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21 days ago
Current Never stop creating. Never stop improving. Live life fully, honestly, and the mystical adventure never ends. Thank you, Sensei. I think I'll train tomorrow.
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3 mos ago
My dreams are getting weird. They usually involve sterile lighting and a bunch of guys in labcoats discussing sedative dosages around me and getting really scared when i try to go to the bathroom lol
1 like
4 mos ago
i consume enough energy drink i changed my zodiac sign, i'm more taurine than any motherfucker born in April and i killed eleven people in that applebees two miles down the road
5 likes
5 mos ago
i be putting myself into situations
2 likes
6 mos ago
mom come pick me up there are big block letters that pop up in my background layer every time i do an action or punch an innocent bystander i'm getting scared
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Rudolf Sagramore


"...That's about the long and short of it." Rudolf confirmed after a moment's relief and unspoken thanks for Esben taking the lead. Ranbu no Izayoi's legendary brutality had long preceded her among the many Edrenian circles the younger man had ran in, and it was of little shock that her methodology for interrogation had played out the way it did.

For his part in the breaking of the Valheimr lines, the vagrant swordsman had busied himself with carving through their number piecemeal, isolating anywhere from one to three of those that had seemed attached to their more prominent lieutenants at a time into duels or smaller skirmishes where he could overwhelm them more readily due to the gulf in skill. As soldiers, he had to give credit to them, regardless of the bitterness it left on his tongue. They were disciplined, loyal, and trained quite well as common footmen went. It left little doubt to their effectiveness in cohesion— breaking them up and pulling them apart was all the more paramount for such reason. He doubted many of the average fighting lads in a township's guard could put on enough pressure to force those cracks into open divisions.

Unfortunately for them, he was cut from finer cloth. Looking to pack wolves for guidance was a storied tradition.

Forcing the hammering pulse in his chest down to an even tempo, he met the Limbtaker's eyes readily, coming out of the nod with an affable smirk. "Guess I'll at least repeat the formality. Going second to Esben means I have to work backwards from usual—" Not lying was the best kind of lying, if you had to do it. He was quite grateful the Skaeller had broken the ice ahead of him— Even with the safety valve of his current circumstances, he was still quite leery of the idea of Izayoi remembering him terribly well. Set a little bass in the tone. Straighten, but don't stiffen posture. Remember, you belong here.

"Like he said: I'm Rudolf, a Warrior from Sagramore Village. It's a bit west of central Edren. We lend our skills out as monster hunters pretty regularly, so we've all run into our share of the Blight as it stands— I had heard the King's dispatch for a party of those who'd put a stop to its spread, but missed my window to gain audience."

All true.

"Came up through the Midgar Passage afterwards, since the timing of Valheim's invasion was worth investigating. Ran into this guy not long after. Easier to travel with somebody watching your back. On the way through I'd heard rumors Lord Galahad had passed the same way not long ago,"

Here he turned to meet the dragoon's eyes, searching across the campfire for a reaction. In the confusion, he'd not gotten the chance to properly size the man up in the flesh... well, he'd get squarely mulched if they fought, decorated war hero against greenhorn monster hunter, but regardless. Rudolf had come up as a warrior in the perfect time for news of the scion of Caradoc's many exploits to reach his ears, and light a fire beneath him. Meeting him in person...

"I never expected our paths would cross so soon, if at all. It's an honor, Sir. Your reputation precedes you among our number."

... He had to keep it brief, or risk completely killing the polish on this crisp introduction. First impressions mattered, he could be starstruck in private now and then more openly later down the line, same as with his caution around Izayoi. And she was still his primary concern, even if her wrath had seemingly shelved itself enough to travel with the aforementioned Dragoon. The pair of them well-seasoned as they were, he couldn't be completely sure they'd not be perceptive enough to see past what he presented and key into the whirlpool this concerted effort to look relaxed was intended to belie...

Yeah, his nerves were still there, no matter what he hid them under. Usually he didn't let a concept get so overwrought in the prose. That was like hammering a blade into foil— doing too much and rendering it useless. On the surface, hopefully he'd thrown them off the scent.

