Sky Blue
Mae
Snowdrops
Ithradine
4323O2
Plank Sinatra
Izurich
vietmyke
shylaraheh, i felt like i had a bit of a hard time recapturing the energy for this one
HereComesTheSnow Member
dehydration expert
STATUS: trying to find the "golden ratio" of weed and ozempic to cause my appetite to stack overflow and reactivate the long-dormant photosynthesis gene from that 50% of DNA we share with plants. will update 13 days ago
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13 days ago
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trying to find the "golden ratio" of weed and ozempic to cause my appetite to stack overflow and reactivate the long-dormant photosynthesis gene from that 50% of DNA we share with plants. will update
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1 mo ago
many people dont know this but a good cue for deadlifting is to bring your chest up and lock your lats for proper spinal stability. this also applies to interacting with gorillas i'm told. testing no—
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3 mos ago
yeah i work in area 51, it's pretty chill. usually you just get a tweaker roll by on a "spiritual journey" once a month. they tend to go away once you put a few AIM-9s downrange on their flying saucer
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4 mos ago
man is closest to god after an ice cold beer in the warm shower. his mind and body are freed. next closest is behind the wheel in a scool zone, also with an ice cold beer in hand. study this well.
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5 mos ago
yeah mom its me can you come pick me up me and the boys were wondering if pulling a potato peeler over tommy's behelit would wake up the little guy in there and it started screaming.. thanks love you
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not the best, but keeping things moving
@Psyker Landshark@Raineh Daze@VitaVitaAR@Crimson Paladin
It appeared that part of the reason his delay in rejoining the fight was uninterrupted was the watchful eye of Sir Renar, who offered Gerard a curt nod of what seemed to be acknowledgement before falling in after his chase of Sir Jodeau, perhaps a half-step behind the younger swordsman. That was good— the more skilled and wily fighters they could throw at what could only be the Bandit King, the better.
A cry off to their flank interrupted that hopeful train of thought before it could get any further, however. A pair of bandits, coming in at almost perfect perpendicular with the tournament veteran, burst from the edge of the camp and forced him to sidestep. Not good. Gerard hard no doubt that any of the three of them could easily dispatch these men, but their sudden assault had forced them into an engagement— wasting precious time. They needed to aid the Captain— They needed to take Jeremiah out of the picture. This setback needed to be dealt with before it could bog the three of them down.
Bringing his Longsword to bear, Gerard raised it to the familiar Roof Guard, blade floating above his shoulder as he chewed up the remaining distance between himself and Sir Jodeau. It had been fortunate in a sense that they'd shown their hand so early, and that Gerard and Sir Renar had been trailing behind by paces— as they fell upon the first knight they saw, the second and third following him would fall upon them. He made to adjust his course and line up a murderous hew at the man with the mace—
"Gerard, go on ahead! I'll take care of these bandits and make sure none escape!"
—Only for the tournament veteran to fill that space himself, greatsword and dagger twin fangs that lashed out at the fleeing forms of the would-be ambushers. They did evade him, but they were also driven well off the following knightly pair's line of advance. The experienced knight's voice, his tone... It was collected and calm, but it brooked no dissent.
"Goddesses guide you."
He would be a fool to waste the opening his compatriot had given him.
Bathed in the orange light of the roaring flames, Gerard charged through, heedless of the waves of heat that blasted his face. Upon the other side, he heard the tail end of Paladin Tyaethe's signature needling words. She generally wasted little time beyond a few flicks of the acrid tongue in his experience— so they had come sailing in just on the mark for the battle to begin anew, then.
Perfect.
Without hesitation, Gerard planted a boot upon one of the dimmer branches and pushed off, carrying himself over the tree in a single motion— and for the first time, he saw the mountain of a man that stood before them.
