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

[@JessieTargaryen][@VitaVitaAR][@Crimson Paladin]

[url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zAHxAD6X-Ng]And roughshod over the Boars, the crushing thunder chased the piercing lightning.[/url]

He recognized this.

As the man ahead of him charged forward, drawing his zweihander into a whirling, deadly cyclone of silver, Gerard caught his intent in that shared glance all but perfectly— and it seemed the more things were to change, the more they'd stay the same. How to reconcile his reforged commitment to grow beyond his past with this perfect position to draw upon the experience it gave... he could not begin to scratch upon it. The irony registered in his head, passing as a flicker, before the crash of steel on wood blew it away. He could ruminate when there was time for it.

"For Reon!  For the Roses!"

[color=goldenrod]"For Reon! Their lines are broken!"[/color]

His voice echoed Fleuri's, a coarse bellow that doubtlessly reached the ears of all on the field.

His legs had already begun to move as the call resonated in his ears, body acting even while the mind had jammed. As a mercenary in the Black Regiment, he had played this role so many times as to beat it into the very fiber of his being, surging towards the Boars' second line in Fleuri's wake with longsword held ready. As an emulation of a Doppelsöldner, his senior's primary focus was acting as a shock troop— hitting the formation hard and fast, with intent to disrupt just as much as kill. The Zweihander he held had tremendous cutting power thanks to its length, mass and balance once it got up to speed, and he plainly wielded it amply, utilizing himself as fulcrum and maintaining that hewing, smashing momentum as much as he could without overextending his balance.

And smash it did. Ahead of him, in the second and a half span between their charges, Gerard saw him bring all that velocity and force down upon not the boars wielding the spears, but a comet crashing down onto the hafts themselves. It knocked them loose from their grips, the sudden force down past the center of the weapons' balance sending them in a jumble as their thicket of spearheads were knocked aside, past where they could be kept facing Fleuri, Gerard, or the troops yet behind.

The ghost of a smile crossed his face. Such a misplaced pride, given the circumstances, and yet...

The torrid, bright yellow-orange of a surging bonfire burst to life in his peripheral, and he realized that Runa was making her own stab at the idea, a few paces away. The sword she carried served as something of an intermediate point between his own and Fleuri's Zweihander, not quite so plainly smashing as the latter but still enough to amply knock the spears off line— and if any of them caught the flame, so much the better.

Two pockets of discord in the formation ahead, on either side. Two of his compatriots extended outward, ahead of him, and potentially encircled once the enemy regrouped from the sudden disruptions in formation. Already working their way into the meat behind the spears they attacked, the concept of attacking the weapon to split the guard as the enemy was forced to retreat or recover. Step upon the enemy's sword, and you have his throat without fail. They had maybe seconds.

On their own, that was.

He had to keep his head about him. The rush of combat was inevitable. It was the body readying itself for doing whatever it needed to survive. Like stepping into a roaring river, it was not a force you stopped. He couldn't hold it down. He would ride the current. Let it carry him, but not toss him about.

In his final steps, Gerard centered his resolve.

[color=goldenrod]"DON'T LET 'EM REGROUP!"[/color]

And then he was upon them, and let the flow of swordplay take his movement.

The former mercenary brought his longsword down through the collarbone of the nearest Boar in a tight oberhau while they scrabbled to bring their formation back to proper regimenting, to reassert their control over their weapons. It bit deep, drawing a spray of crimson— and with a firm boot planted in the chest, Gerard wrenched it free again, shoving the dying man into his fellows behind. He drew it up to his brow, entering [i]ochs[/i] guard, before stepping forward in a lunge and ramming the tip into another as they tripped over the sudden body in their feet.

Having caught himself between the two, his role was crucial now— the more he capitalized on those moments of disruption, the safer he would leave his two fellows as those moments passed. He fell in upon both groups simultaneously from their fringes— the areas that were also most likely to survive the initial clashes with Fleuri and Runa without him.

A senior and a junior knight. A respected mentor and one of the first wave of recruits newer even than he.

Both ends of his relationship with the Order, and his status within its members. Two very different sets of responsibilities a man could feel, but both ended at one duty: He would not let them die for this.

All rank fell away in the melee. They were fellow [s]soldiers[/s] knights now, no more and no less.

For their courage to amount to nothing would be the lowest thanks he could give— no honor to be had. No justice.

He would answer them rightly.

Cutting, 
whirling, 
thrusting, 
swinging, 
parrying,
fighting,
killing. killing all who would do harm.

Gerard felt the rhythm, the ebb and flow, hold him again, guide his hand through motions it knew. His skirmishes with the Boars would serve a grander purpose here than he had ever known they would within them. He trusted the memory of his body, and let his mind clear.

[color=goldenrod][i]Need not rage.

Purpose.[/i][/color]