Say? Said bad. He said bad things.



Frisk's struck hard, knocked to the side, nearly off their feet--their body's a solid thing and the moon's light is thrumming from above, so it doesn't do as much as it could've. The wolf still howl-screams in pain, splatters of pink-to-black blood smearing down their fur and to the ground, 'cause he hit the cuts they already got by escape.

They spin and try snapping their jaws around the scythe's hilt.