Marcel listened, nodding thoughtfully as Eithne spoke, picking up on both the determination and the unease that edged her words. He could see how much she wanted to contribute, how she was wrestling with the parts of herself that had been shaped by a past life of violence and instinct. But he also sensed her curiosity, her desire to move beyond that—and he wanted to support that journey however he could.
Blight's a whole different beast, honestly, he began, keeping his tone steady but informative. It doesn’t behave like any illness we know. It spreads faster, infects even the land itself. Sometimes it’s subtle—sickly animals or crops that wither overnight. But when it takes hold in people... it’s a lot worse.
Marcel grimaced slightly, a haunted look flickering across his face. The few blighted he’d encountered—when he’d first started working with Rosalie, no less—had left a mark on him. You’ll see people get this sickly pallor, and their minds... it twists them. Makes them aggressive, like they’re fighting off their own skin. Rosalie’s been studying this for ages, trying to understand how it works, how we can fight it. We’re really just… gathering more evidence so she can learn what she can.
I remember that part, it starts with the plants, the animals eat the infected plants, then one another, works it's way up the chain? She thought she remembered that correctly, her arm going to slide into his as they walked along, seeing the memories in his face, in his eyes, and offering the touch as a means of comfort for him.
She couldn't remember a time when she had ever wanted to comfort someone, but with Marc, she did. She wanted to offer him comfort, even if she couldn't tell him the words he needed to hear from her eventually. All while trying not to catch the damn thing ourselves, which, of course, you and I are.. not going anywhere close enough that we'd catch it, we're simply out here for you to gather the information for Rosalie, and me to set things on fire if they get too close to you. It was a good plan, in her mind.
She could slow things down, so that she could keep them away from him, it's what made them a good team after all these years, what kept them together, how well they worked along side one another. It was like with others of the Five, Gabe and the woman Mariam, they had gone off together, their skill sets complimenting one another well, the same held true for her and Marc, their skill sets made them a formidable team, even if she still struggled with her past. So in and out, and then we're back to a bar somewhere, drinking, eating warm food, and sleeping in real beds.
Marcel smiled softly as Eithne slipped her arm through his, her presence offering him a sense of calm he hadn’t realized he needed. It was the small moments like these, where they moved in sync without even trying, that reminded him why their partnership worked so well. They had this quiet understanding, an unspoken bond that carried them through the toughest times.
Exactly, he replied, nodding as Eithne recalled the stages of the Blight. It’s a horrible chain reaction, spreading through everything it touches. And yeah, we’ll keep our distance. We’re here to observe, gather intel, and if things get hairy—well, that’s where your fire comes in. He shot her a playful grin, though the seriousness of the situation wasn’t lost on him.
As much as Marcel tried to lighten the mood, he knew that the Blight wasn’t something to take lightly. It twisted both the body and the mind, corrupting everything in its path. He was grateful to have Eithne by his side, even if her past made her wary of magic. He trusted her instincts, her sharp mind, and her ability to keep him grounded.
And you know what? I like that plan—get in, gather what we need for Rosalie, and get out. Then, a good drink, real food, and a proper bed sound like heaven after all this. We’ve definitely earned it.
He squeezed her arm lightly, the familiar warmth of their connection settling into place as they walked. Despite the daunting task ahead, knowing that they would face it together made it bearable. They weren’t just surviving; they were navigating this strange new world as a team, and Marcel wouldn’t have it any other way.
He glanced over at Eithne, his voice softening. And hey, just so you know... I’m really glad we’re doing this together. I don’t think I could do it without you.
Soon enough the sun was rising as they continued along, picking through the various plants and ruins through the country side. They had camped rough the night before and so it was one of those things that Eithne was glad they were moving, the morning chill was enough to make her want to throw her bed roll back out and climb back inside and sleep for several more hours -- even if she was currently fighting the want to back Marc against a rock and ride him until thirst, hunger, or sleep came to claim her. Even as she tried to focus up on what he was telling her about the blight.
She had seen it before, she knew she had, from what he was describing, just, bits and pieces were hard to put together for her at times. She knew things, she wasn't dumb, but she felt like it when the past twenty years of her life felt like a waking dream. At least now felt real, the past ten, that she had been trying to be better, they were clearer, but the hazy fog that had been her time running and hunting, well.. she leaned into the squeeze as she rounded a block on the path, the rubble there pushing her closer into his side than she realized at the moment.
