[center][h3][color=C0392B]Rudolf Sagramore[/color][/h3][/center] [@The Otter][@Psyker Landshark][@Izurich] The crackle of lightning overhead, the smell of charring flesh, the screams of men who were frying heart-first... Rudolf suppressed an urge to gag, and focused on the ringing steel of the Valheimr's swords meeting his own as best he could, forced into the front again by the way things played out. Like it or otherwise, with Izayoi serving as Hien's direct escort, the task fell to him to be the hammer to Esben's scalpel— he was a bigger man, but not built and bred for war the same way— [i]You're barely keeping your lunch down. Don't get a big head about "built for war", boy. If you really were, would you have needed me? By the way, your left side's in trouble.[/i] [color=c0392b]"!!"[/color] A quick backstep brough him behind the tile of one of those upturned tub-stall-situations (looked like a spigot overhead, not important right now) and clear of the stab that was nearly slipped between his ribs. He clicked his tongue and furrowed his brow, mind racing as he parried the man to his front. He was losing initiative with this now, having to meet three, four swords at once head-on. Even accounting for their crude form, he needed to either break their numbers up, or figure out how to lock them all down at once. Something that'd give them the edge he was losing after that moment of surprise had passed... Tight space he could dominate. The feeling of fending off multiple people at once. There was a way. Hammer and scalpel. He swallowed the iron ball between his throat and his chest. [color=c0392b]"I can push,"[/color] he barked to the saboteur behind. [color=c0392b]"You execute!"[/color] He caught a bind and used it to shove the swordsman back, opening a gap between them. He couldn't settle for half-measures anymore. The paired blades returned to their scabbards on either hip, and his right hand drove high over the shoulder as he surged forward again, towards the hole the Valheimr had busted open. Three glints of light shimmered into streaks of death ahead— And each were met and sent back by a mighty arc of silver, a parrying hew that checked them all, forced the men to leap back. Something that big, surely, would have smashed straight through them if they didn't give it the berth it deserved. Rudolf stepped forward again, breathing deep, posture tall, pressing into their space. Think of Otto. Think of Imre. Plaster their faces onto these goons, and let your body remember. He could handle this. He could inch the party forward. He just needed to show threat— with Esben around to manage the flanks, utilize them even, these guys wouldn't be around to catch the lie. Sparring either of his brothers was like fending off a dozen men at once. He wouldn't manage that with the unfamiliar range, stance, openings... [color=c0392b]May thy blades chip...[/color] Half that number wasn't so tall an ask. Focused on defense and distance like this, the mystery from lands unknown would be perfect. He didn't need to cut them all. He lunged into their range with a swipe, wickedly fast for any weapon this size, forcing the Valheimr to react. The keener swordsmen of their number would doubtless notice the suddenly, improbably tight command over the steel, his slight frame seeming untroubled by the heft or length. He just needed to keep them from cutting him, or thinking they could worry about cutting anyone else. [color=c0392b][i]And shatter.[/i][/color] On the riposte, it danced into each opening the Valheimr would find in his guard.