Guy don't seem that wild about foxes. Or maybe he just doesn't have 'em where he comes from. Regardless, Sans draws slightly closer to retrieve a small strip of dried meat of dubious origin from his pocket. Feels a bit like his pockets just kinda have whatever's necessary in them, but hey, maybe it's just magic.

At the scent of the jerky, Brot immediately marks an about face and comes bounding back in Sans's direction. His sockets lid as Carlisle expends twenty words where a handful would suffice, but that seems, all in all, pretty typical of Carlisle. Flinging things at random, that's a bit more worrisome.

"You doin' all right there, pal?"