Bed, beer, warm food, a bath, Maker I'd kill for a bath right about now. His addition registered and she nodded, once, hesitantly, and then again, more resolute this time. Marc, I'm very sure that without you I would have done something drastic and would no longer be a part of this world. I can't think of anyone else I'd want to go running around the wilds with, share a camp with, or a bath tub in an inn with. Separately, of course, I'm not going to press my luck again this soon. She gave him a playful wink, feeling much more herself now that the horror of the dream and waking up like they had was starting to feel more like a hazy memory, and not their reality just a few hours back.
Marcel’s laugh was warm and unguarded, his shoulders relaxing at Eithne’s playful tone. He appreciated these moments when she let her walls down, even just a little. It reminded him of why he fought so hard to keep her grounded—why they worked so well together.
Ah, yes, separate baths—don’t want to scandalize the innkeeper, he teased, the corner of his mouth tugging into a grin. But seriously, I get it. A bath, some decent food, and maybe a chance to sleep without the looming threat of Blight… sounds like paradise. And hey, sharing the wilds with you? Not a bad gig. Even if you keep threatening to set things on fire. He bumped his shoulder gently against hers, his tone light but sincere.
The path ahead grew narrower, the crumbled remnants of an ancient stone bridge forcing them to tread single file. Marcel stepped ahead, his staff tapping against the ground with an absent rhythm. His earth magic wasn’t active, but his connection to it felt like a steady hum in the back of his mind, grounding him.
After a while, he glanced back at Eithne, the golden morning light catching in her hair. The sight struck him, and for a moment, words caught in his throat. Instead of voicing whatever sentiment had flickered to life, he turned his gaze forward, his cheeks faintly warm.
You know, he began after a pause, there’s a chance we won’t find anything too bad in this town. Sometimes the rumors are worse than the reality. Could be just a sick cow or two. We could be back at that inn faster than you think, toasting to a job well done.
He didn’t entirely believe it, but it felt worth saying. The reality of Blight was rarely so benign, but Eithne deserved a little hope to hold onto. Even if it was fleeting, Marcel thought, they could both use something to lighten the weight pressing down on their shoulders.
The sound of birdsong broke the stillness around them as they crested a hill. Below, the town stretched out in the distance, smoke curling lazily from chimneys, the first signs of life stirring in the early morning. To anyone else, it might have looked idyllic, but to Marcel and Eithne, it was a puzzle waiting to be solved—and potentially, a danger waiting to be contained.
Marcel paused, letting Eithne catch up beside him. He reached for her hand briefly, squeezing it before letting go. We’ve got this, Ethie. One step at a time.
Look, I could clear away so much Blight at once if we could do a controlled burn, maybe a town or two happens to burn down in the process, I can't help that.. it's a small price to pay, right? She teased back, trying to let herself enjoy the moment of feeling, normal, for once. As normal as the two of them could be currently. Once they collected a couple more samples for Rosalie, took some naps, maybe baths, all of it, it would be well worth the trip they made. And it means she got to sed more time with him.
Yeah? How often are we that lucky? Really? The last time we were that lucky, I think it was because I did set an entire town on fire... She followed along behind him over the bridge, down the path further along the way that would take them into the town, her mind wandering here and there as they went, trying to make sense of why she would have woke the way she did, trying to examine her dreams. Maker knew she had a few screws stripped and spinning wildly in their home in her head, as much magic and being beaten around as she'd taken in the past, it wasn't hard to imagine that she'd have dreamed it like that, back in the moment of the kill, being aroused by it. It was sickening, even now, all the years later, when she caught herself in the moments of it. The lust to kill.
One step at a time. Can't get anywhere without one food in front of the other.
Marcel grinned at her response, shaking his head as he adjusted the strap of his pack. You’re a menace, you know that? Burning down a town just to clear a little Blight? Sure, that’s what heroes do, he teased, his tone dripping with mock seriousness. Next thing you know, they’ll be erecting statues in your honor. ‘Here stands Eithne, Slayer of Blight, Burner of Towns, Wielder of Fire and Chaos.’
His grin softened into something more genuine as he looked ahead toward the approaching town. There was a comfort in their banter, a rhythm to it that made the weight of their task feel just a little lighter. Marcel knew the reality of their luck—or lack thereof—but he appreciated her humor, dark as it might be. It was a part of who she was, and he wouldn’t change that for the world.
You’ve got a point, though, he admitted. We’re not exactly known for walking away unscathed. But hey, maybe this time we’re overdue for something simple. I mean, statistically speaking, we’re bound to hit an easy one eventually, right? His grin widened, a boyish optimism creeping into his voice despite the odds.
As they reached the edge of the town, Marcel slowed his pace, his posture shifting subtly into a state of readiness. His hand brushed against his staff, fingers tightening on the smooth wood as his gaze swept over the quiet streets. Smoke from the chimneys carried the smell of morning cooking fires, mingling with the faint earthy scent of damp soil. Everything seemed ordinary—too ordinary.
