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

[@VitaVitaAR][@ERode][@The Otter][@Psyker Landshark][@Psychic Loser]

[color=goldenrod]"Roger."[/color]

The word was clipped and tight, mirroring the erstwhile mercenary's movements as a half-step back and quarter pivot brought him in line with Sir Fionn, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the elder swordsman. Both their blades gleamed a dull crimson, catching the last light from the evening sun as they formed a unified front behind the Knight-Captain, each lethal inch a waiting fang to fall upon the ambush both felt coming. In spite of the deep, slow breaths Gerard took— those that kept the body from winding too tight and slowing itself— on the inside, his instincts had begun to burn red-hot.

He stepped aside and briefly lowered his blade at the approach of a man in full plate, one Sir Rickert— and behind, Gerard heard the sounds of shifting weight and steel as he hoisted the wounded driver, the rustle of leaves flanking it.

[color=goldenrod][i]Wait.[/i][/color]

And then, beneath the sound of the breathless Knight-Captain's thanks—

The creak of rebounding wood. The shift of leather and cloth. It could even have been a hitched breath high above— or perhaps he imagined such, giving a voice to the whole moment.

Gerard had climbed many a tree in his day. He knew what it sounded like. Of [i]course[/i]— nobody looks up. That was their game.

[color=goldenrod][i]Take Vor. [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IBvf7KUEZ78]They can't defend midair![/url][/i][/color]

The young man whirled and brought his sword with him as the shake of the branches foretold the weight they'd suddenly lost; and following the twin golden suns beneath his furrowed brow, that first crimson fang tasted blood. Three directly ahead, all carrying weapons of crudely dangerous make, seeing his lighter armoring as a weak link. Not wrong, maybe.

The one directly in front of him, axe overhead, watched helplessly as the knight's eyes locked with his frame mid-turn. His pivot extended down through the bodyline, lead foot stepping into their line of attack— and with all the rotational force the chain of legs, hips, and trunk could provide, his [i]Unterhau[/i] tore through the bandit's exposed stomach as though a butcher's knife. Left of him, another bandit made impact upon the earth, catching himself on his feet with a breath, just a pace away. He had a spear in his white-knuckled grip— a miracle he hadn't skewered anyone on the way down.

Before he could get the chance to, Gerard was upon him.

Heedless of the blood and viscera that had fallen onto his brow, the knight stepped forward at an angle, choking the space between him and his foe even as their panicked jabbing at his torso bit through some of the cloth beneath his cuirass. Blade floating at head height, Gerard whipped it around again in a biting crescent that passed through his foe's throat— [i]Zwerchau[/i]. Two down. The third charging behind—

His left hand grabbed the limp form of the previously slain man by his lapels as he gargled his last breath. The knight gave ground, stepping out and away with his rear leg in a hasty pivot to face him— and with a rough growl, Gerard threw the corpse into the third. He watched as the larger man's frame bowled this one over, seeing a shortsword at his feet and eyes wide with horror. With the atrocities they'd committed under Jeremiah's name, Gerard knew better than to believe his blood-soaked figure the cause— no, he heard the lute now.

The troubadour's song of disquiet had taken hold of him. Explained why he'd stopped in his tracks, before he could properly threaten the knight with that blade. Gerard stalked forward, brow hard and unforgiving of their savagery—

[b]“Don’t forget, Gerard,”[/b] Dame Serenity chimed from somewhere behind him, jesting words punctuated by the sound of her blade passing through flesh. [b]“True elegance is found only with pinkies out.”[/b]

Insane. Your pinkies were something like half your grip strength. [color=goldenrod][i]Really?[/i][/color]

He scooped up the spear at his feet with that same left hand, little more than an old haft of wood with a jagged end of metal attached at the tip. It was tinged with a dull brown... dried blood. He could see the same discoloration on the shortsword. Wanton killers, serving a wanton killer's liege.

[color=goldenrod]"Got it."[/color]

He rammed the spear through the stricken man's windpipe, pinky extended as he did so. A quiet mercy to give him a quick end to his torment, yeah, but he certainly hadn't felt any elegance there. Maybe a cooling of the blood, but none of the pageantry the word evoked in his eye. Hell of a different perspective she had, but he couldn't deny that the Scion of House Arcedeen would be the expert here...

At the sound of more bandits rushing to meet the forward arm their group had created, he cut the thought away. Worry about it when things finished. Moving quickly, he rejoined Sir Fionn, reinforcing a front through which the Knight-Captain and Sir Rickert could escape, and rejoin the main retinue. Blade flashing as he batted away a stolen billhook, he found himself agreeing with Sir Renar more than ever—

[color=goldenrod]"A tea party'd be new, at least— Never been to one of 'em. Probably scarier."[/color]

He thrust into a clavicle, kicking the bandit's exsanguinating form free. Somehow, the casual banter his fellows were roping him into was keeping his head clearer than normal... might have been something to it after all. He'd never really played into the idea of battlefield jokes beforehand, despite how many of his former coworkers indulged. He glanced to Sir Fionn, in the midst of breaking some unfortunate arm, and remembered how this had all come about.

[color=goldenrod]"[i]Sir Rickert![/i] You gotta get moving! We'll clear you to the main!"[/color]