Several things began to make sense. Firstly, that blade he carried— far too large to be called a sword. Too big, too thick, too heavy, too rough— the man was swinging around a hunk of raw Iron. The weight alone would smash straight through any sword of standard make that tried to get between it and a knight once it got up to speed— and Gerard's longsword would be no exception. Next, he noted that there was no armoring upon Jeremiah's frame— on one hand, it meant he had no protection from any attacks that slipped past his guard, but on the other, it meant that he would worry relatively less about tiring out or overheating while swinging that hunk of metal around. If one could get past it.
Thirdly, he noticed the sadistic grin upon his shaven countenance. He was enjoying the carnage, then. Living up to his title, the king of these brigands and all their savagery. Toying with those he considered beneath him, wantonly chopping good men in half and pronouncing that he would be the death of their historic, noble order. Everything Sagramore had expected.
Monstrous strength, massive blade, and three hundred dead men to his name or not—
The pounding in his skull returned.
This will not stand.
Paladin Tyaethe had moved in at remarkable pace, darting into a blind angle behind Jeremiah's wide back— Captain Fanilly and Sir Jarde were currently at his front. Two cardinal directions taken care of.
Find third. Force attack from different angle and different level. Seize the initiative.
Even as his blood turned to boiling pitch, Gellert used that of him which was still reasonable to formulate a plan, similar to the one he had prior. Landing and bleeding off momentum into a roll on a diagonal, he managed to position himself roughly betwixt Tyaethe and Jeremiah's left side.
Perfect for shoving the point of a longsword through a man's kidney. He sprung out of the roll into exactly such a thrust, coming in at an almost exaggeratedly low angle with every ounce of force and velocity he could muster behind it. There was neither fear nor doubt in his movement— such things had long since burned away, in battles far earlier than this one.
Now, the Bandit King had to deal with an attack from The Roof by the vampire woman's blade, something massive in its own right— with whatever frontal counterattack made by Fanilly and Jarde in this instance— and with his own thrust, low, long, and direct. Even if Jeremiah killed him here, doing so would leave him open to attacks from at least one the former two angles through the simple variation in position and height. The same went for the others.
Someone would bring him down today.
It appeared that part of the reason his delay in rejoining the fight was uninterrupted was the watchful eye of Sir Renar, who offered Gerard a curt nod of what seemed to be acknowledgement before falling in after his chase of Sir Jodeau, perhaps a half-step behind the younger swordsman. That was good— the more skilled and wily fighters they could throw at what could only be the Bandit King, the better.
A cry off to their flank interrupted that hopeful train of thought before it could get any further, however. A pair of bandits, coming in at almost perfect perpendicular with the tournament veteran, burst from the edge of the camp and forced him to sidestep. Not good. Gerard hard no doubt that any of the three of them could easily dispatch these men, but their sudden assault had forced them into an engagement— wasting precious time. They needed to aid the Captain— They needed to take Jeremiah out of the picture. This setback needed to be dealt with before it could bog the three of them down.
Bringing his Longsword to bear, Gerard raised it to the familiar Roof Guard, blade floating above his shoulder as he chewed up the remaining distance between himself and Sir Jodeau. It had been fortunate in a sense that they'd shown their hand so early, and that Gerard and Sir Renar had been trailing behind by paces— as they fell upon the first knight they saw, the second and third following him would fall upon them. He made to adjust his course and line up a murderous hew at the man with the mace—
"Gerard, go on ahead! I'll take care of these bandits and make sure none escape!"
—Only for the tournament veteran to fill that space himself, greatsword and dagger twin fangs that lashed out at the fleeing forms of the would-be ambushers. They did evade him, but they were also driven well off the following knightly pair's line of advance. The experienced knight's voice, his tone... It was collected and calm, but it brooked no dissent.
"Goddesses guide you."
He would be a fool to waste the opening his compatriot had given him.
Bathed in the orange light of the roaring flames, Gerard charged through, heedless of the waves of heat that blasted his face. Upon the other side, he heard the tail end of Paladin Tyaethe's signature needling words. She generally wasted little time beyond a few flicks of the acrid tongue in his experience— so they had come sailing in just on the mark for the battle to begin anew, then.