"Honestly, he's been saying the 'gathering intelligence' line since before we exchanged names. If that part's a bit or a lie, it's a pretty committed one."

@Psyker Landshark@The Otter@vietmyke
Rudolf Sagramore


"Huh—? Ranbu no Iza— Hey, hold on a sec!"

The fall had hardly been enough to scratch him, much less hurt, but he was really sore regardless. Damned gil on the floor ahead... If he'd not caught it glinting in a sunbeam through the broken rafter, he would have just sidestepped this stupid thing exactly the way Esben did, but instead, he'd been naive enough to think his luck was finally turning around—

"Esben!" No avail. The southerner was tall, blonde, and long gone already, sailing gleefully into the din of steel and shot they'd just been talking about sneaking out beneath. Beneath an agitated, furrowed brow, the younger lad clicked his tongue and hissed his frustrations at the retreating frame while he hoisted himself up fully and brushed away dust-covered cobwebs. "Dammit. Dammit!"

—Only to, from three different angles, be reminded that it could always nosedive. On the simplest count, literally, once the tarp strewn over that section of the dilapidated floor gave way to a twelve-foot void to the cellar below. No amount of the other man's rising-pitched queries in that lilting accent he put on (probably native, but a bit played up by Rudolf's guess) asking him if he was alright would assuage the embarrassment of falling for something like that after selling himself off as an experienced martial artist, dedicated to the craft of the blade. He wanted to curl up and die, honestly. Being reassured that it was "good thinking, just in time" when the Valheimr rolled in was just icing on the cake, even if Esben's heart was in the right place.

The second, as things stood, was Esben himself. They'd been travelling for a few days, so he'd already gotten some inklings that the big guy wasn't all quite what he seemed— well, no. Not fair, saying that. What kind of spy would be that up front about it? It was his fault for falling for it, but regardless, the man just seemed personable, maybe a bit goofy. Hard to take those claims at face value, but... He should have paid more attention to what he'd seen. The man had always registered as too good a mover for a guy backpacking across nations, even war-torn ones. His steps were quiet, swift, considered. Even if he didn't buy a "covert intelligence operative", he should have at least gone ahead and pinged him as a hunter— It'd have left him more emotionally prepared for these stone-cold executions! You could just turn that on this whole time, while were trading sleeping watches?! Scary! You're scary!

He put power into his legs, letting strength make up for some of that gulf in agility. Rudolf was a diligent trainee when it came to all manner of physical development, and even he could admit that he moved well compared to normal folk or even normal militias and town guards and so on. But once the Skaellan Skaeller had truly dropped the mask, Rudolf's eye for comparisons never lied— it would be a rare day he closed distance so quick and quiet as that. Instead, he'd have to make do with a surging charge into the disarray, the pair of swords at his hip drawn. Shorter one in his left, longer in the right, both of them at least able to cut, so an upgrade from the weight on his back. He was far from a whiz at dual-wielding, especially with swords of uneven length, but any port in a storm...

He crashed into a pile of the shieldbearers, pressing the advantage he and Esben had in appearing from the flank for all it was worth. Third. Mother crystal, the big one was third. Speaking of Storm, Dual-Wielding, and Scary People— the single-minded fury of one Ranbu no Izayoi, the Limbtaker in the flesh, surged past his back as his paired fangs bit deep into the far edge of those she scattered, checking their attemps to regroup and pincer her charge. He'd heard his share of stories of her killing intent, and to feel them vindicated made him doubly sure that she topped his prospective list of "People I'm praying I never meet in Osprey". He was hopeful he'd not look too much like anyone she might have familiarized herself with in wartime— for every story about the sensation of her presence on the battlefield, there were two of her effect. And with her so clearly fiercely protective of her home, if she caught the scent of and Edrenian veteran in his blood, face, or bearing...

