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

Yesterday had started with technique, borne of a furious drive to escape the shadow of a towering opponent. A spectre of a mountain looming over him, insurmountable in strength and only conquered by strategy, when not even skill could close the gap. It had pushed him to grind out cut after cut in the open air, simulating an endless horde of foes in the mind's eye as each challenged his understanding of space, his form, his speed. Replicating every fight his body had remembered, to try and refine what he could for future encounters. Structureless training, chaotic as the battlefields he had known for years.

Today, Gerard sought to further his condition. One of his strengths, he had discovered, was a refusal to relent. Practically an inability. To foster such a pressure, and overwhelming surge of force, he needed twice the endurance of his foes. To break a man with pace was to pit will and stamina against him. He had not failed in it, not yet— but that was no excuse to become complacent. If his condition tapered off, his breath would leave him.

It wasn't lost on him that he had felt like death upon their return that night. He was a man of swiftness and brutality— fighting like hell on the field and leaving nothing in reserve. Such an act would have starved him before knighthood, to take a half-measure was to receive half the pay. Undeniably effective. Undeniably taxing too, once the rush of swordplay faded.

So, at his usual waking time of just after first light, Segremors began the first of many laps round the inside of Candaeln's outer wall with his sword upon his back, forcing his burning muscles into a steady jog. If you could keep a run, or at least a trot, going for hours, your ability to march, ride, and fight would have a broader baseline. Simple wisdom of any working man— the longer you could exert yourself, the more dividends it paid down the road in your craft.

It was grindingly slow compared to the dead sprints and charges he had displayed the night before, but it was not until his dozenth circuit of the Iron Roses' massive compound that he allowed himself to drift to a stop in the courtyard, wiping sweat from his brow with the plain black shirt he used for training.

The flash of steel quickly caught his eye, drawing the young man's amber gaze as he forced his breathing back under control. Sir Nicomede. A study in contrasts with Sagramore if there ever were one— stately, poised, and refined in both court and field. He quietly observed the elder knight as he comfortably flowed through long, practiced sequences with that longer, thinner cut-and-thrust blade of his, its ornate basket hilt catching the midmorning sun as the [i]Spada[/i] answered every question asked of it.

Actual, classical training, if he had to guess. While not quite the knightly longsword nor the rapier of the aristocracy, the Spada da lato was a fitting middle ground between the two for a man like Nicomede.

[color=goldenrod][i]That name is familiar. Probably nobility of a sort, but more than that. I wouldn't know it through ties to the peerage.[/i][/color]

The intelligence and awareness he knew that man to wield after the ball last night notwithstanding, Gerard decided to cut the silent act from his musing. As a matter of fact, such was all the more reason to: no way Sir Nicomede hadn't realized he was being observed.

[color=goldenrod]"Morning, Sir Nicomede."[/color] he said simply after clearing his throat of the last burning that came up from the lungs. [color=goldenrod]"Mind if I pick your brain a bit, since it seems we both feel like training?"[/color]

Nicomede's man-to-man battle experience he was unaware of, but he clearly knew a thing or two about strategy and swordplay as a combative art.

He drew his own sword a moment after, holding it aloft and savoring how his body handled the weight, the balance. Now that things had loosened back up a bit, he felt comfortable... Up to a point. Better than where he had left himself the morning prior, at least. As a cooldown exercise, if nothing else, he could progress through the master cuts while they talked. Begin, as always, with [i]Oberhau[/i]. Then [i]Mittel[/i]. Then [i]Unter[/i].

[color=goldenrod]"If you were faced with an opponent that was poised to physically overwhelm you, how would you handle them?"[/color]