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

[@VitaVitaAR][@The Otter]

Lost in the dull roar of the battleground, Gerard made little note of the rising heat at first— between the pumping of blood in his veins, the boiling tar flowed forth from deep within his breast, and the torchlight strewn about by the commotion of the raid, it all was to be expected. Dozens of days on the front lines hadn't taught him any different, especially when his rhythm within the song of steel was a far more pressing concern.

Now that the banditry had time to react to the raid in fuller force, their mustered contingent had produced some tougher nuts to crack within the lot. By Gerard's rough count, one in every three or so that he ran into wore patchwork armoring from the crown's men, and moved like they had fought before— remnants of the rebellion, more than the opportunistic scavengers who'd thrown in with the strongest gang they could find. Between the skills he'd honed over the five years prior and the backing of his fellows, he still tended to make reasonably light work of them, slipping the tip of his blade through soft targets or connecting with jarring blows to the brain via mordhau or pommel strike within just a few traded blows.

But with their presence it couldn't be denied— the knights were hitting the [i]meat[/i] of the encampment's troops. They were markedly better than the fodder, that much was clear enough. Even though he lacked the willingness in the first place, each exchange amply reminded him that the gulf wasn't so massive he could be lazy in his work. A long-learned truism— if he slipped, he died. Even here, when he was a cut or two above his foe.

Gripping his sword halfway along its length in his gauntleted hand, he twisted the crossguard 'round the haft of an axe, its heavy blade skirting over the edge of his pauldron as he stepped off the center line and in close, top of his head smashing into the bridge of his opponent's nose beneath an ill-fitted burgonet. The man grunted, seeing stars, and reeled back— a motion that Gerard used to rip the weapon free from his grip entirely, yanking the sword back until his crossguard caught the beard. Arms rechambered as the weapon fell to the earth, the knight wrenched his weapon back down, its point shearing the jugular as he slammed it home behind the pilfered gorget. Gurgling, the rebel fell.

Could that have been the reason the Crown's soldiers had the trouble they did, being totally routed? These men... sharper than the rabble, perhaps, but were they really enough to waylay the fighting men of the garrisons like that? He couldn't imagine it. They weren't dumb enough to underestimate former fighters of the Red Flag War. No. What they'd shown so far...

His instincts said much otherwise— and he was still alive because he'd long learned to trust them. It had to be this Bandit King. The beast and the Jeremiah were what tipped it over the edge. So where in the hell was he?

For that matter, where was—

[i]"LOOK OUT!"[/i]

A high voice, piercing the air in time with a deep, snapping crack that took him back to the day he first watched his father gather firewood from the forest. He knew this sound, he knew the rush of air as a screaming blur of orange filled the left side of his vision. He knew the impact upon the earth, a colossal thud that shook the whole camp and he felt in his boots. A crackling line of wood and flame, drawn through the length of the field and tall enough to obscure the speck of blond he'd caught when she shouted.

With it came a wave of heat that buffeted the melee, forcing the combatants to contend with the sudden change in landscape. Caught in a momentary lull, Gerard's eyes narrowed as he watched both forces blossom out from the new boundary that stood. The Captain was now separated from their cohort save a lone figure in full plate. 

He bent down, gripping the handle of his last kill's battleaxe. It had good weight to it— even a glancing blow had chewed off a bit of his pauldron. As he rose, he felt the momentary pause begin to fade away, as those awestruck by the tree's falling on the first bite of steel into wood now swung upon eachother again. He knew this sensation as well, the grim purpose flooding his body anew. His old calling seemed inescapable.

He [i]needed[/i] to rejoin them. Not just for the sake of continuing his observation of Fanilly Danbalion, not just for the need to be present for whatever new orders she'd have regarding this—

The flash of metal above the blaze froze his blood, the top of an impossibly high arc.

He recognized the sound that came next all too well, as an impossible mass of metal shore through steel, heedless of its construction, or the flesh within. It fell to the earth as though it could never have even slowed.

—But because he [i]knew[/i] this was where their target lay.

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

His knuckles went white beneath steel and leather. The shock of cold left as quick as it came, replaced again with a redoubled surge of burning, rushing, furious heat as he vision focused on the spot he'd last seen the Captain. Ahead of that was the log. Ahead of that was as pitched a melee as you liked. A lot to get through in a single charge, possibly too much. He had every reason to believe that the moment he got across, he'd be staring down a foe that just smashed straight through armoring much, much better than his own.

[color=goldenrod][i]Reon, guide me. Old habits die hard.[/i][/color]

The kind of situation you sent in the Verloren for, if such ever really existed.

[color=goldenrod][i][b]"FIIIIOOOOOOOOOONNNNNN!"[/b][/i][/color] rose a bestial howl from deep in his gullet, furious knot on the brow as he launched forward, boots chewing up distance. [color=goldenrod][i][b]"WE'RE ON HIS ASS!"[/b][/i][/color]

He crashed through the bandits in his way as if cavalry, furiously cutting, whirling, cleaving, shoving, and sprinting— technical exchanges took a backseat to raw momentum. He knew his fellow mercenary would have his back. He knew their duology. Sword and shield. Those he didn't slay were knocked into the waiting jaws of his fellow knights in Fanilly's division, until his charge took him to the face of the blazing trunk.

Having seen it drink its fill of blood, the knight hurled the battleaxe deep into the burning wood, gritting his teeth and ignoring the waves of heat that blasted his body. Against a sword the size of Jeremiah's, something that could fell a tree like [i]this[/i], it wouldn't have the reach to contend to begin with. Better served biting through the blaze.

Giving a [i]foothold[/i].

Planting his boot onto the handle, Gerard didn't hesitate as his stride pushed off the makeshift stairstep, carrying him clear through the blaze and over the tree in one motion.