Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war...

Not a phrase one often heard amongst knightly company, being that they held themselves to higher standards than "crying havoc". They were chivalrous, they were controlled, they did not let themselves slip, they were above mere dogs. These were all understandings he had long held, even before he himself had risen to their level.

A flash of movement from his peripheral prompted him to whirl into a sidestep, barely registering that the point of the brigand's spear had nicked the cloth shirt beneath his cuirass, inches from his ribs. Initiative wasn't his after this man charged him from the treeline. He had to remedy that. Fight in the third, crucial stance, The Instant. The realm of split decisions that could set up a sturdy defense to regain a fierce offense. His left arm clamped down upon the wooden haft of the spear as the momentum of the thrust carried it clear without the resistance of flesh and bone to impede it. Pinning the weapon to his side before the foe could retract it, he stepped forward and used his free hand to ram his pommel into the bridge of the bandit's nose, earning a spurt of blood for his effort and stopping the hands that were scrambling for the dagger after giving up on retrieving their lance.

Gerard Segremors did not yet possess that level of domain amongst himself. Not yet, as six months could only undo so much of seven years. He still yet grappled with the trance of bloodshed, the disembodying sensation of combat's action and reaction. At times, it was almost as if he watched himself fight. It was worse when he was angered... and though he was not filled with white-hot rage yet, each bloodied weapon drove him a step further.

Without much of a thought, the new knight cut the man clutching at the white pain that had exploded across his vision, a spray of red from his side coming forth as he fell. He had made his way past most of the mass of his brethren now, and was drawing even with Paladin Tyaethe, Knight-Captain Fanilly, and Artificer Elodie. He noted their presence and roughly what they were doing, that the latter was kneeling near the wounded man and the former pair were currently engaging enemies.

There were bandits yet in front of them, he intuited, like the one their Captain had just slain. If those turned tail and ran, they would doubtlessly break away from the group and report back to their 'Bandit King'. He would not abide this. They could not flee from what they had done. He wouldn't let them.

A bolt at a shallow angle bit into his pauldron, prompting the spear he carried to be stabbed thunderously into the brush on the right of him with its full length. His golden eyes, alight with intent to repay, caught the fleeting form of his assailant nimbly weaving past the strike, having already been in motion after loosing the crossbow, and tracked his movement—

The rumble of thunderous magic informed them both of the bandit's destination— fulminated death. The mages had began their counterattack as ordered, and around their section of woods harassing forces much like him met similar fates at the hands of the Iron Rose's arcane arm. Between the crack of lightning and kinetic jolt from the bolt that was now stuck within the padding beneath the plate, though, he returned somewhat from his combative fugue.

[color=goldenrod]"The front,"[/color] he breathed, addressing the group nearby as he was allowed a moment by the mages. [color=goldenrod]"I believe we should cut it off. Pen them in like we originally planned."[/color]

[@VitaVitaAR][@Raineh Daze][@ERode]