He clicked his tongue and grimaced, shortsword knocking a thrust bayonet off-course and wrenching down to pierce the fusilier's throat. Another came from behind, bearing a shield, trying to bring it down on his head. He whirled, allowing the bleeding gunner to take blow and come loose from the blade, and dropped low. Temporarily blocked from the larger man's view as the corpse fell, Rudolf completed the spin, lashing out and letting his heel crash into the shielder's ankle from the side as it returned to stance. He was smaller, but had a hell of a solid base and the edge in strength.

The thunderbolt hew of his longsword caught the man's head as he bounced off the ground, having just enough time to grunt in surprise at his legs went flying. An impact somewhere behind his kidney gave a pinging and cracking report. His greatsword had bounced a bullet. Guess you aren't useless trash after all. Lovely. Etro, I'm gonna die if we don't do something about these gunners.

...No matter how you sliced it, this day had set a land speed record in going from Bad to Worse.

A shift in the wind brought the smell of singed flesh and passing storm to his nose, echoes of the men the grey-clad girl he'd caught in the corner of his eye had cooked. He felt his gut tie itself into a knot, and tried to focus on the more palatably acrid gunpowder instead.

He really wanted to go home...

@Psyker Landshark@The Otter@Izurich


Gerard Segremors


He awoke, surrounded by a familiar thicket, neck still burning with an icy, phantom pain. The breath that had been caught in his throat was loosed in a ragged gasp— as though leaking out in frayed ends.

Gilded eyes narrowed, as he made to dust off his shoulders, expecting a spray of blood and finding nothing. Right. "Waking" may have perhaps been the wrong terminology, given what he was told. In the first place, the Stormcaller had no reason to lie of her creation.

This world was not a dream. Not exactly, no matter that it might have been very much like it.

Ahead of him, as advertised, the same cobblestone path they had trod down upon first arrival. Somewhat shockingly, he'd not had the occasion to revisit the start of it all— Where the Founders and other collected masters excelled in their lethality almost as a rule to be recorded within this world, they in equal measure excelled at controlling that prodigious ability. On some level, such was intuitive enough to be expected of anyone, like never really cracking an egg without meaning to no matter how big you got, but that game always changed when the egg flung itself at you full-force.

He drew his blade from the sheath, inspecting the edge for nicks. He had been flinging himself into bouts with many of the founders, doggedly chasing the mountain he'd been kicked down by Agrahn in the Knights' first meeting with those from beyond. His strength and speed still lagged far behind, but his eyes were getting better at tracking their movements. Incrementally, the body adjusted, the limits were pushed further out. With each loss, a lesson was learned.

Humble steel. In good condition now, but his aggression matched against the one-armed rabbit's skill poorly. He'd heard through the grapevine that Rui's singular dedication to mastery over swordsmanship allowed her to project her slashes beyond the edge of her blade. The sheer belief in the possibility of impossibility forcing it into truth, in so many words, more or less. He'd requested a few bouts and pointers, but both had seen slow going. He could work out the method, or at least a beginning of the framework, of that technique. Rolling wind up the blade's length as though painting the slash onto the canvas of the world was... working as a point of visualization. Far from pulling it off in any respect. Judging from the way the clashes had nicked his edge in their bouts, he had half a mind to wonder if his blade would even, really, hold up to the stress of whatever force he needed to put through it to get that going.

Certainly, his sword wasn't of the caliber to parry them when they were sent his way, not after it had already been tested by the strange, weighty and stiff cutlass on Rui's hip. It would be a good long while before he could replicate the feat, if botching it had parted mind from heart so cleanly.

In the solitude, he allowed himself a sigh of dismay. Incremental improvements wouldn't help them take a dragon down, not if they wanted to waste less than half their lives in here. Even as strength and speed improved, bit by bit, there was only so much ground they could cover when fighting at the weight class of a siege engine with wings. He was hunting a breakthrough, but stuck pressing his face against a wall.

Use your head.

Reon above, he'd been trying. Earnestly as anyone could ask of him, near as he could tell, but never to any avail. There was something missing here. Something he couldn't see. A weight on his ankle, shackling his perception to the narrow field of what he already knew.

