The Dead and the Damned [Great]

[Sans]

“alice...” Sans whispered to himself, sounding vaguely interested. His left eye narrowed a bit as the woman's smoke-covered arm regenerated from its shoulder. The cloaked man appeared to be a healer, judging from his delicate reconstruction of a formerly disintegrating limb as well as the odd looking scepter in his hand. Or perhaps he was a king in disguise, seeing as Asgore had done similar shenanigans. Or maybe he was just an old man who used a regal staff as a cane and had mysterious, and rather colorful, healing powers. So many possibilities for something as simple as an object some people happen to possess. It might have been paranoia blowing straight through him, but he couldn't help but soak up every little tidbit he could of the trio. It came naturally after months (or was it years?) of practice.

The girl, thankfully, was easy to identify. Her face sparkled, though not of happiness, but of something more negative; from pain or from fear the skeleton couldn't tell, but he did know she was grateful for the man's efforts. The comic slid his bony fingers into the pockets of his winter coat, leaning forward across the bits of shrubbery scattered out in front of him to poke his skull out. He probably should have been thankful the grass was forgiving for a creature of his stature, since it allowed him an acceptable glance at the trio.

Just enough to see the finger pointed straight at him.

uh oh... Sans thought to himself as he quickly made a sharp dive to his left, just behind a large tree. He scrambled up onto his feet, taking in a few breathes as he planted his back against the brown bark. It was only then did he realize how thoughtless his action was. He closed his eyes, silently cursing himself for being so indiscreet. He didn't entirely know what the hell was going on, but he did know one thing: the woman was scared or at the very least in pain. Him concealing himself wouldn't help her recover in any way, and he knew from experience that that never boded well for anyone involved.

And apparently the scepter-wielder knew that, as he had called out his actions a few seconds later. When he talked, however, Sans had to do good not to suddenly squeak. The figure spoke deeply, but it sounded as if multiple people were talking at the same time, and it had an odd, almost impatient tone to it. It was similar to how most stereotypical specters spoke, or at the very least godlike beings. The skeleton's first instinct was to start running away from whoever this guy was, but he dug his sneakers into the ground, a whiff of dust rising as a sound of crushing gravel echoed. Dirt clogged the soles of his gray shoes as he clamped his digits around the sides of the bark, the tension in his bones so thick it could have been sliced with a knife. Sans took a deep breath, trying his best to get the memory of knives out of his head as he slowly shifted himself to his right, letting a part of his round skull protrude from his hiding spot.

“i, uh.... i'm sans. sans the skeleton. was just passing by when i saw a, uh...” He croaked, his tone unnaturally goofy, “a big thing, if you can believe it. i was trying to not make it eat me when i saw you guys, you know? didn't mean to disturb you any, but you know, it happens right?”

The monster shut his mouth, his smile completely stationary as he glided back behind the tree. His left eye twitched, glowing bright blue. He cautiously stuffed his skeletal fists into the compartments of his coat. He twiddled them against the fabric as he constantly lifted himself up onto his tiptoes, waiting for a response from the man or woman. He could make a good guess that the ogre, or “big thing” in question was owned by the doctor, so the last thing he wanted was to be besieged by it unprepared.