Perfect.
Without hesitation, Gerard planted a boot upon one of the dimmer branches and pushed off, carrying himself over the tree in a single motion— and for the first time, he saw the mountain of a man that stood before them.
Several things began to make sense. Firstly, that blade he carried— far too large to be called a sword. Too big, too thick, too heavy, too rough— the man was swinging around a hunk of raw Iron. The weight alone would smash straight through any sword of standard make that tried to get between it and a knight once it got up to speed— and Gerard's longsword would be no exception. Next, he noted that there was no armoring upon Jeremiah's frame— on one hand, it meant he had no protection from any attacks that slipped past his guard, but on the other, it meant that he would worry relatively less about tiring out or overheating while swinging that hunk of metal around. If one could get past it.
Thirdly, he noticed the sadistic grin upon his shaven countenance. He was enjoying the carnage, then. Living up to his title, the king of these brigands and all their savagery. Toying with those he considered beneath him, wantonly chopping good men in half and pronouncing that he would be the death of their historic, noble order. Everything Sagramore had expected.
Monstrous strength, massive blade, and three hundred dead men to his name or not—
The pounding in his skull returned.
This will not stand.
Paladin Tyaethe had moved in at remarkable pace, darting into a blind angle behind Jeremiah's wide back— Captain Fanilly and Sir Jarde were currently at his front. Two cardinal directions taken care of.
Find third. Force attack from different angle and different level. Seize the initiative.
Even as his blood turned to boiling pitch, Gellert used that of him which was still reasonable to formulate a plan, similar to the one he had prior. Landing and bleeding off momentum into a roll on a diagonal, he managed to position himself roughly betwixt Tyaethe and Jeremiah's left side.
Perfect for shoving the point of a longsword through a man's kidney. He sprung out of the roll into exactly such a thrust, coming in at an almost exaggeratedly low angle with every ounce of force and velocity he could muster behind it. There was neither fear nor doubt in his movement— such things had long since burned away, in battles far earlier than this one.
Now, the Bandit King had to deal with an attack from The Roof by the vampire woman's blade, something massive in its own right— with whatever frontal counterattack made by Fanilly and Jarde in this instance— and with his own thrust, low, long, and direct. Even if Jeremiah killed him here, doing so would leave him open to attacks from at least one the former two angles through the simple variation in position and height. The same went for the others.
Someone would bring him down today.
Well, speaking of shit happening, I've got a good bit of it on my plate right now. I'll try and knock something out when I'm able.
No worries, shit happens
@Psyker Landshark@jdh97@Crimson Paladin@Raineh Daze@VitaVitaAR
Ebb and flow.
Action and reaction.
Impacts against the blade resonating with the pumping in his skull.
The rhythm through which he experienced this loud, bloody, and unforgiving world. Many likened it to a dance when they romanticised it, the constant give and take of force and space.
Gerard Segremors could not bring himself to agree. There was nothing so whimsical here— warfare could only be warfare. It was simply too discordant to be anything else. Even dueling had enough order, enough regulation, enough elimination of meddling outside forces to still step one foot into the realm of dance in his mind, but not warfare.
He surged forward, his longsword biting deep into the clavicle of an axeman. As the tip of the rightward spear, he had met the forefront of the slapdash defenses their enemies had managed to mount, and was by now deep in the thick of the camp after the mere moment it took for the full weight of his detachment to crash through behind his lead. It was as if the battle before had been a sample of that of now... There were no more elite forces here than out on the roads.
The routing of the king's men could not have been done by these bandits.
He ripped the blade free, kicking him as he fell and fully disregarding the spurt of blood that fell upon his boot. Such was expected, but less so was one of your fellows suddenly falling beneath your feet— the final lesson learned by a charging spearman before the knight he had set to impale cracked his skull with their warhammer.
