Ouroboros Spine my father bleeds history

Just as expected, Mordecai was caught onto rather quickly. His pace slowed as the others did, and when it stopped he gave them ample clearance to assess the situation. It seemed to be a good deterrent for any hostility, though he made careful note of the hare that hung limp, and the way it was offered to him. Curiosity gained the upper hand then, and Mordecai stepped to close their gap slightly, testing the air out ahead of him for anything off. The sincerity he heard meant nothing to him then; he chose to pay the other little mind as though he were a tyrant of a playground, picking over which ball had the better bounce.

But something jarred him loose of the action. Something he heard in the voice that wavered in and out. A firm hand grasping for a golden thread that pulled his rooted attentiveness to the forefront alarmingly. Mordecai's eyes left the hare with urgency, raising to draw in the finer features that he had paid no attention to. A certain scrutiny enveloped him, pressing his features into uncertainty. “Who did you say you were?” he queried. He wasn't sure he hadn't misheard, but Ostrega wasn't necessarily a common name. Common once to lands gone to waste, common now to lands that bordered the deserts and mountains of the far southwest, but here? No, he was sure he had misheard.

Verrine had been the only exception to the rule and Mordecai did not know what had come of him in their chance meeting.