[color=goldenrod][i][h2][center]Gerard Segremors[/center][/h2][/i][/color]
[@Conscripts][@Krayzikk][@ERode][@VitaVitaAR]

True to the black-armored hulk's wishes, Gerard had heard him well before he saw him— and darted to the side as the earth was split beneath the brutal meteor that fell from above, all thunder and bellowed challenge. The man's voice rang from within his armor like an ugly bell, but the timbre, the laughter... something about it made Gerard's grip run tighter, [i]just[/i] so.

His eyes caught the gold trimming, as his sword entered the wake between both the enemy's swing and his own movement—

The face of a boar revealed itself from the gloom next, cast on that black iron. With it, stains of red. Mangled limbs, crushed skulls, torn masks, [i]Johann, Rykerd, Haland—[/i]

He [i]knew[/i] this man.

[color=goldenrod]"They're [i]dead![/i]"[/color]

Within the dominant angle, Gerard obliged, lightning cracking through his body. A mighty swing of his blade cleft the air between them, careening into the visor, ready to smash through that infinitesimal gap that allowed vision—

But the rise of the hammer back into the Boar's guard saw him turn his lead shoulder in, the curved, thick plate of steel all but a fortress wall to the knight's well-kept, but ultimately mundane longsword and strength.

The shock, having bounced off the armor like so many of his former peers' had back in the day, traveled up through his arms and spine, a reminder that no picture could ever capture the depth of. Another thunderbolt came from above, transposing the image of a vicious smirk beneath the depths of the man's helm in the night. Killing intent leaked out like a sieve—

But hadn't it always?

As he was forced back, the knight's racing mind caught up with the scene before him.

The Butcher. The Shieldbreaker. Ogre. Many epithets had swirled around the bastard beneath the plate, as mercenary worlds so frivolously bestowed them, so often— The myth eclipsed the man. His name was an obscurity— perhaps cast off, perhaps of no note. For all Gerard knew, they were self-proclaimed.

A ragged breath escaped him, as he pulled his blade back into a sturdy, reactive guard— interposing the bar of steel between him and his foe. His ears told him his peers within the wedge they'd formed were similarly tied, that he'd not been pulled completely away.

[color=goldenrod]"The Faceless are dead."[/color] the next breath escaped as a tight snarl, rather than the snapping roar. [color=goldenrod]"Regiment's dissolved. You're behind the times, Pig."[/color]

He had indeed killed many of Gerard's former comrades personally. This hulking specter of the past had loomed across the battlefield against the Faceless, against their Forlorn Company, dozens of times— in a way emblematic of the checkered past he and the Boars had shared. 

The beast's march continued, each lumbering footfall heavy as the hammer. For that armor to be as familiar a visage as this, Gerard could assume that the other man felt at home in it— and that it wasn't any great coincidence that his blade had skirted off its heft. Full harness was all but impenetrable with the blade he had, when leveraged smartly.

His eyes narrowed, and he shifted his grip.

It was a [i]rare[/i] Boar that built up that kind of experience from entirely within the company. One of the most prevalent tales regarding this one was that he was an alum of the Cazt rebellion, having thrown in with the Boars while the getting was still good. A once-knight of the realm at some juncture, who'd slipped through the cracks and thrown in with the worst of the lot. That he'd sacrificed any shred of dignity he could still claim by deserting even the traitor, let alone his country, his people, his duty to protect.

[color=goldenrod]"You're fighting the Iron Roses."[/color]

His left hand slid down the length of the blade, coming to a halt some third of the way down from the tip. His right clenched around the ricasso, beneath the crossguard. 

The weight in his hands was good. Where a swinging edge failed, a [i]mordhau[/i] would ring with much, much more impact. Fighting was the leveraging and taking of yours and your opponent's tools. Armor checked his blade, hammering strikes sent shocks through the steel. The reach and weight of the great hammer made it deadly at longer distance. The leverage and dexterity of halfswording made for a good can opener in tight. He just needed to get there, now...

He raised his guard, digging his heel into the earth. This was intersection.

A knight, fallen to hellish depths. A blackguard to the core, relishing only bloodshed and tolerating every evil, who had cast aside his sacred duty. No honor left in his soul. None there to give him.

A mercenary, climbing out of them. Fighting every day to prove he was [i]worthy[/i] of the blessings that came with a chance to be [i]more[/i]. No reason to fight like a dullard. No reason to keep being one, and leave advantage on the table.

Utterly antithetical to eachother. As if designed to be equivalent, and opposite. Perfect checks to the path each advanced through.

He swung high, forcing a reaction lest the snout of the helm cave in on his opponent's face—

[color=goldenrod][i]But I've got a lot further to go than you, you piece of shit.[/i]

"Nobody else— [i]Nico, get his joints![/i]"[/color]