just had my second interview for a job, so with that stress outta the way, I'll probably be following pretty soon now
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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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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Most Recent Posts
Right, thanks. I'll give the others a chance to go first since I feel like I usually jump on things pretty early, but now I know what I wanna do with this.
so if i'm reading this right, we've currently got a man in the middle of a dust cloud and now on fire, yeah?
Steel bites deep into abyssal flesh, my foe either neglecting to or not having the ability to turn either sword away. Below me a steady chug heralds a stream of sustained fire— a substantial portion of it literal.
Well, Rhea got half her wish. Bekah's definitely having fun. As for me—
Nothing about the resistance I feel suggests much more toughness than the usual beast of this size. He isn't even particularly well-muscled, let alone encased in some armor or carapace beneath that murky haze. Fruitful. It means I can hack him to bits if I so desire, and that the ignited buckshot his midsection's being filled with ought to do much the same.
That said, gravity's still constant. I can't hang around forever in the air unless I get real creative, and "Shadow" isn't a foe that calls for such. I continue lashing out on my way down, drawing one, two, three lines of silver across my enemy's perforated midsection. All of them cut through sinew beneath shadow as they should, moving from clavicle, to chest, to abdomen in the brief instants between each discharge of 00 Buckshot. By now, I've fallen to about the level she's been aiming at as she circles the ink-colored monstrosity with dizzying speed, three full laps made and counting— a bad spot to be for anyone.
I plant my feet in his stomach as the Athenian's strides place her directly behind me.
Anyone else.
Rebekah Fell knows she has no need to release the trigger— I can handle myself with a fifth of a second to make a decision. She, more than anyone, knows all too well.
I kick off, sailing clear over the tight spread of fiery pellets with the force I've imparted— just in time for my own projectiles to complete their long arc downward. I was beginning to wonder if I'd somehow fucked up that opening salvo. I land, and note that my foe appears to be listing forward from all the work I've done trimming him down. Oh, that meant this next part would be pretty fun.
Three arrows cut through the young night sky at an almost vertical angle, and crash upon the thing's head with thunderous report. While not the bolts from the blue carried by the king of Olympus himself, the force equivalent of a trio of 40mm grenades is something nothing on this Earth can ignore.
The figure drops to his knees as I dash in. As an amalgamation of those dogs from before, it only stands to reason that he shares some of their regenerative ability— And with the night so low, a creature of shadow has much to draw from. Further scattering his head should prove insurance—
I don't get the chance. In a burst of motion, he wrenches his arms skyward, directly swatting away at my incoming form. Tizona and Colada cross to meet it, saving me from real harm, but I'm still knocked off my feet. Not ideal. Could be worse.
"This is all the children of Gods have to show?" he snarls, loosing waves of tendril, tail, and onyx-colored spike. "Pathetic. Undeserving. Mistakes."
"Well, not really."
I frown in midair, batting away strikes with the twin blades of El Cid as they come until I have a moment to dismiss them altogether. It's unfortunate, but it looks like I do have to give 'Shadow' this much credit: he doesn't seem to be quite so swayed by preternaturally terrifying weaponry. I'll have to come up with something else. Something to leave a more lasting impression on that pitch colored giant.
Giant...
Moreover, he seems mostly recovered from what we've thrown at him— at the very least, enough to put up this much of a fight. I hold no doubt in my mind I can kill him. I have stared down worse than this, and intend to do so many more times in my life. He is nothing that I can't eventually cut down to size... but considering the others, that may take time I don't have.
My feet find the earth again, and am greeted with something that challenges my sense of reality. A creaking, keening groan assaults my ears from behind the misshapen beast, like that of a splitting ship— Or indeed splitting dimensions.
A tear in reality has formed behind my foe. Even with the nigh-unparalleled acuity of vision I possess, I see nothing but blackness within. A rift into endless and starless night. What the hell is that?
A voice I have not heard crest a whisper until now answers my unspoken questioning.
"Force it into the void," the Daughter of Nyx cries, stepping forward with newfound steel. "Let it be lost, forever."
You don't say...
