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

Another day might have seen him do more than simply leave his reply to Tyaethe's reasoning for tickling a flat, dry, momentary look. While he could see the framework of logic beneath it, there was a certain specificity to the act that was... well, two hundred years probably developed a peculiarity or two.

He blinked, and turned his gaze back to the matter at hand, satisfied that whatever she'd done had gotten results. As for his act, he pulled the soft fabric free from the nem's throat, no larger than that of a child...

And wordlessly took in the long, ragged white scar that greeted him, the insignia of his creeping suspicions. No wonder they couldn't even get a grunt of pain out her; with that butcher job done on the windpipe it was frankly a miracle she could breathe. Certainly, no willful silence. And if one were to assume that this was the work of her employer...

[color=goldenrod]"Old wound."[/color] he noted aloud, ignoring the brief tingle upon his jaw from a similarly faded scratch. He wasn't any form of healer, but reading the color and edge of a scar by sight was a skill almost impossible to avoid in soldiery. If the wound really was linked to the hit, then obviously, [color=goldenrod]"They sure took their time sending you [i]here[/i], didn't they."[/color]

It wasn't quite a question. Asking those was the job of the clear-headed and sharp-witted. Instead, he rose to his full height and took a step back, following her gaze with his own as it came to rest upon the silvered rose resting on the Captain's lapel. His eyes then narrowed, shifting between the two. What, did she not know what she was in for, attacking [i]this[/i] crowd on [i]this[/i] occasion?

Didn't track. Didn't make sense. He was going at this from the wrong frame of mind somewhere— that'd bog down the process for those better suited to the task. A half-baked interjection was an unwelcome distraction in the best of cases.

He yanked his blade free from the carpet, long rendered unnecessary, and held it at his side. He'd left the sheathe behind, by the table.

Hm. If he needed it, he'd grab it.

But to know what he'd need...

For the second time that day, he mirrored Sir Sergio, and now met the Captain's eyes in full.

[color=goldenrod]"Looks like [i]you[/i] might get somewhere, Ma'am, if we pursue this."[/color] He spoke, indicating the pin with the tip of his sword for a moment before lowering it once more. [color=goldenrod]"Very least you'd be better than me— I'll head where you need me."[/color]

A fairly level self-assessment, one said less with effacement and more as a matter of fact. Nobody here would have bought any pretense that he [i]didn't[/i] squarely fall on the "Sword" end of Dame Serenity's supposition, and while he largely agreed with her ideals on the Order's duty, he couldn't deny his desire for [i]something[/i] like actionable information to emerge. Without getting in the way of those already better suited to its coaxing...

Was there much else to be done aside from tighten the net, until that time?