fucking liechtenauer
HereComesTheSnow Member
dehydration expert
STATUS: Just ran a stale yellow. Nobody on this website is doing it like me, sticking it to the man like me, blazing a trail against tyranny like me. the only thing revolutionary about you is your rhetoric 22 days ago
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Just ran a stale yellow. Nobody on this website is doing it like me, sticking it to the man like me, blazing a trail against tyranny like me. the only thing revolutionary about you is your rhetoric
3
likes
2 mos ago
Takeru Segawa is the type of man they made myths out of. Intensely privileged to be able to say I watched him burn so bright as he did before going out with a win. I’ll miss you, hero.
3 mos ago
a frayed thread on the colorful tapestry of our existence, begging to be yanked until the whole thing unravels, a suggestive, inviting golden glow around the idea of leaking my buddy's DMs to his wife
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4 mos ago
I'm like the "conspicuously modded with multiple trojan backdoors skyrim save on your friend's screenshare stream" of white boys
4
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5 mos ago
Completely fucking up my field sobriety test as i clamber out of the honda fit i've wrapped around a lightpost, staggering everywhere, before finally scoring a big fat goose egg on the breathalyzer
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"Understood."
His dismount was immediate, swinging off of his steed with practiced ease and drawing his longsword upon landing. Sliding free of scabbard upon his back (hitched up in the transition from mounted to grounded to facilitate this), it glinted dangerously in the evening light, well-kept but otherwise... nondescript. He was neither the caliber nor pedigree of knight to name his blade.
However.
Seize the initiative. Take it and press it for all you're worth. Fight in The Before.
He surged forward, blade floating above his shoulder in a muted form of the High or Roof Guard, covering distance between the road and the nearest bandit who had appeared from the treeline that he had moments before been eyeing to enter as a scout within moments. The man was somewhat scrawny, wearing a patchwork armoring of layered hide and mail near his joints, and upon his countenance was an expression that suggested a note of trepidation at the idea of facing the Iron Rose Knights in open combat. Understandable.
He held in his hands a sword. It was short and shoddily made, the type Gerard had seen and faced often in those seven years before knighthood. Chipping ran its length, and the knuckles squeezed white as the highwayman's grip attempted to strangle whatever wood was beneath the pommel's leather. The blade was covered in a brownness that suggested not rust— but blood. Recently dried, lining up with the attack they had stumbled into. Unforgivable.
The knight's eyes shone and his guard raised higher, now overhead. He had neither caliber nor pedigree to his name, true, and his sword had no title bestowed upon it— But when the order was given, neither he nor it would hesitate. The Before and The After were a wellspring to all skills, and he had learned to always seize The Before. When you have initiative, you control the fight, and your opponent wilts under having to defend himself from you.
The bandit stepped back, raising his sword high—
And Gerard was upon him.
From the Roof Guard, the brigand made a natural assumption: the knight was to strike upon his head like hammering an anvil. He had a decent chance of deflecting such a blow if his blade wouldn't break from the force— yet no such blow came. Instead the knight drew a glinting arc, stepping out to his right and bringing the blade around to bite into his skull, top hand now leading and thumb pressed against the flat of his blade. Driven by the full rotational chain of his legs and hips, this Thwarting Strike was one of the master cuts he had repeated thousands of times against any manner of foe, real or imagined.
The Bandit fell.
Onto the next. They were not far.
Now in the Ox Guard after that initial hew, Sir Segremors spotted the bandit's fellow charging him, before the first's corpse had even hit the ground. Trying to use his comrade as a sort of concealment or distraction, then. With his woodsman's hatchet held high, ready to split the knight's skull in two, the man let loose a war cry. He had merely one or two strides left to be in range for such a feat. Cunning, after a fashion.
Gerard's rear hand re-positioned, pushing against his pommel as he stepped into the man's advance with a thrust. Simply extending his lead arm and putting his weight into it was almost natural from Ox. Startled by the sudden shortening of the space between them, his foe wrenched his arms downward, trying to capitalize or even just react—
But fell short and limp, bouncing off of the crossguard of the sword he had run himself onto.
