Ser Renar would feel a metal grasp on his shoulder a moment after he spoke his offer, a clank of steel behind him marking Sergio's arrival. He glanced to the bandits still alive, his warpick dangling in his free hand.

"Not precisely our judgement, amico. I would never deny these brigands the dread of anticipation. They earned it from their greed-fueled blood letting, no?" He spoke calmly, but loudly enough for the barbarians to hear him. Their cowardice did not earn them a reprieve from the purgatorium they deserved.

A man should reflect upon his evil, before greeted by Death.

The vampire's eyes flicked over to the two knights, a too-bright red in the slowly darkening camp. "If we were to appoint ourselves executioners, the public would be denied the evidence that justice was done, and the Roses would gain a reputation as little more than barbaric attack dogs rather than a noble order." A matter hardly helped by their estrangement from the Church, but that was an argument she had lost decades ago, and pointless to revisit in a scene such as this.

"And even the worst of criminals should be permitted the time to reflect and repent their actions, rather than wander forever in the darkness," Tyaethe continued, eyes focused on something far away, "Not everyone can realise in the moment of their deaths."

@VahkiDane@Psyker Landshark

Fleuri Jodeau

Fleuri had a split second to realize what the griffin was doing, and that he had made a rather glaring mistake. It wasn't going to try and pull him off using its claws, it was going to slam him into the ground. He knew immediately that he had to get off of this beast before it crushed him. His armor wasn't made to stop something like this.

Getting crushed was a risk when riding a horse, too, but this thing was much heavier, and he didn't think that the feathers on its head were going to cushion the impact. However, there was one thing going for him compared to a horse- there were no stirrups to hold his feet in place.

Using the arm that was still holding onto the griffin, along with the leg on that side, he flung himself to the side, away from where the creature's body was going to hit the ground. Simultaneously, his other hand let go of his sword so that its not-inconsiderable weight wouldn't slow him down. It was a risk disarming himself like this but it was a much bigger risk not shedding the weight, and he didn't have enough time to think it over.

Lucas stood at the gaps of the palisade walls, waving the emancipated innocents urgently past himself. "Come on!" Some of them weren't exactly in the best shape to keep up with a brisk pace, but it was hard not to be impatient, for here he was alone, feeling completely and utterly responsible over one of the Knight-Captain's top priorities. If anything were to go wrong here, it would be on him. "We're almost clear!"

The group funnelled into a line to exit the camp. Lucas knelt down to help a child onto his back, so that their mother (at least, Lucas assumed the woman was her mother) could move quicker. Once clear of the camp borders, Lucas headed to the front and led the group away from camp and back toward the Iron Rose Rear Guard.

Perhaps giving the child a piggy-back wasn't the best idea, Lucas thought as he was hit with repeated spells of double vision. I must have hit my head harder than I thought. The clearing he'd charged across to start the battle seemed so much shorter before. He'd abandoned the battlefield. Paladin Tyaethe had told them to focus on bringing the beast down. She and a few others had held off scores of bandits just so her team could do so. And he'd left without seeing it dead. He wanted to speed up, but some of the injured would not keep up. And truth be told, he wasn't sure he could speed up anyway. Adrenaline was keeping him on his feet, but this little girl felt like she weighed as much as a cow.

Heavy breaths. Slightly staggering steps. But finally; sight of the rear guard. "Help!" was all he could think to say. He wasn't sure how to go about this, but - as always - he didn't think much about it. "Who's in charge!?"

A fairly tall knight emerged from the ranks and came forward, adding urgency to his steps when he started to realise the situation. "Sir Einrich, at your service."

"The prisoners of the Bandit King... as many as I could find," Lucas told him as he dropped down to let the girl off his back. Sir Einrich called for others to take the freed slaves away and get them some care. Lucas received a few 'thank yous' as the group was escorted past and away from him.

"Your name, sir knight?" was the commanding officer.

"Lucas... Sir Lucas Storm," was the reply. It still sounded strange, but there was a note of pride in the exhaustion. He'd actually helped save some lives. Amongst the desires and thoughts of getting back to the battlefield, his mind flashed him a vision of Sir Gerard on the night he'd saved Lucas' life and freedom. "I'm part of Paladin Tyaethe's team. The battle is not yet over."

"Very well," Sir Einrich nodded in understanding. "Good job lad."

And with that, Lucas turned back toward the bandit camp and started running.

When he arrived back in the battle, there wasn't actually much of a battle happening anymore. He could see some bandits, hands up and weaponless. Some of his comrades were no longer fighting, allowing their adversaries a chance to surrender. Lucas advanced further into camp to see what became of the griffin.

And so the flames came, bathing her world a bright crimson, a brighter orange, and finally, plunging it all in relative darkness, leaving nothing behind but a strange, almost comforting warmth and the certainty that she would have to restitch the charred cloth that her ribbons had become.

