Marius accepts the bow from Thorius, momentarily meeting her eyes with a cool, steady gaze, a wordless acceptance of fate, and this stranger as a craftsman of it.  For a moment, the fires in both their eyes blaze in parallel, their symmetry so perfect that it is impossible to tell where one fury ends, one begins.<br/><br/>A perimeter of eyes seeks the three of them out, the curious and astounded hush having become a reverent, lucid placidity.  Homage, or quietus... now would be the day that the tow-headed youths would recall to their grandchildren, if they could survive the lightning strokes of fate long enough to grow wizened.  Three, only, no more.  Strangers, only one had they ever seen before, and then so rarely-- their armor glittering like the flickering of the fire at night as they walked with steady, determined steps, unified by a decision beyond reckoning or reason.<br/><br/>His gauntleted hand wraps tightly on the wire-wrapped pommel of the massive blade, the blade like a plank of tapered steel, the rigid leaf of some ancient giant's harvest.  It would be impossible to unsheath in a hurry, though he sheathed it anyway for the journey, and once he shouldered the scabbard strap to his back, it was like some cross he would carry to his point of execution, the massive cross-guard watching from over his shoulder like a looming raven.<br/><br/>He falls in second, taking a position off to Thorius' left flank, where he can travel close to Amara.  He nocks an arrow, holds it between his bow-gripping fingers with practiced grip, and begins to stride out, eyes already alert, into the yawning scrub-forest of the vale.