"Aren't they beautiful, Henry?"
With petite hands, he reached out to the flowers facing him. Clusters - or perhaps rows, he couldn't tell the difference - of yellow flowers yielded to his brutish yet gentle touch, filled with as much malice as a naive seven-year-old would have. The young Henry fingered the petals of the alyssums, as his mother dubbed them, jagged yet far softer than any fabric he had felt. Much to her relief, he grew up with no want for material wealth; all he desired was her affection, which he would cling to for years. However, he was ignorant of that, blissfully rejoicing as he believed he had found the "flowers" silk originated from.
"Yes, mama, they are!"
...
Disoriented, Henrik slowly hauled himself off the ground, his initial view filled with shades of yellow and hints of orange; initially taken aback, he soon realised that the flowers cushioning him were only buttercups and not the alyssums his mother adored. Swallowing down a tinge of emotion, he eventually got to his feet after much effort, surveilling his surroundings: an antechamber of rock with minimal detail, save for the jagged rocks that descended downwards, originating from the same place as the stray patches of light. Although there was physically nothing save for air, some invisible miasma seemed to consume the light, sparing only a fraction for illumination. He initially grew anxious but once more relaxed; his gun, axe, lantern and rucksack had all scattered beside him, undamaged save for the lantern whose glass had shattered. Picking them up and rubbing the gunk out of his eyes, he returned the gun to its leather holster, setting off with axe in hand, rucksack on back - and flower petals in hair. He left the lantern behind, repaid for its unwavering service with a fall that shattered its glass entirely.
Stomping across the flowers, he only found one path: a dark tunnel directly in front of him. Seeing no other option and nothing of interest in the stone antechamber, he progressed through it, cursing the lack of light. Fortunately, he did not have to wait for long, as the tunnel ended after only thirty metres or so. He strode into another antechamber, surprisingly more welcoming than the first; although the rocky walls were bare, they were smoother and lacked sharp vertices. The "room" was noticeably circular in comparison to the irregular shape of the previous one. However, there was still not much: a green patch of grass in the centre of the room, a purple doorway that led to places unknown, and a warm yellow light from the ceiling - which had no light sources. Confused, Henrik could only speculate that it came from the same miasma which blocked the light from the Surface earlier.
As he made his way to the purple doorway, the green patch started rumbling, with him drawing his revolver instinctively. The gun leapt into his hands most willingly, attuned to his grip by now; it had already taken many lives, primarily animals with the occasional human. At his peak, he could outgun any sheriff he met - alas, he was not encountering a sheriff this time.
"Howdy!-"
Bang.
Without bothering to see what emerged from the ground, Henrik fired at the newly-formed hole: a doughnut of brown earth with a black centre from which a flower surfaced. Its yellow petals surrounded a white "face", the latter bearing two black holes for eyes and a toothy mouth. It seemed to be genuinely hurt.
"Golly, that's rude, considering we've just met!"
It broke into a grin, speaking in a male, child-like voice and attempting to sweet-talk Henrik out of hostility.
"No worries, I get it - it's natural to be scared of what you don't know. My name is Flowey, Flowey the flower. It looks like someone ought to teach ya how things work down here. I guess little old me will have to do!"
He closed one "eye", winking at Henrik; he paid no attention to this as he pondered the possible psychedelic effects of the earlier miasma. After a few seconds of thinking, he gave up and concluded that the rumours about magic-wielding monsters were true - and that he was dying of insanity long before they could harm him. He could only stare at Flowey in bewilderment before finally muttering a reply.
"... sure."
The world around them, and Henrik himself, faded to monochrome in a wave that seemed to originate from Flowey. The latter's grin remained as the walls surrounding them ebbed into the abyss, replaced by dull green lines where the edges were. Fortunately, Henrik's revolver and axe remained with him, unaffected. He looked down to check for these, finding something unexpected: a yellow heart floating in front of him, a few inches away from where the centre of his chest would be. It gave a dim glow, providing just enough light to illuminate his torso; upon moving around, it remained rooted to him as if it were a physical protrusion. He attempted to swing at it with his fist, but to no avail - his hand phased through what seemed to be thin air. Despite this, he judged against shooting the inexplicable heart, for something told him it would be a poor idea.
"See that little heart of yours? That is your Soul, the very culmination of your being. Most of you humans guessed right in thinking Souls existed, although you made a few mistakes. For one, reincarnation's impossible with the magic you lot have. But I digress. Anyways, every human Soul has a 'trait'; in this case, yours would be the trait of 'Justice'. Your Soul trait defines your personality and vice versa, accurately representing who you are. Ever heard of the saying 'appearances can deceive'? Yeah, unfortunately, that doesn't work with your Soul."
Henrik clutched his gun slightly tighter as Flowey's teeth seemingly grew sharper, his tone more sardonic as he spoke. Almost as if briefly considering killing Henrik before deciding against it, his smile grew welcoming again, invigorated with a reborn trust.
"Ya don't seem to be the kind of person to trick little old Flowey here, though, so I'll trust you for today! Feel free to go through there," he advised as one green vine rose from the ground, forming a spike that 'pointed' towards the mauve doorway. He then retracted into the ground with his vine, giving one last wink, breathing colour into the scene as he left no trace of him behind.
Henrik's Soul was no longer visible, having disappeared with Flowey. He tried to will it back into existence to inspect it further, only to summon something else: a monotone voice with no discernible gender that spoke directly into his mind.
"Henrik Valle. LV, 2. Attack, 5. Defence, 2."
Out of character, Henrik did not even flinch - after interacting with a talking flower, he had seen everything. He ventured on as the flower advised, stepping through the purple-painted frame into the third abyss now.
YOU ARE READING
Rusted Fates: ACT 1
Fantasy"I'm a simple man: I exist only to serve myself, and nothing more. Hence, your depravity becomes painfully clear when even I had to step in to do something." Henrik was a lumberjack, working to make ends meet at a time when the entire nation was for...
