[color=goldenrod][i][h2][center]Gerard Segremors[/center][/h2][/i][/color]

There was a beat offset within the broader rhythm, a void that filled itself with the sound of steely sabatons grinding to a sudden halt as Gerard's opponent, some dozen meters away at most, bowed her head and gazed into the dirt. Behind his visor, Gerard's eyes narrowed, trying to gauge what had brough about the untimely pause— one thing he had gleaned from their short exchanges was that the fae standing opposite of him wasn't nearly so generous in her defensive lapses as to offer a dropped guard [i]freely[/i]. On the back foot as she was, there was too much risk of being overrun.

Plainly put, had he kept going, he would have overrun her and sent her veiled head rolling. But he hadn't. What had he spotted that compelled his instincts... [color=goldenrod][i]ah.[/i][/color]

It was in the cast of her shoulders, the way her brow hung, and the slow drop of the sternum that accompanied. Bringing her body forward, just so, as though making minor offering. Half a decade of surrounding himself with obscured faces, masks of black leather in the place of her moonspun white veil— all the same, it had left him with a particular skill in reading the language unspoken, that of posture, gesture, and movement. It [i]wasn't[/i] supplication, nor was it surrender— but after he had revealed the card he had been unwittingly holding... contrition.

An apology. For what, he couldn't say without words, but nonetheless it appeared she felt it owed. Owed enough that she was willing to risk her victory for its' sake. He recalled her dispatch of interlopers, her presentation of arms— She believed she had dishonored the bout in some way, then?

The moment hung in the air, heedless of the battle close by, as he abided this wish, lowering his blade. Only proper that he give her that moment of apology, in such case...

And then, from her palm, that sound again. The grinding of bone— another blade! Already, the first spur of white was rising from her palm! In another moment, she'd have a second tool to slice the world—

Action filled his frame, and he burst once more into the fight.

Her apology had been accepted, he had every reason to grant her that grace— if after the moment of understanding had passed she had seen fit to draw another weapon, that could only mean she had not deemed herself as giving the threat he posed proper respect.

A mistake that he was unwilling to repeat, no matter how it weighed upon the mind of his foe.

His longsword whipped up high from its lowered position, another hammer of wind cascading forth as the Pale Lady drew her spinal tap dagger, filling the space between them with another wall of force immediately. He had a hunch. If she had drawn this thing in response to that attack, and it assumed the same properties as her long blade—

He dashed forth, blade at the ready, coming in the wake of it as it too chewed through distance— and then, pre-emptive of even the flicker, sidestepped to that familiar, dominant angle. She had the attack right on top of her, and him coming in close behind— something she could easily solve by slicing the former in half with her second blade, and threatening to counter the latter in the same stroke.

In committing to that, forced by the imminent threat or otherwise, she would give up a tempo. One he could use to press his way into his ideal range— and keep forcing her back onto the treeline. She was hardly far at all, and once he had her pinned there, he could end this— either by running her into a solid boundary with the tree trunks, or by forcing her behind the thicket, where he could turn the turf against her, blinding her behind the veil of the moonlit forest.

There was no time to waste. [i]This[/i] was his chance to blunt her advantage!