#lib grillby

[soul100]

Чара я же верно понял, вы с Фриск разрушили этот мир? Если да то почему Фриска нет, а ты вместе с остальными существуешь в пустоте.

________________________________________________

И как появилась библиотека и почему именно библиотека?

________________________________________________

Что Санс сделал? Он например смог завладеть интерфейсом "игрока" и стереть файл сохранения?

________________________________________________

Во время какого пути прохождения человека Санс сделал "это"? (Типо геноцид; пацифист; нейтрал)

________________________________________________

(тут наверное слишком спойлерные вопросы поэтому необязательно отвечать на все, я не сильно хочу ускорять с раскрытие сюжета)

// 1 вопрос:

// 2 вопрос:

// 3 вопрос:

// 4 вопрос:

1 Часть

Мастерпост

> Дальше

< Назад (начало 2 главы)

——————

Забейте на вечно меняющийся стиль, это никак не влияет на комикс.

А так, держите кучу лора :>

Либ на своём пути к бару, так что в одном из следующих асков ожидайте встречу бармена с Сансом! Я планировала изначально в этом же аске и нарисовать это, но мне лень, да и пост ещё длиннее тогда будет, так что как-нибудь в следующий раз.

[trifoliate-undergrowth]

Crisco 129: Dystopian Sansby Dream AU-pt 1

A bit over a week ago, I had a dream, and because my sleep schedule had been disrupted, I woke with the memory unusually clear in my head. And as had never happened before, it was a dream formatted like a fanfiction. When I woke, and while still semiconscious, I outlined how the rest of it would go. This first part is the initial dream with only a few details filled in, the rest is continuation.  And all of it is rather different from what I usually do. I don’t ship Sansby when I’m awake--I can appreciate it as a ship, but it’s not one I have strong feelings for, really. But this idea was so sharp and clear that I had to do something with it. But I also didn’t feel like posting it with my other work, so it’s just going up here.  Keep in mind I thought this up while stressed, sleep deprived, running a low grade fever and actually unconscious.  The dream owes a lot to fact that I’d recently finished reading The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood, which is dystopian up the wazoo, and the fact that I’d looked through the entire sfw ‘Grillby art’ tag before belatedly going to bed at an ungodly hour (and a lot of that was Sansby.) I especially blame this one piece by @literalnobody : http://literalnobody.tumblr.com/post/146801567514/sans-gets-a-summer-job-to-work-off-that-tab  (more the bottom one) 

I’ll post a link to pt. 2 once I get it up, which should be soon. Still working on pt. 3. The sections seem to be getting progressively longer agh I did not intend to spend this much time on this project... 

I REALLY HOPE THERE IS AT LEAST ONE DYSTOPIAN-LOVING SANSBY FAN OUT THERE 

*** 

Early morning, before sunrise. Sans was in his safe room, the only light from his glowing eyes and the glowing computer screen in front of him. Wires snaked over the side of the table down to the small generator purring beneath it. The computer’s case was made of mismatched pieces of plywood hammered together. Sans had made it himself over a period of years, kludging together all the parts he possibly could from unlikely materials, only buying on the black market when he absolutely had to. Monsters were not allowed to use technology in the Confederation. The resulting machine didn’t look like it should run, but it did. 

Sans typed carefully, letters jumping onto the black screen. The keyboard was ‘real’, he’d found it in a dump—it hadn’t been considered an important enough part to be confiscated and destroyed. Half of the original keys were missing and had been replaced, partly with mismatched keys of various colors, partly with carefully carved chunks of wood.

>knock, knock.

>Who’s there?

>who

>..Who, who?

>hey. listen. i think i heard an owl.

>Haha!

>owls are said to be wise. i wonder if it has anything to tell us.

>Oh I don’t know how wise this old bird is, but she does have a word to pass along.  

>what’ve we got today?

>Greenleaf.

>greenleaf eh. that need to be it? can it be a bit different? green leaves, green-leafed?

>It needs to be as close to the original as possible.

>makes sense. who comes up with this stuff?

>I don’t know. Not me, certainly. I’m more of a parrot than an owl, I’m afraid.

