[color=goldenrod][i][h2][center]Gerard Segremors[/center][/h2][/i][/color] He awoke, surrounded by a familiar thicket, neck still burning with an icy, phantom pain. The breath that had been caught in his throat was loosed in a ragged gasp— as though leaking out in frayed ends. Gilded eyes narrowed, as he made to dust off his shoulders, expecting a spray of blood and finding nothing. Right. "Waking" may have perhaps been the wrong terminology, given what he was told. In the first place, the Stormcaller had no reason to lie of her creation. This world was not a dream. Not exactly, no matter that it might have been very much like it. Ahead of him, as advertised, the same cobblestone path they had trod down upon first arrival. Somewhat shockingly, he'd not had the occasion to revisit the start of it all— Where the Founders and other collected masters excelled in their lethality almost as a rule to be recorded within this world, they in equal measure excelled at controlling that prodigious ability. On some level, such was intuitive enough to be expected of anyone, like never really cracking an egg without meaning to no matter how big you got, but that game always changed when the egg flung itself at you full-force. He drew his blade from the sheath, inspecting the edge for nicks. He had been flinging himself into bouts with many of the founders, doggedly chasing the mountain he'd been kicked down by Agrahn in the Knights' first meeting with those from beyond. His strength and speed still lagged far behind, but his eyes [i]were[/i] getting better at tracking their movements. Incrementally, the body adjusted, the limits were pushed further out. With each loss, a lesson was learned. Humble steel. In good condition now, but his aggression matched against the one-armed rabbit's skill poorly. He'd heard through the grapevine that Rui's singular dedication to mastery over swordsmanship allowed her to project her slashes beyond the edge of her blade. The sheer belief in the possibility of impossibility forcing it into truth, in so many words, more or less. He'd requested a few bouts and pointers, but both had seen slow going. He could work out the method, or at least a beginning of the framework, of that technique. Rolling wind up the blade's length as though painting the slash onto the canvas of the world was... working as a point of visualization. Far from pulling it off in any respect. Judging from the way the clashes had nicked his edge in their bouts, he had half a mind to wonder if his blade would even, really, hold up to the stress of whatever force he needed to put through it to get that going. Certainly, his sword wasn't of the caliber to parry them when they were sent his way, not after it had already been tested by the strange, weighty and stiff cutlass on Rui's hip. It would be a good long while before he could replicate the feat, if botching it had parted mind from heart so cleanly. In the solitude, he allowed himself a sigh of dismay. Incremental improvements wouldn't help them take a dragon down, not if they wanted to waste less than half their lives in here. Even as strength and speed improved, bit by bit, there was only so much ground they could cover when fighting at the weight class of a siege engine with wings. He was hunting a breakthrough, but stuck pressing his face against a wall. [i]Use your head.[/i] Reon above, he'd been trying. Earnestly as anyone could ask of him, near as he could tell, but never to any avail. There was something missing here. Something he couldn't see. A weight on his ankle, shackling his perception to the narrow field of what he already knew. Rather than continue down the path laid out for them, he instead pushed into the brush, stepping into the forest that, in a few respects, might have been his oldest teacher in the art of war. Here, beneath canopy, was where he had learned to step with care, to aim a bow, to discern the smell of blood. He was no woodsman by calling, not even truly matching Rolan... but the change in scenery felt welcome. Between excitable discussions with his peers, grilling the founding knights for every scrap of advice he could get his paws on, and the bustle of the old city, he'd not known quiet for a fair while, outside of sleep. As he continued to venture off the beaten path, descending further and further beneath the overhead cloak of green, his voice naturally began to turn, as it so often did, Inward. The physical was improving. Of that, he could have no doubt. More slowly than he wanted, but the raw athleticism still inched forward. His body wasn't the issue, then. On that front, he was in lockstep with his peers by all accounts. That wasn't the root of this "blocked" sensation. At some point, he sat onto his haunches, cross-legged beneath a dark point of shade. Roots of a felled tree. If not body, then mind. Maybe it is the mind that imposes the limits. What the mind can't see, the mind can't rush the body into. What held him back? [hr][hr] [hider= Quixote] Time passed. This place was not a dream. It was something very much like it. He didn't know how much or how little it had been. Maybe three hour. Maybe three days. Other than the canteen of water at his hip, he had taken nothing into himself. The forest itself was unnaturally quiet— to him more like a cave. Sound and sight had left in even measure. In this place, he was alone. Naught but his mind to accompany him. This being the mind's realm, as dreams were, maybe everything had fallen away. He could no longer see three feet in front of his nose. He, and this clump of earth beneath him, may have detached and floated into the inky void that the canopy had painted onto nighttime stars overhead. Even in the fugue states he would drift into at Candaeln, lost in his own circular contemplations, spirals of rote nothingness, there was still sight, sound, touch, presence of others. Here, him. Only, him. Always, him. [color=goldenrod]Perfect. He was what he needed to examine. Break down. Interrogate. Find truth of. Unstick the wheel. He had spun so long, yet still felt the same ground beneath his tread. Why. What shackles you? Others leap. You dig in. Straining against great stone. Trying to move it half embedded. Dull. Dim. Unpolishable? No. Dance. Serenity told you. May not be bright, but can think just fine. Serenity. Serenity Fionn Renar Sergio Nicomede Fleuri Fanilly Steffen Tyaethe. They think otherwise. Not liars. Front half too frank. Back half too honest. That isn't a difference. Yet it is. Back further. Quartermasters. Condottieri. Coworkers. Church offered squireship. Further. Not what we're looking for. Past is something accepted. Got us here. Taught us much. Unlearning certain things. Deeper. What is deeper than history? What history carves into the soul? Feels true. Problems don't come from things that happened since it's me alone that's here. I cannot train my history. What has it left me with? Ahh, dammit. It's getting hot. Like I'm on fire. There's ice in my gut but fire in my throat. What is this? Oh, right. The anger. That terrible anger that always takes me. How does it rise every time? Everyone feels fury at injustices. Why am I lost in it? Fionn's blood runs hotter, but his head's cooler. Sergio's a man of passion, but his eyes don't lose their light. Sir Agrahn himself can lid his flames. I am unchecked like a campfire set too close to summer bush. They have something I don't. What do they all have? I spend so much time watching. ...And there's no injustice to be had here. Am I angry at those alone? Impossible. I am a man. I am not a paragon. I am not such perfection. None can ever be. This rises from something else. I'm stung like a poison dart has hit my neck. Why? How are we still here? It was supposed to be me keeping my mind that would unlock my growth. Sir Agrahn stands upon a pinnacle and has no need to lie in how I may get close. Knowing where my head is, what I can do, how I can fight best, surely that's the answer. Instead of running in like an untethered bull, I should be the cunning wolf. He was a common soldier that rose to this prominence. I always wanted to do the same. Who he is and has been are abundantly clear, right? Soldier. Mercenary. Farmer. Man. Knight. Who I am and who I have been should be just as much. [i]What[/i] am I, then? ... ... ... Scared. I think I'm scared. I always call what propels me "courage". Courage is the overcoming of fear. No matter what, I'm fearful. It's why I consistently talk through circles as the day goes on. Why I always eschew rest. Why I fight like I'm cornered, no matter the setting, no matter the foe. What am I cornered by, to become so insensate? Fear is normal in battle. Not dying is something everyone wants. But everyone will die. Have I not accepted that? No, I have. I had to, or else war would have broken the boy I was. I throw my life on the line in a way nobody scared of simply dying should. What, then? Jeremiah. The Boars. You fought like you were wounded. What went through your mind? [quote]Icantletthismankeeplivingafterwhathesdoneforthegoodofthepeopleofthalnvillagerslikemomanddadigottacutthismotherfuckersheadsmooveoffifidontwhatkindofknightamianywayreonwouldbeashamedhedeservestoburnbeneathherflamesjustlikeanyotherslaverihatepeoplewhorunamoklikethisicouldhavebecomeamercenarythatranoffthedeependifthingshadgonedifferenthuhdyinglikethiscouldhavebeenmemaybeitstillcouldsoigottakillhimfirstforthejusticeforthepeopleforherguidinglightformydreamkeepcaptainalivekeepfionnalivecan'tlosethemcanlosemehavetogettherekillthisbastardandweallgohomeandyouvetakenastepinvanquishingvillainybeneathabannerofgood[/quote] Reon