[center]Featuring [@Peik][/center]
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The timid, milquetoast Breton would have looked odd in a rural Nordic town to an attentive eye, but at such a time of celebration, attentive eyes would blur and swirl with alcohol, and trace fairer, more lust-inducing curvatures than those of Marcel’s lines. As if his inner mundane had decided that seeping through his face, expression, and specialties was not enough, it had also decided to show itself by using Marcel’s physique as a vessel. He wasn’t bad looking – in fact, one could call him quite handsome, but his sex appeal could only beat something as inane as concrete. Fortunately for Marcel, he wasn’t looking for a lay – he was merely seeking employment, partially because of a lack of drive, and partially out of a sense of gratitude. This mercenary company had after all saved his life – whether from disgruntled mages or starvation and sickness was unclear, but they had. And he believed he could pay back, for after all, ‘magicians’ of his sort were in quite short supply.
 
He looked for the mercenary leader in the stalls and the streets. Eventually, tired, he made his way to the tavern where he resided, sitting on a stool. Surely Marcel could notice him. He could do that.

Ashav was having a merry good time defecating in the inn's outhouse. He felt quite refreshed after relieving himself of a three-day long constipation. As he was about to reach for the cleaning supplies, he found only empty dissapointment.

"Thoring! Come back here!" Ashav shouted, face reddened in a rare occasion. He would rather face the tavern owner, or one of his employees, rather than exposing his filth-filled orifice to the whole wide world like a certain journalist. 

"Anyone? Please!" He shouted again, more desperate and possibly for tavern patrons near the door to hear. If this situation was somehow a prank, he'll have the prankster's head for such crappy humor. 

Marcel sat, with the patience of an aspiring prophet waiting for divine revelation. He sat, for what, to some others, may have felt like eons – but Marcel was one of the select few people that could actually discern it as about ten minutes. He waited, and waited, until he heard a cry for help. Only then did he get up, for it was important to help people, so he was taught. He moved through the drunken crowd in the tavern, and the cries for help got louder the closer he got to the back exit. Outside, on the grassy plain, there was nothing but some empty bottles, fences, and an outhouse. 
 
Always a good empathizer, and having suffered from diarrhea in his childhood, Marcel ran back into the tavern to get a jug of water, a corncob, and a sponge. Going outside back to the outhouse, the Breton slowly placed these things on the ground and slid them with the side of his foot from underneath the door. 
 
‘’There!’’ Marcel said with a slow, quiet voice. He wanted to be enthusiastic, for that was usually the best mood when talking to people, but how enthusiastic could you be with a man lacking essentials in a toilet?

Someone actually came for him! It was the voice of a good Samaritan, not Thoring or one his employees that brought him sanitary salvation. "Divines bless you." Ashav shouted to the man beyond the door, assuming the man was still beyond the door (they might be in line for the toilet). The Redguard cleaned himself to be best of his abilities with the sponge, then ran out of water halfway through hand rinsing. There was no soap, but Ashav got used to that a long time ago.

After what seemed to be the longest minute, Ashav stepped outside more or less clean. For some reason, the Breton that delivered the supplies still stood around there. "Thanks for help." Ashav acknowledged him. "Name's Ashav, and tonight's drinks are on me." He stuck out his hand to shake, but he realized there were still bits of filth he didn't wash off; Marcel already shook it at that point.

‘’It is a pleasure to help,’’ Marcel replied to Ashav as he grabbed the man’s hand for a shake, and released it to witness crispy pieces of brown amidst his fingers. Thankfully being mentally fit enough to make the connection, he thanked his master, Diarmid, for reminding him to wear gloves whenever possible, and made a mental note to rinse the glove good with lye. 
 
‘’I am Marcel Gawain, pleased to meet you. So it is you who leads the famed Company that led the expedition to Winterhold. I have to say, I am in your debt. It was your men that led me out of there,’’ Marcel said as he walked back into the inn alongside the man. ‘’In fact, I was planning on signing up. I have been out of work for far too long. And I would be proud to say that my repertoire of skills aren’t found easy in this region, let alone the rest of Tamriel,’’ Marcel said, as he flicked a finger at Thoring the Innkeeper for attention. When the man refused to budge, Marcel got up, excused himself to Ashav for a minute, and walked over to the counter to ask for some soap and two bowls of hot water.

Thoring responded in record time, probably because of the danger of dried feces on his table and the dirty look Ashav gave him. Hot water bowls and soap appeared in no time, and Ashav breathed a relieved sigh washing his hands. "That's more like it." He thought out loud. Then noticing Marcel's dirty glove, Ashav applogized. "Hope I didn't ruin it, it looked like good leather to me."

