[color=goldenrod][i][h2][center]Gerard Segremors[/center][/h2][/i][/color] [@Conscripts][@Krayzikk] "They" were still here, cried the curse-weaver, demanding praise atop praise for her mysteriously-divined insight. As ad-hoc lookout patrol, Gerard's circuit of the vague perimeter the trio had set kept him within earshot, more or less— surreptitious exchanged whispers were lost on him, but it was enough room for either party hear at a yell. Her cocksure braying counted for that much. Steel slipped from leather over the shoulder, as Gerard's free hand drew a circle to the pair behind him. [i]Perimeter.[/i] If any one or two of them could respond to an emergence on either flank, their chances of allowing the Roses to be caught on the back foot would be much, much slimmer. Those that slipped out from the gloom, however... Well, Clarice was, again, loud— her surprise was emblematic enough. The Cazt heiress and her retainer out here? That raised suspicion, even if she asserted that she'd not shown up as their enemy. Her intent was enigma, but Clarice had revealed that Alette's band was under her employ to begin with. As well, [color=goldenrod]"Movement— [i]NORTH TREELINE![/i]"[/color] he howled, snapping his blade into a tight [i]ochs[/i] guard as he dug his heels into the soil beneath, letting oncoming war sharpen his senses, sharpen his movement, sharpen his breath. All that squawking had also revealed that those two weren't the ones she'd sensed loitering, else she wouldn't have been so surprised. Luckily for her, the instincts of the Roses cohort were a little sharper— a little more focused on the task at hand. The hounds at the front, cloaked in a black haze and nightmarishly ugly, were already lunging forward, chewing up distance with wild abandon. Judging from their name, it was easy to expect curses on their breath. Don't get bitten by bared fangs. The Boars close behind, gaining until they drew even. The wolf surged forth to meet them, trusting those at his back to fall in and drive weight behind his speartip, every bit a biting fang himself. There was a point to be made here, about straying from knightly temperance, sure, but hell— it was the [i]Pigs[/i]. This was an occasion— why not bust out the [i]Doppelsoldner[/i] routine, for old times' sake? The charges collided, and [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zAHxAD6X-Ng]Gerard threw himself into the mayhem.[/url] He swung his blade in the wake of a jolt to the side, gladius skirting the edge of the plates near his midsection, rewarding him with a dark spray as the pig fell forward onto his shield, staining the gilded filigree crimson. An axe flashing in the moonlight, drawing a silver blur as it crashed downwards from overhead— shoulder-checked as the knight dashed well inside the arc of the swing, a pommel slamming into his windpipe. As he fell, gagging, Gerard reached for the knife on his torso bandolier— Only for his arm to flash high, framing a guard of his throat as one of the hounds lunged for his carotid. [i]Reon, this damn thing was like a vise![/i] He jerked back, trying to wrench his arm free, but a hellish snarl was all that escaped from the Hound's maw— and the sound of creaking metal. It was gonna chew through [i]treated steel[/i] if he let it— Once, twice, he brought that same pommel down on to its skull, smashing at the snout hard enough that he felt the impact through his own body again— No dice. He stunned it each moment, but he had to [i]kill[/i] it— A flash from his peripheral, flying steel through the air— [i]they[/i] were trying to kill [i]him[/i] in the meantime. He whirled leftward, sword arm stuck on the other side of his body— And was rattled to his teeth as the mighty crash of a warhammer, swung fully in both hands by one of the burlier of the mercenaries' number, [i]broke[/i] something. Through the rush of battle, so much pain had already fallen away that his arm was already likely half-numb— "Shit, [i]you're kidding![/i]" But that moment of disbelief as jaw fell limply from his gauntlet, as the Boar realized he'd shattered it and not Gerard's skull in the confusion, gave Gerard enough time to send the knife hurtling into his shoulder, disabling him. He looked down. The hound, even after all that, still had movement left in its body— its jaw was twitch as its shape began to clome back to— With a snarl, the heel of his boot slammed into its neck, meteorically driving the sabaton down until he felt a [i]snap[/i]. Limp. He drew in one ragged breath— And met the furious roar of the Boar, having ripped the knife free from his now-limp arm and charged again, with a murderous stroke through the clavicle, tip of his blade nicking the throat. The other man fell, icepick grip faltering as the point met Gerard's pauldron. Spiteful fucker. No time to waste. He scooped up his knife and returned it from the bandolier as another knight fell upon the next closet boar and dispatched them, buying him enough of a moment to return it to his bandolier, and snatch the forgotten warhammer from the earth. Simple make. One end blunt and heavy, the other hooked and sharp like the beak of some bird of prey. It smashed through hard things pretty good— there were more hounds on the field, and more boars decked in better armor than these schmucks— closer to his own. That one Commander's was better. It'd do. No time to waste. He stepped forth to the whirlwind again, as from somewhere behind, a dirge began to play— Amy? Maybe. He didn't know. It was making their reactions slower. Set him up to parry, to cut, to crush, to carve apart, to kill. Kill every last goddamn slaver that was put before him, with all their cultish fervor. They would be dulled. He would be yet sharper, as the knights tore through them. That was all that mattered.