Let’s stick to the plan, yeah? he said, glancing back at Eithne. We scout, gather what we need, and if there’s trouble... you light it up, I’ll throw up some barriers, and we’ll deal with it like we always do. Just don’t burn anything down unless we absolutely have to. His eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief as he added, I’m serious this time. No impromptu arson, okay?
He gestured toward the town, his expression sobering as they prepared to step into the unknown. Whatever awaited them, Marcel knew one thing for certain—they wouldn’t face it alone.
To be fair, it's not my fault places are as flammable as they are, I thought we had covered this already, the teasing felt better, between them. Less like she was going to have to fall off the face of the world in embarrassment and die a lonely horrible death for it. It was more like Marc let her feel like she could go back, and pretend to be twenty years younger than she was, feeling the first blushes of friendship and attraction that she'd been denied in her mage-hunter years. Had it not been for him, and the others, she wouldn't have had the chance to be experiencing any of that, now that she was older. It felt good to laugh, to know that there wasn't a dagger to the back following his words, that she could feel safe with him walking behind her along the paths. And then there was the town, and the thoughts that had been clouding her head were gone.
She took a few larger steps to catch up beside him, her nose curling some at the smell of damp earth, and somewhere else, fresh tilled and manured soil. They were getting ready to plant -- it was the wrong time of year for them to be planting, wasn't it? The cold season was about to start, so why would the air be heavy with dirt and shite smell? I'm already starting to hate this idea, and think we should return to the earlier idea of impromptu arson. She didn't confirm otherwise if she understood the plan. Worst case scenario she would freeze everyone in their path for as long as she could for Marc to get away. Then she could turn and run herself. It would take everything in her, like in the past, but she could do it. Looking to the watch tower, she passed a hand over her features, invoking a simple glamor that took some of the edge off her sharp cheek bones, that widened her jaw a little, set her eyes back some in her face.
She may not have been to this exact town in her past, but that didn't meant that there might not be someone there that was pissed off about something she had done in the past. It was just easier to make herself a bit less severe, less like herself, when heading into towns for the first time, until they got a good feel of the place. And it kept her off wanted posters in the future in case of impromptu arson. She'd have to teach the trick to Marc someday soon too. I don't like it at all. Something feels off to me. Why are they planting this time of year? Or is it.. graves? Could they be burying their dead? I didn't see any notice on the wall of any infections, and we've not seen any Darkspawn either.. She did not like it at all.
Marcel’s brows knit together as he took in her words, his playful demeanor fading into something more measured. He let his gaze sweep over the town again, this time with a keener eye. The scent of freshly tilled earth and manure wasn’t uncommon in rural settlements, but Eithne was right—this wasn’t the season for planting. And if they were graves instead… well, that wasn’t any better.
That’s a good question, he admitted, lowering his voice as they neared the outskirts. And I don’t like not knowing the answer to it. He glanced sidelong at Eithne, catching the subtle shifts in her features from the glamour. It was a clever trick, one he should really learn himself, but for now, he’d rely on his usual method of blending in: not looking important enough to remember.
As they walked, he adjusted his grip on his staff, tapping it absently against the dirt road. Alright, let’s do this carefully. Low profile. No drawing attention. No fire. Yet. A wry smirk flickered across his lips before vanishing. If something’s wrong, we’ll figure it out fast enough. If it’s nothing, then great—we get to be paranoid idiots together. Again.
He let out a slow breath as they reached the first signs of town life—an old woman sweeping her doorstep, a man leading a mule-drawn cart toward a storehouse. Ordinary, mundane things. Yet the tension in Marcel’s gut remained. He trusted Eithne’s instincts as much as his own, and if she felt something was off, then odds were, it was.
Marcel stepped closer to her, voice just above a whisper. Let’s split up. Just for a bit. I’ll head toward the market square, see what people are saying. You check out those fields—see if they’re planting or burying. If anything feels wrong, we meet back by that well in ten minutes. And if it’s *really* wrong? He met her gaze, a silent understanding passing between them. You know what to do.
Comfortable now, behind the glamor, she let her arms drop to her sides, her hand away from her dagger for now. She didn’t need it yet. As a focus, it was close by, and she had been experimenting with not needing to hold it, or the orb that helped her direct her magics, to cast her spells. One day, she would be done with her reliance on tools for what she knew was an extension of herself. One day. Today was not that day thought.
