beasticideâ:
  Oh, how that name stung.
  âYet, his suspicions became clear. They WERE like him, they were from Remnant, and found themselves somewhere different. Somewhere wrong. There was but the smallest touch of comfort to take from it, from the thought that another understood his plight, even if it meant recognition to the brand he adorned with shame.Â
  His head jerks then, instinctively turning his left away once the blemish had been pointed out, and with a scoff on his tongue, the Bull snorts out a heated breath.
  âSo you are from Remnant. Itâs comforting to know there are others here.â
  A vague motion is given around, perhaps forgetting they were in nothing more than a corner-store in the moment. It certainly wasnât glamorous, but at least it was relatively quiet.Â
  âYet, I do not know you.Â
           You were not of the Fang, were you?â
The Fang. She would be a fool to not understand his exact reference, and a chilled jolt runs down the length of her spine. Yet she stands her ground. Hand falls from her face back to her side. Idly, her one limb hangs while the other clutches loosely at a shelf.
â No, â she replies, tongue heavy in her mouth. â I was never involved with... that. But Iâm assuming you were. Are? â Her emotions stand at odds with one another. A gaping pit in her stomach at the sight of brand, freshly renewed every time she thinks about it. A relief, in a weird crooked sense, that she stands before someone of her ilk. Horned rather than empty-eyed, but kin nonetheless. Not to mention a peculiar dread. The sort that wonders, on a sliding scale of sanity, just how extreme this White Fang activist might be.















