[color=goldenrod][i][h2][center]Gerard Segremors[/center][/h2][/i][/color]
[@VitaVitaAR][@The Otter]

Fresh as advertised, barely more than a day old at most— not even enough time had passed for the corpses to truly begin rotting beneath the now-setting sun. The violence that had been rendered unto the garrison spoke for itself, extending past the mangled and rent corpses and cloaking the air— by the time they'd drawn upon the keep proper, he had no need of Paladin Tyaethe's enhanced senses to all but [i]taste[/i] the blood on the air.

As though a grand ritual of sacrifice had been conducted to desecrate the place. This would have already been enough to set his nerves on alert, the cause still undiscovered, but then things...

"Nothing but corpses."

Things took a twist.

A tiny woman, scarcely bigger than their captain, was nothing much—

[color=goldenrod]"Hey, Fionn."[/color] he breathed, voice colored by a strange mix of suspicion and intrigue. He recognized this one, if not by personal meeting— in their shared circles, her reputation had carried a fair distance beyond her person.

Blue hair pulled tight into pigtails. Crimson eyes, though not radiant with the unnatural light that Damon, Paladin Tyaethe, or any other vampire possessed— as far as he knew, no clearer-sighted in the dark than his own. A long, jagged spear of reddened steel alloy, as clear a battlefield identifier as any— tall tales spoke of it stained by blood, others as pulled from the maw of some vicious beast off the coast. Regardless, it wasn't congruent with half the wounds on display here— and too clean by half to cause the ones it might have been able to match.

[color=goldenrod]"Alette the Shark,"[/color] he began, locking eyes with the diminutive lancer as the tip of his sword was held aloft, point catching the last of the sun as it leveled onto the general direction of her face. His head tilted to the side, matching hers. [color=goldenrod]"and her band— They don't operate this far south normally, far as I remember. Closer to your side of Velt, right?"[/color]

A professional rival, of sorts— every band was one to the others, as tradesman working the same market. The Regiment's stomping grounds and hers had the vague overlap one would expect of damn near anybody that campaigned in Velt or Estival. While he had no real antipathy here, it was good sense to keep tabs on competition. That she was here was... alarming.

It was clear enough that her reputation's preceding her was some measure of mark towards character, rather than against— completely untrustworthy scum didn't last terribly long on the field, nor as a unit. Warfare was their business first and foremost: to join a band like hers or his meant that the enlisted troops trusted the leadership to get food into their bellies. If she could build up ranks at all, she needed that much at the least.

It'd be remiss of them to ignore that facet of her station. In looking for work, her martial prowess would speak for itself. In looking for company, though... no matter how much it weighed odds in one's favor, it was a foolish soldier of fortune to overlook the other questions he should present to his leadership.

[color=goldenrod][i]Are you successful?
Are you dependable?
Do I trust you to side with me, or with the employer?
Am I a comrade, or a pawn?[/i][/color]

...

[s]That last one bit at a thread he didn't quite like.[/s]

Regardless.

Your life was on the line when you made that choice. You were no patriot, nor champion, nor revolutionary. The question was whether you would be risking your life for someone who was worth [i]trusting[/i] it with. That she had enjoyed continual success over the years meant she definitely needed to be doing something right on that front, near as he could tell.

Enough to hear her out. Enough to know she wasn't supposed to be so rock-brained as to bring the entirety of their order onto her head.

Lowering his blade, at the Captain's orders he stalked forward and began to inspect the nearest corpse, searching through for signs of... [i]whatever[/i] it was she alluded to.

As he did so, his voice rang out to punctuate the point with direct address.

[color=goldenrod]"Long way from home like this— The [i]hell[/i] sort of take coulda coaxed you out?"[/color]

He asked his question bluntly, for the moment shedding his effortful airs of chivalry— pulling back from the five-year-deep well of experience that he'd dug in the common ground between them. He didn't expect to get a name from her— professionalism would dictate against that, but any hint would help them start to get a picture drawn.

By all rights, her being here was an [i]anomaly[/i].