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

[color=goldenrod]"...Maybe so."[/color] he breathed after a moment in reply, feeling the atmosphere around them go slack as what proved to be the last of the Boars were mopped up in short order, well away from the quartet of rank-breakers. That looseness set into his shoulders in short order, poised and ready to drive thunderous swings into enemies never to come till now—

And a slight wince, as the stinging line drawn from cheekbone to jaw beside his left eye began to burn again in the cold wind that brushed over Mayon's shrine, a dozen fellows across his frame lighting up in turn. Along the gaps in his armor, tracing the folded cloth that covered the joints he'd needed to move— they burned, stung, leaked that dull roar into the night, now cold compared to the kiln of battle.

He'd been in the thick of it for as long as anyone here, against men cut from cloth barely removed from his own. He'd found a higher caliber, sure. Clearly not high enough yet. Still aching like he'd been trampled by a cavalry charge after running a marathon. Still wearing a few new lessons.

His palm rose to wipe sweat free from his face, brushing against the line and[i] really [/i]annoying it—

[color=goldenrod]"tch."[/color]

And pulled it back to reveal [color=9e0b0f]red[/color] in the cold moonlight. What was more, there was a throbbing ache along the length of his forearm, flaring as the grip and shift of the hammer's weight forced it to flex. That was the one that had been caught up in the curse hound's jaw, until he'd maneuvered it into a... a warhammer strike, he recalled. Maybe he'd not been as unscathed there as he thought, either. Plenty of clashes had run through his bones through this long-ass day. He wanted to get the hell home and sleep for two days straight.

[color=goldenrod]"Best keep up on your feet so you can find out, then. Have to guess she's with the Captain— and I heard Fionn calling for the both of 'em."[/color]

He wiped the palm against the cloth, and returned his grip to the hilt of the longsword he'd momentarily sheathed.

All that said, even if he knew this sensation was a long time coming, a concluding battle didn't mean concluded time on the field. The aftermath often took longer— mopping up those not long for the world, rounding up the survivors for questioning or capture, making sure dead bodies were dead for real. Thankless, silent work, mostly. Grim, but familiar and necessity.

[color=goldenrod]"I can handle cleanup over here. Sounds like important stuff back that way that needs seasoned heads."[/color] He craned his neck and gestured with a jerk of the skull. [color=goldenrod]"Most of the healing crew, too."[/color]

He was a little pallid, a little sluggish, and felt like hell— but not crippled to the point where magic was needed as soon as possible, instead of a while on. Priorities mattered right now.

He began to stalk forward, reflex carrying him along the circuit with little input from the mind.