She would have to check herself for burns too, after the adrenaline drained away.

Blinking the searing light out of her eyes, Serenity cast her gaze over to the griffin once more as it slammed its back against the ground. Another arrow snapped off from its shoulder, while its guts spilled out from its stomach. Sir Fleuri himself managed to dismount moments before being flattened. In the distance, the Captain's voice sounded out as well, high-pitched over the low roar of dying flames. The Bandit King had died, his Bandit Knights would soon be too, and his Pet will soon let out its death throes. Prisoners were being freed from their cages, the flaming tree had turned to a blackened husk, and above the moon rose, casting its alabaster light.

Dame Cecilia was done. Dame Katerina was done. So too was Dame Mori, while Sir Lein was still tumbling off the ground, and Sir Fleuri joined him as well. Upon reflection, despite how easy this raid was, how utterly expected the final result was, it was still a clusterfuck and still a disappointment. She'd have earned greater merits if she had held off the veteran bandits alongside Sir Renar or claimed the Bandit King's head while he crowed about how pathetic Fanilly was.

Alas, there was no merit, no honor, involved in putting to rest a dying beast.

Serenity drew her hatchet, felt its heft in her palm. Much steadier than a dagger, with a curved haft that made it a pleasure to grip and a wicked edge that sank deep with every swing, every throw. Her arm reared back, her eyes sighted the target through the visor, and she allowed all extraneous thought to exit her mind.

The griffin had lost its escape when it chose to fight. The griffin had lost its guts when it chose to strike. And now? The griffin had lost its mobility when it chose to struggle. Each of those choices, Serenity could understand, and yet...

"Time and place."

The hatchet spun through the air with a path that would not err, to a target too blind to see a projectile that was just about to cave its skull in.

While her captain sounded the knights' victory against Jeremiah, Morianne did her best to try and stand up. However, her efforts were met with a sharp, shooting pain which ran through her body from head to toe.

"Oh, fuck this," the troubadour let out a pained chuckle as she picked herself up off the ground once more. Once she felt as if she had her feet firmly on the ground, she let out a sigh. She couldn't let her fellow knights know just how poor her condition was. After all, any spell-caster worth their salt knew better than to try that stunt she pulled with a single-target spell.

Morianne forced another laugh, this time loud enough for any remaining bandits or nearby comrades to hear. "And that's why we're the IRON Roses, you dumbasses! Don't forget it!"

The force of her shout was enough to send her tumbling back down.

There was still the matter of the griffin, but the troubadour knew better than to push herself any more than she already had, not with magic at least. Unfortunately, magic was all she had.

Sitting out the final moments of battle? Morianne thought to herself. Goddesses above Mori! You're pathetic.

She stood over the finale of this escapade with a hunch -- it was the best her posture would do, for every time she attempted a straighter posture did Katerina feel as though there was somehow a more supermassive weight thrust unto her body. The beast, seared and incinerated its brown feathers to a soot-coal black, lay on its side along the moonlit ruddy Earth. Pigment of dying flames, cast off from the smoldering cinders before them, dashed specks of luminescence, caught in the feathers-gaps. With every heaving, slow breath the griffon made, its embers - latched on like scorching leeches - ignited a dying little flame from which its scorching wound burrowed itself deeper with every fading breath.

Katerina wanted to do something. Something. A gorgeous animal before her dying by her own hand, after an epic battle, where the Witch-Knight burned a whole fortress-side to cinders. And now here she was, wanting to help. Her wants were cut with a perfect gesture, more perfect than Serenity's throw. The hatchet whistled along its whirling path, the head spiraling in little orange circles like a spinning fire cantrip. Nothing escaped her. Not even a grimace or cringe. Hatred, grief, and acceptance, all in only a few minutes.

She barely held herself up: Katerina felt exhausted, stiff in mind, like a haze set into her mind and barely, iratingly, maddeningly seeped from a crack in the back of her head that just felt like even rupturing her skull wide open would be a welcome relief. Her muscles felt quaked, ripping and searing; Her robes, more than a little singed. Even a modest pack the likes of her worn to battle felt like a whole person clawing atop her, kicking, heaving, shoving, tearing her down until the half-elf would force to crawl from the weight of her own exhaustion.

The Witch-Knight -- oh...how she hated that name...and how many times she would have to hear it, and see it, and speak it, and know that that is the title by which she is and will be...

That Witch-Knight had seen and felt and done all of these things, these terrible things, and with nary some strength inside her, clawed out a secret reserve, like she always had: Like her wells of energy she plucked within her like cigarettes from her case...and spoke softly to Serenity:

"Aye." She made out. Katerina paused. The Witch-Dame didn't bother to look Serenity in the eye. "Good kill."

Her voice was beat, soft. Like she was holding back tears; Proud, painful tears, in a cracked slipping voice that constrained within her every last bit of strength in and out of that woman would do anything not to confess just this weakness. Not a comrade. Not to a friend. To none. Not even if she were to know it herself.