Rather than continue down the path laid out for them, he instead pushed into the brush, stepping into the forest that, in a few respects, might have been his oldest teacher in the art of war. Here, beneath canopy, was where he had learned to step with care, to aim a bow, to discern the smell of blood. He was no woodsman by calling, not even truly matching Rolan... but the change in scenery felt welcome. Between excitable discussions with his peers, grilling the founding knights for every scrap of advice he could get his paws on, and the bustle of the old city, he'd not known quiet for a fair while, outside of sleep. As he continued to venture off the beaten path, descending further and further beneath the overhead cloak of green, his voice naturally began to turn, as it so often did, Inward.

The physical was improving. Of that, he could have no doubt. More slowly than he wanted, but the raw athleticism still inched forward. His body wasn't the issue, then. On that front, he was in lockstep with his peers by all accounts. That wasn't the root of this "blocked" sensation.

At some point, he sat onto his haunches, cross-legged beneath a dark point of shade. Roots of a felled tree.

If not body, then mind. Maybe it is the mind that imposes the limits. What the mind can't see, the mind can't rush the body into.

What held him back?










His canteen was empty when he arrived at Candaeln next, raccoon-eyed but alive nonetheless. Coal-colored hair wild as ever, his bearing was haggard yet, somehow, sturdy as ever. The time away from food was impossible to avoid, but he'd marched through much worse. The eagle-eyed would note a whole lot of wear on leather grip of his sword— the ghost of a tight grasp, and thousands of swings. His voice was an uncomfortable rasp. Were he not as alert as ever, one would be easily forgiven for believing the man to have just awoken.

The path ahead was clear now. He had observed it in his vigil. Didn't really expect any surefire methodology for it from even the founders, it'd be an insane thing to ask anyone to teach, but he did have examples of what he needed to achieve, a preliminary to his grander design.

Don't call it that. Don't get a big head.

He knew how to think, but he wasn't terribly bright. He wasn't the quickest study by any measure. Casting aside a fear was only half of the equation, at least for somebody like him. He needed more time, even when freed from desperate fervor, when faced with the towering threats they'd run into. More time to rise to their ranks. Changing the way he fought would be slow already— he was far from out of the fire. Maybe he'd never fully leave it. He needed to ensure he could grit through it, instead of praying his luck didn't run out.

There was one such man here, infamous for bargaining from the Lamplighters all the time he needed to end up crushing Maglad's throat no matter what had hit him.

He'd always wanted to pick Cyrus's brain, anyway.
Gerard Segremors

@VitaVitaAR@Raineh Daze@Krayzikk@Octo@Psyker Landshark

In answer, Gerard roughly snorted, casting his hand high over the shoulder for Fanilly to see behind him.

"They aren't kidding, Captain. If your only recourse is blind luck and honest cards, this is how far you get. It isn't like there are many rules you could break and be punished for. That said,"

It would be obvious enough even to somebody unfamiliar with the specific workings of the game like her that this hand was much the same as those before— a trashfire. No shared suits, nothing that could reasonably forge a sequence, no face cards, an almost cosmically bad draw. He didn't have Renar's head for numbers, but over the rounds he'd been doing what he could to count— there had to be more than one deck in here. The look Parvan had shot Edwin a few hands back had sealed that much as far as you could before outright catching the man slipping his hand beneath the table.

He turned he cards out to face the assortment, waving them for a moment to keep the good Captain's attention as he made a show of folding, the backs of each on full display to her. Build a small kernel of association, context she could use to start working off of. "—I'd say you should sit in too. You won't learn the rules or get far unless you've got the devil's own mind for cheating, but if you keep your eyes open, you'll probably catch onto some of the tricks. That's a skill that'll help you for anything under the Sun."

The cards fluttered down to the table as he rose, offering her his seat and whatever pool of pastries he had shepherded through the crossfire of the high-rollers, insofar untouched.

"Take my seat for a hand or two, train the observation a little. I'll stretch my legs, grab one of those other decks lying around, and step back in proper in a few minutes, if it's all the same to everyone."

Beneath his genial suggestion, hidden with uncharacteristic grace, the young Reonite had reached the same conclusion as both his peers.

