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7 days ago
Current they should let me into the presidential debates as like a stage hazard. i should be like the negligent drivers in onett, plowing into whichever seniors don't heed the warning that i'm coming
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1 mo ago
frantically flipping through my notebook as i realize i'm late for my monthly bit. bomb. bomb. caesium capsule meets stomach lining. bomb. murder confession. bomb. need new material before they bomb m
1 like
3 mos ago
Never stop creating. Never stop improving. Live life fully, honestly, and the mystical adventure never ends. Thank you, Sensei. I think I'll train tomorrow.
9 likes
5 mos ago
My dreams are getting weird. They usually involve sterile lighting and a bunch of guys in labcoats discussing sedative dosages around me and getting really scared when i try to go to the bathroom lol
1 like
6 mos ago
i consume enough energy drink i changed my zodiac sign, i'm more taurine than any motherfucker born in April and i killed eleven people in that applebees two miles down the road
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Gerard Segremors

@VitaVitaAR@Rune_Alchemist@PigeonOfAstora

Two arrows loosed, their flight heralded by the deep hums of once-taut string. Cecelia’s to the hooded goliath’s cannonball shoulder, wind magic sheath primed to knock the joint open should the head catch into whatever hammer-swinging muscle lied beneath. A beat later came Lein’s, sent into the murky depths of the hood itself, towards eyes, nose, maw, a harassment of any sense still left in the wake of its former life. A one-two punch that would give most foes pause, if even for a moment, if defended or allowed to sink home.

A third arrow, propelled by a change in orders, was instead sung its approach by clattering, smashing, and pounding drums. Sir Gerard, ever impetuous, strove to make good on his word.

His sabatons pounded the damp, musty tile. Sparks flew as his shield caught the the beard of a swinging axe upon its metallic border, only to be shoved aside as steel, sinew, and speed collided with strung-up bone. A human battering ram, knocking all clear from his path.

His golden eyes flicked ahead, noting the trajectories of his comrades’ shots and he selected his own target in turn as he bore down upon the hulking undead. Another time might have seen him realize that as proof of his continued training within the Order, no mean feat that having the eyes to react to flying arrows was—

Face. Shoulder. Two targets. Just like Jeremiah. Win by forcing third. Kill joints. Kill base of force. Kill options.

—But the fight had now taken him, and left nothing in pride’s place but battlefield rigour.

His charge was swift, and in the span of three breaths he had cleared a line to the giant undead and was upon it. Its black hammer was heavy, its form distended and bulbous beyond humanity. A deep, threatening mystery of what horror they faced lurked within the shadows of its hood as it towered over him, further accentuated by his sudden drop in posture. Intimidating. Plainly and simply so.

He grit his teeth, an open snarl.

He came in the wake of two arrows, loosed by some of the land’s most skilled, aimed true and thus surely giving him this instant he had seized. He held in his hand Reon’s own thunder, cast in the visage of Her Morning Light and still burning with her blessing.

He had but one fear in his heart, knowing the task that stood before him.
All others had been burned away. The boy from the farm that would have once balked, gagged, fled this abomination was dead. There was no room for him any more. For too long, there had not been. In his place stood a man, forged by war, who refused to falter.

Victory would expect nothing less.

He swung Dawn’s Break into the monstrosity’s kneecap, looking to land just after the arrows did, and do it with authority.
Gerard Segremors

@VitaVitaAR@Rune_Alchemist@PigeonOfAstora

The former mercenary, by contrast to Cecilia's flighty and careless whimsy that so befit the wind spirits her bow ensconsed, had become a picture of tight-lipped and grim violence, smashing the puppeteered bones free from the unholy strings that held them aloft behind furrowed brow, unspoken snarl, and furnace-like eyes. Gerard instead responded to the shaken-off concerns by closing the gap between himself and the other three whenever the fight may have pulled one astray, surging to fill whatever holes their maneuvering and distance management opened in their small, diamond ranks with bludgeoning, swinging steel.

Keep formation tight, and she could worry as little as she liked. That was the role of heavily-armed brawling escort like himself to an archer like her to begin with, in all fairness.

