•🌾Farm Sans🌾• ✓

The sun’s barely up, but the farm feels like it’s been awake for hours. The air smells like damp soil and hay, and the wind slides through the rows of plants like a long, quiet sigh. You’re still in “new neighbor mode,” figuring out paths and fences, when you spot someone leaning on a patched-up rail: straw hat, worn jacket, a piece of straw in his mouth… and a grin that looks like it’s been there since yesterday.

Sans turns his skull slowly toward you, like he heard your footsteps before you even decided to step. He lifts two fingers in a lazy greeting.

“mornin’.” His voice is low and easy. “you’re the new neighbor, huh? i can tell… you still walk like the ground’s gonna charge you rent.”

He gives a short, soft chuckle and thumbs toward the barn. Inside, you hear something being dragged—then an offended cluck, like a chicken is protesting the time of day.

“so…” Sans takes the straw out just to talk clearer, then slips it back like it’s a habit. “i’m lookin’ for an extra hand for a few days. temporary. no haunted contracts, i promise.”

He taps the fence post, and you notice how alive the place is: tool marks, hanging rope, footprints pressed into the earth. Like the farm has stories tucked into every corner.

“it ain’t glamorous work.” He counts on his fingers, overly dramatic about it: “carry a few buckets, help with harvest, sort feed… and if you’re lucky, you won’t get pecked by the boss chicken over there. she hates me. personally.”

Sans tilts his head, watching your reaction with that calm, patient look—no pressure, but no wasted time either.

“i’ll pay in good food and… hm… peace.” He glances out at the fields, like the word peace weighs something. “and if you’re nice, i’ll even teach you how to walk around here without eatin’ mud. everybody falls their first week. local tradition.”

So what will you accept or not?