He was going to hunt down every distinct deck they'd found and marked in this place, scramble them thoroughly into one patchwork conglomerate of 52, and drown these two in more of their own bullshit than they could keep track of.
Gerard Segremors

@VitaVitaAR@Raineh Daze@Krayzikk@Octo@Psyker Landshark

Gerard remained quiet as the brief interplay passed through the tangent on his leftward flank, noting down the jockeying for position. Marked cards worked best in dealing hands, and it'd be the clearest determinant of which mark corresponded, the freshest in memory. Gretchen had clearly clued into the need to disrupt the order that the table had settled into prior if they wanted a toehold— magically or otherwise.

He pried the edges facing him upward from the table, stonily peering down on number and suit.

3 of diamonds. 8 of spades. 5 of hearts.

Wow, this hand's bullshit.

He blinked beneath his statuesque mask, and glanced over to the one facet of the table that seemed to be just as lucky as he, and produced a friendly smile the next time her eyes returned to the table as opposed to fuming over her cards.

"A little late in the day for it now, but I don't think we ever asked your name, ma'am." he owed the Hundi an apology on that front. "Sorry about that. I'm Gerard; you are?"
Gerard Segremors

@VitaVitaAR@Raineh Daze@Krayzikk@Octo@Psyker Landshark

Gerard bristled beneath the weight of one implication, but snorted away the second as he pulled along a chair from another table and wedged it between Gretchen and Renar's seats, thudding report of oak against ancient tile his cavalier retort to either shot across the bow.

"For shame. I spent so long winning my food on gambles..." His he spoke with a regretful sobriety that could only have been an affectation, possibly lifted from conversing through the many mock offenses one could have sullied Sirs Nicomede or Sergio with whenever they felt like planting a tongue in their cheek. Combined with the wolfish glint that seemed to never leave his gaze on mission...

Well, not everything in life fits like a glove.

"I had just kicked the addiction, too. Guess I'll have to share."

He knew his way around a card game, around dice, around many of the games of chance that kept idle minds and hands at bay in camp or on the road. It was nigh-impossible to escape in that life even before drinks began to flow— and sticking around long enough had taught him that his instincts to play an honest hand made him an easy mark.

As he settled into the seat and waited to be dealt in, he turned this fact over. An early bluff like that would keep things questionable for now, but even as he slipped behind an thoughtfully impassive mask (this one fitting better than any glove could), he already knew Renar at the very least wouldn't buy it for a second.

If he tried to win, he'd likely drown in a sea of feints, misdirections, and plain old outright cheating— he himself was the honest type, but had sharp and experienced eyes for things like card-counting, loaded sleeves, so on. He didn't fancy his chances at calling those present out and winning the inevitable slugfest, either, so their tricks would stand...

He glanced between the pair on either side of him.

He couldn't cheat well... but he could definitely be a known quantity.
Gerard Segremors

@VitaVitaAR@Raineh Daze@Krayzikk@Octo

Somewhere in the realm of the second scolding starting up, Gerard’s response was to loose a breath as he continued his “ornery cat” treatment, setting Gertrude down with little in the way of fanfare. True to metaphor, her feet caught her well enough, leaving the knight to eye her warily as Renar swooped in to say his own piece, the pair of them in lockstep before he knew it.

“We’ll have to take what we can get.” he intoned ruefully to Sir Nicomede a moment later, Fionn’s veiled threat ringing in his mind more than it seemed to in hers. “She’s a stubborn one. More like me than different, there. We rural folk don’t change our minds easy.”

The spark of recognition had been mutual between them, though he'd spent longer tempering his expectations. His prior life had seen his ability to read body language, the subtle postural and gestural differences between people, honed to a razor's edge to account for every important person keeping their face behind a blank slate of blackened leather. Gertrude, whether she intended to or otherwise, couldn't hide the way she carried herself.