Force a being of shadow within a world of shadow, and what boundary does it have? Where does one draw the distinction between it and the rest? So long as she can close that gash in space, the concept was simple and straightforward enough. A Daughter of Darkness like her ought to be able to stop what she started just as easily— and just as I know my way around combat, I'd expect her to know her way around a foe like this, too.
"Understood, Boss."
But now I've gone and disarmed myself, haven't I? Let's fix that.
I search once again within the annals of my mind. I had an inkling of an idea earlier that, just as luck would have it, lines up perfectly with the new task at hand. If arming swords aren't up to snuff, then I needed something bigger. I needed something that wouldn't just cut well. My goal isn't to force something without real blood to bleed out.
I need to knock this guy around a little.
I need weight.
I need something scaled properly for fighting things larger than man...
Like a Giant.
I don't know much about this one, but I settle upon it. It has all the important qualities I need right now. I can swing it. It's massive. It's in a weight class well above that of human foes.
My right hand closes around not a proper horn or wood grip, but practically just a tang wrapped in white cloth. So old and improperly understood that this is what I ended up with, huh? Goes to show what just hearing a brief blurb about something would get you. I need to study up after this. Might shatter after the second swing if I'm not lucky.
Then again, I'd say I'm not lucky if I need to swing this more than once. And it's just as well that the grip has worn to nearly nothing— I doubt I could get my hand around it otherwise.
I grit my teeth and lift, bringing the blade longer than I am tall to bear. It holds a single, straight edge, faded blotches of random runes running down its fuller. The back of the blade tapers down to meet the edge in a point for somewhere between a third to a quarter of its length. The metal, I assume, is steel— and plenty of it. Multiple hundreds of pounds.
Out of anyone here, only I'm going to be swinging something this ridiculous around. Dallas is absolutely liable to rib me about it later.
The thing roars again and lashes out, well aware of the plan. He knows that, all at once, the situation has changed. His position is much more precarious. Enemy could be growing desperate, then. Will do everything in his power to avoid that rift, assumedly making the same conclusion as I.
Eh, let him rib me. I have work to do.
I dash forward. I am, by simple nature of physics, slower than before. I'd have to really push myself if I wanted to match my previous "blink of an eye" speed lugging this thing around— but "slower" and "slow" are separate terms.
The shadowy tendrils are back, and I count a half-dozen moving to intercept my advance. Normally I'd just knock them aside or chop them off so they could swipe at me no more.
A spike rushes past my cheekbone, a hair's breadth from breaking skin. I duck fully beneath another swipe, and sidestep past a third thrust.
But I content myself with dodging as I chew up the distance between us in the span of two seconds. I can't spare any of this old poem's tenuous grasp on the mortal world with small morsels like this. With such fragmentary knowledge, I can't guarantee its stability. It's an old tale from Germany, far more obscure to me than those of the Volsung or Nibelungenlied: This is Eckeseax.
The blade of a Giant.
I get inside range. Sorry for being such a slippery bastard, really, but I'm not here to be fair about it. You kind of interrupted the party we've meticulously plotted under the noses of all the staff.
I step in deep. Starting from the ground up, feet legs, hips, torso, and arms become one massively powerful kinetic chain. I exceed any man that has ever drawn breath in the past six hundred years, all to deliver a singular, smashing strike against the interloper's center of gravity. All of my strength carrying all of that weight with all of that speed— I am bound to force him back.
No matter how little I know of Ecke or the man who stole the seax from him before me, I know the one thing that matters for this fight.
There's not a damn thing that walks the Earth that shrugs off me hitting it with a quarter-ton of steel.
eh, i felt like i had a bit of a hard time recapturing the energy for this one
not the best, but keeping things moving
@Psyker Landshark@Raineh Daze@VitaVitaAR@Crimson Paladin
It appeared that part of the reason his delay in rejoining the fight was uninterrupted was the watchful eye of Sir Renar, who offered Gerard a curt nod of what seemed to be acknowledgement before falling in after his chase of Sir Jodeau, perhaps a half-step behind the younger swordsman. That was good— the more skilled and wily fighters they could throw at what could only be the Bandit King, the better.
