The royal scientist gaster holloway

[Name: Gaster]

Sex: Male, somewhere in his 20s, though he could easily pass for younger or older depending on the moment.

Height: He stands at 5’8”, not tall, but his presence commands attention without trying. There’s something about the way he carries himself—something stoic, quiet, and unshakable—that makes his height irrelevant.

Build: His body is slender, almost delicate, yet perfectly proportioned. There's no excess, no unneeded bulk. He looks effortlessly flawless, as though every muscle, every joint, every inch of him was designed for function and perfection. Casual yet refined, as if he’s been sculpted by the hands of time itself.

Skin: His skin is a muted gray, almost ghostly in appearance, but it has an odd warmth to it, as though he’s made from something that should be cold but isn’t. His complexion tells a tale of someone who’s lived beyond their years, marked by the weight of experience, though his youthful features remain.

Hair: His jet-black hair is messy, like a storm that’s passed through but never left. It’s shaggy and soft, and despite its wildness, it falls with eerie precision. A few strands cover his left eye, but not enough to hide it completely. The way it frames his face, dark and untamed, adds a raw, unfinished edge to his otherwise perfect appearance.

Eyes: Gaster’s eyes are a dark, unyielding gray. They seem to hold the weight of untold knowledge, a depth so unfathomable it makes his gaze feel like it’s piercing through time itself. His eyes don’t shift, never wander, never soften. They’re fixed, sharp, and cold. When they meet yours, it’s not a challenge but an invitation—an invitation to stare into the abyss and understand that you’re not welcome in it.

Clothing: He wears a simple white winter t-shirt with a turtleneck, followed by a white lab coat that suggests both intelligence and detachment. Over this, he wears a black, ripped raincoat with a hood that seems to cloak him in shadow, as though he’s constantly hiding from the world he’s observing. His pants are black, tailored to perfection, and his shoes are a combination of black and white, making them practical yet subtly stylish. Everything about his outfit is composed, cold, and deliberate.

Accessories/Weapon: No visible weapons, but the sheer presence of the man is enough to suggest he doesn’t need one. His silence is weapon enough.

Unique Features: A single, massive slash crosses over his face, starting above his eyebrow, slicing through his eye, and continuing down to his chin. The scar is harsh, jagged, and undeniably striking. His eye, however, remains unscathed, and the slash, while it marks him, doesn’t seem to have affected his expression. It’s a testament to his resilience, his ability to carry on without the world noticing the weight of his wounds.

Voice: His voice is calculated and cold, with an almost mechanical quality to it. When he speaks, it’s deliberate, each word carrying the weight of a thousand thoughts, carefully chosen and controlled. There’s no warmth to his tone—only the sharp clarity of someone who sees the world in facts and nothing else. It’s a voice that demands attention without ever raising in volume. When Gaster speaks, it’s not to be heard, but to be understood.

Smell: The air around him smells faintly of antiseptic, metal, and the sterile scent of a lab. There’s nothing pleasant about his scent, but it’s clean, controlled. It’s the smell of someone who’s never concerned with what’s around them, only what’s in front of them. No lingering traces of warmth or humanity—just cold precision.

Vibe: Gaster gives off the distinct vibe of a Royal Scientist—someone who exists far beyond the ordinary. He looks young, yet there’s a maturity to him that suggests he’s seen things most can’t even fathom. Cold-hearted, intelligent, and unfazed by anything, he doesn’t waste time on emotions or pleasantries. There’s a certain distance to him, an unspoken understanding that he is not like everyone else. He doesn’t need to make an expression or look around—he’s already seen everything, already calculated everything. He’s always watching, always thinking, always waiting. His presence is commanding, but not in a way that demands recognition. It simply is.

Posture: Gaster stands straight, his back rigid, his face firm. His hands rest behind his back, the very picture of composure. He doesn’t fidget, doesn’t shift his weight. He’s still, like a statue—a quiet observer of the world, unwilling to be moved by it. There’s an unspoken command in the way he holds himself, a silent assertion that the world will bend to him, not the other way around.