"By your leave, Ma'am." he then said to Fanilly, inclining his head and electing to ignore the flush of her cheeks. Pretty a girl she may have been, but he was quietly thankful that this hadn't gotten too distracting for their commanding officer. In this world, that would have been a hell of a weak point that enemies could potentially exploit... In any event, such would be why Captains had lieutenants, and other advisors. For now,

He turned those same analytical eyes to the mirror image in front of him, no doubt a twin save for perhaps her muted personality. Looking her up and down for a moment, the poor girl turned in a sorrier sight than her lively sister. Weak at the knees, leaning on the broom, barely caring to muster her retort beyond a caution that may well apply to all present...

"Right, let's get going. You look like you need food more than anyone. Lean on us if you need to."

In earnest, Gerard set off, leading the two blondes and whomever elected to tail them down a familiar path, towards blessed sustenance. While on his own he would have stomped through at a concerted march, possibly breaking into a jog, he kept things to an easy amble to account for Gretchen's fatigue.

They came upon the kitchens in short order, the exterior mess sparsely populated at the moment save for a unremarkable figures, one emerald-haired and dress-clad Hundi... and a pair of unmistakable figures, each carrying the same fidelity as Agrahn had in Gerard's prior dream. His eyes narrowed, pensive, as they drew upon them in their approach. One of these was an honored founder, whose legend was unassailable as it was an ongoing inspiration.

The other...

"Sir Edwin. Sir Parvan. It's an honor to meet you both." he said, certain to address them at the very least. If Sir Cyrus was here in this dream as he was in his prime... then Gerard had to imagine that this would be the maligned half of the brothers (at the very least in all but name, Gerard had always heard it told as them sharing blood) before he had turned upon the Order. If he were still worthy of being within this dream, then he was doubtless still worthy of, at very least, this much respect.

Ideally, he'd get the pleasantries out of the way quickly. Gretchen looked like she needed beef and barley the way most people needed air in their lungs every couple of seconds, and while he had plenty of questions from his childhood days bubbling beneath the surface, he had a job to get done first. As he understood it, the Founders were expecting them anyway— they'd be there when provisions were set.

This smelled all wrong, personally. If this was to train them when they had such legendary figures as even mere assistance... they needed everyone at the top of their games before tackling the city.
Gerard Segremors

@VitaVitaAR@Raineh Daze@The Otter@Octo

"Real piece of work we've picked up here, huh?" a familiar voice noted from somewhere behind the ornery blonde, conscious in its flatness of tone, clipped in delivery. Fionn was already building up a head of steam similar to the one he'd gotten for Clarice not far away, openly asking Cyrus for "insight" dealing with Gertrude's disrespect— Gerard knew his friend well enough to see through the veil. It was closer to asking for permission than anything else.

He wasn't too happy with her attitude this whole time either, far from it, but seeing her throwing Fionn and the Captain off their games a step removed gave him ample room to cool things before they boiled over on the interior, summoning the image of annoying bastards past. He wasn't going to turn furor over onto a spoiled brat, not yet, but he needed to kill the situation quick. She had a point, in spite of her bile— maybe she was part of the test. Working as a cohesive unit meant keeping lines of command clear and unmuddied, unquestioned. If they got stuck on this issue, they'd be bogged down and waste time. On the field, that was trampling. Death. They needed to reestablish direction. Get wheels spinning again.

"I take it if we've got a stocked library here for Sir Rolan to dig through, we've got fully stocked kitchens as well, Sir Cyrus?" he called to the larger knight, as conversationally as he could beneath his reverence for a central figure of his childhood legends.

A steady, insistent tug at the scruff of her collar pulled the taller blonde up and away from the impromptu staredown like she was an ornery cat. Not enough to start garroting her with her frilly getup, that'd take a different, sharper kind of pressure, but enough to more or less force the issue.

"Because Gertrude's bringing up a fair concern here, Captain, even if she's a gadfly about it—" he spoke again, golden eyes catching the smaller knight's as he held his face in neutral cast. She was likely getting a decent read upon him by now, after they'd shared the battlefield and their talks— enough to tell that he was keeping a fair amount under a tight lid in his own right. He glanced over to the "maid" before continuing, throwing a thumb over his opposite shoulder. "If she's getting hungry, it stands to reason the rest of us would as well. Armies march on their stomachs— and we still don't know what exactly we'll be getting into as we head through the city. We might be here a while."

