text | Header: URGENT QUESTION

[callsignhornet]

I have an important question for the sake of organizing information about the group.

Feel free to message me directly if you don't feel comfortable sharing publicly.

In the world you are from, what year is it?

Edit: record of death for me should be 2186. Or 2187, though it would be very early in the year.

Comments

[witnessvelama]

I am afraid you have not heard me.

[He has, but Celehar hasn't connected the skeleton in the desert with this new note in his book, actually. Probably why he's responding so calmly.]

[spaghettimonster]

SO CONFIDENT YOU HAVE NOTHING TO BE CONFIDENT IN?
I THINK I SEE WHO THIS IS...

[He doesn't, but so long as Celehar doesn't realize that the skeleton's mistaken him for Nagito, what he doesn't know won't hurt him.]

WELL, MAYBE YOU COULD BE A SUBSTITUTE DIRECTOR FOR NOW.
KNOWING A REAL OPERA DIRECTOR BESTOWS A LITTLE EXPERIENCE ON YOU, BY PROXIMITY!

[witnessvelama]

He would hate to hear me say it but I am afraid my understanding of the role of a director is to argue with their singers, from his example.

[spaghettimonster]

AN IMPORTANT FIRST STEP!
JUST REMEMBER TO SANDWICH THE HARANGUINGS IN BETWEEN COMPLIMENTS ON WHAT THEY DID RIGHT.

[Advice he himself follows almost never, in his brother's case. If anything, he usually reverses the order into an inside-out sandwich of complaint, compliment, complaint.]

[witnessvelama]

If it comes to that, certainly.

[spaghettimonster]

YOU THINK IT WON'T??
I THINK MUSICAL INTERLUDES ARE AN INEVITABILITY.

[Of MTT-brand entertainment, anyway.]

[witnessvelama]

[Oh, what a pang Celehar feels, that he couldn't introduce Iana to this stranger. They would have fallen immediately into endless chatter, or fought like alleycats.]

If one lives in an opera.

[spaghettimonster]

THERE'S STILL TIME TO BE IN AN OPERA!!
WE MAY HAVE DIED, BUT I HAVEN'T HEARD THE FAT LADY SING.

[As though there was ever a final singer besides Mettaton in the few televised musicals he watched underground... but with enough scattered books, shows, and the like, all manner of human idioms could trickle their way underground. Along with ideas like dying monologues.]