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

A patch upon his face, shielding a fresh scar from the gentle sun until the freshly healed skin was ready to taste air.

The dark clothes on his frame, while soaking up Reon's soothing grace in a comforting way, concealed many of its kin— scaffolding to cover an array of bruises, scrapes, slices, and soreness from the long night before, each a lesson most men only ever were afforded the chance to learn once. But his head had always been hard, sadly— and for all the good it did in shrugging off wounds, it showed equal obstinance with everything else.

And so, in spite of his sudden battlefield clarity that had seen him leverage the strength of his peers against an old, hated foe, the damage had long been done— and he'd enjoyed a cold, stinging, and sore ride home for it. He'd been lucky to escape truly serious injury, but by the same token that had meant their detachment of the Healing Corps had rightly placed most of their focus on those worse off— Sir Sergio and his broken arm, for instance. It wasn't until later that the combined forces of magic and medicine had gotten their hands upon him. 

Closure of wounds, balms for pulled muscle, a brace on the forearm where he'd been bitten, just in case there was a crack in the bone.

Everything had been taken care of in short order, to their credit— but his cavalier attitude towards anything he could feasibly ignore had earned him an earful twice over. Doctor's orders were strict and straightforward— "[i]Take a damn day to get your strength back, idiot[/i]".

So.

He was mostly fine, save for these precautions.

He had the day to himself. A rare thing. He'd preferred filling time by honing his body in some way— training, conditioning, strength exercise, sparring, all things that were, for the moment, off the table. His hands hated being idle.

For a time he'd drifted over to the library, plucking free [i]Fechtbucher[/i] to skim through and return in short order, still very much a physical learner— he'd keep the newer tricks in his head for a proper time, but if he'd taken them with him the urge to try and meld things into the greater fold of his technique would doubtless overcome his better sense.

Instead, he'd left with a few rolls of spare parchment in hand, a piece of advice on the mind, and way too many hours to fill— all those lesser-kept activities arising in clarion call, now freed from the monolith of "training" that had squashed them beforehand.

[color=goldenrod][i]...Do I really [u]sound[/u] like this when I've got nothing to do? Reon's rays, Sagramore, quit [u]rambling[/u].[/i][/color]

He'd found himself marching through the gardens at a pace not quite determined or swift, nor exactly that of sightseeing or smelling the roses. He didn't have a destination in mind, so much as a specific person to hunt down— one Dame Serenity had mentioned off-hand as worth recruiting for one such Task Previously Avoided.

A shame he had such preoccupations, really— He was a farmer, not a florist, but the full palette that seemed eternally in bloom was a backdrop few would argue unworthy of some appreciation for. There was a beauty in the vibrant arrays that he had rarely gotten to see in prior life, one whose fragility doubtless required constant maintenance, lest it be lost to wind, sun, or in the cold that was yet to come.

He rounded a bend, looking past all of this, aimlessly searching.

[color=goldenrod]"The one day he's not working on his damned [i]mill[/i] when I nee— Ah."[/color]

Goddesses knew what Fionn was doing [i]here[/i], in all places, but that solved that problem.

[color=goldenrod]"[i]There[/i] you are. Hey, I got a favor to ask. You buuuu..."[/color]

Around now was when his mildly frustrated glower drifted down to contemplate the shock of gold that had sat in the foreground, between he and his fellow mercenary alum— the shock of gold set into a crown braid, whose station demanded more respect than this, whose frustration was already evident upon her face.

[color=goldenrod]"You're busy."[/color]

He wiped the look from his bandaged visage as though blinking away smoke, and nodded deferentially to her before he made more of an ass of himself. [color=goldenrod]"Apologies, Captain. Morning."[/color]