ending them rightly was the correct move in each engagement, Gerard knew his fellows could manage to take one prisoner
HereComesTheSnow Member
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STATUS: all i've been trying to say is that Ethical Corruption has never been tried before you don't need to yell at me 18 days ago
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18 days ago
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all i've been trying to say is that Ethical Corruption has never been tried before you don't need to yell at me
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2 mos ago
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
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3 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.
4 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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5 mos ago
I'm like the "conspicuously modded with multiple trojan backdoors skyrim save on your friend's screenshare stream" of white boys
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girls have cooties ill pass bro
@Virgil If he offers the momentum, it’s only polite to take it
Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war...
Not a phrase one often heard amongst knightly company, being that they held themselves to higher standards than "crying havoc". They were chivalrous, they were controlled, they did not let themselves slip, they were above mere dogs. These were all understandings he had long held, even before he himself had risen to their level.
A flash of movement from his peripheral prompted him to whirl into a sidestep, barely registering that the point of the brigand's spear had nicked the cloth shirt beneath his cuirass, inches from his ribs. Initiative wasn't his after this man charged him from the treeline. He had to remedy that. Fight in the third, crucial stance, The Instant. The realm of split decisions that could set up a sturdy defense to regain a fierce offense. His left arm clamped down upon the wooden haft of the spear as the momentum of the thrust carried it clear without the resistance of flesh and bone to impede it. Pinning the weapon to his side before the foe could retract it, he stepped forward and used his free hand to ram his pommel into the bridge of the bandit's nose, earning a spurt of blood for his effort and stopping the hands that were scrambling for the dagger after giving up on retrieving their lance.
Gerard Segremors did not yet possess that level of domain amongst himself. Not yet, as six months could only undo so much of seven years. He still yet grappled with the trance of bloodshed, the disembodying sensation of combat's action and reaction. At times, it was almost as if he watched himself fight. It was worse when he was angered... and though he was not filled with white-hot rage yet, each bloodied weapon drove him a step further.
Without much of a thought, the new knight cut the man clutching at the white pain that had exploded across his vision, a spray of red from his side coming forth as he fell. He had made his way past most of the mass of his brethren now, and was drawing even with Paladin Tyaethe, Knight-Captain Fanilly, and Artificer Elodie. He noted their presence and roughly what they were doing, that the latter was kneeling near the wounded man and the former pair were currently engaging enemies.
There were bandits yet in front of them, he intuited, like the one their Captain had just slain. If those turned tail and ran, they would doubtlessly break away from the group and report back to their 'Bandit King'. He would not abide this. They could not flee from what they had done. He wouldn't let them.
A bolt at a shallow angle bit into his pauldron, prompting the spear he carried to be stabbed thunderously into the brush on the right of him with its full length. His golden eyes, alight with intent to repay, caught the fleeting form of his assailant nimbly weaving past the strike, having already been in motion after loosing the crossbow, and tracked his movement—
The rumble of thunderous magic informed them both of the bandit's destination— fulminated death. The mages had began their counterattack as ordered, and around their section of woods harassing forces much like him met similar fates at the hands of the Iron Rose's arcane arm. Between the crack of lightning and kinetic jolt from the bolt that was now stuck within the padding beneath the plate, though, he returned somewhat from his combative fugue.
"The front," he breathed, addressing the group nearby as he was allowed a moment by the mages. "I believe we should cut it off. Pen them in like we originally planned."
@VitaVitaAR@Raineh Daze@ERode
Not a phrase one often heard amongst knightly company, being that they held themselves to higher standards than "crying havoc". They were chivalrous, they were controlled, they did not let themselves slip, they were above mere dogs. These were all understandings he had long held, even before he himself had risen to their level.
A flash of movement from his peripheral prompted him to whirl into a sidestep, barely registering that the point of the brigand's spear had nicked the cloth shirt beneath his cuirass, inches from his ribs. Initiative wasn't his after this man charged him from the treeline. He had to remedy that. Fight in the third, crucial stance, The Instant. The realm of split decisions that could set up a sturdy defense to regain a fierce offense. His left arm clamped down upon the wooden haft of the spear as the momentum of the thrust carried it clear without the resistance of flesh and bone to impede it. Pinning the weapon to his side before the foe could retract it, he stepped forward and used his free hand to ram his pommel into the bridge of the bandit's nose, earning a spurt of blood for his effort and stopping the hands that were scrambling for the dagger after giving up on retrieving their lance.
Gerard Segremors did not yet possess that level of domain amongst himself. Not yet, as six months could only undo so much of seven years. He still yet grappled with the trance of bloodshed, the disembodying sensation of combat's action and reaction. At times, it was almost as if he watched himself fight. It was worse when he was angered... and though he was not filled with white-hot rage yet, each bloodied weapon drove him a step further.
Without much of a thought, the new knight cut the man clutching at the white pain that had exploded across his vision, a spray of red from his side coming forth as he fell. He had made his way past most of the mass of his brethren now, and was drawing even with Paladin Tyaethe, Knight-Captain Fanilly, and Artificer Elodie. He noted their presence and roughly what they were doing, that the latter was kneeling near the wounded man and the former pair were currently engaging enemies.
There were bandits yet in front of them, he intuited, like the one their Captain had just slain. If those turned tail and ran, they would doubtlessly break away from the group and report back to their 'Bandit King'. He would not abide this. They could not flee from what they had done. He wouldn't let them.
A bolt at a shallow angle bit into his pauldron, prompting the spear he carried to be stabbed thunderously into the brush on the right of him with its full length. His golden eyes, alight with intent to repay, caught the fleeting form of his assailant nimbly weaving past the strike, having already been in motion after loosing the crossbow, and tracked his movement—
The rumble of thunderous magic informed them both of the bandit's destination— fulminated death. The mages had began their counterattack as ordered, and around their section of woods harassing forces much like him met similar fates at the hands of the Iron Rose's arcane arm. Between the crack of lightning and kinetic jolt from the bolt that was now stuck within the padding beneath the plate, though, he returned somewhat from his combative fugue.
"The front," he breathed, addressing the group nearby as he was allowed a moment by the mages. "I believe we should cut it off. Pen them in like we originally planned."
@VitaVitaAR@Raineh Daze@ERode
while you debated strategy and horsemanship, i studied the blade
watch out guys druncardes gonna get PISSED
The same way I always do— study the relevant martial arts for my character as much as possible and hope for the best
@Virgil
hello i am world's weirdest new student of german longsword fencing
fucking liechtenauer
"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.
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