Against these foes, he was glad to have taken Dame Serenity's shield off her hands— there were few men-at-arms alive that overlooked its capability as a weapon in its' own right, merging a wall of steel to block the jerkily swung but visibly fresh blades sent their way with a good mass strapped to the off hand to return with full-bodied shoves, charges, and back-handed swipes that crashed into the enemy as though a mighty chariot.

The silhouette stalking up the stairs, doubtless, was another of the Lieutenants at play, meaning to take another of their number off the formation as the rest descended. They were fuller of form, careful in their stride, heavier in their footfalls as the ascending steps thumped with their approach, beneath the many sounds of battle. With nothing else to go off of, the valiantly conscious part of Gerard's mind that hummed beneath his familiar battle-rush spoke of a third refrain, to be sure.

Gritting his teeth, the wolf's amber gaze affixed the figure with an open glare, catching the burst of burning Aurum of Reon's fury as he brought Dawn's Break smashing through the clavicle, then ribcage, then spine. All that spared it of his wrath, speaking frankly, was knowing how thin they had already spread. Unless they held for their fellows behind to crash into the enemy from above, hoping they would make short work of the strong foes they'd already been faced with... he couldn't go for this one's throat. Not yet. Not on his lonesome.

So instead, he howled.

"Another one coming up!" he called, about-facing to bring both shield and morningstar to bear on the new threat. "If we're going through him, I've got point!"

The burliest and meanest of their number, and armed with a Paladin’s steel, him as the battering ram just made sense. His prior career had shaped him for it.
italybros we are so fucking back
Gerard Segremors

@ERode@VitaVitaAR@Raineh Daze@Rune_Alchemist@PigeonOfAstora

So be it, then.

The palm on her shoulder was lifted away, and instead freed her of the shield that had served as her answer. He shifted his grip on the mass of wood, metal, and hide for a moment, listening to the all-too-familiar words she gamely chided their number beneath...

"Good hunting."

And left in tow of the group at large, bringing up the rear as he looped his fingers around its handle. A resounding "yes" to the unspoken question beneath his words. Assurance delivered through action and intent, wasting little else on the answer Gerard knew to expect. Of course, she was willing. He almost felt a fool to hold those doubts, small as they'd been.

The lesson she'd left them with, ringing in his ears even in the wake of the familiar sound of a blade sliding free from a scabbard, was all too familiar to him— to the point where in spite of her tone addressing the group at large, Gerard quietly wondered if the reason he now held the first duty of the Iron Rose upon his left arm was purely just that he was there to take it.

... No matter, though. Whether or not it was her intent, the result was the same.

To Lein's very point, they were already spread thin with this much— Down to four alone in the span of two lieutenants, and if he'd stayed behind with her, it'd be the captain and the archers. A death sentence if walking into any more hordes of undead alone, forgetting any of the other bigshots. The gambit by this conspiracy was fairly clear, in his eyes.

"They've been peeling away protection of our command with each of the bigger threats they've sent, taking choke points so we don't have much option in the matter." he breathed as he concurred with the Hundi archer, toneless save for tension. It boiled his blood to think about, but he fought, desperately, to keep a lid above the fury that had served him so well and keep thinking. "You're right. We might be looking at Jeremiah again, if this is how they intend to play it—"

Leather creaked as his grip on the morningstar tightened, knuckles close to white beneath the gloves. It occurred to him, through the rush of black fire pouring away from his heart, that it may have ended up that he held seniority among the four of them in raw battlefield experience.

"We have to keep tight above all else. I don't know if they've any means to cut these passageways off..."

A burning tree flashed through his mind, followed by the flash of a heavy arc of steel, followed by a spray of blood, cresting the blaze.

"But extended as we are, we can't afford another split regardless. Too easy to get drawn out and picked off at that point."
Gerard Segremors

@ERode@VitaVitaAR@Raineh Daze@Rune_Alchemist

From the rear, as ordered, a hand fell upon the lion's broad shoulder as the amber-eyed wolf leaned in behind it, speaking in tight, but measured undertone.

"You gonna play along?"

A question of intent, at the very least trying to couch little else behind its timbre. It was all he meant to ask.

