appeared almost instantly. Never let it be said that being a regular didn't have its perks.

Of course, to any not familiar with Sans, the sight of a skeleton pulling a half eaten burger out of his hoodie pocket and squeezing ketchup on it before emptying the rest of the bottle directly into his mouth might be an alarming sight. For other regulars, that was just Sans, and he was always up for some company.

evening;

One bottle of ketchup turned to two, then three, then... well, Sans lost count around five. Warmth spread through his bones like cotton batting, wrapping him up and dampening his worries. Sans isn't sure why people get so uncomfortable around drinking. I mean, c'mon! It's the best thing for a bad mood.

Spread out over the bar, Sans had one hand on his MID, giggling to himself as he sent off yet another text. Oh man. Clark was gonna get a kick out of that one.

As if suddenly noticing a presence behind him (regardless of how long it's been there), Sans turns his giddy smile onto whoever's behind him.

"Heh, hey, pal, what's the difference between a porcupine and the Moira?" He pauses a beat, though not long enough for anyone to get an answer out. "On a porcupine, the pricks are on the outside!"

late;

Oh. Now Sans remembers why people get uncomfortable about drinking. Funny how this part always escapes his memory when he decides to make a night at the bar. All that pleasant, buzzed numbness from before turned to crystal glass over the course of another several rounds of drinks, magnifying every fresh wrinkle in his life over the last few weeks.

It's almost funny -- no, it's definitely funny -- and for all Sans looks like a deflated baloon, the thin creaky laughter is unmistakably his.

"Do ya know what time it is, bud?" He asks, vaguely.

Edited 2016-03-12 20:05 (UTC)

He was in his house. Gyftmas lights blinked out the window, reflecting off the snow just below. It felt nostalgic somehow, from the lumpy green couch to the dim glow of the TV. Nothing was on, but the warbly rendition of the MTT jingle spelled out home in no uncertain terms.

A warm heaviness weighed him deeper down into the couch, increasing his comfort tenfold with each added pound of pressure. Whether it was minutes or hours, time seemed to slow and stretch all at once. The only constant was the added pressure, pound by pound, tightening around his skull.

It wasn't comfortable anymore. Suddenly, Sans felt the inky force spilling out down his spine, interweaving through his ribs. A few hands flashed behind his eye sockets in rapid succession, gesturing wildly at him, but he couldn't make any sense of what they had to say.

Black tar oozed between his bones, weighing him down even more. He couldn't move, he couldn't call for Papyrus, he couldn't even think. Nothing existed outside that pressure. Panicked, Sans began to thrash, hoping against hope he might be able to free himself from the weight that threatened to crush his bones to splinters.

He thrashed, soul thudding against his ribs.

✡⚐🕆 ☞⚐☼☝⚐❄ ✌👌⚐🕆❄ 💣☜📪 💧✌☠💧📬

With a start, Sans woke up moments before his face hit the floor.

"Ngh..." He managed, too tangled up in bed sheets to reorient himself. The floor was comfortable enough, even if sleep seemed impossible with how his soul still vibrated in fear from the nightmare. Been a while since he had one of those. Absently, Sans' eyelights drifted towards his MID.

If he couldn't sleep, why should anyone else?

To: Lara Croft
From: Sans

hey.
what do you call a guy who can't get to sleep?

Edited 2016-03-12 06:01 (UTC)

While Hands never did much for him practically speaking, realizing he lost the ability to understand it was profoundly unsettling. The fact that Sans couldn't remember where he learned it originally or why it felt so important only added to the unease.

But while his memory surrounding the language and everything else it touched was thick and impenetrable, his recollection of other memories remained iron clad.

Namely, a remembered conversation between himself and--

"Frisk?" He called, knocking gently on the child's door.

Edited 2016-03-12 06:32 (UTC)

With Grillby's a distant memory, Sans was still on the hunt for a new haunt. The mess hall was both too crowded and not crowded enough, the bar was decent but they didn't really serve food, and Sans found himself taking quite a few of his meals in his room. His roommates weren't exactly neat freaks, but even they were starting to get fed up with the crumb situation.

Sans needed to find a new hangout, and yesterday.

Enter the Moira Cafe.

Cute, quaint, and with all the food and coffee Sans could shake a stick at, the skeleton took to the place immediately. It's not uncommon to see him leaning over one of the tables with a book and a coffee that's 50% cream and 49% sugar. Decaf, of course.

Today, much like almost every other day, Sans was flipping through one of his finds from the library (a joke book, full of quantum equations. Don't ask). Flipping turned to staring into space, staring into space turned to dozing, and before too long the long, drawn out snores of a skeleton fill the cafe.

Ambiance, right?

Edited 2016-03-12 07:19 (UTC)

The standing offer from Furiosa isn't one Sans had the occasion to use for a while after it was given, but one that stuck tot he back of his skull all the same. Subconsciously, he finds himself drifting towards the cargo bay more and more often over the course of his shift. What would a war rig look like, anyway?

Maybe he could just check it out.

Several hours of napping, investigating, and low key enthrallment, Sans can't help tossing Furiosa a text.

To: Imperator Furiosa
From: Sans

[attached image: this very unique steering wheel]

you didn't have to decorate just for me, kiddo.

Edited 2016-03-12 20:04 (UTC)

[The gardens were a nice place to pass the time, kitten tree and all. It's odd to see so many cats in one place, and not one of them gossiping about garbage. Takes all sorts, he guesses.

They were great inspiration, though. Pulling up his MID, Sans scanned through his contacts until finding a name he's certain would appreciate this fully.]

To: River Tam
From: Sans

question for ya: does a radioactive cat have 18 half-lives?

Edited 2016-03-12 20:16 (UTC)

[A lot's been going on lately. Every time Sans expects him to have a nice relaxing month with nice, relaxing sky whales, reality seems to have other plans.

These nights were semi-common back home, but Sans was getting better and better at ignoring them. Not having any outlet to vent his concerns meant swallowing them whole, more often than not. It's preferable to the alternative, and sleeping through those peaks of existential discomfort was a tried and true method to avoid them.

Unfortunately, sleep wasn't coming. Maybe some fresh air would do him good.

Sans hefted up out of his bunk, moving as quietly as he could for the door.]

Edited 2016-03-12 20:21 (UTC)

Threaded | Flat

OPEN - March 10th

closed to lara croft

closed to frisk

OPEN - Cafe

closed to furiosa