Her particular engagement was getting... annoying? Annoying felt right. The threat presented by the Boars engaging her wasn't something noteworthy, but they were taking it very carefully, and had just enough co-ordination to prevent an easy victory. Part of this was obviously on her own approach, a little more subtlety or finesse could swing it. She was still confident in winning this battle of attrition, their synchronisation and endurance would fail long before she couldn't manage such straightforward attacks.

But... it was annoying.

"You're watching my sword far too much," the vampire murmured, an idea coming to mind. With her current approach, that was actually effective, but...

The most basic magical spell, as Fionn had been shown, was simply to generate light. Pushing that out a little further onto a sword or the like that you held? Well, that was trivial, it was barely any different. But for Reon's devoted clergy, it was easy to go a step further, to offer up a prayer--to cleanse Mayon's holy site of its vile intrusion--and make true sunlight. And for Tyaethe, the idea of putting out only a reasonable amount of light was barely an option.

The outcome was rather similar to the noon sun being trapped within the blade. There was a small degree of warmth, but most notable were the blatant shadows cast--and for Tyaethe's opponents, the fact that they had gone from watching an ordinary blade in near-darkness to gazing at something close to the sun itself. Only for a few seconds, until the flow of magic was cut off--but those few seconds were more than enough.

And now she needed new opponents. Fortunately, it seemed her trick had drawn more attention, and the Boars were more than eager to swarm the enemy amongst them.

---

Veilena might boast that she only needed her bodyguard, but that was a bit of an overestimation. It also hurt a little to not be acknowledged--sure, the black knight might be the most obvious one guarding her, but Fleuri and Renar were doing their part, so was the captain, and so was she.

Anisse wasn't the most visually distinctive of the knights, her hair was mousey and her eyes almost the same shade. What she did have was a little more experience over the newer recruits, and a welcoming demeanour. Even though Candaeln had its kitchens, she was exactly the type of person who you'd want to offer you a drink, or fresh-baked cake.

Which made it always slightly jarring to see such a warm figure in the battlefield, face hardened into a cold mask, and wielding a spear with alarming precision. For instance, against an opponent whose neck wasn't sufficiently protected, with barely a reaction...

Well, people tended to not live long when a spear had torn out their throat.

Ser Nicomede's magical attack, whilst overly exuberant and pretentious in execution, was effective. I feel some sense of purity befall me, like my sins were momentarily absolved so as to make me light enough to be swifter than these forsaken butchers. And to the crestfallen near-charlatan's further credit - it was well timed.

One brave but stupid mercenary lines up a flank in the blood and chaos to catch Lady Veilena, but I don't let him get that far. Mayon's blessing guides me across the field to the marauder - who by now has spotted my approach. A fearsome and brutish weapon is swung my way and thrusted thereafter - resembling an angry hedgehog on a stick. The man sneers at me from behind his buckler in his other hand.

Exponentially lightfooted I spring forward, feinting a swing for the man to attempt to deflect with his heavy bludgeon only to then, with ferocity, make my actual move. My teeth clench behind my visor - steel meets the oak of the shield, splintering chunks off and very nearly knocking it out of the man's hand. It's only then that my own iron rampart comes forward with my shoulder behind it - slamming into him like the payload of a trebuchet. A desperate swing as he falls over himself just about catches me, knocking my teeth into my tongue. The taste of metal pollutes my mouth but I refuse to stop the advance. My foot comes down with a clang and frees his weapon from his hand.

I wonder if he finds himself able to catch my glare from behind my helmet - daring him to make a further move. He certainly stares back at me, unsure of the right action to take. He'd almost definitely be hung if captured but perhaps he might prefer that to the gory end he'd earn otherwise.

Predictably, though, he goes for the shortknife at his waist, but not anywhere near quick enough. The axe end of my weapon blazes across his neck like a pendulum, and his head rolls across the grass.

@VitaVitaAR @6slyboy6

Gerard Segremors

@Conscripts@Krayzikk@ERode

This was a new sensation.

Not the blood on his tongue, nor the burning line he'd gained across the jaw, no. Many times he'd been pockmarked in the frenzy, been gifted small reminders of how far away the ideal he chased really was, and how truly stopgap a measure his methods to win until he got there had proven to be. Nor was the rise of wind washing the fire away as he took a breath into his belly, the hammering of his heartbeat in his eardrums. The swordplay always took him like this in the thick of it, taught him to push pain into a corner where it didn't leave (it never would) as much as was kept out of the way. It ran hot in his muscles, in his spine, in somewhere rawer than considered technique. Hammered mechanics, writ large on his frame. He knew this feeling well.

Sir Steffen's admonishment didn't fall on deaf ears, but he bit back his acknowledgement as sparks flew, a pair of longswords colliding in front of him. His, humble, biting into the edge of the man opposite, ornate outside the means suggested by the brigandine on his torso. Trophy, probably.

A clarion call to glory from Dame Serenity and flying mass to their right, snapping them out of the bind as the dark shape of a stricken hound crashed into the man at the latter's flank. His foe leapt into the open space, oberhau sailing towards his collar, his neck, the temple beneath his sallet.

The swordplay was taking him. Nothing new.

A chill of frost, unseasonable in the summer night. Sharpness on the wind at his back. He responded in kind, crushing distance with the same strike to defend, resetting the prior exchange. Habitually, Gerard would wind up to ochs here, lining up the stab down the gorget the moment he felt the blades press into one another.

On the length of his blade, Gerard felt the pressure shift, momentarily, and rise.

It did not see him lost, this time.

In the chaos, the space between breaths was enough to paint a picture. A flash in the mind, his foe mirroring him in that old "kill them quickly" favorite standby— going for the throat in the second layer of the exchange. If they had met when they shared professions, it was probable only athletic gulfs would have earmarked who would be left standing.

He could look further than that.

His body had learned that deeper still, there were third, and fourth.

He wrenched his own higher as he drove in, short edge whipping around as the oncoming thrust skirted along the bar of his crossguard. Both swords hanging, stuck in contact after paired winds, his bearing down over the upper, weak edge of his foe's—

And with nothing but cloth to guard the Boar's legs, the mutieren found its mark, steel finding the artery of the femur as the bloodsoaked knight forced his strength down.