In his opposite side and held low at the hip, he rolled his wrist and tested again the weight of Dawn's Break, the blessed morningstar's brilliant sheen already hidden beneath a banquet of the formerly-reanimated, old blood's burgundy blackened by the low light. Knowing her... she would, normally, happily oblige such a duel— a perfect instance to prove merit in the skill she prided herself upon to the point of battlefield asceticism. A formal challenge like this would be the perfect venue to stand out...

And yet.

His eyes narrowed in quiet suspicion as they regarded this "Damon Cazt", cockily waving the rest of them along as though a herd of armored sheep. His ears were pointed, curving up into knifelike tips. His skin was pallid, as though he'd not steeped out of this crypt and into the light for years. His strength was eminent in the single hand that managed his hefty crossbow, far broader and more robust than normal variants and already drawn taut.

Finally, and most obviously, his eyes. They were a searing red, far brighter than any should be even beneath torchlight— they almost seemed to glow. Gerard had seen that before, exactly once— upon the face that so disappointed their new obstacle to not behold among the raiding party's number. Blood rubies by any other name.

A duel with a vampire was far, far more lopsided than those between scions of noble houses. With his blessed armament and uncompromisingly aggressive tactics, Gerard knew that he could serve as enough of a stand-in for a Reonite Justiciar to be a key equalizer here. If it were him in her shoes, he'd likely appreciate such support.

Yet, it wasn't him. It was her. Whatever choice she made, he intended to follow. Dame Serenity of House Arcedeen was a singular knight, that much was clear in everything she did. A "challenging foe" alone wouldn't be the reason she might balk, and step away from the cliff's edge she made a point of walking along with her methods. If the First and Youngest was what they had to manage vampiric expectations, even knowing she was likely exceptional among them... this would eclipse "challenging" by a good margin.

So he wanted to know—

Was this, too, within the reach of her pride?
Gerard Segremors

@ERode@Crimson Paladin@Conscripts@VitaVitaAR

A breath pulled in, as the shot whizzed past the assembled vanguard's heads from the rear. Spinning end over end, and cloaked in an unknowable sheathe of luminous, arcane wind, the stuff of sylphs and storm, the arrowhead was a streak of white as it tore its path into the purple glow of the chamber, tailed by Gerard's gaze. The tomb of the traitor and his kin was far beyond tarnished by this cabal of necromancers— the amount of shambling, rattling corpses given new, unnatural life by the sickly lavender pouring from their eye sockets had to be tantamount to desecration. He was no holy man, granted, but...

The dangerous points of Dawn's Break, a hallowed morningstar once wielded by such a devout figure as the Paladin Armand, seemed to hunger as they caught the point of white upon the gilded head. His grip around its haft tightened as the projectile made final descent, his weight shifting forward in turn for the charge. In his left hand, one of the rondel daggers retrieved prior from the Crown's armory. A point, a line, a rod of steel that could turn a strike away, catch a blow upon its sturdy diamond-shaped edges, a wedge to pry a guard open. He wasn't an expert by any true measure, but expertise wasn't needed. Ideas would do, so long as they served the purpose of breaking down the dead that walked.

On his back, the longsword that had served him, always. Should he need to leverage skill where ferocity and momentum faltered, it would be there.

Perhaps against whatever lieutenants waited beneath. For now, all Dame Serenity's plan needed from him was thunder, to chase the lightning. To her, and to Dawn's Break, he was more than ready to oblige.

The meteor hit the tile flooring, and outward exploded the howling wrath of the storm, a blossoming wind that scattered their reanimated foes' number throughout the chamber, leaving as many standing as it knocked aside, but all off their balance.

He breathed out, and felt the rush pass through him as his gold eyes shone beneath the visorless sallet, familiar and comforting as anything could in battle.

Then his boots shoved off the stone, and he surged forth in lockstep with Sir Steffen, hammer to the massive anvil at his side. Few presences would be as welcome as the Ingvarr's, a titan of strength and craft in even measure. There were few better suited to smash into unsuspecting enemy lines with—

He swung the morningstar with grit teeth, bearing shoulder, torso, and hips behind the unfamiliar weight as it bit deep into the skull of the nearest. It caught for a moment in pallid skin, spikes crushing cranial plate...

