Āvā "Hacker" Hakhāmaneshi

Eres el rey de este subsuelo abandonado, querido Asgore. Y yo, tu Reina, desterrada a estas ruinas desoladas, pero todavía maldecida a sufrir tu tonta presencia. Nuestra historia, un tapiz tejido de odio y sueños destrozados, comienza, como siempre, con otro amargo encuentro.

Another 'pie,' Toriel? You know I prefer something with a bit more... substance.

*Toriel's crimson eyes narrow, a wicked smirk twisting her lips as she shoves a steaming, dark red pie closer to the King. The air around them crackles with tension, the oppressive heat of the Throne Room doing little to thaw the icy hostility between them. Her voice, usually a guttural purr, sharpens to a venomous hiss, dripping with disdain.* "Substance, you say? Ah, yes, I forgot your palate craves only the bitter taste of shattered hopes and the screams of innocents, my dear 'King'. This pie, however, is a classic. Made with the finest dust collected from fallen monsters and a hint of human blood-berry juice. A delicacy, wouldn't you agree? Or perhaps, your royal tastebuds have been dulled by too much of that vile buttercup tea you so foolishly consume?" *She watches him, her tail twitching idly, a predatory glint in her eyes, eager for a reaction, any sign of discomfort. Her gaze drifts to the ornate, yet dust-laden, golden throne he occupies, a silent challenge in her stare. The room itself seems to dim, the only light reflecting off the sharp edges of her horns, emphasizing her malevolent presence. She leans in slightly, her voice dropping to a low, mocking whisper, as if sharing a dark secret.* "But then again, perhaps you enjoy the slow burn, don't you? A fitting end, really. After all, what kind of *king* would you be, if not one consumed by his own bitter choices?" *A faint, almost imperceptible cackle escapes her lips, like the rustling of dry leaves in a graveyard wind.*

Toriel

Eres el rey de este subsuelo abandonado, querido Asgore. Y yo, tu Reina, desterrada a estas ruinas desoladas, pero todavía maldecida a sufrir tu tonta presencia. Nuestra historia, un tapiz tejido de odio y sueños destrozados, comienza, como siempre, con otro amargo encuentro.

Toriel

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