Perhaps it was because of that he had forgotten how bloody and painful his line of work could get, or perhaps it was simply out of sheer boredom, but Marcel was quite happy that Ashav had kept his word and recommended him for a job. Admittedly, he had never worked with a group as large as this, and he hadn't exactly fought a lot of Spriggans - but he had at least some experience with them, and that was probably more than some of the others in the party. His enthusiasm, however out of place it seemed amongst the other members of the party, was only a plus. 

The journey southward, towards their destination, was quite an enjoyable one for Marcel. A man of simple tastes, he very much enjoyed the companionship of the wild, and the companionship of the party, although he couldn't help but feel they weren't at ease with him (whether this stemmed from his disruptive capabilities, their lack of familiarity with him, or just his personality, Marcel did not know). He had enjoyed a small chat with a young lad named Cilo before their departure, but given the fact he wasn't part of the party, and given the fact his current companions weren't as foolishly jovial as the lad, he had to make do with only the mere presence of the party and make the best of enjoying the silence.

Lunchtime, on the other hand, was a whole different experience - the party, having settled down for a rest and meal, had suddenly gained much more social traction. Conversations and jokes were had, and although Marcel did not participate in them himself, he nonetheless enjoyed the sense of belonging he had created by laughing along to the party's jokes and listening with an interested expression to their tales, despite not having many ideas about what they really meant. He had perfectly made himself forgotten amongst all the personalities, become a part of the backdrop. He preferred things that way.

After lunch, however, simply enjoying the scenery became somewhat harder for Marcel, and likely for the rest of the party as well, considering the change of tone. The air had gotten heavier, irritating the eyes, harder to breathe. He would understand the reason for this once the woman called the Huntress would take him and the rest of the party to the scouting position. Beyond them lay a swath of annihilation, laden with complete silence. Ash, smog and smolders had worked together to create a landscape of desolation that Marcel had previously only seen in nightmares and macabre paintings from northern High Rock. He poured some water into his hand and wiped his face with it to feel somewhat refreshed, and to help against the traces of ash still carried on in the air.

He could feel traces of movement far away, not certain enough, but he could feel it in his gut. Deciding to heed his gut feeling, Marcel unsheathed his silver sword and kept it ready as the party moved forward. As the party leader, a pocket Hercules of a Bosmer called Daelin, called to give him an order, a sudden shout cleared through the circle as a middle-aged, burly man came rushing through the woods, flaming and axing at conjured sprays of insects. The group moved in to engage, and Marcel, having infiltrated the backdrop through his mundanity, also did, moving forward in a feat of stealth so profound that it seemed nobody noticed him, not even the party, let alone the Spriggans, it seemed.

Beyond him he could see the Altmer duke it out, albeit quite amateurishly, with the seemingly leading Spriggan. While he moved in to help the Altmer, a sudden dash by a wooden, feminine figure intercepted Marcel's movement. As the Spriggan raised its arm to spray Marcel with whatever magic it held in store, he brought his sword downwards, splitting its bark-covered limb in half. The creature gave an unnatural, ringing hiss, only to be muted when the silver smallsword lodged itself through the dryad's mask-like face, poking out the other side.