The body was cold before the rime took him.

"She's right," he growled, falling into the wedge behind Sir Nicomede's furious dance of spada and sleet. Presence was a good thing, but he hadn't time to gawk at keeping a head on the shoulders within his fury. His eyes had already locked upon a straggler, scampering away into the brush and well beyond reach. "The Pigs run their band like a cult— those at the back aren't booking it, they're carrying news! The good hunting's bound to be past the treeline!"

A lunge to the right, inky blur rocketing to Nicomede's throat as he tore through the line before them—

Intercepted by a cleaving half-moon and a grunt from the Shilagean, as his blade tore through the jaw of the hound, never to close again and spread its curse. Once the initial suprise of what they were capable of wore off, even strong, bewitched dogs were dogs.

As the weight driving behind the very tip of the spear, there were few places that better suited Gerard than here at Sir Nicomede's flank. The four of them would tear through in short, short order.

"No fight is fair." Renar replied automatically to Fleuri, the words coming out of his mouth before he thought them through. That particular philosophy had been beaten into his head often enough that he couldn't ever quite stop himself from repeating it. Those vaunted tourneys that the Flower of the North had made his name in were much the same. What was a joust, but a demonstration of how well one could ride while wearing the densest block of steel they could pay for? A good suit of jousting armor was almost half a victory assured right there. The other half being a suitable charger to bear such a burden. "This isn't common cause. Just common sense."

As if to illustrate his point, Renar brought his poleaxe around in a flourish, driving the butt up into a charging Boar's crotch. While the man howled in pain, the Bastard of Brias brought his weapon's axe head down to split his skull. Even as the Boar fell, however, Renar took his off-hand and ripped his newest victim's dagger from its scabbard on his belt before hurling it straight into the eye of the next mercenary to charge him. Movement in his peripheral vision drew his attention, and he glanced over briefly before turning back towards the fight.

"We've a runner in the back of their formation. Likely sending for reinforcements." Renar said almost conversationally as he caught a sword on the haft of his poleaxe, twisting his grip so as to disarm the Boar who dared attack him. "None of those who broke ranks seem close enough to intercept, unless Dame Tyaethe sees fit to apply herself." The 'for once' went unsaid as Renar drove his spear tip into the Boar's chest, kicking him off his weapon in short order.

"If this marks the third occasion I have to miss the lion's share of the fun, I may be the one breaking ranks next time." It would have been a joke, had the sentiment behind it been any less real. "Honestly," Renar groused directly to the next Boar to try to kill him, feinting a horizontal sweep before stepping close and smashing the haft of his poleaxe straight into the mercenary's nose. "I was led to believe that you people would be an intriguing fight. Your reputation is starting to feel rather undeserved." The knight hooked the edge of his axe head around the man's neck, and pulled, a Boar's head flying into the air.

@Crimson Paladin

---

@VitaVitaAR@Raineh Daze

---

Unsurprising that the Boars' leader was content to hide behind his men. Let them rush on, force Fionn to tire himself fighting through them. A coward's strategy, and not even a sound one at that, even if he did intend to fight through all on his own. Not that he entirely did plan on that, of course. "Tyaethe!" Fionn barked, turning his head slightly toward the vampire not far behind him before they got swarmed again. "Help cut me a path!"

No time to contemplate whether or not she'd hear him and do as he asked, or if she'd see something else that needed taken care of; by that point more of the Boars were upon him. The first jabbed a spear his way; he beat it down to the ground, stepping on the haft to keep it down before the Boar could withdraw the weapon. He brought his blade back up, slicing down at the spearman's lead arm; their hand cleanly separated from their wrist, and they fell back clutching at the bloody stump. He kicked the spear up, catching it and plunging its butt spike into the gut of the next one to run at him.

A third came in from the side, swinging a hammer down at him; he pulled back hard on the spear, lifting it and ducking beneath to catch the blow. The haft split under the blow, and he twisted the front half of the spear around and stabbed it into the Boar's armpit as he raised his hammer for another blow, driving it in hard enough to send the mercenary falling off to the side, useful at least to trip up any of his comrades that might come up. He turned back again, facing the better part of the mercenaries standing between him and their commander.

"Care to make way?" he asked them, his tone light and conversational. In the face of their inability to get through a single knight, he could see some of the mercenaries starting to doubt their choice of battle, especially when considering the struggles they had with the other knights. The hounds, their one real surprise and advantage, had rushed the others, trying to find their way to Veilena's throat; where he stood, it was just Golden Boars filling the space between him and their leader. "Might be you lay your arms down, the others give you a chance, an opportunity to repent, at least a trial. I just want your commander."

They stood silent, for a moment, before one broke ranks and came at Fionn, axe in hand. He stepped in, thrusting forwards, and the point of his blade pierced through their shoddy gambeson, sliding between their ribs. Undeterred, however, they rushed into him, trying to tackle him and let the others tear him apart. He released his sword, wrenching the axe from the dying man's hand instead; he punched forwards at the next to rush him, the strength of the blow and the weight of his gauntlets caving in their forehead and sending them falling limply. Then he turned, throwing the axe at a third; they ducked, raising a shield to try and deflect the blow, and screamed as the axe bit in, pulling the shield along with it and wrenching their shoulder out of its socket.

He grasped at the hilt of his sword, planting his foot on the corpse it was buried in and pulling it smoothly back out. From another he reached down, claiming a shield that had been lost in the melee; and, bellowing some unintelligible war cry, he sprinted forwards himself, shield out, to knock aside or trample any Golden Boar foolish enough to stand between him and their leader.

The curse hounds were just about spent.

Fanilly’s blade sunk deep into the chest of one of the leaping beasts, and she swiftly yanked the black-stained sword from its body as she twisted, her shifting footwork allowing her to intercept the swing of an axe-wielding boar. Using the edge of her sword and a flick of her wrist, she guided the axe downwards and to the ground, widening her stand in the same motion before swinging her sword back up.

