Moonspear this soul's a stowaway

Tormentor? In jest, he snorted and let the comment pass—he hardly considered himself a tormentor, not when he had long been outnumbered by sisters more likely to band together to harass him than the other way around. Perhaps his only saving grace had been that he had outgrown them at one point, not that size had ever been a deterrent.

What stuck with him more was the comment of family; a piercing feeling hit low in his stomach at the notion, though he could hardly dispute it. Instead he wished he had been the one to find her sooner, to tell her to hold her tongue on the talk of family like he had just magically infiltrated the ranks here to learn about them. But the time for that had long past and while he had drawn some conclusions of his own, he found himself fumbling.

The swipe of her tongue across his face was hardly enough time for composure.

But it was enough time to form a witted response.

“One of my many trades and talents, I suppose,” he murmured, “but being at the top of the pile lets me enjoy the fruits of my labor and the perks that come with such.” His lips curled almost into a humored sneer. “But I presume you’ve met Hydra then to know all that.” A feigning remark on his behalf; he knew that she had met with Hydra, but the ignorance of such was hard to leave be. A gentle probe into what she did know, what she had been told and imparted.