HereComesTheSnow

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@VitaVitaAR

The aftermath of the field, in Gerard's experience, was always when the senses truly defined it. Battle itself was chaos— churning, tumultuous, and far too sudden. A whirlpool of noise and motion, where shouts and clashing steel melted away into a dull roar, flashing swings and blurs of force shattered any time for detail in favor of kineticism, and the other senses turned wholly within. Touch became grip, weight, and pain. Taste and smell became only a little metallic, all but vanishing entirely within the maelstrom. If you stopped to take in the sights and sounds, you were more than likely dead. On some level, you gave yourself to the flow in order to live.

The fact that the voices of his companions either trading jests or barking orders cut above it all now certainly didn't change things. It wasn't until the battle had died in full, the bandits' ambush breaking quickly as it smashed into the rock-solid defenses of their company, that Gerard had truly looked upon the destruction in their wake.

"Ease the suffering of the dying," came Knight-Captain Fanilly's orders, off to his right. Just behind he and Fionn as the pair of erstwhile mercenaries had carved a bloody path back to the main conglomerate, she'd done well enough in fending off and finishing the lone bandit that slipped between their paired fangs towards Sir Rickert. "Bind any survivors and take them prisoner. If they have any information, do your best to extract it from them."

His fault, but nonetheless, it proved they'd not need to babysit her... Overmuch.

"Right, ma'am."

In the breath these words took was when the smell, finally, hit. Iron, copper, and something charred and acrid, all in a heady mix among the slain ambush as he walked through it, a bloodied vulture picking at corpses or the soon-to-be. Blood, for one, made sense of much of the metallic— but he spied out the corner of his eye the small frame of the witch, Alodia. It was she who had called the storm from the night sky, who had roasted these men alive with the hammer of the heavens— and now that he thought of it, the smell of a passing storm was mixed within that formerly unbearable musk of charred flesh. No distant thunder accompanied it, though, owing to its arcane nature— save only for the pained groans of the injured, and death rattles of the mortally wounded.

"To whatever rest you've earned. Reon'll show you."

He stood over one such of the latter, holding a line of captured moonlight that was streaked by dark, drying red. No sense in cleaning it yet... The stricken bandit was drowning in his own blood as it pooled around his stricken form, a chunk of his clavicle missing. Such a death would take minutes, ones he would spend unable to move, or speak, or do anything but contemplate and fear the awaiting oblivion. Gerard saw as much in his eyes, panicked and pained brown meeting stern, dutiful amber.

He thrust into the man's heart quickly, blade slipping between bone and into flesh, and watched the light fade. Even in spite of the crimes he had committed, death itself was a form of penance. Inwardly, he allowed himself a moment of hope that such would prove enough— but it wouldn't be up to him. The man had no means of speaking any confessions, and had thrown himself into a fight with the order willingly— a quick end to the suffering was the most the young man could have ever done for him.

He moved on, sinking his sword into the next, who hadn't moved. Already gone. Corpse. The next three were the same, though their injuries had differed wildly— for how commonplace the sword he wielded was among the romanticized vision the stories had always painted of knights, he was now truly struck by the wide array of their arsenal. Spell and steel, maces and arrows, pikes and even shields— if he could name a weapon, it had a wielder among the Roses. In more than a few ways, familiar— which meant it differing from the legends he chased.

He breathed out his nose, advancing on one final fallen form along the left flank as he looked down to his sword again. The stories never spoke of many things that were still realities of knighthood— certainly not the same grim task he'd performed time after time on the field before all this. It was a battlefield necessity, that much he'd known for ages— checking for survivors and ensuring the dying were all the way dead. Any force worth their salt cleaned up after themselves, at least in this manner. Making the rounds and stabbing anything, just to be sure of where it stood. It was grim work.

Doesn't make for an inspiring tale, no matter the station of who's doing it.

Out of the corner of his eye, something shifted—

And his boot slammed down onto the palm of the shambling mass, eliciting a sharp cry of pain as something beneath his heel cracked. The "corpse" had been far from it, evidently, trying to slowly, surreptitiously claw his way back into the brush while beneath their notice. He wore armor of the crown's soldiers— one with a crossbow bolt through the back of its cuirass. It would have hit him in the kidney. Maybe even lungs. Regardless—

Someone's death had spared this man's life once.

