A Rifter. If Marcel's clothing isn't obvious, then probably the cadence of his speech is, something about the way he walks. But the grandeur and echo of his applause-- well. In every world you go to, you'll find people who tend to project an image considerably larger than themselves, and Marcel is one of those people. He got it from his sire. Fortunately, he tends to use it considerably less to rub in people's faces, and more to do what he is now.

Support and admire. Schmooze. "That's right," he says. "A witch used to call me friend because I helped her out of a jam with her family.

"She did a lot more talking when she cast her spells." His hands go in his pockets and he starts to cross into the garden, not sparing a second glance at the shabby bushes, the ivy raggedly vining the walls. Instead, he looks to Sam's hands-- no longer crackling with fierce energy, hopefully! and then he offers the mage. wizard. witch? a hand to shake. Incidentally, not the one that bears the incriminating mark. "Marcel Gerard. Nice to meet you."