A cry off to their flank interrupted that hopeful train of thought before it could get any further, however. A pair of bandits, coming in at almost perfect perpendicular with the tournament veteran, burst from the edge of the camp and forced him to sidestep. Not good. Gerard hard no doubt that any of the three of them could easily dispatch these men, but their sudden assault had forced them into an engagement— wasting precious time. They needed to aid the Captain— They needed to take Jeremiah out of the picture. This setback needed to be dealt with before it could bog the three of them down.
Bringing his Longsword to bear, Gerard raised it to the familiar Roof Guard, blade floating above his shoulder as he chewed up the remaining distance between himself and Sir Jodeau. It had been fortunate in a sense that they'd shown their hand so early, and that Gerard and Sir Renar had been trailing behind by paces— as they fell upon the first knight they saw, the second and third following him would fall upon them. He made to adjust his course and line up a murderous hew at the man with the mace—
"Gerard, go on ahead! I'll take care of these bandits and make sure none escape!"
—Only for the tournament veteran to fill that space himself, greatsword and dagger twin fangs that lashed out at the fleeing forms of the would-be ambushers. They did evade him, but they were also driven well off the following knightly pair's line of advance. The experienced knight's voice, his tone... It was collected and calm, but it brooked no dissent.
"Goddesses guide you."
He would be a fool to waste the opening his compatriot had given him.
Bathed in the orange light of the roaring flames, Gerard charged through, heedless of the waves of heat that blasted his face. Upon the other side, he heard the tail end of Paladin Tyaethe's signature needling words. She generally wasted little time beyond a few flicks of the acrid tongue in his experience— so they had come sailing in just on the mark for the battle to begin anew, then.
Perfect.
Without hesitation, Gerard planted a boot upon one of the dimmer branches and pushed off, carrying himself over the tree in a single motion— and for the first time, he saw the mountain of a man that stood before them.
Several things began to make sense. Firstly, that blade he carried— far too large to be called a sword. Too big, too thick, too heavy, too rough— the man was swinging around a hunk of raw Iron. The weight alone would smash straight through any sword of standard make that tried to get between it and a knight once it got up to speed— and Gerard's longsword would be no exception. Next, he noted that there was no armoring upon Jeremiah's frame— on one hand, it meant he had no protection from any attacks that slipped past his guard, but on the other, it meant that he would worry relatively less about tiring out or overheating while swinging that hunk of metal around. If one could get past it.
Thirdly, he noticed the sadistic grin upon his shaven countenance. He was enjoying the carnage, then. Living up to his title, the king of these brigands and all their savagery. Toying with those he considered beneath him, wantonly chopping good men in half and pronouncing that he would be the death of their historic, noble order. Everything Sagramore had expected.
Monstrous strength, massive blade, and three hundred dead men to his name or not—
The pounding in his skull returned.
This will not stand.
Paladin Tyaethe had moved in at remarkable pace, darting into a blind angle behind Jeremiah's wide back— Captain Fanilly and Sir Jarde were currently at his front. Two cardinal directions taken care of.
Find third. Force attack from different angle and different level. Seize the initiative.
Even as his blood turned to boiling pitch, Gellert used that of him which was still reasonable to formulate a plan, similar to the one he had prior. Landing and bleeding off momentum into a roll on a diagonal, he managed to position himself roughly betwixt Tyaethe and Jeremiah's left side.
Perfect for shoving the point of a longsword through a man's kidney. He sprung out of the roll into exactly such a thrust, coming in at an almost exaggeratedly low angle with every ounce of force and velocity he could muster behind it. There was neither fear nor doubt in his movement— such things had long since burned away, in battles far earlier than this one.
Now, the Bandit King had to deal with an attack from The Roof by the vampire woman's blade, something massive in its own right— with whatever frontal counterattack made by Fanilly and Jarde in this instance— and with his own thrust, low, long, and direct. Even if Jeremiah killed him here, doing so would leave him open to attacks from at least one the former two angles through the simple variation in position and height. The same went for the others.
Someone would bring him down today.
It appeared that part of the reason his delay in rejoining the fight was uninterrupted was the watchful eye of Sir Renar, who offered Gerard a curt nod of what seemed to be acknowledgement before falling in after his chase of Sir Jodeau, perhaps a half-step behind the younger swordsman. That was good— the more skilled and wily fighters they could throw at what could only be the Bandit King, the better.
