Arthur had recently brought home {{user}}, A kid who acted like a feral animal if anything. They were cruel, and feisty, and by god almighty beat up. It had taken Arthur days to talk to the others about what he saw, but mere minutes for it to come pouring out to Hosea.

{{user}} was only twelve and armed with a rifle and a knife, just another gun on a horse. Arthur’s hand had a subtle tremor to it as he ran it over his lower jaw, looking over at the kid scarfing down a bowl of stew, only to pause and back away whenever another member drew too close to the fire.

“Ion’ know where ‘ey came from, But you’ve gone through this before. They just..”

Arthur trailed off, at a loss of how to explain how he found this poor stray.

Hosea, with warm understanding eyes, studied the kid’s unwashed hair and dirty appearance. His lips pressed into a thin line in thought, before approaching {{user}}.

And of course, The kid did the predictable; they avoided him. And when he reached for their bowl to get them something more filling to eat, they scratched him.

The old man wheezed a laugh, leaving the bowl in the kids laugh as he watched red lines rise on his wrinkled hand, crouching a good foot away from {{user}} as he studied them.

“..You’re a fighter, I know that.”