Reaching down and grabbing the man roughly by the armor's gorget, Gerard yanked the bandit over onto his side and pressed a knee into his side, just below the metal and forcing his weight onto him. It might not have been quite as painful as properly grinding into the ribs might have been, but he was well and truly immobilized all the same.

... She did say "do your best".

"Not happening, pal." he snarled, gaze promising much worse fury than this as he held the pommel of his sword a few inches away from the hinge of the mandible. "Choice is simple: tell us what you know Jeremiah's got waiting for us in there, or..."

He tapped the heavy, diamond-shaped steel of the pommel against the man's face, illustrating plainly to him.

"You ride off to the capital and face your trial with a broken jaw."

...Not much in the way of knightly interrogations that he could recall, either.

Previous experience'd have to do.

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@VitaVitaAR@ERode@The Otter@Psyker Landshark@Psychic Loser

"Roger."

The word was clipped and tight, mirroring the erstwhile mercenary's movements as a half-step back and quarter pivot brought him in line with Sir Fionn, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the elder swordsman. Both their blades gleamed a dull crimson, catching the last light from the evening sun as they formed a unified front behind the Knight-Captain, each lethal inch a waiting fang to fall upon the ambush both felt coming. In spite of the deep, slow breaths Gerard took— those that kept the body from winding too tight and slowing itself— on the inside, his instincts had begun to burn red-hot.

He stepped aside and briefly lowered his blade at the approach of a man in full plate, one Sir Rickert— and behind, Gerard heard the sounds of shifting weight and steel as he hoisted the wounded driver, the rustle of leaves flanking it.

Wait.

And then, beneath the sound of the breathless Knight-Captain's thanks—

The creak of rebounding wood. The shift of leather and cloth. It could even have been a hitched breath high above— or perhaps he imagined such, giving a voice to the whole moment.

Gerard had climbed many a tree in his day. He knew what it sounded like. Of course— nobody looks up. That was their game.

Take Vor. They can't defend midair!

The young man whirled and brought his sword with him as the shake of the branches foretold the weight they'd suddenly lost; and following the twin golden suns beneath his furrowed brow, that first crimson fang tasted blood. Three directly ahead, all carrying weapons of crudely dangerous make, seeing his lighter armoring as a weak link. Not wrong, maybe.

The one directly in front of him, axe overhead, watched helplessly as the knight's eyes locked with his frame mid-turn. His pivot extended down through the bodyline, lead foot stepping into their line of attack— and with all the rotational force the chain of legs, hips, and trunk could provide, his Unterhau tore through the bandit's exposed stomach as though a butcher's knife. Left of him, another bandit made impact upon the earth, catching himself on his feet with a breath, just a pace away. He had a spear in his white-knuckled grip— a miracle he hadn't skewered anyone on the way down.

Before he could get the chance to, Gerard was upon him.

Heedless of the blood and viscera that had fallen onto his brow, the knight stepped forward at an angle, choking the space between him and his foe even as their panicked jabbing at his torso bit through some of the cloth beneath his cuirass. Blade floating at head height, Gerard whipped it around again in a biting crescent that passed through his foe's throat— Zwerchau. Two down. The third charging behind—

His left hand grabbed the limp form of the previously slain man by his lapels as he gargled his last breath. The knight gave ground, stepping out and away with his rear leg in a hasty pivot to face him— and with a rough growl, Gerard threw the corpse into the third. He watched as the larger man's frame bowled this one over, seeing a shortsword at his feet and eyes wide with horror. With the atrocities they'd committed under Jeremiah's name, Gerard knew better than to believe his blood-soaked figure the cause— no, he heard the lute now.

The troubadour's song of disquiet had taken hold of him. Explained why he'd stopped in his tracks, before he could properly threaten the knight with that blade. Gerard stalked forward, brow hard and unforgiving of their savagery—

“Don’t forget, Gerard,” Dame Serenity chimed from somewhere behind him, jesting words punctuated by the sound of her blade passing through flesh. “True elegance is found only with pinkies out.”

Insane. Your pinkies were something like half your grip strength. Really?

He scooped up the spear at his feet with that same left hand, little more than an old haft of wood with a jagged end of metal attached at the tip. It was tinged with a dull brown... dried blood. He could see the same discoloration on the shortsword. Wanton killers, serving a wanton killer's liege.

"Got it."

