Marcus has a handful of associations he might ascribe to being in this place. Nightwatches during the war when they'd ventured beyond Andoral's Reach, ever anticipatory of a sudden clash of charging horses and suits of armor and raised swords. Or simpler times, scavenging out an existence when the rebellion had sunk into stagnation, and it was just him and his.
But they are fragments only, no different to the way ordinary fieldwork reminds him of such times. The ongoing smell of decay, the prospect of human-shaped scourge, of infection and overwhelming odds—yes, he knows what that is like, and that he wasn't there.
Something familiar, differently: Julius being in proximity and Marcus setting aside the object he was toying with to instead take possession of the other man's hand, and bring it into his space. On his own is the ring that Petrana had gifted them—had debated, some, in wearing it into the field, before deciding it was important he do so.
no subject
Marcus has a handful of associations he might ascribe to being in this place. Nightwatches during the war when they'd ventured beyond Andoral's Reach, ever anticipatory of a sudden clash of charging horses and suits of armor and raised swords. Or simpler times, scavenging out an existence when the rebellion had sunk into stagnation, and it was just him and his.
But they are fragments only, no different to the way ordinary fieldwork reminds him of such times. The ongoing smell of decay, the prospect of human-shaped scourge, of infection and overwhelming odds—yes, he knows what that is like, and that he wasn't there.
Something familiar, differently: Julius being in proximity and Marcus setting aside the object he was toying with to instead take possession of the other man's hand, and bring it into his space. On his own is the ring that Petrana had gifted them—had debated, some, in wearing it into the field, before deciding it was important he do so.
"Just waiting for light again."
That seems to be what every night is, here.