Katerina made one final, exhausted mental note: She'd need to go see her Regular after this.

And of course he was interrupted. Unfortunately for Renar, he actually liked Sir Sergio and valued the man's opinion of him. And going directly against Paladin Tyaethe was just asking for trouble.

Still, he couldn't bring himself to agree, even if just to mollify them. They were already executioners. What did it matter whether a man died in the heat of battle, or on the chopping block? At the end of the day, they resulted in the same outcome: a dead man. As for the concept of knightly nobility, frankly, he expected better from someone who'd been around for centuries. Surely she didn't actually still believe in such a thing?

"For the record, I still disagree. But I'll drop the matter, regardless." Renar sighed, lowering his weapon before looking back towards the kneeling bandits. "Apologies, gentlemen. It seems the offer has passed you by. Now, hands behind your backs. Don't even think of trying something clever."

The knights' return trip was uneventful, despite the prisoners they were transporting and their prisoners' former captives. The former had no morale left to speak of, with their leader decisively crushed and the veterans either dead or reminded just how large the gap between even experienced soldiers and a legendary knightly order could truly be. The freed prisoners, on the other hand, only strained their resources but temporarily, splitting off along the trip to return to their homes where possible--or to at least salvage what they could, where the bandits had destroyed more than they took. The knights' own injuries had been light for the most part, and whilst some care was needed to transport the injured, it neither demanded haste nor slowed them any further.

Aimlenn had been built long, long ago, construction having begun shortly after Thaln itself was founded. In spite of the country's embattled history, the capital had never wavered, never fallen. Its tall, strong walls held fast. Aimlenn, among the people, was known as the fortress-city, as the white-grey stone walls, lined with sturdy towers, were a sight known far and wide across the land.

The immense steel and wood gate stood before them. In this time of peace, it remained open, and Fanilly led her knights through it.

The streets bustled with activity, merchants transporting goods, citizens going about their business, and as they headed in further, nobility and the rich with their entourages of guards, maids, and manservants walking the street. What was universal to all these people is the glance they cast up as the Iron Roses entered. Many, especially the average citizens, looked on in awe as the knights of legend proceeded in, taking with them what could only be those bandits who had hurt and killed so many.

The guards, many of them soldiers of Thaln, cast dark glares towards the prisoners.

The stone fortress that was home to Aimlenn's garrison and prison soon received the bandits. Their fate was essentially sealed, an execution would greet them. Barring some sort of sudden reprieve (which seemed highly unlikely, to say the least), they were set to die for their murders and thefts.

Onwards, the knights went, winding through further streets and towards Candaeln, situated near the royal castle. Once a purely defensive building, over time it had been modified, and its most obvious defensive feature remained the moat. The walls themselves, although thick, had far too many windows, many with stained glass displaying roses, to truly be a defensive structure, and gleaming blue tile covered rooftops that may once have been navigable battlements.

Some took the horses around to courtyard's external entrance, the part of the building that most retained its old function as a site of war, whilst others entered the building on foot, through the main doors and under the iron rose itself. Inside, they were greeted with floors of spotless wood, clean and varnished; the walls carefully plastered and painted over. Throughout, relics of the past were artfully arranged--the weapons and armour of prestigious knights, portraits of captains past and other notables. Rare was the hallway or room that would lack any adornment, even if a strange number of landscape paintings could be found mixed amongst them all.

Closest to the entrance, in a place of honour, was the Saint's Blade, the Starlight Sword, Bane of the Vos Korvungand. The sword that had taken the head of Meryn the Kinslaughterer. The weapon that had pierced the heart of Volkstraad the red dragon. The silvery, almost ethereal-seeming blade of the Starlight Saint of Roses, lay carefully locked inside of glass case. The blade was strong, but elegant, a sharp tip and a razor edge with a star-shaped crossguard.

Soon after they entered, the captain and various knights split to go their different ways, an order of rest granted. Of course, no sooner had the captain gone to attend to her own matters, a courier arrived at the entrance, bearing a message...

---

The vampire was particularly glad to be done with travelling and out of the sunlight, having been carefully angling a parasol for a good deal of the return trip as the weather grew fair and bright. With little in the way of unpacking to do, Tyaethe took but a few minutes to change into casual clothing before returning to the same spot anyone knew to look for her.

Within the halls and rooms of Candaeln, there were numerous bay windows offering a sight over the courtyard--some gave a particularly unimpressive view of the smithy's work (fortunately, it was mostly the kitchens that had to deal with such clamour), whilst others looked over the gardens nearest the chapel. Some, however, gave a view over the main courtyard itself, the clear space most often used for sparring or training of one kind or another. One of these windows lay in the former gatehouse turned entrance hall, within easy sight of the founder's sword and armour. In fact, the position of case and window made it easy for anyone occupying the window seat to see that the sword was there.