He hadn't really paid it much mind when she sharply shrugged off his assistance at the start. Better he just bear with a little more vitriol by taking her ire off the people that needed their heads focused correctly.

The part of him that still tried to be generous found itself noting that this was probably damn stressful, to be totally fair...

"Unless we hear otherwise about how this all works, I think going source some rations makes sense, Ma'am. We may need the strength. Can get these two some grub while I'm at it. Your call."
Gerard Segremors

@VitaVitaAR@Raineh Daze@The Otter@Octo

"Try not to let her get too hurt before you’ve wrapped up your current problem~”

A puff of air escaped Gerard's nose, and with it about a dozen unspoken sentences, none of which would serve to help the knights' case or garner any enlightenment from Knight-Witch Merilia, their honored "examiner". A Witch was a being of immense arcane power, the woman herself clearly of certain capricious character, the state of dreaming famously vulnerable to all sorts of hexes and curses, and most importantly— his way with words was almost certainly going to cause more harm than help, at least right now.

That moment they'd returned to the plateau as an ensemble, he'd instantly tensed his bearing for battle, more or less expecting the collective to be worth starting with those Talderian Auxilia, or something to that effect. Maybe another of the founders. Even as they began to descend through the ring of clouds, leaving behind the scenery that had seen him trade a limp headbutt for Sir Agrahn's fist through his abdomen, he was still a little on-edge.

Instead, he simply spared a glance towards Sir Fleuri within the twenty-something throng of Knights that had been selected for these latest trials within the realm that layered above the waking world— seemed their previous conversation had indeed touched upon the truth of the prior affair. There wasn't any way the first dream could have ever been coincidence, coming right after they'd faced down the shadow of the Demonbreaker. It was benchmarking for the threats to come.

The first of many, by the sounds of it. Guess Paladin Tyaethe really insisted— or I really don't understand the scope of Dame Merilia's abilities.

A gleaming mass of spires in all white from afar as their plateau floated down burst forth from the rolling fields of green like a great crystal, each point a tower that he could tell, even from here, dwarfed the Spikes in the waking world. The city was colossal beyond his experience in four countries and counting—

And as far as I could tell, creating this place or projecting it or taking us here— whatever she did hardly broke her a sweat. he noted, sideyeing the way they'd come over his shoulder for a moment as he stepped forth. Witches are scary.

But enough on that. by the same token, there was no choice but to work with the situation they'd gotten. Close to him, seemingly haphazardly tossed into their ranks, one of a pair of unfamiliar maids was nursing a broomhandle to the dome after an unceremonious landing. Twins, Blonde with a splash of a few other colors... yeah, these weren't anybody that had been working a post in Candaeln as far as he knew.

"Sorry you and your sister got dragged into this with us. You alright?"

They had a set of true-blue outsiders on their hands. Best keep them taken care of— at least until more facts than "this is one of my little sister's apprentices" came to light. Why a maid would be a mage or vice-versa, he couldn't say, but...

"We... we need to get moving."

"Right. Name's Gerard. We'd best keep you both in the middle." He spoke quickly, his offered hand suddenly a grip and a pull around the crook of the elbow, hoisting the nearer girl to her feet as some order and direction returned once the Captain had taken the reins anew. At this point, he knew well enough it was impolite to cut her off before there was a word to get in edgewise, but the situation wasn't one they could really dawdle in. Once it was clear that the pair were good to go, the wolfish knight fell back into "rank" with his peers, quietly scanning the southern flank as they walked.

He didn't know what to think of Candaeln's gate, impossible to miss as it was, being entombed within a great wall— but he definitely knew that it was only his violent, visceral encounter with Agrahn that tempered his awe as the knights were met with a man that could only be The Hammer. Everything about him larger than life, Gerard was fairly certain he felt that first boom of laughter hit his chest as Fionn struck up conversation.

He's got both arms. Whatever image of him we're talking to's probably the man in his prime— definitely before his death, at the very least.
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