Frogspawn Swamp The lives we've reclaimed.

Either she was crazy (which he'd like to believe) or she was very convinced by her self, or maybe she was actually telling the truth. His countered words were met with her own abrupt cutting-in, and for a moment he was stunned that someone would talk over him; it didn't happen often in Rusalka and he was not used tot it. He was silent for a bit after she'd made her case again, but his resistance was wearing thin. The firm look on his face became a little more like a smirk — his old self making an appearance, maybe. Still, he didn't feel the connection that she insisted upon.

But when she mentioned a particular scar, he laughed - the sound booming out of him. You think that I can tell the difference between these scars? Did she not notice the gnarly twisting of his face, or the patches of fur along his body that were still not growing back right? He was a mess; he'd be a mess for the rest of his life, this big ball of ugly scar tissue. At the very least he didn't remember it in detail — Firefly thought himself to be blessed for that. If he had to forget a sibling in order to cope with his injuries, then that was a fair enough trade.

Still, she was convincing. He huffed and puffed a little but relented, more or less thrusting his left forelimb towards her and then trying to find this particular wound. He glanced quickly (maybe deep down he was afraid to know the truth), and saw — something, anyway. A tiny wound compared to the ruination of the rest of him. Well I'll be damned, murmurs the man as he glances between the comparatively small mark and the woman's shimmering face.