What really made it stand out, when the knights were otherwise engaged, was how none of the other seats in the building appeared to have acquired quite so many mismatched cushions over time. The rest of the time, the most notable thing about it was likely to be the vampire that could be found there, either watching out the window at the knights training, or keeping a constant guard over the relics that lay within.

It also made it the ideal place to leave missives intended for the paladin. In this case, a carefully sealed letter, with her name marked both in the common letters used by the various kingdoms and the old elven script Talderia had derived it from. She raised an eyebrow at it, but set it aside to read later, pulling herself onto the seat as always and tilting her head slightly to keep an eye on the sword.

"Well, that should be the last of the rebels cleared, or at least all the soldiers," the girl reported, sighing, "We even got off lightly on the casualty front, for all that the bandits managed to capture a griffin. Still, I don't like the order's chances, Elly; we've lost too many veterans. If the new lot don't shape up soon, they're going to be in real trouble if something like Maglad shows up, or we get badly outnumbered..."

Serenity shook her head, but it wasn't as if Dame Katerina was looking to begin with.

The song faded from her heart, replaced once more by the crackling of flames, the death-twitches of the beast, and the false remorse of bandits and bastards.

She wrenched her hatchet from the griffin's skull, inspecting its edge for nicks with a disinterested gaze.

Not her kill.

...

Resplendent!

Serenity paraded alongside the rest of the Iron Roses, her armor gleaming once more in the brilliance of sunlight. She wore her helm still, but with her visor up, the knight's brilliant eyes matched the sky itself, an azure offset by flaxen bangs and fringes that framed her noble face. A knight was a lion, and a lion had to look good. Ever-gallant, she smiled at the commoners that had flocked to enjoy their victory march, her gaze just focused enough that it could be construed that she was looking at an individual while she swept through the collective. The people of Aimlenn had reason to celebrate, after all. A flawless victory over the Bandit King, even with an inexperienced commander and the retirement of most of the old guard prior to this, was cause to celebrate.

It was good that the corpses of the fallen were wrapped up and placed discretely in a separate wagon. Better that healing magic allowed for injuries incurred to be hidden beneath sparkling plate and polished boots.

Sir Rickert was dead. Dame Shanil was missing.

A flawless victory, nonetheless.

Off on the other side, Serenity caught a glimpse of the griffin's plumage, pinned to Sir Fleuri's helmet. Loyalty to Reon, and loyalty to the Iron Rose? No, beyond noble pretensions, it appeared the Flower remained.

A smirk surfaced. It was a bright day, but still, it was cold.

...

"Dame Morianne."

The approach had been sudden, a storm broiling into being from once-clear skies. Serenity had waited just long enough for the knights to scatter before she strode towards the elven troubadour, cornering her before slamming a hand against the wall, inches away from Morianne's elongated ears.

A thunderclap, with a gaze like frozen lightning, though her facade remained composed still.

"You are a talented artist and a caster of repute," the younger knight spoke, her voice low. "But I've no interest in being the object of your spellsongs. Save them for someone who...possesses more idealism than battle sense." A pause, a slight loosening of expression. It would be easy enough to envision the most appropriate candidates, under such descriptions. "Please."

If there was nothing of import that Morianne had to say, Serenity would retract her extended arm, take a step back, and smile.

"Ah, and good kill."

With that, she spared not one more glance as she strode for the smithy.

Having changed out of his armour, and given it to the smith for repairs and polishing, the Knight had dressed himself into his usual outfit of choice for outside wear. On top of his white frilled silk shirt, a three buttoned, long tailed jacket flowed past his waist and toward his legs, bright gold accents and a fiery red dye made him positively shine in the daylight, the sleeves tight around his wrists. He adjusted his black neckerchief as he strode out of Candaeln, his red hair tied back to keep from obscuring his vision, lest a malevolent gust of wind were to sabotage a perfectly lovely conversation.

He stood tall, smiling as he was finally able to see the sun's light in all its glory, with his helmet off - the thought of the moon rising later made him ever the more excited. It was these tiny things that made R&R so wonderful.

As he stepped across the bridge, still mesmerised by the day, he absentmindedly nearly walked into Lein.

---

@ERode @Psyker Landshark

---

Luckily, Renar, Tyaethe, and Sergio hadn't needed any back-up by the time he got over; those few who were rejecting any offer of surrender quickly rounded up and dispatched by the time he got back over the burning log. Afterwards, he'd done his part in rounding up the prisoners, disposing of bodies, and the trip back had been relatively uneventful. Taking turns with Gerard to display Jeremiah's sword as another symbol of their victory as they passed various villages, or after re-entering the capital city, was the most work that really came to them as their column rode along.