The mercenary was unable to react in time, his throat parted as crimson gushed from within, collapsing backwards.

The Boars’ numbers were undeniable. But even in the heat of battle, Fanilly was aware that they were low-quality troops.

Her mind raced.

Did they think the curse hounds would be enough to bolster their chances of success?

The Knight-Captain stepped back, the tip of a thrust spear just barely making contact with her armor and skittering to the side.

She drove her blade forward and pierced the attacker’s leather armor, driving the tip into his chest cavity. With a gurgle, he fell.

There was no way the curse hounds alone could have been enough. The Boars had to know as much.

So what was it they were doing?

It was elementary strategy in battle to reserve higher-quality forces for later in an engagement. That much was obvious.

Did that mean…

As Fanilly fended off and slew her attackers, keeping them as far from Lady Veilena as possible, it seemed as if Clarice had grown bored of simply inflicting pain upon the Boars.

Her grimoire floating in front of her, she reached into her bag once again.

“Ah, there you are~”

The curse mage smirked.

What she drew from the bag appeared to be a doll composed of dark straw, a red ribbon tied around its neck.

“My little fetch~”

A nearby Knight was embroiled in a clash with a large, greatsword-wielding Boar.

Glancing at her grimoire for a moment, Clarice raised the fetch in both hands.

“Gilbert Ransyde.”

As she said the name, she took the fetch’s head in her right hand and squeezed.

There was an ugly crunch. Blood poured from the eye slits of the large Boar’s helmet, and the knight watched in mute shock as he fell.

Clarice’s smirk grew wider, and she spotted another nearby Boar bearing down on the defensive perimeter.

“Argus Harvig.”

She gripped the doll in both hands and twisted its upper and lower halves in opposite directions.

With a crack, the Boar’s upper half violently jerked, twisting all the way around until it faced backwards. He collapsed moments later.

“Jarvik Calburn.”

A Boar’s neck snapped violently.

“Thorgon Kallenvert.”

A Boar’s arms and legs snapped backwards, and he fell screaming to the ground.

“Haddick Danson.”

A Boar turned his sword on himself, shocked as he thrust it through his own neck.

Clarice giggled, smirking as she twisted the doll to and fro, bending its limbs, squeezing its head, and watching as the Boars nearest to her were bent, twisted, and killed.

For a few moments, Fanilly couldn’t assemble her thoughts. She had never seen anything like this.

The vile curse used by the mercenary mage was relentless. Though it appeared she could not use it to reach across the battlefield, any Boar that came into range was dead in the time it took for Clarice to eye her grimoire, say a name, and twist the straw doll.

An indiscriminatory nightmare curse that allowed the user to bend the target to their whims.

It had to have limitations, but aside from range Fanilly hadn’t the faintest idea what they were.

And now wasn’t the time to try and speculate.

From here, even as she fought, she could see the tall, black-armored figure that was Haelstadt.

With each swing of the towering knight’s Zweihander, another Golden Boar died. It was as if they were unstoppable.

One light-armored Boar was split completely in half vertically, the others growing too frightened to even approach.

But then-

Something heavy had struck Haelstadt in the back. A mace, forcing the black knight down onto one knee.

As another Boar erupted from the foliage raised a heavy axe, Fanilly realized what was about to happen.

But she couldn’t reach across the battlefield. Nor could any of the other knights.

The axe fell.

With an ugly chunk, it found Haelstadt’s neck, and their helmeted head hit the ground.

Blood erupted from the stump that was now the Black Knight’s neck.

One of their allies was now dead.

Even as Fanilly caught the strike of another Boar, and their numbers steadily dwindled, her mind went over every failure point. She should have had someone accompany the knight. She should have done something. She should have asked Veilena to keep them closer.

Now the knight was dead. Veilena had lost her bodyguard.

However-

“If you expected my knight to perish so easily, you were sorely mistaken!”

It was Veilena.

The headless body stirred.

Even on the battlefield, one could become intoxicated by victory. The axe-wielding Boar had taken a moment to gloat over the slaying of the monstrous black knight.

As such, he was entirely unprepared for what followed.

Haelstadt’s left hand slammed into his cheek. The Black Knight’s backhand spun his head around on his shoulders, demolishing his vertebrae and leaving his face pointed backwards.

As his body fell, Haelstadt rose.

Briefly, it appeared as if the Black Knight was reaching for their head, but then they paused and stepped forward once more, raising their zweihander once more.

There was little time to express shock over the fact that the decapitated Haelstadt was still moving, for the axe-wielding boar was not the only thing to emerge from the foliage.

As Sir Fionn’s advance tore a line straight to the Commander, something erupted from the treeline.

A huge, human-like shape, fists raised and slamming down right into his path, threatening to crush the advancing knight.

It was not alone.

Four more of the hulking creatures emerged from the forest.

In height, they resembled trolls more than anything else, but they beasts were not trolls at all.

Their heads were puny, distorted, perched atop enormous, muscle-bound frames. Eyes seemed to have ruptured, shriveled lips pulled back to expose cracked teeth. In some places, skin appeared to have split, exposing muscle that had swollen too much for the rest of the body to keep up.

Where their skin was intact, veins bulged, and something else almost seemed to be seething beneath the surface.

The monstrous creatures advanced, and with them came the rest of the Boar’s reinforcements.

“What… what… are those…?”

Fanilly couldn’t help but be stunned by their appearance. They didn’t appear to be undead, but they were horribly disfigured nonetheless.

Clarice, who had been absorbed in using her Fetch to slaughter the mercenaries left and right, froze when she saw the monsters.

“They’re… that’s so many,” she murmured in shock.

“What?” Fanilly found herself asking.

“Curses,” grimly remarked Lady Veilena, her attention taken from Haelstadt’s headless rampage through the Boars, “Those things… there’s curses. Seething inside of them. Sliding around under their skin like maggots. It’s vile.”

The cursed abominations were charging for the knight’s perimeter…

And that wasn’t all.

“A vampire paladin, hm?”

