Marcia
Arvid Erwynson
Reaper's Skull

Arvid kept his thoughts silent, but they were vicious indeed. He considered the weakness of Danico's weapon, so frivolous in nature - an implement more aptly wielded by a saint - how easily his sword could sweep those dainty chains aside. His words met a wavering audience whose thoughts were consumed by vile. He made mention of a child. The girl would be a fine meal undoubtedly. What of a madman? What if his narrative was a simple bluff? What family would painstakingly rake through the Witherlands for their eccentric boy? Surely, an unprecedented gallivant in foul weather was not so bizarre for a bizarre man. Arvid's eyes shifted from his face and its receding ginger, instead visually sifting through his pack. He had few rations; fewer still were his wits. 

"I'm a hunter. I don't dabble in those sorts of foul things. Don't accuse me of *Magic.*" The distaste in his voice was matched only by its firmness. "I don't care what you're doing here, I'm not keen on having a guest. People kill for less, you know." Arvid lifted his sword slightly, reflecting the frenzied blizzard. 

Arvid himself was a fairly average man. His proportions were modest, characteristic of an outdoorsman: beneath many pelts and layers, he was lean. The man's garb concealed much of his identity. Bare were both his sword and his eyes - nothing more. His weapon was a silvery bastard sword. Its edge was meticulously polished, like its steel had never tasted battle. In his other fist, he clutched a now-dormant pipe. On occasion, particularly forceful blasts would reveal glints of slick, blonde hair beneath his cowl.
Robert
Danico Felrantrez
Reapers Skull

This so-called weapon Danico wielded was, by no means, a weapon. It was merely a vessel designed to hold incense with a thin chain from which the vessel would hang and nothing more. Any sort of swing with this tool would cause it to come apart. Sure, throwing burning incense in an adversary's eyes could certainly prove useful, but that would hardly be considered a practical form of defence. The design of the tool was by all accounts just that- a tool. Against any sort of peacticed Warrior it would be nothing more than a hindrance. Sure, he had on him a small knife for foraging purposes, but that too would be ineffective against an armed aggressor. In truth, Danico was not a fighter- sure he was mildly athletic at least, his tendency to not stay in one place meant he got a lot of excersize, but a hardened Warrior he was not.

The man's sudden outburst of distaste for the idea of magic had him thinking. Maybe a bluff? Maybe he was nothing more than a sword for hire to protect the blood mage? Assuming his leads were true, of course. He certainly seemed to be less of a candidate for this elusive blood mage with every passing moment. Curious.

This stranger was clearly suspicious, however. A hunter? In the middle of a blizzard with no end in sight? Plausible, but unlikely. He was trying to hide something, to keep anyone from peeking in on his business. Fair, he thought, he to would be reluctant to hesitate against burying an intruder himself, but his goal was through this man. And when it came to the pursuit of knowledge, well, Danico didn't know when to quit.

"I'm curious," He replied after a contemplative moment, he put aside the things the man had said with his free hand still visibly to the side. "You're of a mind against magic, clearly, yet my device here says that you could very well be holed up outside the home of a blood mage." He extended the thurible outward, showing how it swung like a pendulum in the direction of the cave, without any action from Danico. "If you've truly no allegiance with this blood mage I seek, then all I am is a traveller passing through. No consequence to you."
Marcia
Arvid Erwynson
Reaper's Skull

Arvid's lip curled into a slighted frown beneath his cowl. The man evoked a force mightier than the gods - on account of their immediate, visceral wish-granting - and assumed Arvid a student of its chaos. A matter so revolting, unnatural, something that defied what was natural. What was linear and understandable. Magic crept into the minds of righteous men like gentle whispers. Magic took root in upstanding hearts, turned their blood to a thick, black paste. To be accused of wielding something so repulsive - Arvid was nearly inclined to attack him. Still, his rational restrained him. If Danico wielded accusations of sorcery, then blindly assaulting him would simply align Arvid with those brutes. So he worked his jaw behind a layer of wool; behind it, hostilities simmered atop his tongue. 

"If you're a traveler and nothing more, then you should run along. You've *No* Part in what lies in that cave. And you're awfully bold for a lonely vagrant." Arvid lifted his sword once more, this time forecasting a true offensive - he stepped forward, staring at Danico through his brow. "But then, a simple vagrant wouldn't carry something like what you've got. Who's to say you're not working with that mage? You seem confident enough showing me that magical *Thing.*" Arvid took another step.
_ _

As the thurible swayed in Arvid's direction, it felt as though his very skeleton was vibrating, like furious bees had made a hive of his bones. Cloaked beneath a swarm of fabric, tucked away on Arvid's bare flesh, was a series of telling scars. A cascade of contused, black and blue waves spanning from his left heel to his pectoral. It was clear evidence of a previous brush with magic. Arvid's marred skin pulsated and stung each time the golden pendulum reached for him. Like worms took residence in his dermis, burrowing through the loose-fleshed tunnels that made up his lengthy scars. His entire body - its every muscle - grew tense. When he had first stood before that cave and its evil, yawning mouth, he had felt that sensation. Like he was thrown on his back once more. Like tendrils of magic were prodding ancient faults. Like there was an energy greater than him, greater than nature, greater than Marin, greater than human understanding. Like he was in its gullet. Like he was in the darkest pit. His entire body was frigid, cold, stiff. Waiting. Ready to pounce.