It had to be this King Jeremiah.
The knight barked their thanks, receiving a simple grunt of affirmation as their impromptu "commander" dashed forward, scooping up the dropped polearm. Gripping the eight-foot oaken shaft by its end, he stepped in deep and thrust forward, breaking through the boiled leather over another's ribcage as he was attempting to turn towards the approaching noise. With his dying breath through the punctured lung, the malcontent managed to bring his crossbow to bear upon the knight's furrowed brow—
But Segremors's instincts and experience proved too savvy. As the bolt was fired with a thankfully labored motion, he was already ducking out to the side, and the projectile struck home into the shoulder of another bandit who had the thought of trying to split Gerard's skull with a club from behind, while he had been busying himself with a little spearplay.
"AGH! KEITH, YOU FU—"
He was not allowed the time to finish his reprimand, as the vengeful Reonite came out of the roll in a turning, two-handed cleave that drew a murderous line right through his neck, very nearly decapitating the man outright. In severing two major arteries, this hew had a naturally spectacular effect.
The crack of a burning, falling tree drew his attention towards the front. A shout, high and stern, cutting through the din of his fellows righteous slaughter. In the personal lull of combat, all enemies in the immediate area accounted for, he found himself returning to his own mind.
"Nobody try blocking him!"
Paladin Tyaethe. If she was spitting out a warning, that could only mean they had encountered something worthy of it even in her eyes, more battle experience behind them than he had in simply living.
These bandits were getting torn open all the same. For the one exception to have shown himself, in cutting down that massive, burning log—
From the rear, he saw Sir Jodeau racing past him, directly towards that now cordoned off section of the camp. All the confirmation he needed.
Jeremiah.
He wiped the warm and wet crimson from his eyes with a sleeve.
Well, if the man's blade couldn't be blocked, then he simply needed to engineer an offense that negated the need.
Planting a boot in the corpse of the crossbow-wielder, he ripped the spear free from the man's midsection. Eight feet or so, all told... Almost certainly longer than whatever the hell Jeremiah was carrying. Harassing with this, baiting out wide swings, then closing the gap in their wake...
It could work. It could definitely work, especially if he had the help of such experienced fighters as Paladin Tyaethe and Fleuri Jodeau at his si—
"Y-you..."
He looked up, a small squeak wrought with terror penetrating his rudimentary plan and bringing him back to the present in full. This being a battlefield, he couched it into his armpit on reflex at the sound— before he truly saw where it had come from.
Within one of the tents, tucked away as deeply into the shadows as her quavering form could muster itself to be, was a girl. A young girl, dressed in plain, disheveled clothes of brown and tan cotton— likely barely older than their captain. Her hair was a mess of brown curls, and her eyes wide and white, ragged as her breathing. One of the prisoners their interrogations had revealed, there was no doubt in his mind. A peasant. An innocent.
Someone stolen from her home. From her family. From her life.
The pulse rose again within him.
"You're one of the Iron Rose Knights, right? Th-The bandits were shouting that when the fighting started..."
A plea.
"I am."
An answer.
She flinched as he knelt after approaching with those words. They had unfortunately come out rougher than he had meant, still wrestling with the righteous fury within his heart that screamed at him to head for the Bandit King. He desperately wanted to, there wasn't any sense denying that fact...
But he could not simply leave this defenseless girl to her fate.
"You hurt?"
"No, I tucked me'self away when the screamin' started..."
"Okay," he said, glancing down to the weapon his left hand and then back to her. "Do you know where the other prisoners are?"
She shook her head. So he couldn't sweep for the rest quite yet, nor could he send her to gather them up anywhere safe. There was no telling if there were more bandits lurking the forest, and the battle was still being fought fiercely elsewhere within the camp. He didn't want this kid catching a bolt or arrow, stray or otherwise. Dammit, not many options were left after all that. She had survived this long here...
"Alright, then I need you to stay put and out of sight. We'll get you out of here once this is over."
