[color=goldenrod][i][h2][center]Gerard Segremors[/center][/h2][/i][/color] [@VitaVitaAR][@Rune_Alchemist][@PigeonOfAstora] The jarring of the impact carried through his grip, cross his elbow, and down the length of his arm, and with it came the knowledge that his strike was sure and true. In its instant wake, the billow of white-gold flame of derelict flesh meeting aggressive purity, and the deep, ugly crack of a shattering knee twice the size of any man's. As the momentum of his rush carried him further, in his peripheral he saw the hulking mass of reanimated flesh shift, waver, and then sag to the floor. A breath later, the mighty crash of the massive hammer falling to the floor, the arm carrying it in tow. Crippled. Nearly dead. Not quite yet— Before he could pivot and skid to a full stop, something flashed to his front, and before his eyes could pull the form from the blurring metal his shield rose to intercept its path. Reflexes acted faster than thoughts and commands. The speed and direct path meant that there wasn't time to rely on anything else. A deep, [i]thunking[/i] report— thrown knife. Had to be. Too common a sound in his old profession— it was a rare mercenary that [i]didn't[/i] try to learn the skill to pass the time, if not add it to their arsenal. His instincts [i]told[/i] him to pry it free and sling it back at the enshrouded figure near the stairwell. Occupy the threat, pin him in place to defend or throw him off his retreat course to dodge. For it's own sake, even, there always was a certain satisfaction to harassing ranged fighters with the sudden surprise. However, fate did not allow this. He heard Dame Cecilia's incantation, the growling winds that surrounded her next arrowhead. He heard Lein's hastened warning, before the hammering thrum of his bowstring, sending arrow after arrow downrange. He heard the Captain's yelp of surprise, panic creeping into her tone as, with a sickening squelch— [color=goldenrod][i]Move.[/i][/color] He whirled, bringing the blessed morningstar to bear with another mighty swing. A hit to the spine to freeze it in place was the general notion. Instead, he was greeted with the sight of [i]Dawn's Break[/i] smashing into red threads of animated muscle that were extending from the severed shoulder, towards his neck. Another moment and it would have choked him. His eyes followed the tendrils from their root point, the burning flame warding off those that sought his end. [color=goldenrod][i]"Captain!"[/i][/color] He burst into motion. Even one second wasted, and the Order would be tarnished with yet another fallen leader. They'd already brushed with death, her and he, just two days prior— and already, he had made up his mind. She was young, inexperienced, thrust into a station few could be ready for. None, he would argue, none her age would be. A kid. No older than he when he first became a faceless grunt. Dawn's Break [i]flew[/i], hurled in the direction of the stump's base. He needed his hands free. If Reon smiled upon him, the weapon may even have grazed the mass of tendrils in its flight. An instant behind came the shield, cast in the path of the remaining tendrils that would check his movement. They grabbed, snatched, reached for things to crawl along, devour, and choke— the disc of wood and metal would occupy them for the crucial moment he needed. If he, so convinced of his battlefield tenure, allowed her to die under his watch... He could [i]never[/i] call himself a Knight. Pulled free from the scabbard on his back, his longsword was a steely thunderbolt, crashing down upon the trunk of sinew with all the cutting force its blade and wielder, oldest and purest of allies, could muster.