A cry off to their flank interrupted that hopeful train of thought before it could get any further, however. A pair of bandits, coming in at almost perfect perpendicular with the tournament veteran, burst from the edge of the camp and forced him to sidestep. Not good. Gerard hard no doubt that any of the three of them could easily dispatch these men, but their sudden assault had forced them into an engagement— wasting precious time. They needed to aid the Captain— They needed to take Jeremiah out of the picture. This setback needed to be dealt with before it could bog the three of them down.
Bringing his Longsword to bear, Gerard raised it to the familiar Roof Guard, blade floating above his shoulder as he chewed up the remaining distance between himself and Sir Jodeau. It had been fortunate in a sense that they'd shown their hand so early, and that Gerard and Sir Renar had been trailing behind by paces— as they fell upon the first knight they saw, the second and third following him would fall upon them. He made to adjust his course and line up a murderous hew at the man with the mace—
"Gerard, go on ahead! I'll take care of these bandits and make sure none escape!"
—Only for the tournament veteran to fill that space himself, greatsword and dagger twin fangs that lashed out at the fleeing forms of the would-be ambushers. They did evade him, but they were also driven well off the following knightly pair's line of advance. The experienced knight's voice, his tone... It was collected and calm, but it brooked no dissent.
"Goddesses guide you."
He would be a fool to waste the opening his compatriot had given him.
Bathed in the orange light of the roaring flames, Gerard charged through, heedless of the waves of heat that blasted his face. Upon the other side, he heard the tail end of Paladin Tyaethe's signature needling words. She generally wasted little time beyond a few flicks of the acrid tongue in his experience— so they had come sailing in just on the mark for the battle to begin anew, then.
Perfect.
Without hesitation, Gerard planted a boot upon one of the dimmer branches and pushed off, carrying himself over the tree in a single motion— and for the first time, he saw the mountain of a man that stood before them.
Several things began to make sense. Firstly, that blade he carried— far too large to be called a sword. Too big, too thick, too heavy, too rough— the man was swinging around a hunk of raw Iron. The weight alone would smash straight through any sword of standard make that tried to get between it and a knight once it got up to speed— and Gerard's longsword would be no exception. Next, he noted that there was no armoring upon Jeremiah's frame— on one hand, it meant he had no protection from any attacks that slipped past his guard, but on the other, it meant that he would worry relatively less about tiring out or overheating while swinging that hunk of metal around. If one could get past it.
Thirdly, he noticed the sadistic grin upon his shaven countenance. He was enjoying the carnage, then. Living up to his title, the king of these brigands and all their savagery. Toying with those he considered beneath him, wantonly chopping good men in half and pronouncing that he would be the death of their historic, noble order. Everything Sagramore had expected.
Monstrous strength, massive blade, and three hundred dead men to his name or not—
The pounding in his skull returned.
This will not stand.
Paladin Tyaethe had moved in at remarkable pace, darting into a blind angle behind Jeremiah's wide back— Captain Fanilly and Sir Jarde were currently at his front. Two cardinal directions taken care of.
Find third. Force attack from different angle and different level. Seize the initiative.
Even as his blood turned to boiling pitch, Gellert used that of him which was still reasonable to formulate a plan, similar to the one he had prior. Landing and bleeding off momentum into a roll on a diagonal, he managed to position himself roughly betwixt Tyaethe and Jeremiah's left side.
Perfect for shoving the point of a longsword through a man's kidney. He sprung out of the roll into exactly such a thrust, coming in at an almost exaggeratedly low angle with every ounce of force and velocity he could muster behind it. There was neither fear nor doubt in his movement— such things had long since burned away, in battles far earlier than this one.
Now, the Bandit King had to deal with an attack from The Roof by the vampire woman's blade, something massive in its own right— with whatever frontal counterattack made by Fanilly and Jarde in this instance— and with his own thrust, low, long, and direct. Even if Jeremiah killed him here, doing so would leave him open to attacks from at least one the former two angles through the simple variation in position and height. The same went for the others.
Someone would bring him down today.
Well, speaking of shit happening, I've got a good bit of it on my plate right now. I'll try and knock something out when I'm able.
