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    Marshall shook himself off, pulling fragments of ship and metalwork from his back -- a particularly twisted shard from his spine. After 1,904 years of existence, he’d come to familiar terms with all the forms of pain that a man could suffer upon himself -- those terms, however, weren’t those of friendly ones. Pain still hurt, and hurt jarred nerves, and his jarred towards anger at whatever was around him. His pain was suffering, his suffering was unjust, and if he were to suffer, so, too, would everyone else.

However, his eyes cast down upon only two things: the man of mushroom, and a jostled child with a field kit and no clear experience in what she held. A surgeon’s daughter, perhaps? It was clear, she was no child of mushroom nor the forest -- her form too human to be Fauna or Faerie; her stance too loose to be Fungi; her speech to flexible to be Nature-tongued. Another thing was plainly clear, as well: she was far too innocent to have his anger directed at her. To do so would have be to commit an act that was truly unjust.

Defeated, abjectly, Marshall pulled out the last piece of offending metal, and sad down. “[color=a187be]Medical work, child,[/color]” he asks, tone gruff and off-putting, “[color=a187be]if I’m not mistaken, is the purpose of that kit you’re holding,[/color]” he pointed to it with his armor-clad arm, “[color=a187be]or, am I mistaken, and it’s just decoration for a child pretending?[/color]” Inwardly, Marshall sighed, ‘[color=a187be][i]That was mean. I’m being callous to a child. Astrals preserve me, I hate this slow healing...[/i][/color]’

Looking up, Marshall sighed outwardly, and raised his hand. “[color=a187be]Come hither, child. A name, perhaps? Mine is Marshall, for now,[/color]” he offers, “[color=a187be]A long time ago, it was Kyne, before that, Hunter, and, before that, Bartholomew,[/color]” Marshall chuckled, spiritedly, against the pain and himself, “[color=a187be]Admittedly, that wasn’t my favorite. Now, pray tell, yours?[/color]”
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