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It’s always cold in Snowdin. Frozen winds pierce through the rotting planks that make up our houses. We huddle together by dying fires to conserve what little warmth we have left. It isn’t enough.
The snow never stops falling. On some days, we can’t tell if it is actually snow or the ash blown in from Hotland. Or dust. We hope it is dust. Maybe, if enough monsters die, we’ll finally have enough food.
It’s always cold in Snowdin, and the starving makes it worse.
We are always hungry, the lack of food giving our thin, fleshless frames no recompense from the cold. We are skin and bones and dust. Some of us don’t even have that.
There was someone, once, who came when we still had food. Maybe they were a human. Maybe they were a monster. They killed some of us and left. We were glad, back then, that they spared us. Now we wish they’d given us that small mercy.
They killed the king. The souls were gone. They took our salvation. We are stuck down here forever.
We got a new queen. She came from the ruins. Maybe, we thought, she’d save us. She didn’t.
Undyne drove her off, back to the ruins. Maybe she's now starving like the rest of us. Maybe not.
Sans left for New Home. He came back with less skull. He never said why.
Rations stopped coming. It’d only be for a little while, the Guard promised. Just until the farms in Waterfall started working again. We haven’t heard from them since. No one comes here anymore. Maybe they’ve forgotten us. We have.
It’s always cold in Snowdin. Frozen winds pierce through the rotting planks that make up our houses. The snow never stops falling. We are always hungry. The hunger makes us cold.
A new order. Human souls are to be collected. We agree. Freedom would be warm. Freedom would have food.
It’s always cold in Snowdin. The humans are too warm to handle it. None of them make it to our town. We take their souls. They leave behind empty vessels.
They are tough and chewy and full of blood. The vessels were once alive. We were too. Guilt eats at us like the gnawing hunger, but they are food. We need food.
It’s always cold in Snowdin. It’s warmer now, with something other than dust and snow to fill our bellies. The cold stays. It has always been there, just like the hunger.
Another human passes. A child. There once were children here. Now there are only spirits. We are hungry. They are food. Perhaps they hold the last soul for our salvation. Perhaps not. It doesn’t matter as long as there is food.