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

[url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x7xRPXky1JI]The front lines[/url] of any mercenary corps were a hellish, chaotic mess. They engulfed you in a storm's eye, surrounding your every sense with a tumultuous flood of stimuli. To survive long in such a hellish quagmire day in and day out required skill and instinct in equal measure— No amount of pure swordsmanship, an art that was made through sight and touch, would save a soldier from an attack that came from a blind angle.

[color=goldenrod]"[i]Down, down, down![/i] Under the table, all three of you!"[/color] Gerard roared, pulling steel free from the blackened leather sheath that had never left an arm's reach away. With his left hand he reached forward as though to beckon the trio behind him or shepherd them towards safety, but his head had long snapped onto the diminutive frame of the would-be assassin, and belied his true mentality.

The thrum of a loosed bolt from a crossbow, however masked by the party's chatter, was unmistakable.

To spend five years in that aforementioned hell unscathed required an ability to separate signal from noise that bordered on uncanny, and the quickness of action to match. He would waste no more of it on talk. No more on anything short of action.

There was danger to snuff.

In that instant the stiff, uncomfortable candor had left him, and the soldier of a hundred battlefields returned, eyes ablaze with golden purpose. With it came that familiar rush of flame through the body, the same that slowed the world and hastened his eyes.

He surged forward past them, chewing up the distance between their place at the banquet and the center stage of the unfolding drama. Ahead of him, his fellow knights, those who had rushed to greet the Princesses had already assumed offensive posture— Sir Renar in pursuit, lobbing a serving tray. Sir Sergio in his wake, steel of a rondel gleaming in the chandelier's light. A moment later, Sir Vier, blades in tow.

They'd get there first— assuming the assassin stayed put. They wouldn't. Three grown men at a dead sprint, though, would counter their quarry's assumed agility with greater athleticism and stride length, covering more ground in less time.

That tower of onyx that had been shadowing a young noble (no older than the three he'd been accosted by) was already moving as well, away from his charge and Serenity by extension. His direction would take him past the fleeing midget— not a bad idea.

The Crown was covering exits. Fionn, Dame Serenity, Paladin Tyaethe, and the elf who'd caught the bolt were covering the targets of the attempt. With as far as his group had been in the moments prior, he would be late to support either of the other auxiliary roles— But had good lateral positioning from the angle the diminutive figure had shown themselves.

With a sharp exhalation, he slammed his boot into the carpet and cut a broad angle. He could move to shut down their left flank. Boxing them in would kill their escape. The sprint would carry him into position quickly. Trying to pass him would be an invitation to be wrenched into the ground.

Gerard would, of course, quite readily oblige.