As the cart passed them by, she checked the cargo. Vegetables, some meats. A standard bit of things you’d find in someone coming to market. Nothing that was too out of the ordinary. But she still couldn’t shake the feeling something was off. And in the set of Marc’s shoulders, she could tell he felt it as well.
Set the place on fire. Of course, like I normally do.. She grinned at him, and then split off, as she made note of the well he pointed out. The smell of shit grew more awful as she drew closer to the fields, the fresh earth smell drown out as she looked for the normal culprits, blight and bodies. And she wasn’t disappointed on either count. The graves, it would seem, were being upturned by the first tendril of blight starting to make its self known. Fuck.
There was no reason for it to center on the graves, unless they were victims of it, and the town just threw them all in a mass grave and buried them all. Should have burned them. Where are the damn Wardens?. Warden’s should have been thorough to help keep the spread contained. But with everything happening, could they have even spared one to come and help? Probably not. And depending on what Marc found, it was turning out to be a good thing Rosalie sent them here to investigate, as she reminded herself the Warden’s were spread thin as it was, and she and Marc were there as a favor. Making sure nothing was coming free of the graves as it was, she slipped back into the town proper and started to make her way towards the well.
Hopefully Marc hadn’t found anything worse on his side.
Marcel adjusted his stance as he wove through the sparse market square, his casual gait masking the sharp awareness in his gaze. The town wasn’t bustling the way it should have been—not for a settlement of this size. It wasn’t abandoned, but something about it felt… hollow. Like people were here because they had to be, not because they *wanted* to be.
He slowed near a stall where a thin-faced merchant arranged bruised apples and withered root vegetables. The man’s fingers twitched as he worked, glancing up at Marcel with a tight-lipped nod before turning his attention back to his goods.
Morning, Marcel greeted easily, picking up an apple, turning it in his hand. It was soft, too soft. Bit early in the season for harvest, isn’t it?
The merchant hesitated before answering. Dunno. Weather’s been strange. Crops aren’t keeping the way they should.
Strange how? Marcel prompted, keeping his tone mild.
The merchant shifted uncomfortably, as if realizing he’d already said too much. Just… strange. You want the apple or not?
Marcel let a few coins clink onto the stall. I’ll take two.
He turned away, casually biting into one as he made his way further in. It tasted off—not spoiled, not rotten, just *wrong.*
The few conversations he passed in the square were short, clipped, hushed. People weren’t stopping to chat. They made their trades, then left, heads down, shoulders hunched. A woman hurriedly bundled herbs into a basket, muttering something under her breath. As Marcel passed, he caught a single word: *blessing.*
He slowed. That was interesting.
Pulling the hood of his cloak up slightly, he changed direction, trailing her at a careful distance. She moved with purpose, making her way toward a small wooden building at the far end of the square—one that didn’t quite match the rest of the town. It was older, its wood darkened with age, and though it bore no sign or marker, people seemed to give it space, stepping around it like it was something to be avoided.
She slipped inside. Marcel lingered across the way, pretending to study a rack of poorly made leather goods as he watched. No town he’d ever been to had a *building* people treated like that. A temple? A shrine? A meeting place? Whatever it was, it sent a cold curl of unease through his gut.
Something was wrong here. Not just Blight-wrong. *People* were acting strange.
He tossed the rest of the apple away and turned on his heel, making his way back toward the well. Time to see if Eithne had found anything worse.
Eithne arrived to the well first, frown firmly in place on her altered features as she leaned back against the stone, thumb caught between her teeth as she worried the skin around a nail. A bad habit, of course, but one that gave away how worried she was about the area.
When Marc drew close she let out a sigh, waiting until she had checked around the area, ensuring they were alone before speaking, Blight. Coming out of the gods damned graves even. Rosalie was right to send us. And she could tell by his face that he didn't have any good news to share either. Please tell me it's not a death cult.
Of course, a death cult would make perfect sense with what she found in the fields and grave yard. She's seen them before, blood cult, blight cult, cults that wanted to worship cats -- that one she understood in a way -- but cults in general were a pain on the ass to root out to their main stem, hard enough to kill and leave decimated as to ensure there was no off shoots or regrowth. It's a death cult isn't it?
She reached a hand out for his, pulling him closer to her side. It wasn't the first time she sought him out like that, to find comfort in his touch, but now was one of those times.
Marcellus didn’t say anything at first—he just let Eithne pull him in, their forearms brushing as he settled beside her. The contact grounded him more than he cared to admit. The way she looked at him now? Yeah, this was serious.
He scrubbed a hand down his face, jaw tight, before answering.