Otherwise, he stuck near the back of the pack, riding alongside the cart that carried Rickert's corpse rather than making conversation with the others. The satisfaction he'd felt at helping fell the bandit king had rapidly diminished as he thought more about the rest of the battle; less due to the losses they'd sustained, which were themselves rather minimal, but more the nature of the battle itself. Surprises could never be avoided, they were almost to be expected, but the fact that a griffin had been unleashed upon them as it had was beyond anything he'd experienced before. Beyond that, though, was the general disregard the bandits seemed to show for each other, from using their least equipped and experienced to try and man the ambush, to Jeremiah callously dropping a tree atop his own forces in his mad search for some sort of vengeance against the knights.

To his estimation, to his understanding of tactics, they didn't fight like they wanted to win. Their leadership, at least, fought like they wanted to die, and that fostered nothing but disquiet in his soul.

By the time they made it back to the capitol, however, he seemed to have reconciled the events with his understanding and feelings well enough, starting to make his gregarious rounds through the ranks of the knights when not taking duty holding aloft the bandit king's oversized blade. Once back in the keep proper he'd quickly run to doff his traveling clothes and find something cleaner and more comfortable—and stow the singed and tattered cloak he'd have to figure out some way to salvage—before retrieving the bardiche he'd purloined from the bandit forces and starting to make his way down to the armoury and smithy...

...Utterly unsurprised to spot someone else along the way, who he'd already spotted moving to corner their bard just as he'd been making his way to his quarters. Normally he might let her pass along uninterrupted, but given they seemed to have the same general destination and Fionn was hoping that the conversation might go better than their last:

"Finished cowing our compatriots for the day?"

Why not call out to her, and see if some of her humour might start to show again now that they were free of battle?

"I think I saw Renar gathering his things to come this way as well. Care to wait for him?" He flashed her a small grin. "I don't know about either of you, but I think it would do me good to hear the unofficial recounting of your parts of the battle, and I don't think either of you are the type to shy away from giving that unofficial truth."

Success.

They had crushed the bandits utterly. Slain the wicked man who called himself their King. The people of Aimlenn, the people of Thaln, were thankful.

Their duty to the weak, the defenseless, had been fulfilled.

A captain should be proud of their success. Introspection wasn't uncalled for, but surely a battle ending with only a single casualty and the enemy utterly destroyed should be treated as a rousing victory.

And yet...

The golden-headed knight-captain departed from the others without much aside from a confirmation of their good performance. It was not their fault.

Surely, surely, the blame lay on her shoulders.

Sir Rickert should not have perished. The battle should not have ended with even a single death among the knights. She could have done something differently. She should have done something differently. Saint Elionne had crushed the Vos Korvungand, destroyed the great heathen army without a single death among her forces.

This shouldn't have happened.

The image of Sir Rickert hewn apart in a single stroke remained in her mind.

Candaeln's courtyard was a popular place, both for simple reading and relaxation and for training. But it was also the home of the pointed, curved structure that was the fortress's shrine. An integrated structure designed for the worship of both Goddesses, it sported stained glass windows of intertwined lillies and roses, a tiered garden of both plants, and a sacred pool and eternal flame for prayer.

It was here that Fanilly made her way to, still clad in her armor.

The young girl's voice came out in a heavy sigh, her eyes travelling up the garden and towards its peak. There stood a pair of statues. The slender frame of Reon, her blade held crossed over her chest and her spear projecting downwards, and beside her Mayon, taller, her hands at her sides and holding a mirror and a bow.

With the clanking of her gleaming armor, Fanilly plucked a lily and cast it into the flames. Then, she took a rose and crumpled its petals into the water.

Then she knelt before the shrine, hands clutched together in prayer.

"E vanna ney sienne. Oh, goddesses. Please, let the lamps light his way safely. May he find peace and bliss within your domain, so that his death may be eased. May he find the happiness he so earned."

First and foremost of all was the prayer for Sir Rickert. It was all she could do, even as she cursed herself for that fact, now that he was no longer with the living.

"... May those who fought with honor be blessed. May we find further success in protecting the weak and defeating the wicked. May your blessing shine upon all who seek to do good."

To request the goddess's continued support in their endeavors, too, was natural.

She had to do everything she could.

The sight of each and every rescued prisoner who split off from the Iron Rose column - freedom in hand and opportunity to start anew or return to what they'd been snatched from... the sight of Fionn and Gerard, each and every time, holding up the gargantuan sword of Jeremiah - a symbol of triumph that onlookers would cheer and celebrate...

It all made everything worth it.

The pain and injuries, the danger, the horrific nature of bloody combat, the up-close and personal displays of death... every moment of that awful night was worth these rewards.

Follow orders. Don't die.