And then, rushing forth as the bone beneath crumpled into a spray of fragments, there bloomed a wave of sacred, shining flame that engulfed the corpse as it crumpled back to the crypt's floor, animus once again severed. Even after all these years out of service, the blessings placed upon the weapon were as strong as ever... Good.

They'd be needed for much more than this fodder.

Another approaching, carrying some blade the body had been buried with. It swung limply, as one would experct of its shambling gait. However, if there was any indication given by the breaking dawn in his hand...

With a clash of sparks, the edge of the swinging blade was caught upon the dagger, and shoved aside, opening the centerline of both combatants.

Though given new life by magic, no amount of puppetry would match a body that still lived in speed. Gerard brought the head of his borrowed bludgeon back around in a backhanded swing, a dull percussion line sounding as its weight pulverized the undead's ribcage. Even ignoring the damage, the raw torque was enough to knock it clear from the path of their charge, easy pickings for those that followed. No longer a concern.

And their crashing, crushing charge wouldn't stop here. An old hand at this, Gerard knew well that the whole idea was defeated by arresting momentum.

There were a few more ahead. Between him and his peers, their sickly lease on life wasn't long for the world.
Gerard Segremors

@The Otter@ERode@Psyker Landshark@Crimson Paladin

At the first returned touch upon his shoulder, Gerard snorted, made to click his tongue—

And at the second, though, and Sir Renar's accompanying advice, he relented, opting to nod after rolling his shoulders. There was tension worth releasing there, for what it was worth. Tight muscles would sap energy. He didn't intend on losing his alertness in any respect, but if this was enough for two of his fellows to speak upon it, to try and calm him like a hound with hackles raised... He had, likely, best listen to their words. Stubborn though he may have been, burning though his convictions surely were, his respect for them ran every bit as deep.

Despite continuing to lock his gaze upon the task ahead, looking through the path to the royal armory as though an obstruction, there was a release in his tone as he replied, softening the tight edges of the steel.

"You're right. I know. Those days are behind us. Promise."

Only if it were absolutely necessary.


Hearing another pair of footsteps fall in, a quick glance over the shoulder revealed the twin exemplars upon which he had foisted his highest regard, and wished to emulate in the ideal world. Hm. It seemed the scions of Jodeau and Arcedeen wished to oversee their equipment personally— probably a wise move, all things considered. Who better to determine what would play to their strengths than themselves in the few minutes they'd have?

Locked within the depths of the Castle, the armory's doors opened to hit the assembled cohort with a wave of stale, damp air, tinged with the flavors of cold metal and religiously warmed torches. There was oil, too, to maintain the health of the steel. Stone for its edges. The smell was at once alien in the refinement it spoke to and familiar, comfortably familiar, in the craft it served.

He marched into the murky torchlight. If Sirs Fionn and Renar had seen fit to ward away the anger, he knew that their peers from higher nobility would expect better by a full measure, having been so patient and earnest in humoring his dreams.

Fortunate that the rituals of preparation came universal, in that light. Who better to talk shop with?

"Rondels here," he noted, slipping the diamond-sectioned dagger into a loop on the belt that molded in his thick gambeson. "Warriors might have armor."

To speak of such, he quickly donned a cuirass after judging the (roughly) correct size by eye— a task he'd grown into an old hand at ages ago. It, and the vambraces Renar had tossed his way, were barely more than munitions grade at honest appraisal. Nothing of overwhelming quality... but even that much was more than he'd ever scoff at. He'd done far worse in his time.

"Greaves too," he spoke again, following Dame Serenity's point as he moved to fasten them onto his trousers. Putting aside that she was working against the dress mobility had forced her to slice apart... "If they're at the bottom, we'll be fighting downhill. Legs enter range first."

That raised perhaps the chief concern about the confines they were headed into— weaponry. While Gerard was thankful he'd brought his longsword at the Princesses' request, tight confines were to be expected in any sort of tomb, even the larger ones he assumed of most noble houses. He was a serviceable hand with half-swording, if it came to that, but if he expected raised dead... putting it plainly, he wanted more mass and contact area than a crossguard.