Okay. So. Bad news? No, it's not a death cult. He paused just long enough to see the flicker of hope spark in her eyes. Then he added, Worse. It’s a maybe-death cult that doesn't know it’s a cult yet. You know the type. Creepy building, hushed prayers, people saying ‘blessing’ like it’s code for ‘watch your back.’ Nobody’s looking each other in the eye, and I bought an apple that tasted like sin and regret.
He glanced over at her, arching a brow. So yeah. Between your field of Blight-burping graves and my ‘blessing house,’ I’d say we’ve got a real party shaping up.
His tone stayed light, but the weight in his eyes gave him away. This wasn’t just another job. Something had its claws in this place, and he had the awful feeling it was only just waking up.
We could torch the whole field and bolt back to Rosalie with our tails between our legs, he said, only half joking. But if there’s a ritual, or something brewing, we need to shut it down before it spreads. People are already on edge. I don’t think they even realize they’re part of something bigger—and that makes it more dangerous.
He looked down at their hands—hers warm in his—before giving it a gentle squeeze.
We’ve done worse with less. We figure out how deep this thing goes, stop whatever’s starting, and get the hell out before it pulls us in too far. That sound like a plan, firebug?
He gave her a crooked smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes but still tried to pull some levity from the weight pressing down on them.
And for the record, if it is a cult of cat worshippers again, you’re handling the deprogramming this time. I’m still emotionally recovering from that tabby in Crestwood.
What if we just ran? She whispered quietly to him, her eyes scanning the houses across the square. We run, and find somewhere no one knows us, and we can adopt two or three Tomcats and you can try and talk me into letting you put a baby into me. It wasn't a bad trade off, but she knew neither of them could leave now. This was what they did. But she whispered still.
You'd call me darling, and I'd call you my love, and we'd trade eggs with the next farm over for cheese from their milk cows, and we'd forget everything about Blight and cults and death and just be normal people. The apple concerned her, if the regret was already a taste in the produce, then it had seeped deeper into the ground than just the Graves.
Or you could close your eyes and let me just burn this entire village to ash and bone and we walk away and never talk of it again. She had no problem with that either. A well placed time spell put on the only ways out of town to keep those infected in, while the entire place burned...
We don't have to always play the heroes. That was just wishful thinking. Neither of them would be able to turn their backs on this place, not now. Or we do... and when we're done you and I go to Antiva and have coffee and spend a few days in the libraries and galleries there as a treat that we did the right thing by these people.
Maybe by the time they made Antiva, she would believe she had attoned enough to return the love he had for her. Maybe cleaning this town would be enough to allow her to think she was even remotely worthy enough to accept the smallest bits of affection from him and not immediately believe she would taint him with her past. I hate deprogramming cultists though!
Her whisper was sharp, trying to hold a little mirth to chase away the levity of what they were about to have to do. I suppose we need to find a place and start to make a plan. Because her plan would be to just burn it all. And that was never the best.
Marcellus tilted his head toward her, eyes still fixed on the same houses she was watching. A slow smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—part amused, part heartbroken.
“You know,” he whispered, “you can’t just say ‘baby’ and ‘cat farm’ in the same sentence and expect me not to black out from joy. That’s dirty tactics.”
He didn’t laugh, not really, but his shoulders twitched like he almost did. He turned his head just enough to catch her expression in the low morning light.
“We could,” he said, quieter now, “we really could. Find a place with too much sun and terrible wine and the kind of people who leave you alone as long as you wave when you pass by. Grow tomatoes, raise fat, judgmental cats, and spend the rest of our lives trying to convince the neighbors we’re not ex-assassins.”
He reached up and brushed his knuckles along her jaw, just once, before letting the moment slip away.
“But first we save the town. Then we steal the damn tomatoes.”
Marcellus shifted slightly, squaring his shoulders like he was putting armor back on piece by piece.
“And I know you hate deprogramming cultists. That’s why you’re going to make me do the talking while you stand behind me, arms crossed, scowling like I’m dragging you through a state-mandated therapy circle.” He mimed it with his hands. “I’ll do the soothing voice thing. You can throw them into a wall if they don’t listen. Classic good-cop-unhinged-fire-sorceress.”
He stepped back from the well, voice turning serious again. “We’ll need a base of operations. Somewhere we can ward, prep, work from. The inn’s too public. Maybe one of the storage barns on the edge of town? Less foot traffic, and it’s easier to pretend we’re not here to torch their entire belief system to the ground.”
He glanced at her again. Not the glamour. Her.
“We’ll finish this. And when we do... Antiva. Coffee. Art. You, me, and no more graves unless they’re old and boring and come with an audio tour.”
He offered his hand this time—flat palm, quiet trust.
