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

[@VitaVitaAR]

The only reply the armored man received came in the form of yet another crash of steel, as the knight's sword beat itself against his hurried defense. He had done well enough, given the lame arm, to intercept each strike without faltering entirely. That much, Gerard could in hindsight give credit for— but it made for a protracted exchange, which did not favor him. He was panicked, forced to react rather than press, and growing weaker by the second beneath that heavy suit of plate.

That said, he was still managing just enough to elude capture, to escape disarmament, to avoid being toppled. Taking him alive was proving a troublesome prospect. While he seemed a cut above the riffraff the majority of the Roses had been carving through, and thusly liable to be one of the correct targets for interrogation... It came down to a matter of economics. Resources such as energy, and time, precious time, were the currency in knowing how cost-effective pursuing this idea of his would be. And in all honesty, beneath the clamor of steel and sparks between them as he fought, beneath even the crimson haze that his mind had allowed to cloak itself, Gerard had not missed mention of an incoming magus.

The calculus was quite simple. Even a backwoods hick given a sword and a task could do it. 

They did not have time to waste, with arcane might soon to be leveled against them.

Enough of this. He had tried. The girl was more important.

Maybe if he were stronger, he could have beaten him down sooner and taken him.

But he wasn't, so it needed to end here.

Another [i]oberhau[/i] fell upon the mercenary's guard, a comet crashing to Earth, and for the briefest moment the man's shoulder buckled as it absorbed the force. Tiring. Overheating. Succumbing.

A new, lethal light entered Sagramore's amber glare. Before, he promised pain unto his foe, but not necessarily death— There was no ambiguity now. His strength seemed to redouble, a growl escaping his throat as he ceased concerning himself with this man's life. He pressed down for a moment, forcing great strength into the bound blades as he left the man no choice but to contest it—

Then all at once whipped it around once— then again on the opposite side, a great, long fang of steel biting into the earline of the exposed head of his foe. Insurance. Even if he managed to redirect his weapon from [i]up[/i], as forced by surviving the bind, to [i]side[/i], the first [i]zwerchau[/i] quite readily set up the second. His instincts had been beaten into him well, in this regard—

[color=goldenrod][i]Keep pressure.

Strike again and again.

He's losing strength.

Don't let him back into this.

He will die.[/i][/color]

—they handled the technical minutiae for him in times like these. It was a luxury that he did not always like relying upon, but beggars could not be choosers.

It did not matter how he achieved it, all that mattered was that he did everything he could to save those threatened by this heathenish lot.