[color=goldenrod][i][h2][center]Gerard Segremors[/center][/h2][/i][/color] [@VitaVitaAR][@The Otter] A flash of steel carved open the billowing curtain of flame as Gerard sailed over the felled tree, sword in hand— and in that same instant that form and shadow emerged from the void between the orange, his being went alight as he took stock of the scene before him, mind and instinct melding beneath the spike of his battle rush. [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hez8W3TceZU]This brought much into focus.[/url] The Bandit King held a stature that eclipsed even such a boastful title— mountainous, standing taller, broader and denser than any man he'd seen on the field. Built for warfare, for shieldbreaking, for slaughter of the weak. His incredible blade was much the same. It felt almost [i]wrong[/i] to call it a sword— it was too thick, too heavy, too rough, too outright [i]big[/i]. More a heap of iron, given enough an edge to split plate like an axe. That much weight moving at the blurring speeds he'd caught above the fire would snap his sword in two, and him along with it. He wore no armoring, despite being a notable veteran of the War of the Flag. It spoke to confidence. Skill? Maybe. Maybe not. Regardless, it would mean that he had no defense for any attacks that slipped past his guard. Muscle couldn't turn aside steel. It'd also mean he'd have less chance of succumbing to exhaustion and overheating in the midst of this blaze, however— an advantage for somebody swinging something so massive around. Getting past it would be a big "if". Reach, speed, and the ever-present threat of certain death. Its power wasn't to be trifled with. Nor was his. Their combination felled this tree, shore through Rickert's armor— a full harness of far finer make than Gerard's cuirass. No mistaking it: If Gerard was struck, he would join his compatriot. Somewhere within this eternal instant, he noted the man's face. The gleeful snarl. The boasting rumble in his voice, vowing to make the Knight-Captain a broken toy for his whims, vengeance upon the Order. He took [i]joy[/i] in it. The slaughter. The carnage. Treading upon the backs of the helpless, toying with those he saw beneath himself, callously chopping in twain good, honorable men to sate his bloodlust— The King of All Bandits, a monument to their savagery. [i]"What?"[/i] Everything Gerard had expected. His quarry's eyes turned, leaving the Knight-Captain as the pair's blurring forms entered the fray, first clocking Fionn. The Veltic man's voice was a roar at this point, screaming some litany in a language Gerard only knew bits and pieces of— But promising retribution. He'd fought on the Crown's side. Even if whispers of the Terror had reached Gerard's band, operating further north... Fionn was staring down a demon he'd known for years. His fury would be unmatched. They then flicked to Gerard's, ascertaining what no doubt seemed a lesser threat as he landed— [color=goldenrod][i]Seven foot sword. Two hundred eighty pounds of muscle. Three hundred mean dead to his name. Countless more innocents. Pillaging. Murder. Enslavement. [b]This Will Not Stand.[/b][/i][/color] —and within them, met the burning Sun. The target howled as the Captain, so briefly forgotten, slipped her knife into the meat of his arm and wrenched herself free from his grasp. The pulse in Gerard's skull returned, a pounding hammer calling for reprisal, and deafening his thoughts with the roar for combat. He launched forth, leather boots chewing up distance as the last of his reason forged a gambit. Fionn had rushed to the front of the now-crippled warrior, bringing his pilfered bardiche to bear as he blocked Jeremiah's path to the captain, still recovering from near-strangulation. Loud, imposing, two arms on one to make up for a difference in the size of weapons. Important to deal with. Commanding most of the immediate attention. One angle. As he rushed straight in, a surging approach that took him towards Jeremiah's left flank, his left hand drew the large, weighty knife from his belt. It was made for utility, hunting, clearing brush, not necessarily [i]throwing[/i]— He would work with it, as Fionn planned— multiple threats made openings force themselves apart as attention split. Fionn was big, burly, forceful and loud. Impossible to ignore. —But regardless, he whipped it forward, the light of the blaze catching the steel edge as it sailed, end over end, towards the bandit king's top half. He'd aimed for the head, but anything in that area would do. A veteran fighter would notice this, out the corner of his eye. He'd have noticed Gerard too. A flash of [i]danger[/i] in the midst of the ferocious assault, coming out of what was [i]almost[/i] a blind angle— It'd grab at his battlefield instincts. He was an experienced fighter, a survivor of a bloody attempt at a coup. He'd have to acknowledge it, somehow, take [i]some[/i] form of action. But that could force an opening for Fionn in turn. Caught between the two, he'd need to deal with mitigating their threats in turn. A Second Angle. High and middle threatened. Important organs there. Heart. Gut. Brain. Dead if he doesn't guard them. Needs to manage disparate attacking directions. Assumedly doable. Fine if he does. [sub][i]Vor[/i][/sub] Seize Initiative. Attack a Third. Even if it kills you, [color=goldenrod][i]force his defense open![/i][/color] The knight dipped his sword low as he came upon the larger man, drawing an upward line of across the back of the bandit's thick-set calf muscle and knee. If he could cripple him here, rob him his base, no sword that large could get up to speed. Not even a demon like him. [i]Not on one leg[/i].