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

Impossible to touch without the protective medium of another object between it and the handler.

He frowned as the terms, finally, were relinquished by their counterpart.

Oblong, black as night, like glass from a broken window... He had heard stories of mountains that sprayed fire from their summits, far off lands showered with glass sharp as arrowheads. None of these tales, though, carried with them a curse. Nothing that could set men of rank and file, all beneath one banner, into enough of a blood frenzy to tear out eachother's throats.

No, there [i]was[/i] something familiar about it... closer to home.

He had been raised on the oft-twisted myths of heroism and chivalry. Even through the natural folding of half-remembered sentences passed between each generation, part of it rang clearly.

[color=goldenrod]"Shard of glass..."[/color] he murmured beneath his breath. [color=goldenrod]"So it's a fragment of something. What was it that was shattered long ag—"[/color]

A body was flung into the space between the standoff, crashing back to earth in a heap. His eyes snapped to attention again—

"The mark on the back of his neck should tell you exactly who we're dealing with."

...

And held, as a black heat rose from somewhere deep in his gullet. He knew that not far off, Fionn would feel the same spike of disgust and fury. This was the crest of brutes, of slavers, of kin-killers, of scum. Alette was right— It did tell him who. The visage of that razor-backed beast was all but burned into the back of his skull. A brand of devotion to their fetid suicide cult of a company above all else— blood, sense, even their fellows.

He'd stood across the field from these freaks time after time— as [i]Verloren[/i], many had drawn comparisons between he and his fellows and their ranks, those within the wider Regiment. The new ones, who believed that they had common ground in their willingness to go for the long odds.

Each time, one of them had slugged the man running his mouth across the jaw.

He'd lost dozens of comrades to this mark. Even the day that had earned him his ticket here, into the Order that seemed a distant ideal beyond his common reach, he had to tear through them. Watch the depths to which they sank, licked by flames of hell and only digging deeper. Using the chained as shields. Cutting down their own before routing. More.

A wad of spit flew.

[color=goldenrod]"Of course it's the fuckin' pigs."[/color] he snarled, tone dripping with open, acrid contempt. The knightly airs had no chance, not at this point. [color=goldenrod]"Well, if you're right, Renar, color me [i]stoked[/i]. Sergio,"[/color]

A nudge on the Knight of the Harvest Moon's shoulder, then a steel-clad finger levelled onto the keep. Clear as any statement of intent.

[color=goldenrod]"We should get digging. If it's not [i]here[/i], the last thing we need is giving those freaks any more time to scurry away with."[/color]