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

He surged in, crashing into her space in the instants she dealt with the wind hammer, and forced her back again. And again, and again! Sparks flew as steel rang out against bone, driving his prey back, forcing her to concede, concede, concede all the ground she had left, if only to buy herself a moment to reset again, to diffuse the pressure— but to no avail. 

In gaining that burst of initiative, Gerard had held on with an iron grip, never allowing her room to breathe. It was a forcing sequence, putting him in all moments one step ahead, and both knew it. Faces obscured as they were, Gerard could still be certain, if only from her hurried parrying, that she was aware that she was [i]running out of room[/i]. Cornered in a matter of moments. Back practically against the trunk of a great old blackened oak, which meant...

His grip tightened, and he drew his blade in close, siege engine crossing the moat. There would be one last, desperate measure coming, to get him the hell off of her—

And sure enough, there was a flicker, casting a line of light through the last vestiges of her range. Then another. Then another, the another, then another, both hands blurring, boxing away his chances to flank as he had before. That was fine, he had meant to finish this by pressing in with the tree behind, so why invite it?

The lines kept appearing before him, fast as his eyes at the height of their ability. Not boxing him in, he realized, [i]funneling![/i]

She was casting a net. Desperate as ever, banking it all on this last gambit— and in her haste, falling back to the same rhythm he had forced out of her, just in faster time. He had to beat it, find the lines she would have to leave for last—

[i]There.[/i]

He touched upon it, the speed of Reon's bolts as they pierced the storm, and committed his being to filling that gap first. Summoning all the power to move, the wolf launched forward, its fang catching the silver light of the low moon!

And as the Pale Lady fought desperately to bring her dirk around in time, Gerard's left hand clamped around the wrist, catching her arm mid-swing and driving it back into the cold bark of the tree. The sword in his right, ever chasing mastery, was held before her throat. The sword was well inside the arc of hers; its' gleaming point only just brushing against the satin of her veil.

Checkmate. He drew in a breath.

[color=goldenrod]"Yield,"[/color] he spoke, firm and even. [color=goldenrod]"You've shown me ample courtesy. I would repay it: I've no need of your life, Dame, only victory."[/color]

He could hear the crowing calls, the ringing bell of laughter from afar. The Roses had won.

There was no need to rid their foes of another Knight.