[color=goldenrod][i][h2][center]Gerard Segremors[/center][/h2][/i][/color]

[color=goldenrod]"Oh, [i]this[/i] again."[/color]

He'd been doing well to harry off any errant attempts to crumple their left side within the flow of the battle as it stood thus far, the physical gulf more than wide enough between him and any two or three Talderians able to fit within that angle effectively. Where they had the numbers, he had the force and speed to manage their sequenced blows in turn— some staggering of their tempo necessary in the tight conditions to keep their blades from accidentally crossing, and killing them both by having to disentangle so close to his own biting longsword. In afterthought, he imagined this to have been something like what Jeremiah, or the old man Cazt, had felt along the other end of the Roses' own coordinated tactics—

But the comparison swiftly faded. The Roses had never, even with [i]his[/i] intrepid ass among their number, given themselves to a plainly suicidal gambit like [i]this.[/i] Another man might have found something admirable in the singular dedication to the cause, but Gerard's long mercenary experience left a different, gilded shade.

He clicked his tongue[url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nru4wXiTPL8],[/url] frustration spiking, as the Talderian spearman in front of him responded to his silvery point ramming through the abdomen by clutching the crossguard as though the last embers of his fading life depended upon it, far too close in now to use the polearm he'd dropped in the act. Unlucky bastard. Didn't know how many Boars Gerard had crossed blades with in his day. He accepted that much as part of him, immutably. No longer as an obstacle to his goal— simply instead a pool of method, seasoning, and motivation to help him achieve the ideal.

Bogging him down from the front would leave his flanks open to either of that man's peers. He needed to move quickly. Wrenching power out of his hips, trunk, and torso, Gerard let go of his hilt with the rear hand as he pivoted on the heel, bringing the dying man crashing into the path of his compatriot's thrust on the right, biting steel suddenly contending with a wall of ancient armor and inert muscle beneath.

That freed left hand swiftly drew the sword at the dead man's hip free and forward, lashing out and finding the second attacker's throat, before he could completely return to his guard after the sudden interception. He'd leave it there, if they were going to pull this bit out. Enough time and space with that to finally pry his blade free, about-face, and let a swing crash onto his guard—

The heavy thrum of a faraway crossbow killed that exchange, as the deadeyed hedge knight embedded in the main found his mark in that second and a half bind, catching the visor. [color=goldenrod]"Thanks!"[/color] Gerard called, prying the second Talderian sword of the day free from the suddenly limp grasp before bounding to rejoin the wedge. Best to always keep a disposable on hand until further notice— and all through his career thus far, he'd proven no stranger to turning the enemy's equipment back onto them. [color=goldenrod]"We'll pry them open! Capitalize!"[/color]

[@Psyker Landshark][@Eisenhorn][@The Otter][@Crimson Paladin]