[center][h3][color=C0392B]Rudolf Sagramore[/color][/h3][/center]

[@Psyker Landshark][@Ithradine][@vietmyke]

[color=c0392b]"On it."[/color] breathed the soon-to-be blur of red and silver, his larger blade once again resting against his back as the infiltration team broke into the open air. [color=c0392b][i]I wish I could.[/i][/color]

Once again, the young warrior let the moonlight gleam against the steel of his humbler swords, needing their certain bite again instead of empty pomp and circumstance. Fire blossomed, thunder cracked, steel groaned in agony overhead as he leapt into the throng, cutting, stabbing, kicking, shoving, killing. The Valheimr added crimson to the hues of flame that cloaked him, too awestruck and rattled by the explosion of Eve's magic to regain their footing in time to check him.

[i]You've lost Esben. This could get ugly if they realize you're alone in the middle.[/i] his passenger advised, for once in neutral tone. [i]Don't give me that. I'm in a bad spot if you die.[/i]

They wouldn't. He wouldn't. Don't put that out there, when the aforementioned Southron had nearly shot them. Look ahead.

With Galahad's swings and Arton's materia, at once the Valheimr were sown into the wind, forced back and staggering as the the twin ringing shields of steel and sorcery crashed into what remained of their lines, a bell against their helmets.

A grunt, a burst of force through the body. The feeling of something light in the limbs, but broad through the chest, eclipsing fear. 

They were then reaped by the whirlwind, as the yellowed eyes of the younger swordsman flickered into each strike he made against the rear at a level beneath consciousness, for all the world seeming to forget the frantic expression his waking mind still wore on the face. Beneath the weight of his and Arton's pincer, the connection point would come in mere moments.