[ More than anything else, Claude feels a twinge of annoyance at Marianne's parents -- her birth parents, the ones who had gone tragically missing, the ones he knows damn well he's not allowed to say a cross word about. But what sort of parents damns their child with a lifetime of fear of themselves without having any proof? Just fanciful tales and embellishments on old stories, an overreliance on the same damn religion that seems to guide the very fate of Fodlan and certainly guides Marianne's spirit.

He is reminded, unbidden, of the Marianne he had met when the world had twisted around them. He can't shake it. Her fear, her loyalty to her cause, her unwillingness to look outside of it. He can't say for a fact that the same thing is happening here, but the idea of young Marianne locked away, trembling in fear, curdles in his gut. ]

I'm sorry for your loss, Marianne. Truly, I am. And I don't mean to besmirch your parents' memory, but... all I'm hearing is that there is no evidence for it.

[ He crosses his arms. ]

I'd be far more scared of you losing your mind as you are than you turning into a monster. I've seen the sort of things you're capable of on the battlefield. [ He's being wry -- but then again, he's not lying either. Any one of them are arguably more lethal as they are than as the beasts so many had been twisted into, marauding across the battlefield with nothing but brute force at their disposal. ]