Marsh was in Istanbul when the letter came for him. Or rather, he was close by it, plumbing the depths of the Black Sea. It was a difficult task, but a rewarding one, as the salt content of the sea required constant adaptation to breathe within its depths, but the host of ruins along its floor were exquisite. Marsh had almost come to have an appreciation for human history, given his long decades searching through the remnants of their past. The letter came as a small surprise, as Marsh was only so close to Transylvania because Dracula had summoned him a few years earlier. He traveled very slowly, preferring to go alone by water routes, as public transportation made him feel unnecessarily exposed.

Luckily, he had no need for such measures this time. The vampiric servant that had tracked down Marsh's encampment on the Sea's shores had come by means of a rugged automobile, and was prepared to chauffeur him back to Dracula's castle. The few days of travel that followed were awkward and uncomfortable. The vampire sent to collect Marsh obviously found him as repellent as normal humans did, and suffered constantly from his foul odor and insidious presence. Marsh similarly did not care much for the undead, and particularly not vampires. As much as he would like to think that such perversions of nature were a uniquely human creation, there were similar monsters in his own time. The Grey Weavers of the tunnel-kingdoms, servants of the Spinner in the Dark came to mind.

Once they were free of the prying eyes of common humans, Marsh let his disguise slip, and resumed his natural form. A scaly fish-man that perspired foul, ranine mucous sat looking very out of place in the passenger seat of an offroad vehicle. He didn't expect Dracula to bill him for the cost of having the car reupholstered. They would probably just have to burn the thing to be rid of the smell. Despite being so close, Marsh was one of the last to arrive, probably due to the difficulty inherent to finding him. He came stomping in, his webbed flippers leaving soggy marks on the rug, as the human, Garnier his name was, was going on his rant.

"[color=00746b]Humans,[/color]" he gurgled contemptuously, "[color=00746b]No bloody sense of proportion.[/color]" Marsh had to partially transform his laryngeal structure to even be capable of uttering sounds resembling human speech. The result was... barely adequate. An awful, wet croaking that sounded like a man gargling mud. "[color=00746b]Do you have any idea how many of you buggers there are? Nearly eight billion. We, the [i]others[/i], number in the thousands-- a million at best. There are simply too many of them and too few of us to ever make a difference. You can take the city, but you won't hold it. Much worse than that, is that you'll make life unmanageable for those of us content where we are. There'll be no hiding after that. They'll kill themselves by the million just to get rid of [i]one[/i] of us. They'll do it, too. It'll take time, but they'll do it.[/color]" Marsh flexed his webbed hand, admiring the sharp black claws that tipped his fingers, before his inhuman gaze snapped back to Garnier. "[color=00746b]You're a madman and a fool, and I'll curtail your errand myself before you get a chance to doom us all.[/color]"