[color=goldenrod][i][h2][center]Gerard Segremors[/center][/h2][/i][/color]
[@VahkiDane][@VitaVitaAR]

Careful though he'd been to not favor these kids with anything less than a smile, Gerard found his face begin to harden at the repeated focus upon the erstwhile Bandit King— and with each increasingly outlandish quality appended to the story, he felt himself growing sterner in response. He didn't blame them, he wasn't [i]that[/i] short-sighted— the young and impressionable always had an ear for the kinds of rumors that grew larger than life, and battles themselves were chaotic enough that the details often slipped past those who were [i]there[/i], let alone those who were only working from hearsay.

If such weren't the case, he would never have left the fields, after all.

No, his ire wasn't for them.  While Sergio had taken the reins Gerard had pointedly shoved back into his chest, the younger knight pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment and breathed deep, fighting to keep his disdain from showing as anything worse than a little steel in the posture and eyes.

He wasn't sure if he'd succeeded. To think his fears had all stemmed from the eyes around him upon his conduct, searching for something unfitting— yet he quickly had begun to realize the setting of a Royal Ball found most scrutiny from the self.

He did appreciate the compliments regarding their gallantry and bravery. But what was the cost of it? Did the lionization come as a rising tide upon every boat at shore? If that were the case...

A beat after Sergio, his wine also touched his lips, a pensive sip that seemed to drink in the silence as much as the blood of the vineyards—

[color=goldenrod]"Miss Violette's the closest."[/color] 

And when he spoke, he thanked it for easing the harder edge of tension off his voice. A slight rasp aside, the words that flowed forth were now [i]firm[/i] rather than [i]terse[/i], speaking with a simple conviction as though the fires within had been doused. This was a pointed statement, yes, but would be no more.

[color=goldenrod]"The 'Bandit King' was a rebel whose cause had been squashed years ago. An old traitor that, for all his size and strength, didn't have the sense to do anything more than thrash angrily— and try to enact a vengeance his cruelty had long robbed him what little right he might've had to. He was no fallen divine, unfortunately—"[/color]

His eyes narrowed, gazing into the middle distance as his head tilted towards the roof. In his mind's eye, the silhouette of the mighty brigand still loomed over him sometimes with his impossible blade raised high, a dark mountain wreathed by the violent orange of the blaze. A savage figure, defiant snarl on his face even though Gerard's blade had already shown his life the door. The Captain and Fionn were the only reasons that, right there and then, hadn't been [i]it[/i].

A blink, and he was gone again. Gerard turned his gaze back down onto the three.

[color=goldenrod]"—Just a man, lost in his own tantrum against the Crown. More rage in him than reason, pushing him to trample the innocent. A man who needed to die."[/color]

...

... Another sip.

[color=goldenrod]"He was pretty tall though, yeah. Big guy."[/color]