>oh I disagree my lady.

>You flatterer. Do you have the song downloaded?

>yes ma’am. i’m ready when you are.

>You’re secure and ready to broadcast once I receive a signal.

>ok. let’s rock.

Sans navigated to the jump drive and played the audio file the old lady had sent him, then reached for his headset and slipped it on. The serene sound of a guitar being plucked swam through his skull. He leaned back in his chair, relaxing, preparing.

Almost heaven, West Virginia

John Denver. He snapped his fingers, away from the mic, where the sound wouldn’t be picked up, and smiled.

Country roads, take me home To the place I belong

A pain like homesickness twitched in his soul.

Another chat appeared on the black screen.

>You’re live in 10.

The music was winding down.

>When you’re ready.

Sans adjusted the mic and began talking, using a lazy New York accent that disguised his voice somewhat.

“Heya everyone, it’s the great legendary fartmaster of doom here to tell ya it’s a fine day in the Confederation. Cats are swingin, dogs are singin. Good times. The greenleaf tree in my yard looks like heaven on earth, somehow. Funny how plants just keep growing. They have a kind of primal strength in ‘em. Maybe we have too.”

He kept on for half an hour, telling jokes and encouragement, lampooning the Confederation. He never planned these talks, they seemed to go better if they were ad-libbed, especially since the old lady might give him something that he’d have to fit in somehow at the last minute.

When the half hour was up he deleted the audio file from the jump drive and powered down the generator and by extension the machine, which didn’t have a battery, then teleported upwards. He landed in a bare bedroom with two beds. One was neatly made and had a petrified look suggesting it had been that way for a long time. One had its sheets in a wad and smelled of Sans.

Sans shrugged out of his pajamas and worked his brief body into his work clothes, slacks, a collared shirt and a vest. The slacks and the shirtsleeves were both liberally rolled. He padded to the window silently and peered out under the curtains. There was a faint light in the east. There was no green-leafed tree, only dust plains and barbed wire. They were right on the border, in the section that had once been called Snowdin Township and was now Subsection Twelve. One of the monster ghettos.

He scooted his feet into his shoes, tapped them on the floor to shake them into place, and went downstairs, soul pulse quickening a little at the thought of the next part of his day.

He entered the kitchen, which was a blaze of light. As usual, Grillbz was already up, heating the griddle and prepping for the day. He was wearing similar clothes to Sans, but looked much better in his, Sans thought. “How many eggs we eating today?” he asked conversationally, stepping down into the light of the kitchen. Grillbz smiled at him and began cracking eggs onto the griddle. “Eighteen,” he said. Sans hurried over to stand next to him and stood on his tiptoes to look at the sizzling eggs. Grillbz kept snatching up the next and breaking it: half of the griddle was covered in egg. “Eighteen?” “I need something to keep these flames burning.” “That shit’s rationed.” “Not here.” Grillbz smiled down at him, and moved sideways to snag another carton of eggs, bumping against Sans in the process. Sans felt a sudden chill, then a spreading warmth. His entire arm and part of his side were in contact with Grillbz, he could feel the heat sinking through his clothes. He didn’t move away. “I know what I can get away with,” said Grillbz, cracking the eighteenth egg and then flipping them all one at a time, starting with the first he’d cracked. “Nobody actually checks our numbers. Just trust me on this. How many do you want?” “Two.” Grillbz cracked two eggs onto the bottom of the griddle where they would be easily reachable by short arms. Then he paused and looked down at Sans. Sans suddenly realized that he’d been unconsciously leaning into the touch. Ah fuck that’s awkward. Grillbz leaned down and kissed him on the mouth. Then he straightened, scooped his eggs onto a plate and walked out.

Part 2

[soul100]

Мастерпост

> Дальше

——————

НОУ ВЕЙ, ЭТО ЧТО, LIBRARYTALE??? Да! Встречайте... Его! Пока у него нет имени, но вы можете предложить :>

Не обращайте внимания, мне было очень лень делать фоны, а откладывать ещё на несколько месяцев уже просто не прилично ;-;