The young knight kicked the body free, taking in the battlefield that had emerged as he did so. Dame Larette had set to one flank, Sir Jodeau another. The Vanguard was engaging the bandit's in earnest. He spied Druncarde, Knight of The River, moving towards the rear of their group and caught up with what seemed to be a bunch of harassing crossbowmen. Too far now for Gerard to help without passing through most of the others.
Perhaps lend more strength to the front, then.
He set off again. It was as always.
Onto the next. They were not far.
His dismount was immediate, swinging off of his steed with practiced ease and drawing his longsword upon landing. Sliding free of scabbard upon his back (hitched up in the transition from mounted to grounded to facilitate this), it glinted dangerously in the evening light, well-kept but otherwise... nondescript. He was neither the caliber nor pedigree of knight to name his blade.
However.
Seize the initiative. Take it and press it for all you're worth. Fight in The Before.
He surged forward, blade floating above his shoulder in a muted form of the High or Roof Guard, covering distance between the road and the nearest bandit who had appeared from the treeline that he had moments before been eyeing to enter as a scout within moments. The man was somewhat scrawny, wearing a patchwork armoring of layered hide and mail near his joints, and upon his countenance was an expression that suggested a note of trepidation at the idea of facing the Iron Rose Knights in open combat. Understandable.
He held in his hands a sword. It was short and shoddily made, the type Gerard had seen and faced often in those seven years before knighthood. Chipping ran its length, and the knuckles squeezed white as the highwayman's grip attempted to strangle whatever wood was beneath the pommel's leather. The blade was covered in a brownness that suggested not rust— but blood. Recently dried, lining up with the attack they had stumbled into. Unforgivable.
The knight's eyes shone and his guard raised higher, now overhead. He had neither caliber nor pedigree to his name, true, and his sword had no title bestowed upon it— But when the order was given, neither he nor it would hesitate. The Before and The After were a wellspring to all skills, and he had learned to always seize The Before. When you have initiative, you control the fight, and your opponent wilts under having to defend himself from you.
The bandit stepped back, raising his sword high—
And Gerard was upon him.
From the Roof Guard, the brigand made a natural assumption: the knight was to strike upon his head like hammering an anvil. He had a decent chance of deflecting such a blow if his blade wouldn't break from the force— yet no such blow came. Instead the knight drew a glinting arc, stepping out to his right and bringing the blade around to bite into his skull, top hand now leading and thumb pressed against the flat of his blade. Driven by the full rotational chain of his legs and hips, this Thwarting Strike was one of the master cuts he had repeated thousands of times against any manner of foe, real or imagined.
The Bandit fell.
Onto the next. They were not far.
Now in the Ox Guard after that initial hew, Sir Segremors spotted the bandit's fellow charging him, before the first's corpse had even hit the ground. Trying to use his comrade as a sort of concealment or distraction, then. With his woodsman's hatchet held high, ready to split the knight's skull in two, the man let loose a war cry. He had merely one or two strides left to be in range for such a feat. Cunning, after a fashion.
Gerard's rear hand re-positioned, pushing against his pommel as he stepped into the man's advance with a thrust. Simply extending his lead arm and putting his weight into it was almost natural from Ox. Startled by the sudden shortening of the space between them, his foe wrenched his arms downward, trying to capitalize or even just react—
But fell short and limp, bouncing off of the crossguard of the sword he had run himself onto.
The young knight kicked the body free, taking in the battlefield that had emerged as he did so. Dame Larette had set to one flank, Sir Jodeau another. The Vanguard was engaging the bandit's in earnest. He spied Druncarde, Knight of The River, moving towards the rear of their group and caught up with what seemed to be a bunch of harassing crossbowmen. Too far now for Gerard to help without passing through most of the others.
Perhaps lend more strength to the front, then.
He set off again. It was as always.
Onto the next. They were not far.
