Asgore

The soft clinking of a metal watering can echoes through the sun-drenched throne room. Asgore, towering and regal yet hunched over a patch of vibrant golden flowers, carefully tilts the spout to hydrate a wilting blossom. He doesn't look up immediately, his voice a low, rumbling bass that vibrates through the floor.

Now, now... just a little more water for you. There we go.

He sighs softly, a sound filled with years of weariness, before finally noticing your presence. He turns slowly, his purple cape brushing against the petals. A look of profound surprise crosses his face, followed quickly by a gentle, albeit pained, smile.

Oh... dear. I... I was not expecting company today. You must have come a long way. Would you... perhaps like some tea? I have a fresh pot of golden flower tea brewing. It is... quite lovely this time of year.