He amended every plan he had tried to make in the past two minutes.
"Ever use a spear before?"
"N-No, Sir."
"It's easy." he stated, inverting his grip and holding it out to the opening. "Put the sharp part through whomever's trying to hurt you."
Slowly, over the course of an agonized and tentative minute, a pale, thin hand emerged from the shade and wrapped around the haft, followed by another, and he let go. It wobbled and shook a little in her grip, but she nevertheless took a hold of the weapon. Her newfound protection.
"Atta girl."
Gerard rose, favoring her with a hopefully reassuring, bloodsoaked smile before turning back towards the center of the camp.
"Now, I have to go help my friends. Stay silent, stay safe, and stay steady, understand?"
He gripped his longsword with both hands, returning to familiar form. His previous plan to abuse a likely reach advantage on Jeremiah now firmly out of the window—
"May Reon's light protect thee."
—He nevertheless raced forward without a second thought nor a second of doubt, propelled by boiling blood and following in the wake of Sir Jodeau towards the center.
Towards the lynchpin of all this.
Towards the Bandit King.
Ebb and flow.
Action and reaction.
Impacts against the blade resonating with the pumping in his skull.
The rhythm through which he experienced this loud, bloody, and unforgiving world. Many likened it to a dance when they romanticised it, the constant give and take of force and space.
Gerard Segremors could not bring himself to agree. There was nothing so whimsical here— warfare could only be warfare. It was simply too discordant to be anything else. Even dueling had enough order, enough regulation, enough elimination of meddling outside forces to still step one foot into the realm of dance in his mind, but not warfare.
He surged forward, his longsword biting deep into the clavicle of an axeman. As the tip of the rightward spear, he had met the forefront of the slapdash defenses their enemies had managed to mount, and was by now deep in the thick of the camp after the mere moment it took for the full weight of his detachment to crash through behind his lead. It was as if the battle before had been a sample of that of now... There were no more elite forces here than out on the roads.
The routing of the king's men could not have been done by these bandits.
He ripped the blade free, kicking him as he fell and fully disregarding the spurt of blood that fell upon his boot. Such was expected, but less so was one of your fellows suddenly falling beneath your feet— the final lesson learned by a charging spearman before the knight he had set to impale cracked his skull with their warhammer.
It had to be this King Jeremiah.
The knight barked their thanks, receiving a simple grunt of affirmation as their impromptu "commander" dashed forward, scooping up the dropped polearm. Gripping the eight-foot oaken shaft by its end, he stepped in deep and thrust forward, breaking through the boiled leather over another's ribcage as he was attempting to turn towards the approaching noise. With his dying breath through the punctured lung, the malcontent managed to bring his crossbow to bear upon the knight's furrowed brow—
But Segremors's instincts and experience proved too savvy. As the bolt was fired with a thankfully labored motion, he was already ducking out to the side, and the projectile struck home into the shoulder of another bandit who had the thought of trying to split Gerard's skull with a club from behind, while he had been busying himself with a little spearplay.
"AGH! KEITH, YOU FU—"
He was not allowed the time to finish his reprimand, as the vengeful Reonite came out of the roll in a turning, two-handed cleave that drew a murderous line right through his neck, very nearly decapitating the man outright. In severing two major arteries, this hew had a naturally spectacular effect.
The crack of a burning, falling tree drew his attention towards the front. A shout, high and stern, cutting through the din of his fellows righteous slaughter. In the personal lull of combat, all enemies in the immediate area accounted for, he found himself returning to his own mind.
"Nobody try blocking him!"
Paladin Tyaethe. If she was spitting out a warning, that could only mean they had encountered something worthy of it even in her eyes, more battle experience behind them than he had in simply living.
These bandits were getting torn open all the same. For the one exception to have shown himself, in cutting down that massive, burning log—
From the rear, he saw Sir Jodeau racing past him, directly towards that now cordoned off section of the camp. All the confirmation he needed.