No worries, shit happens
@Psyker Landshark@jdh97@Crimson Paladin@Raineh Daze@VitaVitaAR
Ebb and flow.
Action and reaction.
Impacts against the blade resonating with the pumping in his skull.
The rhythm through which he experienced this loud, bloody, and unforgiving world. Many likened it to a dance when they romanticised it, the constant give and take of force and space.
Gerard Segremors could not bring himself to agree. There was nothing so whimsical here— warfare could only be warfare. It was simply too discordant to be anything else. Even dueling had enough order, enough regulation, enough elimination of meddling outside forces to still step one foot into the realm of dance in his mind, but not warfare.
He surged forward, his longsword biting deep into the clavicle of an axeman. As the tip of the rightward spear, he had met the forefront of the slapdash defenses their enemies had managed to mount, and was by now deep in the thick of the camp after the mere moment it took for the full weight of his detachment to crash through behind his lead. It was as if the battle before had been a sample of that of now... There were no more elite forces here than out on the roads.
The routing of the king's men could not have been done by these bandits.
He ripped the blade free, kicking him as he fell and fully disregarding the spurt of blood that fell upon his boot. Such was expected, but less so was one of your fellows suddenly falling beneath your feet— the final lesson learned by a charging spearman before the knight he had set to impale cracked his skull with their warhammer.
It had to be this King Jeremiah.
The knight barked their thanks, receiving a simple grunt of affirmation as their impromptu "commander" dashed forward, scooping up the dropped polearm. Gripping the eight-foot oaken shaft by its end, he stepped in deep and thrust forward, breaking through the boiled leather over another's ribcage as he was attempting to turn towards the approaching noise. With his dying breath through the punctured lung, the malcontent managed to bring his crossbow to bear upon the knight's furrowed brow—
But Segremors's instincts and experience proved too savvy. As the bolt was fired with a thankfully labored motion, he was already ducking out to the side, and the projectile struck home into the shoulder of another bandit who had the thought of trying to split Gerard's skull with a club from behind, while he had been busying himself with a little spearplay.
"AGH! KEITH, YOU FU—"
He was not allowed the time to finish his reprimand, as the vengeful Reonite came out of the roll in a turning, two-handed cleave that drew a murderous line right through his neck, very nearly decapitating the man outright. In severing two major arteries, this hew had a naturally spectacular effect.
The crack of a burning, falling tree drew his attention towards the front. A shout, high and stern, cutting through the din of his fellows righteous slaughter. In the personal lull of combat, all enemies in the immediate area accounted for, he found himself returning to his own mind.
"Nobody try blocking him!"
Paladin Tyaethe. If she was spitting out a warning, that could only mean they had encountered something worthy of it even in her eyes, more battle experience behind them than he had in simply living.
These bandits were getting torn open all the same. For the one exception to have shown himself, in cutting down that massive, burning log—
From the rear, he saw Sir Jodeau racing past him, directly towards that now cordoned off section of the camp. All the confirmation he needed.
Jeremiah.
He wiped the warm and wet crimson from his eyes with a sleeve.
Well, if the man's blade couldn't be blocked, then he simply needed to engineer an offense that negated the need.
Planting a boot in the corpse of the crossbow-wielder, he ripped the spear free from the man's midsection. Eight feet or so, all told... Almost certainly longer than whatever the hell Jeremiah was carrying. Harassing with this, baiting out wide swings, then closing the gap in their wake...
It could work. It could definitely work, especially if he had the help of such experienced fighters as Paladin Tyaethe and Fleuri Jodeau at his si—
"Y-you..."
He looked up, a small squeak wrought with terror penetrating his rudimentary plan and bringing him back to the present in full. This being a battlefield, he couched it into his armpit on reflex at the sound— before he truly saw where it had come from.
Within one of the tents, tucked away as deeply into the shadows as her quavering form could muster itself to be, was a girl. A young girl, dressed in plain, disheveled clothes of brown and tan cotton— likely barely older than their captain. Her hair was a mess of brown curls, and her eyes wide and white, ragged as her breathing. One of the prisoners their interrogations had revealed, there was no doubt in his mind. A peasant. An innocent.