He'd managed it. Just barely (in fact, Reon may well have been carrying him through it all, such was his luck) but he had indeed made it through his first mission. On the left flank he rode, mismatched with the dozens of bodies in shining full plate and helms to boot, he might have been mistaken for one of the rescued. Those who observed me in action might mistake me too, he thought with a smile. It was a tired smile. He was exhausted. But happiness filled him. After the battle was over, he'd looked around and saw some familiar figures in the band had made it through alive, including all of Paladin Tyaethe's team. The griffin was amongst the corpses, body still tethered by the chain. After a little tense anticipation, he eventually had visual confirmation on the health and wellbeing of one Sir Gerard Segremors. All was said and done. The Iron Rose's list of injuries was short, and there had been only one casualty. A successful first foray for the new Knight-Captain. Good for her. Good for the Iron Roses. Good for all that is good.

In the city, passing over the moat and through the gate of Candaeln was a treat that Lucas thought might never get old. The knight's eyes drew upward as they entered the courtyard, his expression full of appreciation for such splendour. Once they were dismissed, Lucas went to his room and collapsed on his bed a moment, staring at the ceiling. The moment of solitude and oppressive silence hastily brought back memories of the screams. Of blood coughed into his face as he watched the light in his enemy's eyes disappear. It suddenly occurred to him that, in spite of his exhaustion, sleep may not come so easy.

Each piece of his patchwork armour he removed, looked like armour looted from a corpse. Random pieces of plate and leather, full of knicks, dents, rips and cuts. His heavy leather jerkin was slashed an unnerving amount of times, nevertheless he placed it reverently on the armour dummy, then stepped back and looked at it pridefully. After that, he changed into more casualwear; a white open-throat shirt with some simple black pants and boots.

Not really knowing what to do with himself, only knowing that he needed to be somewhere that was busy enough to distract him, he found himself in the mess hall. After grabbing an excessive amount of food, he sat down at one of the long tables, giving a comradely nod to anyone he made eye contact with. Then, his nose reminded his stomach how bloody hungry he was and he tucked in.

All in all, this entire expedition hadn't been too much of a victory for Renar on a personal level. He'd slaughtered his fair share of bandits, certainly. Some recognition was bestowed upon him by his peers for how well of a showing he'd put up against even the veterans left over from the war. But compared to bringing down the Bandit King himself or (horrendously botching) the slaying of a griffin, it wasn't that much.

Still, Renar hadn't been expecting immediate glory and honors, especially not from a bandit hunt. So long as his star continued to rise at a steady pace, that was all he could ask for at the moment. Some mention of one Sir Rickert's passing was made, but frankly, Renar had never known the man all that well and he couldn't care less. No matter how well-trained or well-armed, the vagaries of the battlefield ensured that people would die, even against all odds. To say nothing of the fact that Jeremiah had apparently been a formidable foe in his own right. Renar merely bowed his head as obligation expected at the news of Sir Rickert's passing, made no comment about the matter, and let it fade from his mind before long.

Once he'd returned to his quarters, Renar changed out of his armor and took some time to clean himself before changing his clothes. He doffed a linen shirt and a pair of gray trousers before putting a crimson tabard on over his shirt bearing his own personal coat of arms: his family's stag atop castle battlements, with two crossed swords behind it. Or through, if one looked closely enough. With personal grooming out of the way, Renar belted his sword and dagger back on before hefting his poleaxe up onto his shoulder and grabbing a small satchel filled with equipment for weapon maintenance. He made his way out of his quarters, intent on finding somewhere quiet to oil and sharpen his arms.

Or he would have, if he didn't encounter Fionn and Serenity on the way out of the keep. Just in time to hear the last bits of what Fionn was saying, as well. Before Renar said anything in response, he looked around the hall they were in for a moment. Upon confirming no one was listening in, he raised his free hand in greeting.

"Oh, I think both of us have plenty to say about that. Especially regarding some of our comrades. If we'd care to abscond somewhere we can moan and complain with no one listening in...?" He gestured towards the way leading out of the keep and towards the yards.

Gerard Segremors

Golden eyes locked themselves upon the Spikes of Aimlenn anew as the procession of knights rode past the mighty steel and oak gates of Thaln's capital, seat of their Order's home and the crown they served. At first light this morn, their jagged sihlouettes had torn into the sky from afar, as if a crown cast upon the city in the faraway horizon. Impressive once you devoted a little thought to it, sure, but nothing compared to up close. Here, he marveled at the way the alabaster towers loomed over everything around them, stretching into the midday blue further than all but mountains.

Human hands, however long ago, had built this. These soaring structures, immense and beautiful in equal measure... made by men. People no different than he, save for what they knew that he did not. He knew of many a fortress city in his long 5 years prior to now, having been on both ends of their high walls of stone as one of many who sold their swords. But, even spanning three countries, nothing could truly measure up to the scale and splendor of Aimlenn. It could house any other city he'd known within its walls, he was certain— a fact that would doubtlessly have him awestruck for years to come.

