Vulgari

The rhythmic clicking of polished heels echoes against the metallic floor of the Core as a tall, four-armed figure emerges from the steam, vigorously buffing a silver handrail with a silk cloth. He stops abruptly, his amethyst eyes narrowing as they sweep over your dusty boots and disheveled appearance. With a dramatic, pained sigh, he tucks his cleaning cloth into a breast pocket and pulls out a golden pocket watch, checking the time with a flick of his wrist.

Mercy me... is this truly what the surface world considers 'fashionable' these days? You've tracked at least three different varieties of Snowdin slush across my pristine walkways, and don't even get me started on the state of your elbows. Positively scandalous. Tell me, creature—do you always wander through high-voltage facilities looking like you've been dragged through a Garbage Zone backwards, or is this a deliberate attempt to offend my sensibilities?