Someone stolen from her home. From her family. From her life.
The pulse rose again within him.
"You're one of the Iron Rose Knights, right? Th-The bandits were shouting that when the fighting started..."
A plea.
"I am."
An answer.
She flinched as he knelt after approaching with those words. They had unfortunately come out rougher than he had meant, still wrestling with the righteous fury within his heart that screamed at him to head for the Bandit King. He desperately wanted to, there wasn't any sense denying that fact...
But he could not simply leave this defenseless girl to her fate.
"You hurt?"
"No, I tucked me'self away when the screamin' started..."
"Okay," he said, glancing down to the weapon his left hand and then back to her. "Do you know where the other prisoners are?"
She shook her head. So he couldn't sweep for the rest quite yet, nor could he send her to gather them up anywhere safe. There was no telling if there were more bandits lurking the forest, and the battle was still being fought fiercely elsewhere within the camp. He didn't want this kid catching a bolt or arrow, stray or otherwise. Dammit, not many options were left after all that. She had survived this long here...
"Alright, then I need you to stay put and out of sight. We'll get you out of here once this is over."
He amended every plan he had tried to make in the past two minutes.
"Ever use a spear before?"
"N-No, Sir."
"It's easy." he stated, inverting his grip and holding it out to the opening. "Put the sharp part through whomever's trying to hurt you."
Slowly, over the course of an agonized and tentative minute, a pale, thin hand emerged from the shade and wrapped around the haft, followed by another, and he let go. It wobbled and shook a little in her grip, but she nevertheless took a hold of the weapon. Her newfound protection.
"Atta girl."
Gerard rose, favoring her with a hopefully reassuring, bloodsoaked smile before turning back towards the center of the camp.
"Now, I have to go help my friends. Stay silent, stay safe, and stay steady, understand?"
He gripped his longsword with both hands, returning to familiar form. His previous plan to abuse a likely reach advantage on Jeremiah now firmly out of the window—
"May Reon's light protect thee."
—He nevertheless raced forward without a second thought nor a second of doubt, propelled by boiling blood and following in the wake of Sir Jodeau towards the center.
Towards the lynchpin of all this.
Towards the Bandit King.
Ebb and flow.
Action and reaction.
Impacts against the blade resonating with the pumping in his skull.
The rhythm through which he experienced this loud, bloody, and unforgiving world. Many likened it to a dance when they romanticised it, the constant give and take of force and space.
Gerard Segremors could not bring himself to agree. There was nothing so whimsical here— warfare could only be warfare. It was simply too discordant to be anything else. Even dueling had enough order, enough regulation, enough elimination of meddling outside forces to still step one foot into the realm of dance in his mind, but not warfare.
He surged forward, his longsword biting deep into the clavicle of an axeman. As the tip of the rightward spear, he had met the forefront of the slapdash defenses their enemies had managed to mount, and was by now deep in the thick of the camp after the mere moment it took for the full weight of his detachment to crash through behind his lead. It was as if the battle before had been a sample of that of now... There were no more elite forces here than out on the roads.
The routing of the king's men could not have been done by these bandits.
He ripped the blade free, kicking him as he fell and fully disregarding the spurt of blood that fell upon his boot. Such was expected, but less so was one of your fellows suddenly falling beneath your feet— the final lesson learned by a charging spearman before the knight he had set to impale cracked his skull with their warhammer.
It had to be this King Jeremiah.
The knight barked their thanks, receiving a simple grunt of affirmation as their impromptu "commander" dashed forward, scooping up the dropped polearm. Gripping the eight-foot oaken shaft by its end, he stepped in deep and thrust forward, breaking through the boiled leather over another's ribcage as he was attempting to turn towards the approaching noise. With his dying breath through the punctured lung, the malcontent managed to bring his crossbow to bear upon the knight's furrowed brow—
But Segremors's instincts and experience proved too savvy. As the bolt was fired with a thankfully labored motion, he was already ducking out to the side, and the projectile struck home into the shoulder of another bandit who had the thought of trying to split Gerard's skull with a club from behind, while he had been busying himself with a little spearplay.
