A collection of inane nonsense (ranging from Error being reincarnated as Palette to Dust finding a new love for the color pink) circling around the many AUs and Multiverses of the Undertale world. Some stories will be connected; Others will be rando...
I'm okay. I swear. Now, does anyone have some bait? The ending to this chapter keeps running away, and after 4,000 words, I still can't seem to catch it.
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The falchion rose into the air to prepare for another strike. A brief glint flickered across the blade's length once Dream's stance brought it to peak height and reappeared again when the weapon hastily descended with an audible swish,which sounded throughout the battlefield as the sharpened metal sailed toward its next target. Its aim stayed steady and precise, like that of a well-aimed arrow. Until it didn't. A rather sudden, excruciating discomfort bloomed in the armor-clad guardian's abdomen, causing the color to flee his face and sheets of yellow-tinted sweat to form at the base of his skull. His sword-wielding hand began to violently tremble halfway through the slicing motion, sending a shock wave that nearly knocked the weapon into the icy snow through the hilt and up the blade; And, unfortunately, led to the swing missing. Metal met snowy earth as the attack swerved past Nightmare's dark tendril, leaving it unscathed.
Stars of the damned, Dream's mind instantly supplied after breaking through the shock spawned by the jabbing pain.
His eyelights barely held shape due to the agonizing pang, and fat yellow droplets of magic gathered around the corners of his eye sockets. Each breath released came out uneven. Hitched and quickened to the point he sounded like a wounded balloon filled with gravel. Fighting down tears plus forcing his breath to level became a daunting task in and of itself, spectacularly failing when the added sting produced by his other injuries decided to rear its ugly head. His jaws clenched to prevent a wet sob from escaping. All the while, the hand shakily grasping the falchion tightened its hold around the blade's handle.
He drew the weapon close, holding it in a defensive position in front of himself, and prayed it would be enough to block any subsequent attacks. Then, using his free hand, Dream investigated the thick leather and metal armoring his stomach for breaches, rips, and the like. The frantic prodding revealed worrying results. Nothing laid there; no deep gash or scratch. In fact, there was still no discernible damage of any kind. Unsurprising, considering how he focused on protecting that area above everywhere else. But pain and knowledge of the afflicted region brought forth silent panic. An emotion exceedingly tricky to hide from his closest opponent, Nightmare.