alive, not that much at once. But it's in there. The demon is in there. Fear. The core of it. Look to the core. I'm not afraid of just dying. I've told myself I'm ready to die for the mission. Renar's lust for power. Fleuri's overcoming the past. Fionn's mastery of the blade. Serenity, for so long at her age, election of Captaincy. Am I ready to die for my dream, the way they are? ... I should think so. I've wanted to be a knight since I first heard the tale of the Demonbreaker. Even though I knew it was never to be my birth's station. I still grabbed sticks and played at swordfighting, in woods so very like these. ... ... And I hated when he told me we would never see the real thing with our own eyes. Such a small thing, but it did make me mad. I knew he was probably right. I think I wanted to prove him wrong this whole time, deep down. And here I am, regarless. Clinging to that dream like he's still right there at my back, reminding me how impossible it is to reach for those of us so humble. How nobody, not even today's knights, could do what the Demonbreaker or Sword Saint or the Mighty Hammer did. Have I not proven my ambition's worth following, on this one-in-a-million chance I got lucky enough to hit it big on? I'm here, humble-born and knight nonetheless. This isn't something I have to die to achieve. I've already done this much. If I was going to fail, I'd have failed long ago. We were kids. Not like he meant to shatter the ground beneath my feet. Kids are wrong about shit all the time. I fear living to see myself fall short? What was everything before this, if not that? I still got here. I'm still breathing. Everyone else here has something they're chasing with just as much fervor. Every fiber of their beings, centered on a goal. They'll make anything happen to get there. They've been here for so, so much longer. They haven't crumpled under the weight, or driven themselves mad. They just keep pushing forward. They know they'll get there. They just need enough time. I've been acting like I have none, and it's in turn made me take the most. Damned fool you are, Gerard. Yes, yes. A knight is a symbol of hope and victory, that good triumphs over evil. You've died for that cause a dozen times over, if you rolled the dice just a bit different. Try living for it. Impossible dreams are being chased all around you. You've been sent to a plane where you can speak to those who dared to be extraordinary to such extremes they are immortalized in legend. None of them threw themselves away to get there, like they didn't value anything they carried in their hearts. Be selfish. Live on. Quit trying to drag yourself along. Run forward to the you that's ahead. Allow yourself to stumble, you can just keep getting up until you get it right. You've proven this much. Can you keep up with him? [/color] [/hider] [hr][hr] His canteen was empty when he arrived at Candaeln next, raccoon-eyed but alive nonetheless. Coal-colored hair wild as ever, his bearing was haggard yet, somehow, sturdy as ever. The time away from food was impossible to avoid, but he'd marched through much worse. The eagle-eyed would note a whole lot of wear on leather grip of his sword— the ghost of a tight grasp, and thousands of swings. His voice was an uncomfortable rasp. Were he not as alert as ever, one would be easily forgiven for believing the man to have just awoken. The path ahead was clear now. He had observed it in his vigil. Didn't really expect any surefire methodology for it from even the founders, it'd be an insane thing to ask anyone to teach, but he did have examples of what he needed to achieve, a preliminary to his grander design. Don't call it that. Don't get a big head. He knew how to think, but he wasn't terribly bright. He wasn't the quickest study by any measure. Casting aside a fear was only half of the equation, at least for somebody like him. He needed more time, even when freed from desperate fervor, when faced with the towering threats they'd run into. More time to rise to their ranks. Changing the way he fought would be slow already— he was far from out of the fire. Maybe he'd never fully leave it. He needed to ensure he could grit through it, instead of praying his luck didn't run out. There was one such man here, infamous for bargaining from the Lamplighters all the time he needed to end up crushing Maglad's throat no matter what had hit him. He'd always wanted to pick Cyrus's brain, anyway.