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

[color=goldenrod]"Either works,"[/color] he grunted, speaking through a frown both stemmed from exertion and from pensive processing. Had he named himself Sagramore in the man's presence? Poring through the few memories he had of interactions with Nicomede, Gellert... found nothing. Not that he remembered. Strange. First the vague sense of familiarity, and now a casual knowledge of his birth name— which as far as Gerard was aware, had been concealed to him by the usage of the more central Thalnic form. Once is happenstance. Twice might be coincidence. If there were a third factor, he was certainly onto something.

[color=goldenrod]"Though, I can't claim to remember giving the first this far South. How'd you sniff me out as [i]Magyarok[/i]? We aren't the biggest of tribes."[/color] the question was posed neutrally as he settled into the Pflug guard, golden eyes scanning his senior inquisitively as he in turn ground his heel in thought to mull over the previous query. He was an intellectual, surely— it hadn't been lost on Gerard that he was always observing his environment and fellows with an analytical eye. 

Even now, such was the case, as he had casually eyed Gerard's progression through the master cuts and taken their measure. In Segremors' opinion, the world's most dangerous sommelier had beheld nothing special— much of his technique was forged in combat, and sourced second-hand by a mercenary quartermaster's worn Fechtbücher. Rough around the edges, compensating for lack of polish with violence.

Which brought him to the man's response, as he related it back to Knight's Doom. To counter strength with speed. Speed with skill. Skill with Sense. In theory, correct— leveraging whatever advantages one has against his foe, for it is a rare one that eclipses you in ever aspect. Gerard himself had found great success in following similar lines of thinking many a time— as would anyone who faced combat regularly and lived. And yet... remembering that fight, that looming sense of a snapped blade and imminent death... 

[color=goldenrod]"Interesting how it all plays back into itself."[/color] he breathed, raising to an ochs guard slowly as he searched Nicomede's expression. [color=goldenrod]"For if I were faced with a foe smarter than me, such as yourself, my instincts are to crush him before he can think. Allow no time to plot, no time to settle, no time to breathe."[/color]

The shadow of the mountain loomed over him again.

[color=goldenrod]"It's hard to be smart when faced with a raging storm, Sir Nicomede. At the very least, I found it so."[/color]