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

[url=https://youtu.be/d5ZfLIkBOkk?list=PLpdRrmiqbfWPV6OwkPtaX4cMWgszSIlnX]Dusk[/url] brought the colors of flame to a sky of light, whispy clouds, each painted an ethereal rosé by Reon's final light and Mayon's heraldry announcing her approach. Beneath them, unmistakable and undeterred by the long, blackened shadows of the approaching brush, rolled the thunder of war. It rode over the countryside of Cental Thaln in a single wave, announcing along the road a tight collection of warhorses, surging across its length in a diamond tipped by points of caught sunset— Cavalry. Armor.

[i]Knights.[/i]

Within the mass of riders, a pair of eyes continued to track the blurring trees and tawny scenery as it rolled past, their amber hues focused and alert, as though checking each shadow for the gleam of a steely edge, or latched bolt.  Close to the front of the line, and off on the left side, their owner was theoretically, in one of the more dangerous spots within the riding formation they'd taken, doubtless— but save for those darting eyes, his face remained set in its hard, stoic lines.

It was, so far, hardly new— only four months ago, the knight had rode much the same way, for much the same task. The sword on his back hadn't changed, nor had the piecemeal armoring upon his torso and limbs, nor had the constant thudding of hooves against ground, drowning away all noise save for the rushing wind that tossed his short black hair behind him. All that had really changed was the comrades, and their station, and the time. Dawn for Dusk. Sellsword for Knight of the Realm. Familiar and faceless for unmistakable strangers. There may have been a poetry to it, Gerard could guess at that much, but whatever it [i]may[/i] have been, whatever omen he [i]could[/i] have pulled from it, was beyond him and his ken.

He was a farm boy, not the highborn nobility that lead this troop and comprised the vast majority of the Iron Rose Order, a collection of knights that had been the stuff of legends since long before his ignoble birth. His time under Reon's harsh light had served him well as a soldier in many way— it granted a strong back, integrity, and no fear for the odea of hard work. Days on end of striking and plowing the earth had given him many a knightly strength— but none of them that sort of drama. He hadn't the education, hadn't the right way of understanding. Trying to find some meaning where he hadn't the tools to forge any could prove disastrous. What if he'd fallen to disquiet? Cast fear, the jailer of action, into his mind? It would do nothing to serve him. Not in battle.

So by the time the thunder slowed and softened to a canter, Segremors had the werewithal to discard it, leaving only a single conclusion in its stead: All this meant was that his experience wasn't for nothing. For every last day he'd thought of giving up on the dream, that he would fall into an early grave toiling away as a mercenary... He'd find moments like this. Familiarity, from which stemmed confidence, stifler of fear. He'd run through his share of raids upon enemy camps in the six years prior.

This really [i]was[/i] nothing he hadn't already faced— the only difference was that now he was more prepared, better trained, and among comrades of unquestionable caliber and skill.

[color=goldenrod][i]They say Jeremiah's a veteran of the Red Flag war, on Cazt's side, so we'll need to assume some military discipline compared to common brigands,[/i][/color] the freshly-minted knight told himself, now once again looking ahead to the Captain, [color=goldenrod][i]and that it's not through any strokes of luck that he managed to rout crown soldiers so thoroughly. We're a storied unit. Elites. If he's earned a response that marshals us at all, he's got more than a bandit's tricks up his sleeve. For all it speaks of him...[/i][/color]

Within the depths of his blood, black tar began to leak in, burning pitch that spread out from the heart with each recalled atrocity.

Sending the mortally wounded back to their homes as strickened doomsayers, managing barely three wheezing breaths warning of his approach before they succumbed.

Pillaging defenseless villages for food, coin, women, children. Places so like his home, far to the north. Anyone they didn't feel like holding for ransom, for labor, for Goddesses knew what, they gleefully cut down.

Spitting bitterly in the face of the realm they'd lost, trampling on the backs of those that simply tried to keep the wart off their doorstep. Using innocent lives to issue the challenge they were answering.