The spear was suddenly thrust towards Dame Tyaethe’s side, piercing through her body and running her through. It happened so quickly, the wielder having used the other Boars as cover for his attack.

“Let’s see if I can occupy you for a little while!”

Just as swiftly as he had thrust his spear, the unseen attacker withdrew, using the other mercenaries as cover once again.

A dagger hurtled in Sir Steffan from his right.

“My, so little armor…”

The man who through it smirked, his long dark hair hanging to his lower back as he drew another set of knives from his hip.

In all likelihood, they were poisoned.

“My kind of opponent!”

A great hammer suddenly descended from Sir Gerard’s position.

It wouldn’t be unfamiliar to the former mercenary.

Even as it inevitably missed, almost as if that had been the intent from the outside, the plate-armored figuring stepped towards him.

The bulky, black and gold armor. The helmet baring the Boar’s visage.

It was quite possible that the knight would recognize it from days not so long passed.

“Hah! I recognize that kind of recklessness anywhere!”

The armored Boar raised the hammer once more.

“One of Franz’s Faceless? I wonder if I’ve met you, before! If I’ve killed anyone you knew!”

He lurched forward, hammer swinging down once again.

@Rune_Alchemist@HereComesTheSnow@Raineh Daze@ERode@PigeonOfAstora@Conscripts@Crimson Paladin@Creative Chaos@The Otter@Krayzikk@Psyker Landshark@6slyboy6

They cut a swath through the ranks. Between Amy's magic, Clarice's curses, and Nicomede's sleight, there was nothing that could stop the momentum of four armored knights from punching a hole through the ranks of the Boars. Cruelty and taboo appeared to be the specialty of the Golden Boars, not any true skill, so, really, what was there?

Nothing, but blood upon her blade and guts beneath her boots. The impurities of the body splattered against her plate, dying curses too quiet to be heard over the roar of her heart. Distantly, she recognized one of the Boars breaking ranks, could hear Gerard's proclamation of that deserter's intent. But even her best throw could not see a hatchet bury itself into that man's back. She clicked her tongue instead, driving a blade into the latest mercenary to impede her path. Where were the archers? Either Lein or Cecilia could've made that shot!

Little time for distraction, however. The wind whistled in the gloom and by reflex, Serenity lunged forth, a blade clattering against her buckler. It had aimed for Steffen, principally their mightiest 'ram' and their least-protected one. A knife-throwing rogue emerged, throwing down the verbal gauntlet, but what need was there for such thoughts? What need was there to respect the challenge of a black-hearted sellsword?

The Boars outnumbered the Iron Roses either way. In any case, what need was there to respect a desire for single combat upon the battlefield?

"Sir Steffen, I'll cover you," Serenity spoke, once more wishing for a proper shield. "Lend Sir Gerard your aid in overcoming the armored one. Sir Nicomede, we'll have need for your magic against those hulks after."

And then, with a movement that could be considered nothing but audacious, the flaxen-haired knight sheathed her sword and drew a dagger, throwing it in the same instant towards the rogue.

"I see nothing but cowards and swine! We'll make short work of them!"

Fleuri Jodeau

"As long as we're standing between them and the girl, they'll keep sending soldiers our way even with the other knights playing havoc up there," Fleuri replied, noting two more mercenaries coming at him. One carried a thrusting sword and buckler, the other with a one-handed hammer and shield. They were approaching at the same speed, clearly not wanting to face an Iron Rose one-at-a-time. A somewhat sensible and pragmatic approach, but not nearly sensible enough. "Their only measure of success here is getting the girl, regardless of how many men they have to spend to do it."

Fleuri had heard that some mercenaries, like Gerard's old company, supposedly gave extra pay to troops that'd take on the extra risk of fighting on the frontlines or being the first into the fray. He wondered if these Golden Boars were getting the same sort of extra pay to rush into certain death.

He didn't have any time to reflect on it now, however. He stepped back, positioning himself behind one of the fallen Boars that he had slain down a few moments ago. He swung his weapon upward at the warhammer-wielding boar, who manage to come to a stop and narrowly avoid running right into the tip of Fleuri's greatsword. The other one jumped over his dead colleague with his sword raised, aiming a thrust squarely for Fleuri's neck.

The Iron Rose deflected the incoming blade with one of his armored bracers, glancing it off harmlessly to his side. Then without skipping a beat, Fleuri tackled the swashbuckler mercenary, pushing his foe back and causing them to trip on the fallen Golden Boar behind him. No sooner had the swordsman fallen that the hammer-wielding mercenary came at Fleuri, attempting to bring the weapon's spike end down on the knight.

Since the dream, since the arrival of that foreign rabbit-woman, Fleuri had been training on improving the speed at which he could swing his sword, in hopes of being able to strike charging foes before they could strike him. Now was the time to put what he had been working on to the test. Returning both hands to his sword, he swung it at his foe's head in an attempt to decapitate them before they could bring their hammer down.

The blow was partially successful- Fleuri managed to strike first, almost without looking, but his blow had been a bit high, perhaps a tiny bit premature, and slashed the man in the face rather than finding his neck. The man dropped his hammer and screamed in agony, and even Fleuri didn't want to look too hard at the gruesome disfigurement he had just inflicted. It was almost certainly a fatal blow, but not immediately so. Clearly, Fleuri still had to work on his technique.

There was no time to waste, though. Fleuri stabbed the fallen swordsman in the chest as he struggled to pick himself up, then administered a mercy-killing to the other mercenary by stabbing him in the neck. It was just then that he noticed Haelstadt struggling, having been overwhelmed by their foes. He was in no position to intervene when Veilena's protector was decapitated. Gone in an instant, just like Sir Rickard.

Our defensive perimeter has just gotten smaller. If only the others had...wait...

To his shock shock, Haelstadt continued fighting and felling Golden Boars even with no head. Fleuri had no idea what sort of sorcery enabled this, even many forms of undead were unable to keep fighting after being beheaded. He wasn't going to worry about it now, though- if Fanilly and Tyaethe had concerns, they could wait until the end of the battle.