The same way I always do— study the relevant martial arts for my character as much as possible and hope for the best
I can already tell this game is gonna be a learning experience for me
"I don't like it, Sir Jodeau. It doesn't make sense to me at all." Gerard said, offering a respectful nod in greeting to the more tenured knight and fellow Reon devotee as he rode up to his side. "The braggart claims himself 'King of Bandits' and has openly challenged a knightly order with what seems to be full intent to bring us down upon his head."
His words, honest and straightforward, were accompanied by a grimace as he took in the concerns of Sir Renar, a knight he had spent long hours in the Training Grounds alongside. The man's character was one somewhat like his own from what he could tell— a tireless engine of self-refinement, driven by some all-encompassing goal. Gerard hadn't felt it right of him to pry further, but he considered the man's word worth respecting on ethic alone. He was willing, more than most, to color in gray areas of thought. It lead to insights few dared make otherwise.
Perhaps, then, his mercenary background had given him such an image among his fellows.
Well, best not to let Sir Jodeau down.
"Bandits aren't bold people. They're opportunists. Creatures of pragmatism that prey upon safe targets, and they either crumble beneath a decent group of the King's soldiers, or know how to pick their battles. They ought to be cutting and running the moment they pulled off that defense, not literally inviting retribution. Even if we were to ride straight in without regard for casualties, we would certainly crush him just with the difference of troop quality alone. There are too many good knights here for us to not draw out a victory in a simple contest of strength. If he can hole up in that camp well enough, smartly enough, to turn back a full force of trained militia or men-at-arms, he knows full well the kind of fight he has courted."
He met the older Reonite's eyes for a moment. Here was a man who had been raised practically wreathed within their Goddess's light, trained by Her Paladins in combat against the evils of necromancy and educated by Her Priestesses in all manner of subjects. The type of Knight who, despite few personal glories, Gerard saw as exemplary— And he, just as the others, seemed to be at something of a loss.
That man of action.
"Unless they've grown more brazen in half a year, no bandit I know of does this without being quite sure he can handle us. For my money, he has something up his sleeve. I cannot say what it might be, but I can say I agree it to be worth planning for once we know. On that note—"
He rose a hand as he turned again to face the front, and spoke clearly and loudly for the first time in response to Captain Fanilly's stated request.
"Knight-Captain, I would volunteer for that job. It'd for once prove fortunate that I am not so completely armored as many of us here— less metal to catch the evening sun and less noise altogether." he explained, allowing himself a small and self-effacing smirk. "I grew up near a forest much like this one, as well. The terrain can't be too dissimilar."
@VitaVitaAR@Crimson Paladin
His words, honest and straightforward, were accompanied by a grimace as he took in the concerns of Sir Renar, a knight he had spent long hours in the Training Grounds alongside. The man's character was one somewhat like his own from what he could tell— a tireless engine of self-refinement, driven by some all-encompassing goal. Gerard hadn't felt it right of him to pry further, but he considered the man's word worth respecting on ethic alone. He was willing, more than most, to color in gray areas of thought. It lead to insights few dared make otherwise.
Perhaps, then, his mercenary background had given him such an image among his fellows.
Well, best not to let Sir Jodeau down.
"Bandits aren't bold people. They're opportunists. Creatures of pragmatism that prey upon safe targets, and they either crumble beneath a decent group of the King's soldiers, or know how to pick their battles. They ought to be cutting and running the moment they pulled off that defense, not literally inviting retribution. Even if we were to ride straight in without regard for casualties, we would certainly crush him just with the difference of troop quality alone. There are too many good knights here for us to not draw out a victory in a simple contest of strength. If he can hole up in that camp well enough, smartly enough, to turn back a full force of trained militia or men-at-arms, he knows full well the kind of fight he has courted."
He met the older Reonite's eyes for a moment. Here was a man who had been raised practically wreathed within their Goddess's light, trained by Her Paladins in combat against the evils of necromancy and educated by Her Priestesses in all manner of subjects. The type of Knight who, despite few personal glories, Gerard saw as exemplary— And he, just as the others, seemed to be at something of a loss.
That man of action.