Having then dried his hands on a towel ripped from Thoring's bar, Ashav turned to what Marcel suggested. "You want to join up?" He asked. "My company extracted you from Winterhold, correct? And I assume that repertoire of skills consist of magic?"

‘’Oh, not at all, sir, these gloves have had to deal with much worse,’’ Marcel replied to Ashav as he removed his glove and took the soap and dipped it in the water to start scrubbing. Indeed, these gloves had been smeared with blood of various strains in the past, having protected Marcel against blood tainted by Sanies Lupinus, Porphyric Hemophilia, Sanguinare Vampiris, and the ever-rare Noxiphilic Sanguivoria. Mere feces would be nothing compared to what these gloves had gone through. 
 
‘’Yes, sir, your company helped me get out of Winterhold, hence my wish to join. And I suppose you could say my skills count as magic – only of a different sort,’’ Marcel said, drifting off towards the end. ‘’I’m afraid I’ve never been much good with regular magic. I have been told that I dampen magic, as well. I was mentored by Diarmid Goupeville, a Hunter of abominable beasts. He taught me how to manipulate magic itself, as opposed to shaping it into forms, be they harmful or helpful, like a regular mage would.’’ Marcel took a breath, scrubbing his glove good. It was covered in bubbles by this point, and he poured a little amount of water on it to wash it off.
 
‘’To put it simply, sir, I turn magic back – halt people from disturbing the Earth Bones, in a way. I’ve been a hunter of such disturbances for almost a dozen years now. I’ve fought various sorts of rampant mages, were-beasts, undead, witches, vampires, and things still worse,’’ Marcel said, checking his glove. It seemed clean now, but he began scrubbing it again, just in case. ‘’And, on the way here, I have heard that these calamities these lands are suffering are because of forces long forgotten to Tamriel. And I would like to help, sir. Spending anymore time amongst those mages in Winterhold could have been harmful to me, or them,’’ Marcel said, chuckling lightly. 

Much worse than human excrement sounded like something Ashav doesn't want to know, we'll,  unlike it's going to affect mission integrity. He doubted things like troll shit or monster remains could get in anyone's near future. Of course, what the Breton man presented in his verbal resume confirmed the fact his gloves once sifted through the worst Tamriel has to offer. Ashav watched the man methodically scrubbing his glove clean and described his encounters with patience. This witch hunter appeared calm and orderly at a glance, something Ashav absolutely appreciate following the fiasco with Jorwen. But what disturbed him was the fact Marcel somehow disrupted magic of all kinds. He could already see magic users such as Keegan, Tsleeixth or Elmera raising concerns with such person beside them. On the bright side, he'll enjoy being called [i]sir[/i] a few more times.

"Where did you get them?" Ashav pointed to the gloves absentmindedly while pondered on a potential contract. "I could have our quartermaster procure a few sets like that."

Having made up his mind, Ashav first ordered a round of drinks for himself and Marcel, only did he talk when half a cup of water went down. He paid Thoring up front for both beverages to make true of his promise earlier. "If what you said is true, then you have a very unique skill set." Adjusting his gaze on Marcel, Ashav talked with hand gesture. "And given how you alter magic, there are side effects some colleague might be concerned with." 

"I have no employment suiting you at this time," Ashav shrugged, "but if you are planning to stay around in the next few days, I might be able to find you work." Tapping the table to signal the end of the conversation, Ashav asked Marcel once more if he wanted to order anything else. As the Breton in front of Ashav started to leave, another came in. Ariane made her entrance just time, because Ashav will need someone to make sense of the magic mumble-jumble. 

‘’I see, sir. I can understand your concern, and I can see where you are coming from. I haven’t worked much alongside larger groups of people and, now that you have mentioned it, I can see why my presence could hinder the company at points,’’ Marcel replied to Ashav as he patted the glove on the side of the table to get the remnants of soapy water off. It seemed quite clean now. 
 
‘’I believe I shall stay here for a few days. I don’t have a destination right now, but it’s not hard for a man like me to find employment in times like these, especially in a land such as Skyrim. I would nonetheless appreciate if you informed me of possible contracts.’’ He got off the table as the Redguard made gestures that signaled the end of the conversation.  As he walked to leave, he suddenly turned to answer Ashav's question.
 
‘’As for the gloves, sir, I bought them from a tailor in Skingrad. He was a man named Gerich Varo, quite a skilled worker both with leather and cloth. Anyhow, let me not dabble any further,’’ Marcel said, following his words with a small nod of respect, and then proceeding to walk out of the inn.