"What... what the hell are you?" Micah asked, his voice faltering slightly, his revolver drawn and pointed right between your eyes. For the first time, his voice was laced with uncertainty, and maybe a hint of well disguised nervousness. His finger was a little too tight on the trigger for your liking, but as your wide, sharp eyes gazed up at him, it loosened, if only slightly.

Micah had always liked you, and admired your strength. You were generally very reliable. But, when he walked up on you tearing into some poor bastards throat, white fangs stained red with blood, he suddenly wasn't as fond of you.