And the battle was not over yet, not by a long shot. Another wave of mercenaries emerged from behind the treeline. Most alarming was the quintet of monstrous, mutated men that were with them. One of them struck at Sir Fionn, but the other four were heading directly towards the perimeter, while other Golden Boars engaged and occupied the knights' vanguard.

According to what Clarice was saying, those mutants were filled to the brim with curses, twisting them into their unnatural forms. It left no doubt as to just how vile the Golden Boars were, to disfigure their own men into such monstrous curse-bearers.

"I don't think you'll have to worry about missing the fun this time, Sir Renar," Fleuri remarked as he readied himself.

@Psyker Landshark@VitaVitaAR

Gerard Segremors

@Conscripts@Krayzikk@ERode@VitaVitaAR

True to the black-armored hulk's wishes, Gerard had heard him well before he saw him— and darted to the side as the earth was split beneath the brutal meteor that fell from above, all thunder and bellowed challenge. The man's voice rang from within his armor like an ugly bell, but the timbre, the laughter... something about it made Gerard's grip run tighter, just so.

His eyes caught the gold trimming, as his sword entered the wake between both the enemy's swing and his own movement—

The face of a boar revealed itself from the gloom next, cast on that black iron. With it, stains of red. Mangled limbs, crushed skulls, torn masks, Johann, Rykerd, Haland—

He knew this man.

"They're dead!"

Within the dominant angle, Gerard obliged, lightning cracking through his body. A mighty swing of his blade cleft the air between them, careening into the visor, ready to smash through that infinitesimal gap that allowed vision—

But the rise of the hammer back into the Boar's guard saw him turn his lead shoulder in, the curved, thick plate of steel all but a fortress wall to the knight's well-kept, but ultimately mundane longsword and strength.

The shock, having bounced off the armor like so many of his former peers' had back in the day, traveled up through his arms and spine, a reminder that no picture could ever capture the depth of. Another thunderbolt came from above, transposing the image of a vicious smirk beneath the depths of the man's helm in the night. Killing intent leaked out like a sieve—

But hadn't it always?

As he was forced back, the knight's racing mind caught up with the scene before him.

The Butcher. The Shieldbreaker. Ogre. Many epithets had swirled around the bastard beneath the plate, as mercenary worlds so frivolously bestowed them, so often— The myth eclipsed the man. His name was an obscurity— perhaps cast off, perhaps of no note. For all Gerard knew, they were self-proclaimed.

A ragged breath escaped him, as he pulled his blade back into a sturdy, reactive guard— interposing the bar of steel between him and his foe. His ears told him his peers within the wedge they'd formed were similarly tied, that he'd not been pulled completely away.

"The Faceless are dead." the next breath escaped as a tight snarl, rather than the snapping roar. "Regiment's dissolved. You're behind the times, Pig."

He had indeed killed many of Gerard's former comrades personally. This hulking specter of the past had loomed across the battlefield against the Faceless, against their Forlorn Company, dozens of times— in a way emblematic of the checkered past he and the Boars had shared.

The beast's march continued, each lumbering footfall heavy as the hammer. For that armor to be as familiar a visage as this, Gerard could assume that the other man felt at home in it— and that it wasn't any great coincidence that his blade had skirted off its heft. Full harness was all but impenetrable with the blade he had, when leveraged smartly.

His eyes narrowed, and he shifted his grip.

It was a rare Boar that built up that kind of experience from entirely within the company. One of the most prevalent tales regarding this one was that he was an alum of the Cazt rebellion, having thrown in with the Boars while the getting was still good. A once-knight of the realm at some juncture, who'd slipped through the cracks and thrown in with the worst of the lot. That he'd sacrificed any shred of dignity he could still claim by deserting even the traitor, let alone his country, his people, his duty to protect.

"You're fighting the Iron Roses."

His left hand slid down the length of the blade, coming to a halt some third of the way down from the tip. His right clenched around the ricasso, beneath the crossguard.

The weight in his hands was good. Where a swinging edge failed, a mordhau would ring with much, much more impact. Fighting was the leveraging and taking of yours and your opponent's tools. Armor checked his blade, hammering strikes sent shocks through the steel. The reach and weight of the great hammer made it deadly at longer distance. The leverage and dexterity of halfswording made for a good can opener in tight. He just needed to get there, now...

He raised his guard, digging his heel into the earth. This was intersection.

A knight, fallen to hellish depths. A blackguard to the core, relishing only bloodshed and tolerating every evil, who had cast aside his sacred duty. No honor left in his soul. None there to give him.

A mercenary, climbing out of them. Fighting every day to prove he was worthy of the blessings that came with a chance to be more. No reason to fight like a dullard. No reason to keep being one, and leave advantage on the table.

Utterly antithetical to eachother. As if designed to be equivalent, and opposite. Perfect checks to the path each advanced through.

He swung high, forcing a reaction lest the snout of the helm cave in on his opponent's face—

But I've got a lot further to go than you, you piece of shit.

"Nobody else— Nico, get his joints!"

Frames of violence blast past my eyes - for the first time in a long time I find it difficult to keep track of what is happening - Veilana's titan falls only to resurrect by her hand, and then things even more wretched than the accursed dogs breach the treeline. Gerard, Fionn, Nico, Steffen, they all are engaged even more heavily than before - Ser Gerard in particular facing off against a behemoth of a mercenary.

That leaves the rest of us to protect Veilana, and it is a job that increases in difficulty by the moment. The bloated muscles and shrunken heads ravage across the grass, writhing movements indeed very nearly perforating their skin.

"Captain, you have my flank, yes?!" I call out, still tasting the copper in my mouth.

I swing for the closest one, hoping that the profundity of a sharp point in one's skull is universal even for abominations.

@VitaVitaAR @6slyboy6

Lein

---

Location: Cae Mayl
Interactions:

---

"One stone wall to another, eh? Quite the tour today." Lein wove that irritation into a thinly pressed smile and scarpered up into a more secure position from the little height Serenity managed to toss him. A bunch of ringed stones that was a couple meters off the ground, a ring recessed back toward the one landmark of Cae Mayl, and a couple more scattered outward in a sporadic smattering, just close enough for a daring jump between them. A playground of sorts, for someone who could appreciate an easy vantage point and be thrown up the rocks with alarming ease.

