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

[@The Otter]

His eyes slid up to meet Fionn's, preempting a half-turn of the head. Within the amber depths that greeted the Velt native, there wasn't any artifice to be seen— instead, a quirk of intrigue similar to his own. His suspicions were well-founded: it [i]was[/i] something new, rather than slipped free from hidden depths.

[color=goldenrod]"Too well, actually."[/color] he began, grimacing as he rolled his wrist, sending the held length of steel into spiraling patterns of infinity, an eight knocked to the side. Weak cuts, but perhaps sufficient to parry a lighter strike. Nothing sufficient to defend against him... but work for familiarizing the grip. These days, he thought often of sword and axe.

[color=goldenrod]"A bowl of dust turning into a field of steel and blood. As if I'd gone back."[/color]

Between them, there was no need to elaborate where "back" meant. The sober recount continued.

[color=goldenrod]"Only I woke after Sir Agrahn, straight out of the painting in the hall,"[/color] he pointed with the tip. [color=goldenrod]"Punched a hole straight through my gut. Felt the whole thing. Before that, felt how easily he could have crushed me at my best."[/color]