The fall was over in the blink of an eye.

Rising up from the bed of golden flowers, the nameless looks up and takes a deep breath. Whether it's relief or resignation, he's glad there's no taking back what he did. Whatever that feeling is, he lingers to store it away in his mind, then lifts the undersized satchel off his shoulder to check on his belongings.

Nothing's been damaged in the fall, thank goodness. He moves to inspect the knife sheathed at his hip, his thumb tracing over the flat edge. Its surface reflects his masked face back to him, reminding him the mask is even there. He's so used to wearing it that he almost forgets what his own face looks like without it. Seemed to have cracked from the fall though.

As he returns the knife to its sheath, a shiver courses through his body. Though he seems to be alone, he feels watched. Yet, when he turns back to look, no one's there. It's not the first time he's gotten paranoid, so he's almost ready to brush it off. That is, he was, but then he hears the sound of footsteps.

Instinctively, he wants to look for a place to hide. But, well, in this empty cavern, there's nowhere he can hide. So, he remains stock still and hopes for the best when a figure as tall as himself rounds the corner.

Fur is white as snow, floppy ears hanging around her face, small horns at the top of her head, a watering can in her hand...paw? There's a profound melancholy in her eyes as she rounds the corner, but gasps and stops in her tracks when she sees him. The silence between the two of them is so deafening, the drifter starts to hear his own heartbeat in his ears. He's not even sure if he's breathing.

The lady is the first to break the silence, hesitantly approaching him. "Are you...are you hurt, young man?" she asks. Her voice is sweet and tender, more than anything he's heard from the mouths of humans.

Fighting the urge to take a few steps back in fear of being stricken, the nameless shakes his head. It's now that the realization strikes him that the rumors were true. There are beings who dwell in the mountain after all, and they're not human. So why, he asks himself, does he fear her retaliation?

She slowly comes closer, as though unafraid of him. Even now, he's hesitant to speak. Would she recoil at the sound of his voice as he once did? What can he even say?

Once she's in front of him, she too seems as much at a loss for words as him.

Taking a breath, the nameless asks, "Do you have a name, Madam?"

"Toriel," she answers promptly. "I am Toriel, the caretaker of the Ruins. What is your name?"

Beneath the mask, the nameless's mouth sharply turns downward at her question, and he's grateful she can't see it. It's not her fault he doesn't have a name, nor is she wrong for presuming he should. Gathering his composure, the nameless explains, "I don't have a name. I was never given one."

"Oh."

She goes quiet for a moment, as though trying to think of an appropriate response. Hoping to remedy the situation, the nameless hastily adds, "But, you may call me whatever you like, Madam Toriel."

"There's no need to be formal," Toriel assures him gently. "I simply came here to tend to the flowers."

The flowers. Glancing down to the golden flowers he landed on, the drifter's chest tightens with guilt. "Oh." Stepping aside, he quickly apologizes, "I'm sorry, Madam Toriel. I hadn't meant to trample them..." After which, he bites his tongue. Does his formality offend her?

Watering the flowers, Toriel once more assures him, "They're persistent little things. They may look delicate, but they are quite strong!" And if one looks at the flowers, she's right! Even after cushioning his fall, they're still standing.

Still, the nameless thinks, what if they weren't so strong? He stands there silently as she waters the flowers, humming a soft melody.

After a long pause, he confesses, "I didn't know if I would really find anyone else down here. I hoped I would, but I wasn't sure." The kind lady turns her head, briefly diverting her attention from the flowers. Straining to keep his voice from shaking, he finishes, "I do hope that I'm not intruding on your home by coming here."

With a tender smile, Toriel resumes watering the flowers and hums, "It's no intrusion at all. If you'd like, you may come live with me for the time being."

The offer makes his heart stop. While she waters the flowers, his mind races a thousand miles a minute. Her kind, gentle voice is like a siren singing to him his heart's greatest desire. Should he stop his ears and sail on, or should he listen?

When she's done watering the flowers, he asks, testing the waters, "Do you really mean that you will let me stay with you?"

Taken aback, Toriel stands stunned for a moment. "Of course. I don't say what I don't mean." Extending her hand, she warmly invites him, "I could take you there if you like."

Is he dooming himself to crash into the rocks, or will his heart's desire becomes reality? He's scared. His mind flashes with hounds biting at his legs, shotguns firing out into the night, threats of law enforcement, of fire eating away at an empty cabin in the woods-

"Your grip is quite...firm, isn't it?"

Loosening his grip on Toriel's hand, the once aimless wanderer mutters an apology and nearly retracts his hand before noticing she's gripping his hand tightly as well.

Without another word, the two of them head out.

Things have been incredibly boring down here, but for the first time in a while, Flowey feels a real grin tugging at his cheeks. Finally, he thinks as he looks at the newest fallen from afar. Something new. And something unique on top of that! The figure may look vaguely human, but that's no human. Where a SOUL should be, there's nothing. How, Flowey wonders, could something like that be?

The fallen stands up, satisfied with his inventory check. For a moment, Flowey wonders if he's been given away, because the fallen momentarily looks behind him.

Not far from here, Flowey hears the soft padding of someone's footsteps and retreats into the ground. He's so excited, he might even be trembling with anticipation!

This is going to be fun.