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

In lockstep, two dozen figures marched down the polished walkways of marble beneath the evening sun, the tawny hues of orange, pink, and gold each a parting gift from Lady Reon. At their head was, of course, the diminutive but nevertheless tightly controlled frame of Knight-Captain Fanilly Danbalion. She had hand-picked them each, representing knights veteran and newfound alike for the festivities that had been all but foisted onto them. With only a day's preparation they had done well to assort themselves in this dignified, orderly manner.

Halfway down the right flank, one such knight's eyes wandered high in a familiar path for a moment, casting their gilded gaze up to the high Spikes that loomed above Thaln's Crown. Their grey and white masonry looked as though cast from ruddy copper or brass, the sunlight caught against their western faces— But when they passed from view, his neck did not crane to trace them as it had in the past.

Instead his posture kept itself to the steady march, chin and shoulders keeping their rightly place. Their approach carried them through the interior keep's verdant, bountiful gardens, bursting with enough natural beauty that not even the throng scattered throughout, guests each as eager and honored as they, could choke. Much like the parade the day prior, his eyes slid over those that caught their arrival with cheers or hushed whispers.

They entered shortly, herald crowing the name and status of each pair that entered. Hearing his own, however briefly and bereft of titles... It was [i]unreal[/i]. Quietly, he found himself thankful to be flanked by one of his fellows, someone he could match step with as the knights began to disperse and mingle after their entry. The awe of the moment one's dreams were realized, no matter how much they might prepare themselves for it, may have overwhelmed him otherwise.

Luckily enough, the blur of the hours preceding had left him prepared well enough. As he breathed slowly, regaining control as his long strides guided him towards a nearby arrangement of tables, glasses of burgundy wine festooning them as though rubies. His attire was, at the mercy of one of his seniors, acceptable enough for the occasion. A prompt dragging to the tailor had placed him in a modest black doublet with amber trimming above a white tunic, and tapered black trousers. His hands were [i]gloved[/i] rather than [i]gauntleted[/i], an argument that he'd been whittled down from and lost. His boots, however polished they may have been, were the armored pair that he'd worn to battle— an argument he'd whittled his peer down from and [i]won[/i].

The Princess, after all, [i]was[/i] expecting to see the arms and armor that had felled the scourge.

Keeping his reserved exterior, he plucked a glass from the table by its narrow stem, swirled it thoughtfully, and took a drink. Social lubricant was here in spades— the tension he felt was likely to break soon as it passed. Sweeping his gaze over the large expanse of the hall, he could see that several of his peers were already well ahead of him on the endeavor.

Dame Cecilia there, looking sharp in a suit akin to his, chatting up a pair of other attendees— one elven, with hair a pale green, and... a lady atop a [i]large[/i] spider. Definitely an unheard-of choice of mount, but if the Royal Guards had let it through, he decided he'd not question it any more than politely keeping his distance. If Dame Cecilia wasn't perturbed, then surely he needn't be.

A blink, and a shift of the longsword in his other hand, held safely within its humble scabbard of treated leather. It being somewhere on the longer end of the "hand-and-a-half" scale, wearing it upon the hip would have taken a little much space at the angle he'd need. No skin off his back. It was a comforting weight in his grip like this. Centering. It, too, had seen its blade, guard, and pommel shined.

His eyes panned over to a trinity of his fellow men of the blade— Sirs Renar, Fleuri, and some as-yet-unnamed Crown Knight. The new person aside, for all he respected the pair of his fellow knights in the equation... That was far from a likely mix. Sir Renar, at the very least, made no illusions regarding his opinion of Sir Fleuri, pointedly reminding him of the tournament title he'd relegated to an old shame. How the hell did that one [i]happen?[/i] 

And yet, they seemed to already be in the midst of swapping stories, heedless of the usual friction.

... [i]This[/i] was court, then. Above all, making impressions and connections was paramount here— regardless of who you were on the field, or in the quarters. It was as Dame Serenity said, only a night before. Were he not aware of how deep her knowledge of these affairs went... he'd have considered the young woman prescient; her youth be damned. She was here somewhere too, mingling as either Iron Rose or Arcedeen Scion— and her expectations were still very fresh in his mind.

He took another sip, catching his reflection in the glass for a moment.

His hair was getting long.

As a drying warmth fell down the back of his throat from the dark, tawny red, Gerard allowed himself a smile as a shock of [color=d72525]vibrant, blazing scarlet[/color] appeared in his peripheral. Of all the things knightly he'd forced himself to absorb, it seemed only fitting that now was when its wild tendency to curl, wave, and spike be tamed. Brushed straight and slicked back, it certainly looked cleaner than normal— for a moment, he hadn't been sure if he recognized himself.

He wondered if the Knight of the Harvest Moon ever felt the same moment, in letting his fall like a wave of fire.

[color=goldenrod]"Sir Sergio."[/color]

The glass rose slightly in greeting.

[@VahkiDane]