Marcel lay on top of the bloodied soil for a moment, murmuring, almost like a toddler begging his mother to sleep a while further, even as the Orc they had saved from the mines offered them potions to regain their composure and vitality. It wasn’t until the mention of the Kamal that he did anything, but with the danger mentioned, the witch hunter bled back into the mind space then occupied by the child, and stirred, fingers clenching back onto the hilt of the sword lying next to him. Lifting himself up from the pool of red, he tiredly grabbed the potion of replenishment in the Orc woman’s hand and poured the contents down his mouth, feeling energy slide back into his body. The hairs on his spine lifted themselves from their slumber, and his eyelids shut back into their domains, freeing his eyes from bondage.

Standing upright once more, Marcel looked back at the mess he’d made with amazement, not really listening to Keegan’s screaming, before a sudden piece of ice crashed onto the ground and sent tremors through the soil. Another one, somewhat closer, peppered Marcel with pieces of earth, and he tried to trace the attack back to its source before something out of his vision crashed on what sounded like wood. A man screamed for everyone to get to cover, and Marcel, still disconcerted, hobbled, zigzagging, until someone pulled him down behind some cover.

He recognized the burned man sitting next to him, and felt surprise, although with the chaos and everything else around him, the feeling of surprise actually felt quite dull to the Breton, who was far too high on adrenaline and fear. He took in a deep breath, although could not exhale properly, thanks to a sudden, booming, low-pitched sound, which made him, and everything around him, shake. He blinked repeatedly, not daring to take a peek and see the source of the sound.

[i]‘’Incoming! Cavalry charge!’’[/i]

As the Nord voiced their inability to stop such an attack, and argued with Daelin on how to proceed, Marcel gathered enough courage to take a peek, and then, did so. And such, for the first time in his life, the Breton saw the Kamal, armored beasts atop their eldritch mounts, coming crashing down like an avalanche, looking like rancid Daedra out of Oblivion itself. It seemed that the invaders lived up to their reputation as snow [i]demons[/i]. He stopped peeking, and caught the end of the conversation, hearing the Nord telling them to run away. He looked at Daelin, who was once again their superior now that he was up and running, and saw him confirm the order to Keegan. Marcel was not exactly happy about the matter, given how it was aggression that was respected the most in his profession – but this was not witch hunting, and he admittedly did not know anything about military strategy. He would have to comply, he figured.

It wasn’t until he had cleared some distance alongside the others that he saw Daelin attempt to duke it out with a now-dismounted Kamal cavalry officer. While he had been content with retreating, the thought of going through all the trouble with the Bosmer, only to see himself get killed, did not sit right with Marcel – had he not been of a naturally calm demeanor, he would have felt angry.   

He stopped, and, pointing at Daelin with the tip of his sword, addressed his comrades: 

‘’I wouldn’t be content with myself if that fellow got himself killed by precisely what we were trying to keep him away from. I would appreciate your support, if you would.’’

With that, Marcel rushed back into the fray, sword at the ready. He was fully aware of the folly of this course of action, and indeed could feel his body fear for his life, a familiar feeling. He did not care much for it –quiet he may be, but he was still stalwart. Plus, hunters of High Rock knew well that fear was what separated them from those that they fought. Despite this, they themselves were known for being relentless in battle, and Marcel did not wish to prove himself an exception.

Sword raised, Marcel made it to Daelin, who had been knocked off his feet by the Kamal he had been fighting. He brandished his sword against a wounded Kamal that had intended to finish the Bosmer off – the two stood there, in hesitation, until another of the snow demons moved in swinging, attempting to outflank the Breton. Marcel deftly stepped back, sword now trained at this new opponent. 

‘’Dagon take you!’’ Marcel spat as he dodged another swing, noting the uncommon occurence. After two other empty swings, the beast assessed that it could not accurately strike Marcel, who had been dodging every attack like an experienced mosquito, thanks to its heavy mace. And so, the beast feinted from its next strike into an unexpected, quick backhand, sending Marcel to the ground with its impact. Disoriented and bruised, Marcel rolled on the ground, looking up to see the beast’s mace raised overhead.

And it came down with a rumbling smash.

Raising its head from the strike, the Kamal warrior searched for the remains of its newest kill, but to his surprise, could not find any. As it turned its head to the side, the edge of Marcel’s sword slid tangentially through the visor of the beast’s helmet, splitting both of the beast’s eyes in twain. 

Blinded, and with blood seeping all over its face, the creature bellowed in agony and threw itself on its back in pain, and Marcel, once more, found himself rid of an enemy. Not wishing to near the beast trashing wildly on the ground for a proper execution, he moved back, content with his partial victory. He could only hope his comrades had also found similar success.