"AGH! KEITH, YOU FU—"
He was not allowed the time to finish his reprimand, as the vengeful Reonite came out of the roll in a turning, two-handed cleave that drew a murderous line right through his neck, very nearly decapitating the man outright. In severing two major arteries, this hew had a naturally spectacular effect.
The crack of a burning, falling tree drew his attention towards the front. A shout, high and stern, cutting through the din of his fellows righteous slaughter. In the personal lull of combat, all enemies in the immediate area accounted for, he found himself returning to his own mind.
"Nobody try blocking him!"
Paladin Tyaethe. If she was spitting out a warning, that could only mean they had encountered something worthy of it even in her eyes, more battle experience behind them than he had in simply living.
These bandits were getting torn open all the same. For the one exception to have shown himself, in cutting down that massive, burning log—
From the rear, he saw Sir Jodeau racing past him, directly towards that now cordoned off section of the camp. All the confirmation he needed.
Jeremiah.
He wiped the warm and wet crimson from his eyes with a sleeve.
Well, if the man's blade couldn't be blocked, then he simply needed to engineer an offense that negated the need.
Planting a boot in the corpse of the crossbow-wielder, he ripped the spear free from the man's midsection. Eight feet or so, all told... Almost certainly longer than whatever the hell Jeremiah was carrying. Harassing with this, baiting out wide swings, then closing the gap in their wake...
It could work. It could definitely work, especially if he had the help of such experienced fighters as Paladin Tyaethe and Fleuri Jodeau at his si—
"Y-you..."
He looked up, a small squeak wrought with terror penetrating his rudimentary plan and bringing him back to the present in full. This being a battlefield, he couched it into his armpit on reflex at the sound— before he truly saw where it had come from.
Within one of the tents, tucked away as deeply into the shadows as her quavering form could muster itself to be, was a girl. A young girl, dressed in plain, disheveled clothes of brown and tan cotton— likely barely older than their captain. Her hair was a mess of brown curls, and her eyes wide and white, ragged as her breathing. One of the prisoners their interrogations had revealed, there was no doubt in his mind. A peasant. An innocent.
Someone stolen from her home. From her family. From her life.
The pulse rose again within him.
"You're one of the Iron Rose Knights, right? Th-The bandits were shouting that when the fighting started..."
A plea.
"I am."
An answer.
She flinched as he knelt after approaching with those words. They had unfortunately come out rougher than he had meant, still wrestling with the righteous fury within his heart that screamed at him to head for the Bandit King. He desperately wanted to, there wasn't any sense denying that fact...
But he could not simply leave this defenseless girl to her fate.
"You hurt?"
"No, I tucked me'self away when the screamin' started..."
"Okay," he said, glancing down to the weapon his left hand and then back to her. "Do you know where the other prisoners are?"
She shook her head. So he couldn't sweep for the rest quite yet, nor could he send her to gather them up anywhere safe. There was no telling if there were more bandits lurking the forest, and the battle was still being fought fiercely elsewhere within the camp. He didn't want this kid catching a bolt or arrow, stray or otherwise. Dammit, not many options were left after all that. She had survived this long here...
"Alright, then I need you to stay put and out of sight. We'll get you out of here once this is over."
He amended every plan he had tried to make in the past two minutes.
"Ever use a spear before?"
"N-No, Sir."
"It's easy." he stated, inverting his grip and holding it out to the opening. "Put the sharp part through whomever's trying to hurt you."
Slowly, over the course of an agonized and tentative minute, a pale, thin hand emerged from the shade and wrapped around the haft, followed by another, and he let go. It wobbled and shook a little in her grip, but she nevertheless took a hold of the weapon. Her newfound protection.
"Atta girl."
Gerard rose, favoring her with a hopefully reassuring, bloodsoaked smile before turning back towards the center of the camp.
"Now, I have to go help my friends. Stay silent, stay safe, and stay steady, understand?"
He gripped his longsword with both hands, returning to familiar form. His previous plan to abuse a likely reach advantage on Jeremiah now firmly out of the window—
"May Reon's light protect thee."
—He nevertheless raced forward without a second thought nor a second of doubt, propelled by boiling blood and following in the wake of Sir Jodeau towards the center.
Towards the lynchpin of all this.
Towards the Bandit King.
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