It was proof of just how big the world really was... as was the weight rested upon his shoulder. Jeremiah's sword had been passed around the procession as proof of victory like a ladle full of stew as their column had rode through Thaln's townships and villages on the return trip, but it had most commonly found itself, tall and hefty as any of them, in the grasp of he and Fionn. Their right of conquest, maybe, as two of the three that had felled the Bandit King personally? Their selfsame responsibility to lug the thing around, instead? He didn't really know.

To tell the truth, he thought, letting the sound of the cheering commoners wash over him. I never thought about what it would feel like being on this side of the fanfare.

How long ago had it been since he'd been one of those kids up at the front, clamoring to see over one another and catch a glimpse of chivalry? Wishing so desperately to capture the storied magic of dragons and demons and knighthood for himself?

"Feels like ages."

His words came at a low murmur, likely only reaching his own ears.

Left unsaid was the fact that it wasn't so long ago at all.

That though he was one of them, he prayed they never became him.

Better the others. Rise to knighthood the right way.

He let his gaze slide over the celebration for a moment, taking it in, before returning its focus towards the path ahead. The figure he cut was doubtless reserved compared to the jollity of Fionn and the gallantry of Serenity, his scarring and tension leaving him little favors. He could never meet so many eyes at once, not nearly so easily. He'd have to learn through more victories like this, he wagered. For now... he'd make do by riding with a strong back and head held high. For all this alien feeling, Gerard wasn't returning a beaten man.

He adjusted the weight of the greatsword in his grip, heavy pommel resting in his palm like the head of a mace. If he were to want to learn his proper parading smiles... he'd need to take the lessons the battle had wrought from him, first. The man they'd slain for this unwieldy thing was an anomaly, but if one of him could exist...

He rode on, into the Candaeln gates before he knew it.

From there, things proceeded without thought. The dismounting and stabling of the horses, the stiffly delivered order to rest and recuperate from their Captain, herself similarly else-minded, and floating to his humble quarters, however fascinating it may have been to have them to himself, and doff his armor. His casual wear, however many of his seniors had talked him into buying fancier things befitting the newfound station, was simple— A black shirt made of simple, sturdy linen, and trousers of treated hide.

This wasn't a social outing, anyway. Those clothes were fashionable, as he understood it. Best not to get 'em dirty.

Soon after, his leather boots found themselves on one far end of the central courtyard, digging into the tranquility as they pressed hard into the grass.

Try as he might, the battle continued to play over in Gerard's head and leave him with a quiet, brow-furrowing dissatisfaction. For all the skill he'd cultivated in five years, all the craft, all that their advantage in numbers had stacked the deck... Jeremiah had still very nearly killed him, even in the aftermath of the gambit that had done the brigand in. Before that, even in spite of losing a working hand, that monster of a man had been mounting a defense against all three of them attacking him in sequence. He had been freely wielding that giant hunk of steel that their parading had left Sagramore intimately familiar with now— truly knowing how ridiculous such a feat was.

He crouched low, breathing in deep through his nose as fingertips pressed into the earth beneath—

If one of Jeremiah existed, so incredibly powerful... Then surely there were more. As Iron Roses, elite defenders of the realm, it would fall to them to meet such foes more often than not. This was but a beginning. Preluding things to come.

Gerard didn't for a moment believe he would always get so lucky as he did that night, to have numbers supplementing inefficiency in skill.

—And tore off into a dead sprint, each stride chewing through the distance between him and the far wing of Candaeln. High knees and strong swings of the arms would compensate for the flat ground here— He preferred training his explosive step-in, his rushing charge, uphill. That way'd be truer to life, building his legs stronger and forcing his mind to dig deeper into the body.

But that was the crux of it.

If monsters like that existed, he needed the power to leverage those skills against them.

Onward he surged, until he could surge no more—

And then, after a minute's rest and no more, he'd start off again.

It wasn't long before the vampire had finished saying whatever she felt like the order's founding saint might need to know--or even just crossed her mind, particularly the disappointment that they didn't work out a way to keep the griffin, a dangerous animal like that would make a great thing to try and pass the time in taming--and she turned her attention to the letter sent her way.

In truth, most of it wasn't that interesting. It was mostly a matter of catching up on events of the past few years, and the sender's life and hers... well, they didn't have much in common now, did they? There was some similarity with her life before the Iron Roses had been founded in the amount of travelling, but their focus was distinctly different. Nor did Tyaethe really know how to feel about this daughter she had never met, no matter how interested she was in the Iron Roses.

It was the first contact they had had since the rebellion, though, and that was a point of concern. She'd actually have to spend a good deal of time on her reply; that had changed a lot. Or maybe she wouldn't even need to? She mentioned her daughter was interested in joining and maybe they would be paying a visit soon. Definitely an undercurrent of disapproval, there--maybe she wanted them to paint a picture of the place as unwelco--

For the third time, the sound of running feet interrupted her train of thought.

"Segremors! Segremors! Goddesses above, what are you doing?" Tyaethe called as the man came into sight. Although the chance he would understand more than his name was quite low, as the entire sentence was in elven--moreover, the variant spoken by the high elves over the vale, not the variant used by wood elves, which had been far more influenced over the years by the human languages.

