[center][h3][color=C0392B]Rudolf Sagramore[/color][/h3][/center]

As the introductions spiralled 'round the campfire, the swordsman contented himself with leaning back and, barring common pleasantries, holding his cards close to the chest. He'd have plenty of time to get to know everyone, no need to think or act too quickly even in the face of promising first impressions. To speak on them: One hell of a motley crew that had assembled (loosely, with regard to some) beneath the banner of the King's Undertaking. More Skaellers, more folk from Edren, even a draconic-featured mage and skittish Mystrel, searching for a disappeared brother, had been swept up in the fray. It was enough to make him consider relaxing his guard a hair... almost.

Within the main party, impossible to ignore even if he [i]wasn't[/i] trying to get a read on what they thought of all his fellow newcomers, the brief flash of displeasure at Robin's introduction, forced down by discipline in short order. He'd seen the sharpness creep behind the eyes. He'd not missed the offending detail either— while there were certain elements that didn't completely line up with Edrenian Dress Standards (the epaulettes were a little wide, the double-breasting of the coat was mirrored, the type of things that theatrics purposefully left out for differentiation's sake) there was no doubting she wore the national Red and Black, more than close enough to officer-style.

Yeah. That moment confirmed it. As far as everyone here was concerned, he was swordsman, monster hunter, blade at their side. All he needed to be, all they needed from him. Anyone before that moment wasn't theirs to know.

[color=C0392B]"No kidding? Small world, then. I've probably run into a few of your guys."[/color] he replied in the moment to Galahad, mentally checking off a few boxes in his head he'd drawn up in the past five years about some spearmen he'd come to befriend. [color=C0392B]"If you'll all have us, I'd be glad to lend my strength."[/color]

Should that be all that was asked of him. The Blight itself was fearful enough, even in a group as well-stocked with warriors as this. He didn't need old nightmares rising from within the ranks of those he trusted with his sleeping back.

[hr]

Rudolf, as things wound down, had excused himself for a spell in turn, as though drawn by the telltale sounds of wood striking wood from the sparing match between Arton Yule and Izayoi. He was still on his first night as one of their number, of course, and didn't want to overstep by directly watching— you never knew if some measure of suspicion might be aroused by intently reading sword movement with a fighter's gaze, after all.

Instead, he cut an angle from their path, landing in his own small corner of the township's outskirts, far enough that voices were out of earshot but impacts and tempo... weren't. He did his best work, after all, around other trainees. Always had. 

As their hour-long lessons dragged on, uninterrupted by brand new blondeheaded interlopers, Rudi lifted the hulking blade at his back with a hand, breathed deeply, and settled into his stance. Hopefully the cracking of traded blows would draw more attention than a single man cutting air, however crisply— but he couldn't help needing it. Training calmed the nerves, and the nerves had been alight for three days straight. 

So he went to work, his large blade tearing into taunting shadows with balance and nimbleness that belied its size, to say nothing of his own.