[color=goldenrod][i][h2][center]Gerard Segremors[/center][/h2][/i][/color] [@VitaVitaAR][@The Otter][@VahkiDane][@Psyker Landshark] Almost. A spike of annoyance ripped through the air as his hands moved, a brief hitch in their shakedown of the intertwined corpses the tell for any who lacked preternatural affinity for the emotions of others. His teeth ground for a moment beneath the firm line of his jaw, a vein thudding over the temple. The knot of his brow tightened— [color=goldenrod]"Naturally."[/color] And with a snort, set itself again to that slightly looser posture. In spite of long experience in the field she came from, in spite of knowing her demeanor through reputation as well as anyone [i]not[/i] named Fionn MacKerracher (he was from the more northerly reaches of Velt, it made some sense), he'd [i]almost[/i] let her get under his skin. Maybe the tense situation. Maybe her performative coyness in tone. Maybe, simply, the blatant dodge of the question— regardless the reason, there was a retort to the inimical tune of [color=goldenrod][i]"Asshole, I asked [u]how much[/u]."[/i][/color] being bitten down in that moment. Though she sold her skills to the highest bidder rather than pledge them to a cause or kingdom, Alette, like any of his peers past and present, doubtless had sharp eyes to survive on the field this long. She probably caught that moment from him, and knew she'd thrown him off the game in it. He would have to let her have that win— so long as he gave up few others. Focus. Focus and poise. His search turned up a picture that was, by any measure, grisly. The corpses mirrored many of their fallen kin. Intertwined with one another as though frozen in the steps of a macabre waltz, it took no trained eye to stitch the wounds together with their causes. Bruising on the skull that matched the impact from a broken haft of a spear clutched in a dead man's grip. Laceration through the throat, rough-hewn by the serrations of the reverse edge of the utility knife once holstered on a nearby belt. [color=goldenrod]"'Enough' is right— Whatever the sum, we can assume it's well outside your normal asking price."[/color] The blood that had been spilt had already dried beneath a full day's sunlight, but within the crevasse of most any laceration he could spot, there was still the faint glisten of of some still fresh. He laid the pair down gently, even in his disquiet respectful of the dead, and stalked over to Sir Sergio's side, dropping down again to his haunches to investigate the corpses here. Ligature marks and light bruising around a throat matching a belt. A missing sword from the scabbard close by on the grass— and just aside where it had no doubt slipped free from a dying grip, the legs of the man that had been strangling the victim, pockmarked with lacerations of wild flailing until one caught the femoral artery. [color=goldenrod]"Given the risks of whatever drove these men rabid enough to turn on eachother still being around, given you clearly knew we were coming, given you're putting on this show for us in spite of how it all looks at first glance..."[/color] They said the truth revealed itself in slips of the tongue. [i]"Enough can send me"[/i], [i]"You must be"[/i], and so on. Through her cavalier veil of noncompliance, there was something to be cut through and uncovered beneath. They had been mustered quickly, obvious as that might have been given they'd gotten here first. Their employer must have known this would happen ahead of time— the blood was, what, two days old at most? Not enough to catch wind of something happening before the Roses themselves had. In addition, the way he read things? The woman was all but [i]expecting[/i] the moment she'd strutted out and said hello. The band's employer knew the Roses were gonna be coming in hot on the heels of the disaster as soon as word had come. That had to mean whatever happened here would be something that necessitated the Order as a response. Traditionally... Well. Gerard'd grown up on hand-me-down legends of the Saint, of Agrahn, of Cyrus, of slaying dragons, demons, the Vos Korvugand raiders— existential threats. In modernity... the closest candidate in recent memory was the Cazt family rebellion. Jeremiah was his first sortie, savage and cruel terror to the commonfolk and more than worth putting down. He was not upon that caliber of civil war, mythical beast, or hated scourge. That [i]was[/i] something to account for. They had, of course, become more mundane as an order since the passing of that first generation. Did that then mean they were dispatched once word had reached Aimlenn? Impossible. Notified once the Roses had begun to move? Maybe less so... possible through arcane means, at a guess. Either way, 'a lot of damn resources to throw around' seemed the answer on that front. Mix that with the Order-specific forewarning... [color=goldenrod]"[i]'Willing to risk us not asking questions'[/i] type coin."[/color] he concluded, rising. [color=goldenrod]"Definitely a noble throwing that around. Probably someone we know, since [i]they[/i] know us."[/color] That didn't mean shit. Not really. Realistically speaking, anyone able to hire a band of her caliber to begin with had a certain degree of status to have access to funds, and considering the cost-effectiveness of all this crap she was happily going along with, some rich fucker from the capital was all but guaranteed. But depending on how she reacted in the coming moments, it might have been a toehold. As a man who used to cover his face every damned day for five years straight, it wasn't comfortable having your concealment probed at, and feeling like you mighta let anything slip. It may have also helped to mount pressure, considering she had about five different people grilling her in turn— to the point that, for now, he felt good to withdraw. [color=goldenrod]"Captain,"[/color] he breathed now, no longer projecting his voice. [color=goldenrod]"Are we good to move up if she doesn't show her hand here? I'm not [i]Fionn[/i], but I should at least have an idea of who to expect further inside."[/color]