HereComesTheSnow — Roleplayer Guild

Gerard Segremors

@VitaVitaAR@Raineh Daze@Sync@Krayzikk@ghastlyInc

Sir Indrau would be proud to note that Segremors, more than anything, had proven himself a keen listener.

His head whipped to the source of the blur that flashed across his field of view, narrowly missing the Princess's skull thanks to their forewarned Captain, and her reflexes. There, as if she had melted out of the shadows between men, stood the small figure of a hooded Nem Assassin. In her hands was a crossbow, sized for her kind and in the midst of racking another bolt—

Now was no time for talk.

He existed now within the indes. The interval. The time between actions, where reaction was king. The attack had been made. There was an infinitesimal window for reprisal. Not to be wasted on speech, not to be wasted on anything but decision. Something the knight had grown very, very accustomed to, beaten deep into the the framework of his mind.

Reclaim Vor.

You're mine.

And the space between the Princess, the Captain, and the Nem was filled by a hurtling wall of leather, steel, and furnace-eyed fury. As soon as his reactions allowed, he had broken off into a dead sprint, bearing down upon the would-be Assassin as though nothing else in the world mattered. His mission was clear. No orders were necessary— the threat had shown itself. That tiny crossbow would be lethal to those unarmored, but it wasn't going to have a chance in hell of getting through him.

Even if it penetrated his armor, that didn't matter. He'd get to them before he felt it. His blood was well and truly coursing now— They had courted themselves a fight. The world even seemed to slow just as much as it hastened— there wasn't much distance at all he had to cover, but he still saw the very many things that happened in sequence. A blink of an eye felt simultaneously like the world had slowed. The rush of fire through his body, so familiar, had returned in full.

The Nem was professional enough to waste no time in reloading and adjusting her aim, and as he broke away from their group, she had already gotten a bead on the now-downed Princess— and fired. He couldn't see the bolt flying downrange, too focused on the shooter herself, but knew he had a good chance of being in the way of it. He wouldn't let it tear his burning gaze away from his target.

Before he could brace for the thunk against his frame, be it upon armor or digging dully into his flesh, another interposed herself between the missile and the group. By extension, Gerard as well. Tyaethe, currently child-sized, took the shot. She was a vampire. She seemed as unbothered as he would expect.

"If anyone tries something lethal, I'm knocking them out."

Unbothered enough to change mission. He couldn't completely eliminate the threat anymore. Capture, then.

In the next fraction of a second, as he darted past the Paladin, a burgundy lance burst forth from behind, cresting the diminutive albino's shoulder and terminating right at the crossbow in her hands. Gerard was close enough now to watch the string, before it could rack a third bolt, fall limply, uselessly, to the sides of the pistol stock. Those limbs wouldn't draw back again. No more projectiles to even think about. He knew not whose magic it was, nor the type exactly, but somebody had just taken the weapon out of the picture.

Good. He could roughhouse without worry now. Nothing flying in confusion. No need to wrestle away a weapon. Nearly there.

He dove for the Nem with one powerful leap, all the athleticism that had carried him over that short distance in the span of seconds now sending over two hundred pounds of flesh and metal directly into the frame of the Assassin. He'd get a hold of her. Drive his knee, all weight behind it, into the small of her back. Twist an arm up and behind for good measure. Hold his knife to her throat—

Nonlethal. Too risky. Struggling could mean unintended cut.

He'd immobilize her head. Maybe grind into the floor to interrogate. Really get a whiff of the posh carpet.

At nearly double her height and reach, coming in with all the speed and force he could muster, he was certain he could get ahold of this one. She had so much to react to, so little distance between them— all it would be was a matter of grappling. He had advantages in spades there. Length. Strength. Maybe experience. Definitely meanness.

Unless orders came into the contrary, he intended to leverage them all until the incoming interrogation ended.
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