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

He remained silent as Tenessa regaled them with the tale of the Witch-Queen upon Sergio's request, nursing his half-emptied glass as the old myth washed over his mind anew— one he could have sworn he remembered differently. Wasn't it a Veltan lordling who freed her head from her shoulders in the end?

He blinked, a flash of confusion sparking forth from behind the eyes. He'd heard something to that effect growing up, he was sure. Another instance of the tale getting mangled as it passed on through wayward ears, then? He wasn't entirely sure himself, but had to admit— there was a lot of heavy lifting being done by the presence of an actual [i]name[/i] in the case presented by Ithillin. The Veltic retellings just seemed to relay some vague "a Silvered Lord" title... And usually came with the caveat of trying to steal some of the prestige by associating with the legend they were claiming credit for.

He chuffed at that. [color=goldenrod][i]Classic. Trust a Veltan lordling to puff himself up like an ass.[/i][/color] She was probably more right than [i]them[/i], at the very least.

All this happened in undercurrent as he listened, nodding along to the excitable retelling. The Witch-Queen herself had a more familiar tale, if at least regarding her acts and many misdeeds to earn the moniker. That much at least seemed universal— an arcane ability of seemingly otherworldly power and method, surrounding herself with a coven of sorceresses she trained in these alien arts, before a shining hero brought her low. All well and good.

But when Tenessa leaned in further, as if sharing a guarded secret, Gerard found his posture mirroring hers, a slight tilt of the waist to bring his ear closer to the hushed tones.

His coal-black brows rose a little as he took in the claim, before furrowing for a moment as he sped through his memories. It wasn't a phenomenon he'd ever seen... but the battlefield was hardly ever lonely, in fairness. Anything but. Loud, cramped, and thick with chaos, any mysterious waifs would be liable to get their clock cleaned in the confusion. Surely even a remnant of the Witch-Queen would think twice.

[color=goldenrod]"I should [i]hope[/i] he's no fallen divine, then—"[/color]

Though a thought did occur, moments later, as he pulled back to his regular height.

[color=goldenrod]"His last act was to try and take me with him after I ran him through. If it weren't for the Captain, he probably would have— Not the type of guy I'd want to be anything like her, if she's still appearing after death."[/color]

As his gesture with the free hand swept the floor to point her out to his semi-captive audience, he only found himself time to blink and squint upon spotting the unfamiliar nobleman she seemed to be speaking with. His back was turned, but he could spot the downcast eyes and clenched fists at the Knight-Captain's sides a mile off.

[color=goldenrod][i]Who the hell's tha—[/i][/color]

"Presenting First Princess Elisandre Tanetha Falisse, and Second Princess Maletha Hirenz Falisse!"

And then, he stood at attention, gaze all but commanded over to the incoming Royal family. Those in line for the Crown of Thaln... in the flesh. People he'd never dared dream of meeting, not even half a year ago. The culmination of all he'd been through.

They were as though painted, the delicate touch of a master artist bringing form from the aether.

He didn't know much about them beyond what one picked up as an Iron Rose, to start— for instance, he knew that Princess Elisandre was pretty much The Captain and Dame Serenity's age, somewhere around that. He knew that royalty were effectively expected to be every bit as prim and proper as the nobility, if not moreso. Yet, even knowing the pair of them as a reference point...

It was remarkable to behold the grace and elegance with which she carried herself. Her famed beauty played a role in that, doubtless, but it also showed in her eyes above that beaming smile, sweeping across the hall from on high. The light step, the straightness of her spine, not a hair of spun sunlight out of place— proper and assured. Her dress shimmered like a shattered window with each stride— how much could such craftsmanship cost? The whole of his village, twice over? More? The mind boggled, even when guessing blindly.

For all he might have never met royalty in his twenty-one years, he knew when someone looked the part.

Hearing her bell-like voice ring out as though calling forth her sworn warriors that were their Order, Gerard exchanged a glance with Sir Sergio, as if looking to gauge his intent on answering.