Something compact and crushing, worth leaving the longsword on his back for... A bar mace would do good here.

He stalked across the chamber, muttering in undertone as he scooped up an unvisored sallet from the rack nearby, before pausing at Sir Fleuri's offer. He gave it a moments' thought as he maneuvered the leather chinstrap...

"How long would that take, you reckon?"

They were splitting their forces soon, here. In his mind, the strength of sacrosanct weaponry or tools against the very affront to Life and Death that the Goddesses so abhored would doubtless prove a game-changing boon for the knights.

In his heart, he knew that he was incredibly leery of splitting up more, of potentially missing any of the action. They needed to stick together as much as they could, every one of them. The front was where he belonged.
Gerard Segremors

@VitaVitaAR@The Otter

"No promises."

Spoken in undertone and likely too quiet for any but the nearest or sharpest ears to hear, Gerard echoed his Captain's unspoken reservations. The Cazt heiress's demands may have been noble in intent, he would understand that much— but their targets would, realistically, hang for the crimes anyway. Conspiring to assassinate the Crown Princess. The kidnapping and coercion of these Nem. Necromancy. To guarantee he would be able to stay his hand, to quench the flame of battle that had already begun to rush through him...

No, they were not at all want for evil. The leather of his gloves creaked as he thumbed the crossguard of his blade, its hungering glint matching the spark of fury that dwelled beneath his amber gaze. While ill-crafted, this attempt to off the royalty had a silver lining to it, in a twisted sense. He was no Paladin, like Tyaethe, nor the former Squire of one, like Fleuri. He could not speak to any directly hallowed element to undertaking this cause... but it was Reon and her teachings that had lead him down this path, kept him from straying even when his hope had bottomed out.

Brave the darkness to drag the wicked into the Sun. Hunt all evil that threatened innocent, honest lives. That was the calling of Knighthood, the ideal his whole life had seen him hope, desperately, to achieve. It had guided his first swings of a sword, given him direction and clarity even through the grey smoke of hired soldiery. He had stared down the abyss. The sun on his back had given him the strength not to blink. Every moment of those five years was kept alive by that faith, and that desire to join the pursuit. To enter the crypt of the Traitor's family, already blackened from their once respected standing by his actions, and be faced with those that would skulk in its shadows flanked by their risen dead?

She had brought him good hunting, indeed.

Having seen and heard enough, the wolf turned and stalked ahead, quickly swallowing the distance that was left in Fionn's wake until he drew up on level marching cadence. Reaching across with his free hand to bump the brawnier man on the shoulder, he spoke in a breathless growl.

"Two pairs of hands will be better than one. I need armor anyway."

A professional fighter and swordsman, he knew Fionn would be able to plainly read that he was coiled like a spring. That was fine. Out of any of the knights here, the Red Branch alum was far and away the one Gerard trusted most to understand him. On a fundamental level, their shared backgrounds had given Fionn insight that cut to the core of his mentality, to that of Verlorene Haufen. He knew what came from living at the tip of the spear.

"The sooner we can arm everyone, the sooner we deploy. Give those dumbasses the fight they courted and crush 'em."

He could speak without artifice, honing his focus for war.
Gerard Segremors

@VitaVitaAR@VahkiDane@Raineh Daze@Psyker Landshark@ERode@Creative Chaos

Far from the tallest or broadest figure in the room, Gerard nonetheless loomed over the Nem's hunched, shaking frame. Each stroke with the charcoal he'd retrieved was a frantic streak of black against the stark white of the paper, thin and brittle beneath the weight of the forming words. His own hands freed once more, his grip upon his trusted weapon began to tighten, face cast from stone.

Iron Roses

She could name the Order. This message would be for them in particular, likely. It would explain perking up at Fanilly's brooch. What kind of overture to expect from an Assassin, though?

Tyli Vosahn

A name. Hers? Her employer's? In either case, it wasn't familiar, nor did it sound like a standard naming scheme from anywhere he'd been— Thaln, Velt, Estival. It was a foreign sound. Maybe nem-specific.

What happens to me doesn't matter

...

