[color=goldenrod][i][h2][center]Gerard Segremors[/center][/h2][/i][/color] [@VitaVitaAR][@The Otter] [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fF8xrmoVa_g]He breathed low and deep, letting his mind sharpen as the diminutive Captain's orders floated over the congregation, and he among them.[/url] Before this, he had exchanged the banter with his fellows along the edge of the mounting pile of corpses loosely, a small part of him realizing that it was more than a little odd of them all to be quite so cavalier around the dead, blood spilling onto faces all the while. He'd caught the decapitated head Fionn tossed his way with a bump of the chest and kicked it into the heap once it fell to his feet—a world removed from the time where sight of blood once drove a lump of ice into his heart. It was true, yes. He had little fear for death these days. His heart had hardened in that respect, long unfazed by the carnage of battle. Warfare was a trade far too unkind for one to keep such an innocence long. Not if they were taking the field. There was drilling, there was training, there was dueling. So much of it you could prepare the motions for— so much of it did have that "dance"-like quality that so many poets romanticized it being. And yet. He blinked, remembering not to let his eyes go dry, and slid his gaze over to the back of the winged helmet head of him, just behind the wall of shieldbearers. He was in turn just behind her, within the division that would assault the front gate. Here was where combat would reach its fever pitch— and where warfare would ask the same questions of his new commander that Gerard himself held. They were what drove him to follow her orders for this battle, searching to see them answered. How thorough [i]was[/i] her preparation? How good a head [i]could[/i] she keep above the mayhem? Was there any merit to the tradition that bestowed this title to her, fate's hands guiding the order so? War was no dance, it was simply War. It was far too chaotic to be anything else. No matter what kind of preparation one went through, the real thing didn't have that safety net of a controlled environment. It was a mirror, the way it showed you all the holes in what you thought you knew of it. Time and again, it forced you to change or die. He'd rid himself of squeamishness for human blood ages ago. So, with this being his first time under her command, and her first time taking the field [i]at all[/i]... What kind of Captain would Fanilly Danbalion prove herself? He was a new hire, and she a new officer. He had to know, right off the bat, what he was working with. Even if the circumstances had changed from "mercenary regiment" to "knightly order", Gerard's mind was resolute in this matter. The skirmish from before was just a taste of what was to come. He'd stick to her unit and discover the answers firsthand. He blinked again, pinning his gaze back onto the encampment ahead. The glow of flame cast red-orange hues over the palisades his former quarry had mentioned, and if his eyes narrowed, he could see the forms of the brigands milling about between them, metal in their hands catching the light every so often. Dim and red... his mind could only see the blood that no doubt stained them. A pulse of something hot ran through his frame, as the world around him gained sharp focus. Thoughts began to fall away, and with them his concerns of the girl at the front. They'd return later. They'd slow things down for what came ahead. The circumstances [i]had[/i] changed. He wasn't doing this for something like money. It wasn't to just put food on the table. It wasn't against a faceless troop, for a cause he didn't need to understand. These were pillagers, making merry off the blood of the innocent. Their slaves were tucked away within those walls, beaten, brutalized. Perhaps worse. Remnants of the Cal rebellion or otherwise, these men were [i]bandits[/i]. Their brutality knew only one boundary— don't kill those that might be useful to you. The Roses had already confirmed dozens of slaves— How many hundreds had missed the benchmark, and had their lives stolen in return? His gauntleted hand rose, taking a grip of white knuckles onto his pommel as he leaned forward and crouched low, awaiting the signal as his blood began to boil, black pitch that shallowed the breath and killed the intrusive Thought with a decisive, pure answer. [color=goldenrod][b][i]No More.[/i][/b][/color] [i]"Iron Rose Knights, charge!"[/i] A high and clear cry pierced the night's cold air, cutting through the clearing as a singular, unexpected note— And beneath twin points of gold that burned like Lady Reon's own sun, the growl that had risen from Gerard's throat exploded into a rough, bellowing howl, joining the chorus of his comrades as they surged forward. Diving around the palisades, Gerard's powerful legs had charged like this possibly a thousand times— and ever the tip of the spear, the [s]Forlorn Hope[/s] fell upon the bandits at their gate, a starved wolf among lions. That throne was still empty, even as it loomed high within the center. His blade bit deep into the collarbone of an archer scabbling to nock an arrow, smashing through the oaken limb as though to herald the ensuing spray of blood. Jeremiah had yet to show, even with the knights smashing into his encampment from all sides. What was the big idea? Had the palisades not given ample warning, wherever the hell he was? Growling, he kicked the corpse free, knocking it into the feet of a spearman, rushing to impale the massed forces. His charge halted, Gerard swung the longsword's blade low, clipping his spinal cord. The meaty thrum of a crossbow off to the side made him throw himself off at an angle, a rightward lunge that carried all but the ends of his hair out of the bolt's way. It brought him in range to grab the spear from the limp grasp of the bandit who'd charged them— and plant it into the gut of a man wearing pilfered maille, holding a shortsword of one of the crown's soldiers. [i]He[/i] earned just a little more follow-through, as Gerard grit his teeth. He didn't for a second trust the supposed "absence" of the lynchpin of these forces. His men would have routed soon without him. Not here in the opening seconds, sure, but certainly not fighting this resolutely, either. His eyes darted to the side the bolt had come from— Handled. A knight bearing a sturdy kiteshield was bringing his mace down onto the bandit's skull, the crossbow lying shattered in his wake. Too loud to bark thanks— and a distraction would earn either of them a blow that'd [i]actually[/i] hit. The crash of steel as his blade met that of a fellow longsword wielder saw to prove the point, as his rush for the knight's blind spot nearly saw Gerard take his head off. The man's stance suggested former soldier more than brigand throwing in— one of the rebels. Shanil'd love to get a hold of this guy. Gerard struck again, whipping his blade around in a [i]zwerchau[/i] to strike the temple. Meeting with an [i]oberhau[/i], his opponent rushed forward to choke the space, forcing a bind— And ran his knee into the heel of Gerard's boot, as the knight's rear leg lashed out in an oblique kick moments after he gave a half-step of ground to reset distance. Trick he learned from a man the Faceless had picked up from Chauntressy— their term being "[i]Chassé Bas[/i]". Its effects were immediate, as the unexpected attack to the legs hyperextended the rebel's knee, killing his base as he cried out in sudden agony— And couldn't react in time to stop Gerard's blade from rotating back into the Plow guard, a short [i]oberhau[/i] of his own that split the skull. his eyes narrowed, darting along the field, before he set off to rejoin the front being pushed by his target— the Knight-Captain, now in the eye of the storm. [i]This[/i] was the rhythm through which they experienced this loud, bloody, and unforgiving world. A constant give and take of force and space, awash with smoke, steel, and screams. Impacts on the blade, seemingly echoed by the pumping through his skull. It was a place of action and reaction— of naught but ebb and flow[url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OjUzWvUjCvA].[/url] He fell in, eye catching Knight-Captain Fanilly, Sir Fionn, some others— —And cast his blade, and all the blood and black fury behind it, into the maelstrom.