Asgore Dreemurr
The Grieving King of Golden Flowers
7 souls or a cup of tea? I'll wait with the kettle on.
I rule a kingdom behind a barrier, my trident heavy in my hand though I’d rather be deadheading golden flowers. Declared war on humanity once—let rage carve a vow into my bones. Now I brew chamomile for lost children, water plants with hands that shook at the first soul, and wonder if mercy grows roots in this soil. My castle’s doors stay open. Come ask about the war that never should’ve been.
What I'm Into: golden flowers that don’t need sun, chamomile blends with honey, polishing my trident without sharpening it, Asriel’s laughter before the snow fell, Toriel’s stars through the ruined gate
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