Sure, Lein could lean back, take it easy and spend yet another idle day. Or he could risk having his head split open hopping from stone to stone and watch the rest of the regiment from above like a disinterested crow. It wasn't a choice, really. His conscious was already frayed by the harrowing experience of boredom. Lein chose to hop across the standing stones and take up one particularly forward position, in a tauntingly distant strait that would certainly arrest the notice of an advancing troop.

His arrogance did not last first contact; Lein hailed arrows down at the hounds with the confidence that they, with their pithy conjured claws could surely not climb the vertical sheer rock face of the standing stone. Yet those demon hounds were more than capable of climbing up his perch, and more than willing to scarper up its entire height with disjointed viscosity quicker than the suddenly isolated archer. The first to reach the top had its jaw shot into the column itself before Lein stamped its neck. The second landed on top of the first, bleeding from its shoulders and still snapping at the arrows that pierced its mouth. Lein swung around to leap back through the standing stones and toward the defensive line that was meeting the horde; but another particularly eager hound however, found the archer's leg as its savage writhing tore Lein's balance and sent him crashing into the dirt.

Neither side took any time to recover; the curse hound snarling and lunging at it prey, and Lein snapping out a short blade from his belt and meeting the creatures with equal viciousness. This was not the first time he had been caught off-side, but the Hundi found these conjurations especially deplorable to have pointedly marked his error. These accursed hounds, barely sentient things that would be little more than a flick of a finger for anyone amongst the Knights and yet the pack of them made a fool of Lein's over-eagerness for action. For that offense, he didn't rush back into the frontline established by the rest of the Knights, and instead sunk deep into the oncoming rush.

He didn't bother firing a quip when the brief lull came; instead he cursed and swore his way back up the standing stone, even the minor inconvenience of the climbing grating on the injury to his pride. He took one disdainful look at the fleshy behemoths that shuddered and cracked their way toward the frontlines, barely taking the time to level his aim before launching a slew of arrows towards the ugliest one of the lot. That his compatriot Fionn was trampling his way toward them was a secondary concern; violence and competence would be Lein's choice of venting his compounded frustration, and right now, the Knights needed someone who would rid those things with as many arrows as it would take to tear them to the ground.

Well, well, well. It seemed the Lady Cazt's stalwart protector wasn't quite human, now was he? Or mortal, for that matter. Renar quickly adjusted his mental plans for dealing with Haelstadt should it be necessary to severing or just crippling the limbs. Whatever the knight was, its armor was still mundane enough to sustain damage from ordinary weapons, at the very least. But that was a matter for later. For now, there was the matter of the strange, evidently cursed, creatures rushing towards the defensive line. With them rushing straight towards the bulk of the Roses, there wasn't time to worry about much else.

"Then we'll chop them down, piece by piece." Renar hefted his poleaxe in response to Fleuri, his mind already racing to try to figure out the best approach to this challenge. Most of his specialized tricks and tactics weren't going to be particularly effective against fifteen-foot tall behemoths. "Perhaps I should start packing holy water into my bag of tricks, if dealing with dark magics is going to become a regular occurrence. In any case, we'll have to weave around them and aim for the hamstrings. Topple the wretches, and we'll copy what the Boars did to Lady Cazt's knight."

Renar pointed at the rightmost curse mutant before taking up his stance.

"With me, Sir Fleuri. If we bring one down starting from the flank, we can work through the rest while the main line holds them." With that said, he charged.

@Crimson Paladin

---

Steffen received little response from the former mercenary lad, but at least he was causing havoc. He found it a little out of the element having to keep up with Gerard's fury, but the slaughterhouse continued functioning. Boars continued to run headlong into danger, the hounds continued pounding, but their fates, like many that came before it was either a hole in the face, chest or throat, or sidegrade-wise a head severed from its torso but still dangling on their skins.

The slow-roll approach of the Ingvarr knight allowed him some observation. Alarm quickly raised in his head the moment the black-cladded knight of Veilena was split in two, but just as quickly it shifted over to amazement that it continued fighting on somehow. He had been surprised more than enough, and having little time, he looked on to the reinforcement that arrived. Bigger, stronger, uglier, harder they would fall. But he did not see the dagger that curved right at him at his blindspot, not until it was too late anyway. He knew it, but the instinct overloaded with decades of training still snapped his limbs and body into the incoming knife, only to find the lioness inbetween him and the attacker, a shield at hand.

"A thousand thanks." Steffen gave the flaxen-haired knight a nod, quickly glancing over to Gerard, whose rampage were too stopped by an armored Boar. As much as he wished to help Serenity with this more elusive opponent, his worries over Gerard himself and his respect for Serenity's judgment and capabilities made him turn his goal elsewhere, but his attention and body orientation still in the direction of the dagger-armed attacker. Who knows if he would let this 'my kind of opponent' a free pass. But assuming the best, that armored Boar with the cocky hammer - truly Steffen's kind of opponent too.

@HereComesTheSnow@ERode@Krayzikk@VitaVitaAR

It had, all things considered, been a while since Nicomede stood in battle with people to watch his flanks.

It was a good feeling, if unfamiliar. The thought was remote, almost like it came from someone else, tucked away behind the cold rage and focus that drove him forward. The Boar that Gerard engaged, only moments after stopping a blow meant for him, prickled at his memory. Something angry, something distasteful. It had been a lifetime ago— for both of them, he suspected. But it was nothing compared to the rage he felt from Gerard, heard in his voice.

"Coming up! Congelare!" Despite the mobility offered even in full plate, it's all for naught when thick ice forms around every joint in mere breaths. He wouldn't be going much of anywhere, Gerard's foe; but he didn't mind making it a little more official. "Lancia."

The ice at the Boar's left knee, closest to Nicomede's right hand, sent spikes through the back of the joint to— ideally— sever that critical tendon. But he wasn't paying attention to the man anymore. Gerard would handle him, and Nico himself would have something else to handle soon. The hulking creatures, curses writhing just beneath the surface, would make their presence felt soon enough. He'd need his next canteen of water for them, and soon.