@HereComesTheSnow

Gerard Segremors

@Raineh Daze

"Huh?!"

He called back out with about the only thing he could manage as reply, eyes pinning down the shock of white hair a half-beat after he heard his name, in its standard Thalnic form, called out in an accent he couldn't even begin to place. The First and Youngest, naturally— nobody else had quite so distinctive an appearance in the order. Ditto the vocal tone.

If only he could tell whatever the hell it was that tone was saying as it hollered down the courtyard. It was bad enough that his own breathing was getting ragged, but now he could barely make out one word from the next coming out of the diminutive vampire's mouth. Seriously, he hadn't heard any of this in Velt, either...

She seems annoyed.

That much, at least, was clear. And since his legs were starting to burn out, and the wind growing ragged in his lungs...

Alright, what'd I do?

Might as well get this one over with.

As he veered off to close distance between them, he slowed to a jog, then a canter, then a full stop before her, shoulders rising and falling above burning lungs as he began to control and modulate each breath he took.

His gaze met hers, and he made no attempt to hide his befuddlement.

"You... need something, ma'am?"

At least he'd stopped. But... why was he so confused? It was a relatively simple question, there was no need to be confused about it all... for a second, the vampire stood at the courtyard door, looking equally confused about the whole situation, before the answer dawned on her. Right, she'd been thinking too much about how to word her reply (if she even sent one), and she'd responded to the interruption in kind, but almost nobody in the entire country outside of mages spoke the language...

"Sorry about that," Tyaethe said, eyes fixed determinedly to Gerard's side, "Lilette sent a letter, and she taught me Elven, so it's good practice, and... anyway!"

Drawing herself up to her full height--not that it was all that impressive, but the red eyes and slit-like pupils helped a bit, even with the glasses and overall frilly demeanour--the paladin gave Gerard a level stare. "Why are you running down the courtyard? We only just got back."

It probably wouldn't have been that distracting if she had fed at any time since they set off. The elevated heartrate that came with exertion, so close to where she was reading? That was distracting. But 'stop this, I'm hungry' was the wrong thing to say. He had to have some reason for doing this immediately.

@HereComesTheSnow

Lein

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Location: Outside Castle Candaeln
Interactions:

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Lein breathed a sigh of relief as the other knights had quickly followed up on the open opportunity and dealt the finishing blows. As he surveyed the battlefield. Those who wore the Bandit King's colors were all now dead or going the same way, and many knights were raising their weapons in victory. Lein regarded the beast, its fearsome beak that had threatened to shred Lein just a minute ago now holding its own blood-ridden guts. Certainly, there was a sense of victory to have but there was an inevitable tinge of sadness to have reduced a beast of heraldry to a carcass. He should make best use of what was left.

Before others could claim their own trophies, Lein plucked a handful of the largest pinions and folded them into his armor, careful not to ruffle them out of shape. Some of them could be kept as mementos, perhaps others he could fetch a handsome exchange from a thrill-seeking noble. Either way, there was coin here - the griffin would gift its last. As he filed out with the rest of the knights, he look one last glancing look across the broken field that now housed littered corpses of bandits and knights alike, and rested an eye on the remains of a man who had boasted the title "Bandit King".

So goes all glory.

-<>-

Finally, some downtime. Lein had been craving to simply kick back and relax on the castle walls or badger the touchy lion knight Serenity, shooting an amused look at Morianne after Serenity growled a warning toward her, but he had a couple choice matters to attend to first. The march was rather short for sure, but some businesses should not halt. Lein peeled off his armor and heaped it into the approximation of organization (whoever suffered the most at the sight of badly racked equipment was sure to tidy up anyway), and jumped into a set of worn and gangly tunics.

Sparing little time, Lein sped past the rest of the Knights and hopped his way down to below the bridge, careful to pick the path most shaded with rocks and reeds. There - a modest wooden object, tucked neatly up against the meeting of two broken tiles. He deftly slid it out of its moss-covered hiding place and rattled it to make sure the contents were intact. Two soft thuds. Good, looks like none touched this one. Lein just had to make sure to deliver them properly.

As he rounded back up toward the bridge, the box slung behind the shoulder in a fishing net, Lein bumped into a tall figure with fiery red hair, nearly tripping the Hundi runt over in his unbreaking stride. Sergio. Hmm. The red-headed noble struck Lein as somewhat of a prude, the preening sort that visited the local church once every day and twice on off-days. The occasion scars Lein spied from across the training field did tell of battles vicious, but there was something about the pious types that rubbed Lein the wrong way. Still, not much of someone to be wary of, as long as Sergio wasn't somehow tied to the blood-sucking crone.

Ears twitching innocuously, Lein smiled. "Reon's tits, going somewhere fast?"