"Unless they've grown more brazen in half a year, no bandit I know of does this without being quite sure he can handle us. For my money, he has something up his sleeve. I cannot say what it might be, but I can say I agree it to be worth planning for once we know. On that note—"
He rose a hand as he turned again to face the front, and spoke clearly and loudly for the first time in response to Captain Fanilly's stated request.
"Knight-Captain, I would volunteer for that job. It'd for once prove fortunate that I am not so completely armored as many of us here— less metal to catch the evening sun and less noise altogether." he explained, allowing himself a small and self-effacing smirk. "I grew up near a forest much like this one, as well. The terrain can't be too dissimilar."
@VitaVitaAR@Crimson Paladin
Not as of yet
livin' that introductory post life once again
It was a pang of familiarity, all things considered.
Six months ago, he rode out on a similar mission, yet with far less honored company. He wore the same humble and incomplete armor upon his torso, and carried the same stalwart blade upon his back, and his ears, now so used to the din of a clamorous battlefield, were washed over by the same rolling thunder of massed cavalry. He even found himself in a remarkably similar position within the formation, though now a scant bit closer to the front of the center as opposed to the rear.
His amber eyes swept the surrounding area as they galloped on, pulling in the long shadows and flamelike hues of dusk as it fell upon them. That ride was different in this respect— the raid that had brought him to this point in life, to be tasked like this with such storied fellows... it had taken place at dawn. Were he more poetically minded, Gerard believed that he may have pulled some significance out of the difference, like stanzas set to rhyme but carrying dissonant meaning. That which brought a beginning to his knighthood began the day, and now he rode out at the end of one... perhaps he would think something like that.
But he was a simple man from the country, as it were. The earth he had plowed in his youth had offered him much that served a knight— integrity, a strong back, no fear for hard work— but none such appreciation for the arts. As he was now, these things would simply be beyond him, and to read so far into it for an omen without proper understanding would only serve to disquiet a man riding out to battle. It was simple, really. People feared that what they did not know, did not understand, and did not find a clarity in. Such would not help a man with his life on the line in the slightest.
Fortunately, when the wind tossing his short charcoal locks died down and the thunder of cavalry receded, he felt no fear of that nature. A brief flash of a sort of disappointment in how mundane his task was, yes, but in that very same vein, he felt such a way thanks to countless raids like it as a mercenary. The contempt was borne of familiarity, and familiarity meant confidence.
This would be nothing he had not handled before, and that time was with worse training and more questionably equipped comrades.
Suspend with the questions of why make knights do this for now, Sir Segremors told himself, now once again looking ahead to the Captain, and count it a mercy that you aren't being thrown into unfamiliar territory.
She looked back over her shoulder. So young, that one. Scarcely if at all older than he was when he first held a blade, but to her credit, she came from a bit more preparation than "swinging an axe at a wolf in the woods a couple times as a boy" for matters of war. He understood that much. But for all his attempts at understanding...
"It won't be much longer that we will need to proceed on-foot," she said.
Her voice, high and clear, managed to carry out to the line even over the racket of transportation. Fine by him. He was a footsoldier often, before all of this. She hadn't committed any overt tactical blunders yet in his memory, and had Paladin Tyaethe and her two hundred years advising her. Captain Fanilly was new and young, that much was undeniable. It challenged many things he had learned as a sellsword, but who was he to speak upon such matters of Knights?
The Order of the Iron Rose had held its prestige through this method of selecting its new leader for far longer than any of them, save the aforementioned Paladin, had been alive. He could not ignore that, not as easily as he could ignore his misgivings. He remained quiet as others, such as Dame Forina and Artificer Elodie, mulling over their raised concerns and suggestions.
Forina's in particular seemed almost a direct rebuttal to his earlier determinations about their mission— which he did not in the slightest like. The knightess was many things, but she didn't speak without valid point. Not now. His considerations began to shift. Complacency wasn't warranted after all.
"I find it strange that he mentioned this order specifically." he mentioned, more within the undercurrent than the others.