"The fun jobs, i miei amici, sì?"

@ERode @HereComesTheSnow @VitaVitaAR

Being stabbed hurt, but it was a familiar thing. As soon as the spear was withdrawn, Tyaethe could already feel the wound healing of its own volition, shadows bubbling over the injury and restoring it to smooth skin even as the magically-conjured armour regenerated. A hit and run tactic like that was hardly an obstacle unless the one behind it wizened up and heavily improved their aim, rather than deciding that her waist was somehow an instant kill.

If this had been some other time, it would have been exhilarating. Even if this was just a random nobody hiding behind his associates rather than fighting her face to face, at least they showed the strength and skill to put up a challenge.

But... those things. She wasn't close enough to hear Clarice's explanation, nor intimately familiar with exactly what they were--at least off the top of her head--but their very presence in this location set her teeth on edge, a crawling feeling of wrongness that made it clear that they must be destroyed as soon as possible. The Goddesses demanded it.

And she had to deal with this overconfident spearman. Well, if he was going to hide, then she'd just have to make it clear exactly how bad it was to engage, right? Scare off the meatshields a little. They'd already seen her shrug off being impaled, so what was a little more injury? So far, she had at least presented an attempt to fight normally, but now... now they were in the way.

The first one reacted surprisingly quickly. It was impressive in its own right, her own surge forwards and his reaction carving a chunk out of the armour, and her own hip. Not that it mattered, now the vampire was in their line, freeing one hand from her sword to grab his head and shove.

It would probably be better if nobody looked too closely at his head later. Or the head of the man to his left, where the two had collided.

On her other side, the unsurprisingly freaked-out looking boar had taken the consideration that if stabbing and cutting her didn't work, maybe smashing her shoulder in with a mace would? It was a pretty smart move, she might have admitted, if it weren't for the fact that he had just seen the damage heal.

For his oversight, her once again uninjured arm swung, liberating his arm from his body. Not a threat, now, and soon enough he'd be dead.

Getting stabbed from behind, aimed slightly higher but still nowhere accurate for her heart, was another nuisance. As was the fact that somehow the boars behind her still thought to present a front with which the spearman could hide behind.

"Get out here, coward!"

---

@VitaVitaAR

---

Fionn's charge slowed for a moment, first hearing the trees cracking near him; he turned his head to glance at what was making the sound, only to have time for a muttered curse and to leap out of the way. Grossly swollen fists crashed to the ground where he had just been standing, clods of dirt flying up around them as the beast bellowed out in mindless rage. The Boars had moved to clear space for the giant, unwilling to allow themselves to get crushed in its maddened advance, to say nothing of the other four that were making their way for his fellow knights.

He rolled once, coming back up on his feet hastily. Out of the way of harm from the beast, for now, he wasn't safe yet—charging into the Golden Boars' lines meant that there was no lack of enemies around him, and not all of them would be so surprised by their sudden allies not to try and take advantage of his lonesome status. Light glinted in his peripheral vision, reflecting from something off to his left; he threw the shield outwards instinctually, batting aside a spear that was thrust at him. He lunged forwards, driving the rim of the shield into the face of the Boar that tried to stab him; dead or unconscious, they fell, and he released the shield, ramming his sword back home and hefting their spear.

The giant turned, lured by the clashing sound so close to it, knowing that its prey had evaded its initial attack. Any Boars that had considered stepping in to try and finish Fionn off instead chose to back away, rather than risk utter pulverization. "And I thought I was crazy," he muttered, now that he had a clear look at the beast. It was clear that it had once been human, though whether one of the Golden Boars or some unfortunate captive of theirs he couldn't say; whatever had been done, the body was too mangled and distorted for it to matter any longer. Limbs and torso on the verge of bursting, and a head, lips pulled back in what he could only imagine a grimace of pain, blinded from destroyed eyes, nearly swallowed into the chest by the ballooned muscles surrounding it.

"In ainm Mayon, agus Reon..."

Whether forced into this transformation or an enemy who willingly took it upon themselves, the creature before him now was nothing but an object of pity. Ending its existence would be a mercy. An important work to see done before tearing these Boars' captain's head from his shoulders. "Well? What are you waiting for?" he called out to it, standing firm as the space cleared further, forcing himself to breathe, stay relaxed. This was no mere boar or bear he might defeat by holding his place against any charge, let the beast impale itself and get stuck before it could actually reach him. This giant would likely crush him under its weight if he tried such, not to mention he didn't even have the right tools for the job.

Lure it in. Get it to charge. From there, speed, agility, and technique. No different from any other fight, that.

After a few moments to get over the shock of their appearance, Fanilly did her best to take mental stock of the approaching, cursed behemoths as fast as she possibly could.

They were unarmed. They did not appear to recognize friend or foe particularly well, given the Golden Boars were swift to clear a path for them. It was with a rather sick feeling she noted their obvious origins. The curse abominations were obviously once human beings, no matter how distorted their forms were now.

Regardless of who they once were, killing them would be a kindness.

The thick muscles would be difficult to pierce, so it was best to go for killing blows as swiftly as possible, by bringing their vital points within reach.

The Knight-Captain took a deep breath.

"Bring them down!" she cried, taking a step forward and raising her blade, "Aim for the ankles, hamstring them and cut them down!"

It was the swiftest way she could think of possibly dealing with them. It appeared as if Sir Renar had already had a similar idea, as well.

"Tch, they... their names are gone, I can't..."

Clarice's frustrated voice came from behind her, but there was no time to dwell on that now. The curse abominations were almost upon them.

Fanilly darted forward, ducking low as moving around the first of the monstrosities as quickly as she could.

One of the Boars was already advancing on her to her right. Damn it, they were trying to take advantage of the fact she couldn't focus on them now-!

His neck snapped before he could get within a meter of her.

"Just because I can't read their names doesn't mean I can't read yours, morons!"

Clarice raised her fetch again.

Within moments, another Boar's head exploded, gore spurting through the air, as she squeezed the straw doll's head.

