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GOOSE

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It is a lovely morning in Hallownest, and you are a horrible goose.

 

It is an especially lovely morning for you, despite this place being shrouded in an eternal night, because you have found the best target for mild irritation EVER.

 

Your wide feet make a rhythmic flap-flap-flapping sound on the soft, mossy floor as you run. You flutter your wings for a short boost of speed, but the weight of the metal in your mouth keeps you firmly grounded.

 

You are like a graceful hummingbird, streamlined and beautiful as you make quick time through the underbrush, except you are literally nothing like that.

 

Your pursuer, however, is quite graceful. You can’t even hear the sound of her feet hitting the floor under all your ambient goose noises.

 

Her hand meets your neck and you are forced to stop in your glorious waddle. A shame, really. You cut a fine, almost knight-like figure with your shining weapon. Heavy emphasis on the almost.

 

Very heavy emphasis on the almost.

 

“My needle,” the red-cloaked bug says. “Give it back .”

 

You do, with an obliging honk. 

 

She scowls, and inspects it for damage. Her hand does not leave your neck until she sheathes it across her back and turns to leave. 

 

The thought strikes you as you watch her leave, with her precious needle slung over her back. 

 

KILL HER , your mind screams at you. 

 

Woah.

 

Hold up.

 

That is NOT following the usual rules of goose mischief. 

 

Extreme inconvenience? Mild and impermanent pain? Putting a paralyzing yet utterly harmless fear of goose in whatever poor soul you feel like? Yes, yes , and absolutely YES.

 

Killing... no. 

 

Murder is Not Goose Approved.

 

As you sit there, mulling over this, you feel something almost strange. Somewhere, in your cold, dark little heart (it’s not really cold and dark, it’s actually quite soft and simply overflowing with relentless mischief), you find something within yourself.

 

A desire to change.

 

A desire to change targets, that is.

 

You see, fundamentally, you, the  goose, are a force of karma.

 

And you can sense it, buried at the core of this kingdom, somebody that karma has not given the thrashing She is due. 

 

It is your cosmic duty to carry it out, to rebalance the world in this way. 

 

The way to Her is blocked quite cleverly, but you are cleverer than the man (bug?) that decided a child murder pit was the way cure a plague.

 

Not that that’s a high bar, but you feel proud of yourself for passing. Geese aren’t known for their cleverness, after all. 

 

(Not that that bothers you, oh no - you make up for it with your other lovely goosey attributes, like your lovely voice and snow-white feathers. If you tried, you’d be a real hit with the ladies. 

 

Er. You’d be a real hit with the ladies that liked public menaces, but as far as you can remember (this is getting a bit complicated for your goose brain), some ladies like that in a man.)

 

So, with some determination and a few well-placed honks, you manage to wiggle your way past the sealed door. 

 

The tunnel you make your way down would be impressive, a feat of magical and godly engineering meant to contain the uncontainable, if you weren’t a goose. Since you are a goose, all you know is that this would be a terrible spot to build a nest. 

 

You enter a large chamber and stop, meeting the eyes of... 

 

Oh.

 

Wow.

 

If you weren’t literally a cosmic force of karma you might be feeling a bit sick. Since you are a cosmic force of karma, you silently add a few more tally lines to a mental note.

 

It means nothing. You can’t count or take notes. Even if you are a cosmic force of karma, you are still fundamentally a goose before all else.

 

Being a goose, you peck at the shiny things (typically, that is a trait more reserved for magpies, but the greedy jerks can share. Geese don’t have much going for them besides being little hellions, and the best sort of aggravation comes from a well-rounded fellow). 

 

One after another, the chains break, and the vessel falls.

 

They are like a puppet with cut strings, except alive and breathing and frantically trying to get their single remaining arm under them. Before they can get up, you rest your beak against the crack in their mask and tug .

 

You feel the Hollow Knight holding on, like a dog that wants you to throw a ball but doesn’t want you to take it, except for the fact that the ball they’re holding is an ancient goddess causing a miserable plague who’s made them suffer horribly every moment they’ve been trapped in this temple.

 

You give one last mighty heave. Something gives. The Hollow Knight falls backwards and suddenly the room is alight. 

 

“HONK!” You say loudly.

 

The burning stops somewhat. Thankfully, as a goose-type, fire doesn’t do much to you. 

 

WHAT MANNER OF CREATURE ARE YOU?

 

A goose. You are a goose, with paddle-feet and a lovely beak and quite the handsomely curved neck. 

 

THE HELL IS A GOOSE?

 

You peck her, pulling away a clump of feathers. She doesn’t need to believe in geese to be pecked by one.

 

STOP THAT.  

 

No. You cannot stop or be stopped. You are the universe’s perpetual punishment machine, and the Radiance is the latest unfortunate to come into range of your beak. You are nothing but a creature of instincts and circumstance, and today the two have aligned and presented you an even more perfect target than the last. 

 

You peck her. She backs up a bit. A beam of pure, concentrated sunlight, brimming with godly power and blindingly, achingly bright brushes alarmingly close to your head and ruffles your feathers.

 

You give it an unimpressed look. Lasers don’t do much for geese.  

 

You peck her again, and again, and again. The floor is coated with soft feathers, but your methodical waddling cuts a clear path through them. 

 

PLEASE... NO MORE ! The Old Light begs.

 

You stare at her with your beady, narrow little eyes. Mercy is not a concept made for geese, and you refuse to change who you are.

 

You peck her one last time, and she explodes into a puff of dream motes. They spin and dissolve as the impossibly hungry substance within this room consumes them. 

 

The impossibly hungry substance leaves you alone, for like recognizes like. Combining two infinities would not be productive for satisfying either’s base urges. 

 

You honk, and settle down to preen your feathers back into place. There’s a few scorched ones, but otherwise, you’re the picture of goosey health. 

 

There’s a scraping noise, and you glance up.

 

The Hollow Knight meets your eyes, and bows slightly, as if waiting for some sort of cosmic karmic judgement.

 

You honk.

 

You’re literally just a goose, man. 

 

You have no idea what’s going on.