[color=goldenrod][i][h2][center]Gerard Segremors[/center][/h2][/i][/color]
[@VitaVitaAR][@VahkiDane][@Raineh Daze][@Psyker Landshark]

From the edge of the captive Nem's vision, a dark, towering stormcloud would emerge from the vague splashes of colors that were the partygoers. In the looming mass's grip, growing bolder and deeper as it slowly stalked forward to fill the gap it had been managing during the pursuit, a bolt of caught silver lightning glinted, sharp and thirsty, in the gilded glow of the chandeliers overhead. What it may have lacked in booming thunder, the deliberate, tightly restrained rhythm of each stride thudding against the flooring heralded its slow approach with similar omens.

It was clear that she wasn't going anywhere right now. Pinned beneath the weight of a knight three times her size, both arms restrained behind the back and kept by a grip stern as iron, no amount of wriggling or writhing would see the Nem released— squarely checkmated by the quashing of whatever mechanical advantage she may have mustered. To her meager credit, she did at least seem to recognize as much, all but going limp until prodded by the First and Youngest, whose wriggling fingers prompted a grimace and recoil— but nothing that reached the thunderhead's sharpened ears.

Nonetheless, for all the formality that the slow, deliberate crushing of the last fraction of space that could have been an avenue for escape had been reduced to, his stride didn't hitch. If she, for whatever reason, took notice to the swelling image in her peripheral in the midst of a knife being held to her, it would continue to grow until it seemed to swallow the light and color of the crowd behind, save for the lone line of steel. The footfalls of the steady march seemed to carry ahead the same bundled fury that blazed in the golden suns opposite Sergio's blood moons, and the blade drew closer, closer to her face, until she could almost smell the fresh oil of its latest polish—

And with a stern [i]thunk[/i] that must have seemed a mere inch from her ears, Gerard planted his blade into the flooring beside her head as he dropped to one knee, expression all knotted brow and smolder. He wasn't the right one to handle a true interrogation— experience had told him as much, but he understood the value of closing the cage of bodies around their captive in its totality, no matter the redundancy. The difference between an incredibly unlikely escape and an impossible one was too important to waste— and, in some small way, the show of force worked off the top end of the head of steam his brief role in the chase had built.

When he spoke now, his voice was clipped, rather than clearly drawn taught with tension. He glanced over to the Paladin at his side, and voiced the question beneath the fire.

[color=goldenrod]"What was the idea behind the tickling, besides annoying her?"[/color]

He was back in the driver's seat, so to speak— alert, but present enough that the brutality he had so steeped himself in wouldn't rear its head here. He knew that here, now, and in knowing him, it was important to convey as much— questioning her methods, while one part seeking her answer genuinely, served the broader purpose of displaying he held his own reigns.

To put it simply, in her position, Gerard knew he wouldn't trust him without that courtesy. Not when he could feel the white fury that burned inside, and knew that she'd see it plain in his gaze.

[color=goldenrod]"I mean, we didn't even get a laugh out of it, did we?"[/color]

...

[color=goldenrod][i]Wait.[/i][/color]

He blinked, turning the idle observation over again.

No laugh, no pained grunting when dealing with the entire tackle by Renar, nothing from either his or Sir Sergio's naked threats with the blades they held. He had believed before that he may have lost the sounds in the commotion, but Renar's full weight had hit her— and elicited nothing at all? From one this young?

Didn't make sense. You couldn't get that kind of discipline from a kid no matter how hard you tried. Her silence was [i]weird[/i].

So much as naked blades naturally drew attention, Sergio's in turn drew Gerard's eyes to her scarf, unseasonable even for night in Thalnic summers, and the throat that lied beneath. They narrowed, a suspicion growing. His background had left him with many things to shake off with time, like earlier— but exposure to such unsavory corners of the world had also left him with many, many experiences involving the punished, the crippled, the many ways a body could be broken down.

Slowly, he reached for that scarf, intent on exposing the neck beneath.