At the very least, that meant Fanilly could focus on the curse monsters instead!

Haelstadt's headless body strode forward, raising its sword. The massive Zweihander cleaved apart another Golden Boar at the waist, his cheap armor doing nothing against the power and quality of steel.

Perhaps, if they had paid sufficient attention, they would have noticed the Black Knight was focusing on targets in the same direction as their severed head was currently facing.

It was hard to pick up on such details when their ranks were being torn apart, however. Indeed, it was difficult for the Boars to join their fellows, and the Curse Abominations, when Haelstadt was cutting through their formation even after losing their head.

Of the other curse abominations, the one Lein had riddled with arrows stepped back for only a moment, the tips buried in its thick, overdeveloped, near-bursting muscles.

It let out an unearthly bellow and turned to charge towards the hundi archer, the unexpected change of direction taking one Boar off-guard.

The mercenary was crushed underfoot without a chance to cry for help, reduced to a mangled remnant on the grass. The other Boars had done their best to evade the monsters for a reason.

"... Tch. You just had to notice, didn't you," the knife-wielding rogue grimaced as he brandished his poisoned knives, taking a step back. It was clear Dame Serenity was far from an ideal opponent, given how he'd immediately targeted the least-armored of the knights.

But perhaps he wasn't entirely without any tricks up his sleeve.

"Hah!"

A trio of black orbs suddenly left his other hand, erupting into a cloud of smoke with an echoing crack, suddenly obscuring the immediate area. The faint shape of the Boar was just visible, blades catching the dying light as they were thrown again.

The Boar who had driven his spear into Dame Tyaethe's side seemed content to allow his fellows to be slain rather than intervene in their demise, instead retreading by his increasingly-shaken allies.

"Why should I? Just got to keep you occupied for a while, you know?"

Another spear thrust towards the vampire paladin, slipping between two allies who were far too reluctant to do anything on their own.

Strange, however, was the fact that the voice, and the spear, came from entirely opposite sides of the fight as the initial blow had come from...

The curse abomination facing Fionn let out a tremendous bellow, its cheeks tearing and exposing muscle, before it lurched towards the knight, raising both of its fists in a bid to bring them down upon them, tearing up the earth beneath its feet.

The Boar Commander hadn't taken the opportunity to flee, nor could he attack with the monster making its charge. If anything, he actually seemed somewhat aggravated at the presence of the curse behemoth, dark eyes glaring towards the mutated creature.

Perhaps he had actually wanted to fight.

@Rune_Alchemist@HereComesTheSnow@Raineh Daze@ERode@PigeonOfAstora@Conscripts@Crimson Paladin@Creative Chaos@The Otter@Krayzikk@Psyker Landshark@6slyboy6

The hulking knight was forced to raise his hammer in defence, even as the very armour iced up. As a situation, it was untenable; he could barely move, yet a failed defence would see his head caved in. Except--

As Gerard had known, this monster was known for his strength. Even with the constraints on his leverage, the sheer lack of momentum, he somehow found the force to break Nico's ice, hammer raised to guard. And, just as swiftly, swung, with a laughing, "And why does that make you any better?"

For all the mercenary's grandstanding, and even the lack of pain in his voice, it was clear that something was wrong. His balance was stilted, an attempt being made to avoid any movement along one leg. The ice that hadn't been broken had done its work.

@HereComesTheSnow

---

The curse monsters could hardly be considered fast opponents. They were slow, lumbering. But they weren't oblivious, some spiteful awareness of the normal people around them guiding their actions. In Fanilly's case, an unexpected kick as it slowly turned to track her. Renar... well, he was hardly being subtle, and it fortunately seemed they were none too bright: one corpulent fist, swung wide round in response to his charge. Unfortunately for both of them, there was still the small issue of their sheer size and reach to contend with.

@VitaVitaAR@Psyker Landshark@Crimson Paladin

There was only the slightest of shrugs from Serenity in response to her foe. She didn’t like his type either, the elusive, indirect, annoying type. Archers were proper battlefield threats, and in formation, presented a storm that had to be braved. Knife-throwing rogues though?

“Go lick your knife and save me the trouble.”

No one made a formation out of those; they neither had discipline nor accuracy, and only served as distractions, too drunk on buffoonery to even work as proper assassins of mages. All they had were a bag of tricks. Renar did too, of course, but at least he had the confidence in them to strike in close combat from the openings it created! This, however? Black smoke curled over the chaos of the battlefield and in response, Serenity leapt back herself. Not to retreat, but to mirror Steffen’s positioning. Her work was defensive until there was a greater opportunity, and under the smoke, her opponent could simply circumvent her if she remained still and cautious!

His daggers flashed through the smoke, his form lost within the shroud.

One clanged off the shield, a second missed as she slanted her form, and the third Serenity headbutted, the steel insufficient for piercing one of the sturdiest pieces of armor she had. Without hesitation, she kicked up the two knives that had dropped close to her. She flung one into the throat of an unlucky mercenary at her flank (lucky shot, she’d need more training to make that toss consistent), while the second she withheld, waiting for the smoke to clear and for her opponent to reveal themselves once more.

How strange it was, getting into a knife-throwing fight in the middle of a battlefield populated by cursed giants and madmen. But until the bastard Gerard and Steffen fought was felled, she would make sure that rogue before her was occupied.

The curse-beast was slow and lumbering. Its massive reach damn near made up for that. Renar cursed under his breath as he saw the massive fist close in on him, and he dove forward to only narrowly evade it, coming up in a roll before continuing his sprint. He reached towards his belt as he ran, drawing a throwing dagger with his free hand and hurling it vaguely in the direction of center mass. There wasn't any time to aim properly as he ran, but hopefully, it would distract the creature long enough for him to close in without reprisal.

Mere moments after his throw, Renar cleared the last bit of distance and wove to the curse abomination's right flank, taking his poleaxe up and slashing the axe head into the back of the leg where the hamstring would be on an ordinary man. Hopefully, Fleuri got the cue and went for the other leg. With any luck, between the two of them, their efforts would send the accursed thing to its knees.