Justice. Justice. Even if Her light burns low, they wo[color=goldenrod]uld bring these men to swift [i]Justice.[/i][/color]

The smallish knight looked back over her shoulder. Momentarily, her eyes caught his— finding a knotted brow and fiery aurum. Then they slid on to the next night, then the next, then finally cascading down to the ranks behind. This'd be their first time working together. It remained to be seen what she was like.

"It won't be much longer that we will need to proceed on foot," she said. 

[color=goldenrod][i]Tack another new thing to the board.[/i][/color]

Her voice, high and clear, managed to carry out to the line even over the racket of transportation. Fine by him. He was a footsoldier often, before all of this. If nothing else, hearing her speak told him he at least wouldn't have too much trouble catching her among the clamor of travel or melee— a young girl's voice tended to cut through the dull roar sharply enough. This situation ran counter to all he'd known prior in that regard, so used was he to the deeper, gruffer, and just as uncompromisingly loud bellowing of grown men. 

To speak further on being an erstwhile sellsword... he held his certain quiet misgivings about the storied traditions of selecting for captaincy among maidens born under the full moon. He couldn't claim to begin to understand how it would affect their leaderly merit, for all his faith in the Celestial Goddesses. Even knowing she had two hundred years of the First and Youngest's experience guiding her hand, it couldn't be denied that Knight-Captain Fanilly Danbalion as both [i]new[/i] and [i]young[/i] in the role— barely older than he, when he'd first met his Quartermaster.

With a rough grunt of assent, he kicked off the stirrups as he dismounted his brown, nameless Rouncey, gripping tight the reins as his gaze continued to bore straight ahead. Where he on his, he'd probably have drawn his blade by now. It was good to be checked by others here, if only via presence.

But this was a matter of Knighthood, not Mercenary Companies. It was still yet his place to comment, for it was barely his place to begin to know. The Order of the Iron Rose had held its prestige through this method of selecting its new leader for far longer than any of them, save the aforementioned Paladin, had been alive. He could not ignore that, not as easily as he could ignore his misgivings. Already he'd learned well that a background of nobility and focused, hard training could begin to account for such a gulf in age and raw battlefield experience— [b]Dame Serenity Arceeden[/b], somewhere nearby, had seen to that over the span of multiple bouts together. 

The young woman, scion of a great house in Thaln, was barely a year older than their Captain; yet pretty much already Gerard's height, deceptively strong, and polished in her technique as you could ask of any fighter he'd ever met. Moreover, while his physicality and relentless pressure had kept things more or less square in each exchange, none of his grab bag of mercenary tricks had fazed her remotely— she'd already prepared for how unclean and unkind war could be (thanks to a sporting competitive history with one [b]Sir Renar Hagen[/b], a ruthless poleaxe wielder further back) in spite of her youth. If anything, Gerard had to admit he came away the student of the two of them, quietly taking notes from her noble bearing on the things they both knew he was weak.

Perhaps the moon did have a way of so choosing people like them. He certainly had made no shortage of prayers to Reon and the Sun for victory, after all.

So, while [color=lightgreen][b]Dame Katerina[/b][/color], one of their fellows focused on the mysteries of the arcane, jested mirthfully and loudly in that nigh-impenetrable dialect (amazingly, not its own language) of hers, Gerard kept his tongue. While the crowing jokes of signaling for fair fights, leaving half their retinue behind, and banking on the appeals of [b][color=f6989d][s]Dame[/s][i] Sir [/i]Hope[/color][/b] and [b]Paladin[/b] [b]Tyaethe[/b] rained down overhead of the throng, Gerard's mouth remained a resolute line as he patted down his fittings, tested the pull of his knife from its bandolier, and his sword from its scabbard.

[color=goldenrod]"Good. Ready."[/color]

The report, a tight and low almost-growl lost in the murmurs of his fellows, seemed destined only to ever reach his own ears— and such would be all he needed.