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

Far from the tallest or broadest figure in the room, Gerard nonetheless loomed over the Nem's hunched, shaking frame. Each stroke with the charcoal he'd retrieved was a frantic streak of black against the stark white of the paper, thin and brittle beneath the weight of the forming words. His own hands freed once more, his grip upon his trusted weapon began to tighten, face cast from stone.

[i]Iron Roses[/i]

She could name the Order. This message would be for them in particular, likely. It would explain perking up at Fanilly's brooch. What kind of overture to expect from an Assassin, though?

[i]Tyli Vosahn[/i]

A name. Hers? Her employer's? In either case, it wasn't familiar, nor did it sound like a standard naming scheme from anywhere he'd been— Thaln, Velt, Estival. It was a foreign sound. Maybe nem-specific.

[i]What happens to me doesn't matter[/i]

...

[i]Please save my sister[/i]

A cold wind brushed against the back of his neck as he beheld the final, desperate plea in her message to the assembled Order. It passed down his back even through the gaudy formal wear, prompting a sharp intake of breath through teeth he had unknowingly begun to grit. Beneath the leather of his gloves, the knuckles of his sword arm had quietly gone white. Save my sister. Save my sister. Everything locked into a different, unmalleable place now as the cogs began to turn anew, with this added perspective. [i]Save my sister.[/i]

He could have burned a hole through the page with his gaze alone.

Stepping a quarter-turn away, the former sellsword began to run the fingers of his free hand along the length of the blade, feeling for anything amiss in its form even as he took this in. Any who were paying attention would likely note that no small amount of color had drained from his face.

They had [i]just[/i] apprehended her for attempting to assassinate the Crown Princess. She must have been truly desperate, to make this last request likely in the full knowledge that today may have been her last under the sun. To make it to her direct opposition. She had nowhere else to turn but them... now that she had failed.

To meet the cold on his skin, a heat began to rise from the belly. Though her palace had long disappeared behind the veil of the earth, Gerard believed this blaze that which Reon gifted. Upon his lips, in something lower and sharper than any whisper, he offered her a brief prayer.

This Tyli didn't have employers. She had extortionists. She had her sister's life in the balance at the whim of whatever agenda she was locked into serving— a slave in all but name. 

[color=goldenrod][i]Bear light for the chained, bring flame for their captors.[/i][/color] 

He had little sisters, too.

Why else be a knight, then, if not to purge such wickedness?

Why else be a knight, then, if not to answer these desperate pleas for help?

Why else be a knight...

[color=goldenrod][i]If I could even consider saying no?[/i]

"Where's she being held?"[/color]