The staff in Marcus' hands has a similar weightiness—the blunted metal-capped end doesn't quite balance evenly with the last third of the weapon, a sword-like attachment wrought in black iron, where runes glow faint fire-orange even when being idly held. The wood is polished and near-black as well, and scuffed undyed cording that's been replaced time and time again where his hands are used to going.

On a swooping motion, the uneven weight is accounted for, used, caught at the apex of momentum and brought around again. A strike and guard that brings magic with it, a small curl of smoke, a flicker of the Veil at the point.

"I used it for casting, first," Marcus says, "and finishing off the work with the blade. It expends less energy, if you're already close."

And Templars have a habit of closing the distance. He doesn't quite shrug, moving to find a spot several paces from Isaac. "Form and technique came after the war. Starkhaven wasn't in the habit of raising soldiers." He dips the end of his blade into the dirt, sketching out an X, before stepping back.

"Swing and hit that."