He scowled, it had been such a hard concept to swallow, the implications that he was specifically targetted by people he'd never met in his life. For how he looked? Over disputes with their priests? The reasons were a mystery to him, but the hostility revolting all the same. The firm hand on his shoulder, a sign of comfort, was decidedly familiar, and for most of the speech and grooming he remained silent in thought. Having to hide was.. well, as a necessity he never considered, only remembering making a game out of it as a juvenile.<br/><br/>What kind of people would have hated them to that extent? Strife over the actions of Gulpasa? Had his acolytes wronged another settlement? Mesut fought to rationalize such atrocities. Perhaps Fakir was content to call them out as simple, impulsive pests but he found it hard to believe someone would act such a way without faith. Snakelets were often shown the wrongings in their misteps, or poor decisions, he himself was not free of accidents or poor judgement. Times where Mesut had disrupted the order of the temple, over petty quarrels with the other nagas or refusal of temple doctrine, he was quickly set in his path, corrected and made to see the consequences of his actions.<br/><br/>But they were all different, or at least that's what he was being told. It was possible to live without shame then, or remorse, that's all he had to try and understand it with. It was a silly rule, set by whatever place man had spread from. He wasn't supposed to be out here, outside and about in the world. He'd heard Fakir mention a godly horse, mirroring his own patron saint from opposite the walls of the temple. It wasn't impossible to him that there were other forces that guided them, and that Gulpasa was only a friend to them and their relationship with men. Such a god would be unfit for Fakir, would it not? Looking back after he felt the heft of his new braid hit his back, he gently pulled it over a shoulder, as if wary of ruining the work accomplished. Fakir had began to wash himself, disrobing and pouring heaps of water over himself.<br/><br/>"... So there are others out there not like ours, they don't have our temples." It was a stupid question, and he mostly asked for himself, not for anyone else's ears to pick up. A touch a fear glimmered in his eyes, he was facing a new feeling, something of dread, or betrayal. "I.. I never knew." Even if Fakir had never mentioned it, the realization was likely to hit him sooner or later. The scrappers had not been the kindly townsfolk willing to carry him back home, they were unrelated entirely, perhaps never having stepped foot behind those walls. The hulking man who pinned him down back when he tried to drag himself out from the surrounding homes, a face he only saw briefly before slamming the bulk of his lower weight every which way. Mesut curved his lip up in some disgust, turning back to stare at the stones of the well. The only colonies he heard of were identical to his own, traders from allies, and half horse folk like the one that bathed beside him. Mesut had lived with enemies he never knew of, kept as secrets from those who raised him, fed him.<br/><br/>Slowly creaking up his head to look at Fakir, who skimmed hands through his mane in search of decorative braids, he listened loosely as he described each one. Though his eyes followed, it was obvious his mood was long since soured by their previous chat. Mesut's face tense, his hands still nervously playing along the pattern of his own hair. The gravity of today's topics aside, it was an interesting idea, communication through style. Fakir's people sounded like they were largely individualistic, and he was out here on his own after all... If Mesut had stayed home, he likely would've continued being mostly unremarkable. He didn't know if that was such a bad way to live yet, but surely something to note.<br/><br/>Nevertheless, he leaned his face up ever so slightly, features grim, but voice stern. "I want to keep moving." He retorted, deciding for them both without question.