Anyone thinking as simply as to challenge them for the sake of braggadocio wouldn't have given normal forces such trouble. They didn't think far enough ahead. This, in Gerard's mind, had to signify some perceived advantage.
Perhaps they should scou—
Ah. Lady Narcissa seemed to be of like mind. That worked.
He held his tongue, wishing to neither speak out of turn (he was new amongst them) nor flood the young Captain's ears any more than they were already.
Six months ago, he rode out on a similar mission, yet with far less honored company. He wore the same humble and incomplete armor upon his torso, and carried the same stalwart blade upon his back, and his ears, now so used to the din of a clamorous battlefield, were washed over by the same rolling thunder of massed cavalry. He even found himself in a remarkably similar position within the formation, though now a scant bit closer to the front of the center as opposed to the rear.
His amber eyes swept the surrounding area as they galloped on, pulling in the long shadows and flamelike hues of dusk as it fell upon them. That ride was different in this respect— the raid that had brought him to this point in life, to be tasked like this with such storied fellows... it had taken place at dawn. Were he more poetically minded, Gerard believed that he may have pulled some significance out of the difference, like stanzas set to rhyme but carrying dissonant meaning. That which brought a beginning to his knighthood began the day, and now he rode out at the end of one... perhaps he would think something like that.
But he was a simple man from the country, as it were. The earth he had plowed in his youth had offered him much that served a knight— integrity, a strong back, no fear for hard work— but none such appreciation for the arts. As he was now, these things would simply be beyond him, and to read so far into it for an omen without proper understanding would only serve to disquiet a man riding out to battle. It was simple, really. People feared that what they did not know, did not understand, and did not find a clarity in. Such would not help a man with his life on the line in the slightest.
Fortunately, when the wind tossing his short charcoal locks died down and the thunder of cavalry receded, he felt no fear of that nature. A brief flash of a sort of disappointment in how mundane his task was, yes, but in that very same vein, he felt such a way thanks to countless raids like it as a mercenary. The contempt was borne of familiarity, and familiarity meant confidence.
This would be nothing he had not handled before, and that time was with worse training and more questionably equipped comrades.
Suspend with the questions of why make knights do this for now, Sir Segremors told himself, now once again looking ahead to the Captain, and count it a mercy that you aren't being thrown into unfamiliar territory.
She looked back over her shoulder. So young, that one. Scarcely if at all older than he was when he first held a blade, but to her credit, she came from a bit more preparation than "swinging an axe at a wolf in the woods a couple times as a boy" for matters of war. He understood that much. But for all his attempts at understanding...
"It won't be much longer that we will need to proceed on-foot," she said.
Her voice, high and clear, managed to carry out to the line even over the racket of transportation. Fine by him. He was a footsoldier often, before all of this. She hadn't committed any overt tactical blunders yet in his memory, and had Paladin Tyaethe and her two hundred years advising her. Captain Fanilly was new and young, that much was undeniable. It challenged many things he had learned as a sellsword, but who was he to speak upon such matters of Knights?
The Order of the Iron Rose had held its prestige through this method of selecting its new leader for far longer than any of them, save the aforementioned Paladin, had been alive. He could not ignore that, not as easily as he could ignore his misgivings. He remained quiet as others, such as Dame Forina and Artificer Elodie, mulling over their raised concerns and suggestions.
Forina's in particular seemed almost a direct rebuttal to his earlier determinations about their mission— which he did not in the slightest like. The knightess was many things, but she didn't speak without valid point. Not now. His considerations began to shift. Complacency wasn't warranted after all.
"I find it strange that he mentioned this order specifically." he mentioned, more within the undercurrent than the others.
Anyone thinking as simply as to challenge them for the sake of braggadocio wouldn't have given normal forces such trouble. They didn't think far enough ahead. This, in Gerard's mind, had to signify some perceived advantage.
Perhaps they should scou—
Ah. Lady Narcissa seemed to be of like mind. That worked.
He held his tongue, wishing to neither speak out of turn (he was new amongst them) nor flood the young Captain's ears any more than they were already.
What a crew.
Hey, at least his mission was noble!
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