Jeremiah.
He wiped the warm and wet crimson from his eyes with a sleeve.
Well, if the man's blade couldn't be blocked, then he simply needed to engineer an offense that negated the need.
Planting a boot in the corpse of the crossbow-wielder, he ripped the spear free from the man's midsection. Eight feet or so, all told... Almost certainly longer than whatever the hell Jeremiah was carrying. Harassing with this, baiting out wide swings, then closing the gap in their wake...
It could work. It could definitely work, especially if he had the help of such experienced fighters as Paladin Tyaethe and Fleuri Jodeau at his si—
"Y-you..."
He looked up, a small squeak wrought with terror penetrating his rudimentary plan and bringing him back to the present in full. This being a battlefield, he couched it into his armpit on reflex at the sound— before he truly saw where it had come from.
Within one of the tents, tucked away as deeply into the shadows as her quavering form could muster itself to be, was a girl. A young girl, dressed in plain, disheveled clothes of brown and tan cotton— likely barely older than their captain. Her hair was a mess of brown curls, and her eyes wide and white, ragged as her breathing. One of the prisoners their interrogations had revealed, there was no doubt in his mind. A peasant. An innocent.
Someone stolen from her home. From her family. From her life.
The pulse rose again within him.
"You're one of the Iron Rose Knights, right? Th-The bandits were shouting that when the fighting started..."
A plea.
"I am."
An answer.
She flinched as he knelt after approaching with those words. They had unfortunately come out rougher than he had meant, still wrestling with the righteous fury within his heart that screamed at him to head for the Bandit King. He desperately wanted to, there wasn't any sense denying that fact...
But he could not simply leave this defenseless girl to her fate.
"You hurt?"
"No, I tucked me'self away when the screamin' started..."
"Okay," he said, glancing down to the weapon his left hand and then back to her. "Do you know where the other prisoners are?"
She shook her head. So he couldn't sweep for the rest quite yet, nor could he send her to gather them up anywhere safe. There was no telling if there were more bandits lurking the forest, and the battle was still being fought fiercely elsewhere within the camp. He didn't want this kid catching a bolt or arrow, stray or otherwise. Dammit, not many options were left after all that. She had survived this long here...
"Alright, then I need you to stay put and out of sight. We'll get you out of here once this is over."
He amended every plan he had tried to make in the past two minutes.
"Ever use a spear before?"
"N-No, Sir."
"It's easy." he stated, inverting his grip and holding it out to the opening. "Put the sharp part through whomever's trying to hurt you."
Slowly, over the course of an agonized and tentative minute, a pale, thin hand emerged from the shade and wrapped around the haft, followed by another, and he let go. It wobbled and shook a little in her grip, but she nevertheless took a hold of the weapon. Her newfound protection.
"Atta girl."
Gerard rose, favoring her with a hopefully reassuring, bloodsoaked smile before turning back towards the center of the camp.
"Now, I have to go help my friends. Stay silent, stay safe, and stay steady, understand?"
He gripped his longsword with both hands, returning to familiar form. His previous plan to abuse a likely reach advantage on Jeremiah now firmly out of the window—
"May Reon's light protect thee."
—He nevertheless raced forward without a second thought nor a second of doubt, propelled by boiling blood and following in the wake of Sir Jodeau towards the center.
Towards the lynchpin of all this.
Towards the Bandit King.
@Crimson Paladin
would rather spend five hours getting smacked for 41s on Zulrah's "mage" phase
would rather spend five hours getting smacked for 41s on Zulrah's "mage" phase
honestly wishing we were ardougne but on the other hand i don't want to get locked in a house and pickpocketed until somebody gets a 99
Oh, we're Germany? I thought we were kinda French like the last one— works out fine for me, though. The Hungarian bits aren't even really a stretch anymore!
unless my memory's failing me, we didn't get much in the way of hints as to what we were looking for there
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