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

Golden eyes locked themselves upon the Spikes of Aimlenn anew as the procession of knights rode past the mighty steel and oak gates of Thaln's capital, seat of their Order's home and the crown they served. At first light this morn, their jagged sihlouettes had torn into the sky from afar, as if a crown cast upon the city in the faraway horizon. Impressive once you devoted a little thought to it, sure, but nothing compared to up close. Here, he marveled at the way the alabaster towers loomed over everything around them, stretching into the midday blue further than all but mountains.

Human hands, however long ago, had built this. These soaring structures, immense and beautiful in equal measure... made by men. People no different than he, save for what they knew that he did not. He knew of many a fortress city in his long 5 years prior to now, having been on both ends of their high walls of stone as one of many who sold their swords. But, even spanning three countries, nothing could truly measure up to the scale and splendor of Aimlenn. It could house any other city he'd known within its walls, he was certain— a fact that would doubtlessly have him awestruck for years to come.

It was proof of just how big the world really was... as was the weight rested upon his shoulder. Jeremiah's sword had been passed around the procession as proof of victory like a ladle full of stew as their column had rode through Thaln's townships and villages on the return trip, but it had most commonly found itself, tall and hefty as any of them, in the grasp of he and Fionn. Their right of conquest, maybe, as two of the three that had felled the Bandit King personally? Their selfsame responsibility to lug the thing around, instead? He didn't really know.

[color=goldenrod][i]To tell the truth,[/i][/color] he thought, letting the sound of the cheering commoners wash over him. [color=goldenrod][i]I never thought about what it would feel like being on this side of the fanfare.[/i][/color]

How long ago had it [i]been[/i] since he'd been one of those kids up at the front, clamoring to see over one another and catch a glimpse of chivalry? Wishing so desperately to capture the storied magic of dragons and demons and knighthood for himself?

[color=goldenrod]"Feels like ages."[/color]

His words came at a low murmur, likely only reaching his own ears.

Left unsaid was the fact that it wasn't so long ago at all.

That though he was one of them, he prayed they never became him.

[color=goldenrod][i]Better the others. Rise to knighthood the [u]right[/u] way.[/i][/color]

He let his gaze slide over the celebration for a moment, taking it in, before returning its focus towards the path ahead. The figure he cut was doubtless reserved compared to the jollity of Fionn and the gallantry of Serenity, his scarring and tension leaving him little favors. He could never meet so many eyes at once, not nearly so easily. He'd have to learn through more victories like this, he wagered. For now... he'd make do by riding with a strong back and head held high. For all this alien feeling, Gerard [i]wasn't[/i] returning a beaten man.

He adjusted the weight of the greatsword in his grip, heavy pommel resting in his palm like the head of a mace. If he were to want to learn his proper parading smiles... he'd need to take the lessons the battle had wrought from him, first. The man they'd slain for this unwieldy thing was an anomaly, but if [i]one[/i] of him could exist...

He rode on, into the Candaeln gates before he knew it.

From there, things proceeded without thought. The dismounting and stabling of the horses, the stiffly delivered order to rest and recuperate from their Captain, herself similarly else-minded, and floating to his humble quarters, however fascinating it may have been to have them to himself, and doff his armor. His casual wear, however many of his seniors had talked him into buying fancier things befitting the newfound station, was simple— A black shirt made of simple, sturdy linen, and trousers of treated hide.

This wasn't a social outing, anyway. Those clothes [i]were[/i] fashionable, as he understood it. Best not to get 'em dirty.

Soon after, his leather boots found themselves on one far end of the central courtyard, digging into the tranquility as they pressed hard into the grass.

Try as he might, the battle continued to play over in Gerard's head and leave him with a quiet, brow-furrowing dissatisfaction. For all the skill he'd cultivated in five years, all the craft, all that their advantage in numbers had stacked the deck... Jeremiah had still very nearly killed him, even in the aftermath of the gambit that had done the brigand in. Before that, even in spite of losing a working hand, that monster of a man had been mounting a defense against all three of them attacking him in sequence. He had been freely wielding that giant hunk of steel that their parading had left Sagramore intimately familiar with now— truly knowing how [i]ridiculous[/i] such a feat was.

He crouched low, breathing in deep through his nose as fingertips pressed into the earth beneath—

If [i]one[/i] of Jeremiah existed, so incredibly powerful... Then surely there were more. As Iron Roses, elite defenders of the realm, it would fall to them to meet such foes more often than not. This was but a beginning. Preluding things to come.

Gerard didn't for a [i]moment[/i] believe he would always get so lucky as he did that night, to have numbers supplementing inefficiency in skill.

—And tore off into a dead sprint, each stride chewing through the distance between him and the far wing of Candaeln. High knees and strong swings of the arms would compensate for the flat ground here— He preferred training his explosive step-in, his rushing charge, [i]uphill[/i]. That way'd be truer to life, building his legs stronger and forcing his mind to dig deeper into the body.

But that [i]was[/i] the crux of it.

If monsters like that existed, he needed the power to leverage those skills against them.

Onward he surged, until he could surge no more—

And then, after a minute's rest and no more, he'd start off again.