Phoenix Maplewood Who the Hell is Leviticus Cornwall?

A voice, there. A scent he hadn't realised in the midst of his daze. Barrett could have sworn, too, that he had eaten just days ago, but he supposed that, in this form, maybe things were... different. But he would not linger too long on the thought; instead shifting his attention to the stranger. Larger than him, cream-coated, like the pale bears he had only ever seen illustrated on paperskin.
A scar on his cheek. The budding potential of respect.

'Great Sky', came southern drawl. Borders. So that's your gang, I'm gonna assume, Ain't no low-rung newcomer would invite a random man from the woods to eat with them, so Barrett was quick to guess that the feller in front of him had to have some sort of authority within his so-called group.
But—did he want this allegiance? So quickly, as well? Maybe to eat. To find familiar faces. Allies, in this new, and surely unforgiving world. But it seemed that maybe life wouldn't be as hard as it had once been, if he's so easily bein' offered someplace to chow down. Quite visibly, he would flip the thought over in his mind. Was this stranger to be trusted, he wondered? So, Barrett would ask:
If I came, what'd be in it for you? Extra muscle? A debt owed?

There was a great uncertainty, a great fear within him that, without a cause, he could not quite hide from himself. From others, most certainly; he could wear his stone face and scout and patrol and fight when things got messy... But he could not conceal who he was when it came to looking at his reflection.
As he assessed the man in front of him, now, there was a faint sparkle of thought within his mind:
Maybe it would be good for him. To have a 'gang' once more.