Please save my sister

A cold wind brushed against the back of his neck as he beheld the final, desperate plea in her message to the assembled Order. It passed down his back even through the gaudy formal wear, prompting a sharp intake of breath through teeth he had unknowingly begun to grit. Beneath the leather of his gloves, the knuckles of his sword arm had quietly gone white. Save my sister. Save my sister. Everything locked into a different, unmalleable place now as the cogs began to turn anew, with this added perspective. Save my sister.

He could have burned a hole through the page with his gaze alone.

Stepping a quarter-turn away, the former sellsword began to run the fingers of his free hand along the length of the blade, feeling for anything amiss in its form even as he took this in. Any who were paying attention would likely note that no small amount of color had drained from his face.

They had just apprehended her for attempting to assassinate the Crown Princess. She must have been truly desperate, to make this last request likely in the full knowledge that today may have been her last under the sun. To make it to her direct opposition. She had nowhere else to turn but them... now that she had failed.

To meet the cold on his skin, a heat began to rise from the belly. Though her palace had long disappeared behind the veil of the earth, Gerard believed this blaze that which Reon gifted. Upon his lips, in something lower and sharper than any whisper, he offered her a brief prayer.

This Tyli didn't have employers. She had extortionists. She had her sister's life in the balance at the whim of whatever agenda she was locked into serving— a slave in all but name.

Bear light for the chained, bring flame for their captors.

He had little sisters, too.

Why else be a knight, then, if not to purge such wickedness?

Why else be a knight, then, if not to answer these desperate pleas for help?

Why else be a knight...

If I could even consider saying no?

"Where's she being held?"
Gerard Segremors

@VitaVitaAR@VahkiDane@Raineh Daze@Psyker Landshark@ERode

Another day might have seen him do more than simply leave his reply to Tyaethe's reasoning for tickling a flat, dry, momentary look. While he could see the framework of logic beneath it, there was a certain specificity to the act that was... well, two hundred years probably developed a peculiarity or two.

He blinked, and turned his gaze back to the matter at hand, satisfied that whatever she'd done had gotten results. As for his act, he pulled the soft fabric free from the nem's throat, no larger than that of a child...

And wordlessly took in the long, ragged white scar that greeted him, the insignia of his creeping suspicions. No wonder they couldn't even get a grunt of pain out her; with that butcher job done on the windpipe it was frankly a miracle she could breathe. Certainly, no willful silence. And if one were to assume that this was the work of her employer...

"Old wound." he noted aloud, ignoring the brief tingle upon his jaw from a similarly faded scratch. He wasn't any form of healer, but reading the color and edge of a scar by sight was a skill almost impossible to avoid in soldiery. If the wound really was linked to the hit, then obviously, "They sure took their time sending you here, didn't they."

It wasn't quite a question. Asking those was the job of the clear-headed and sharp-witted. Instead, he rose to his full height and took a step back, following her gaze with his own as it came to rest upon the silvered rose resting on the Captain's lapel. His eyes then narrowed, shifting between the two. What, did she not know what she was in for, attacking this crowd on this occasion?

Didn't track. Didn't make sense. He was going at this from the wrong frame of mind somewhere— that'd bog down the process for those better suited to the task. A half-baked interjection was an unwelcome distraction in the best of cases.

He yanked his blade free from the carpet, long rendered unnecessary, and held it at his side. He'd left the sheathe behind, by the table.

Hm. If he needed it, he'd grab it.

But to know what he'd need...

For the second time that day, he mirrored Sir Sergio, and now met the Captain's eyes in full.

"Looks like you might get somewhere, Ma'am, if we pursue this." He spoke, indicating the pin with the tip of his sword for a moment before lowering it once more. "Very least you'd be better than me— I'll head where you need me."

A fairly level self-assessment, one said less with effacement and more as a matter of fact. Nobody here would have bought any pretense that he didn't squarely fall on the "Sword" end of Dame Serenity's supposition, and while he largely agreed with her ideals on the Order's duty, he couldn't deny his desire for something like actionable information to emerge. Without getting in the way of those already better suited to its coaxing...

Was there much else to be done aside from tighten the net, until that time?
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