He rammed the spear through the stricken man's windpipe, pinky extended as he did so. A quiet mercy to give him a quick end to his torment, yeah, but he certainly hadn't felt any elegance there. Maybe a cooling of the blood, but none of the pageantry the word evoked in his eye. Hell of a different perspective she had, but he couldn't deny that the Scion of House Arcedeen would be the expert here...

At the sound of more bandits rushing to meet the forward arm their group had created, he cut the thought away. Worry about it when things finished. Moving quickly, he rejoined Sir Fionn, reinforcing a front through which the Knight-Captain and Sir Rickert could escape, and rejoin the main retinue. Blade flashing as he batted away a stolen billhook, he found himself agreeing with Sir Renar more than ever—

"A tea party'd be new, at least— Never been to one of 'em. Probably scarier."

He thrust into a clavicle, kicking the bandit's exsanguinating form free. Somehow, the casual banter his fellows were roping him into was keeping his head clearer than normal... might have been something to it after all. He'd never really played into the idea of battlefield jokes beforehand, despite how many of his former coworkers indulged. He glanced to Sir Fionn, in the midst of breaking some unfortunate arm, and remembered how this had all come about.

"Sir Rickert! You gotta get moving! We'll clear you to the main!"

Secundi Lux

---

A little too busy to immediately reply, stalwart young Rosmarie stared down the speeding mass of steel plate, pneumatized sinew, and violent current driving it all as it hurtled towards her. She'd allowed herself a moment to verify that her improvised artillery had struck home, giving Crystal the opening she needed to work her magic— but the gunfire snapping around her had told her just what was awry, right around the moment she was pumping her fist in triumph at the sight of a thankful grin and a thumbs up. Company. And fast! This pair were eager beyond even their kin— who knew drones could manage personality? Cybernetics was a marvel, but really, that's getting a little scary.

Have none of these people seen Eradicator?

Anyway... with that creaking foundation behind her, she knew Chie was already hard at work with her scheme— one she liked, too. That meant it fell to her to check these guys' forward movement. Keep em beneath the rocks.

She slid her right leg back, kicking up a small cloud of dust as her greave settled to a stop a shoulder width from her left, angled fourty five degrees away. Her instructors had been sure, early on, to beat it into her head that just because she'd not found the upper limits of her transformed strength yet... Didn't mean that day wouldn't come soon. That she needed to ready herself for the inevitable moment when her own brute force wouldn't be the safety net she'd treated it as.

She braced her core, couching her breath.

She was a big, strong girl. In that she held total confidence, and within that, she was most confident in her legs. All the labor she'd done, all the carrying and lifting and pushing, all the explosive wrestling tricks— everything she'd ever done for that strength came from them. They were how she drove off the Mother Earth and into the sky, and how she took her vast power into her own strength. All trees had their mighty trunks that held it all up— and hers came in a pair.

She grit her teeth, and swung her hips into the drone's massive limb.

Time to find that limit, then.

The steel of her boot met with the massive plate of the drone's military-forged sabaton, and forced the latter to give in a visible, boot-sized dent. The titanic, crashing impact jarred Selma's teeth together, sending a blossoming rumble through her whole body. Her muscles locked as her hips and leg sank into the strike, forcing every bit of follow through she could muster. Beneath the magical armoring of her Parma... she noted that two freight trains colliding definitely hurt. It wasn't broken, she'd not felt anything give, but her strength and the massive drone's had certainly met—

And then physics ensued.

The rebound that had jarred her to her core kept coming in the next milliseconds, and our young tree remembered the most fundamental of all knowings she'd collected in 17 years: Mass moves mass, and while she was pretty massive, she was nothing compared to this golem of military might.

Selma, Selma, hurts like HELLMA!

"A li'l tied uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup!"

For the first time, Selma Rosmarie was flying under a power not her own. The bot's kick had angled her up and away from the earth, so even bracing her strike against the world couldn't have stopped this. Sent tumbling end over end by the angle of the rebound, she didn't have the time nor ability to see how much effect her kick had on the drone, and was only left to come crashing back down in an undignified skid, skipping like a stone over the concrete once, twice, thrice. It was all she could do to muster a tuck of the head while she steamed over the gaffe.

As she rolled to a stop, she found herself facing the sky— No, Not sky.

Sky wasn't that dark and metallic and creaking and dropping right on her face and don't smell the roses twice, stupid!

The second drone's heel, meteoric as it fell onto the ground, stopped cold nonetheless before true, total impact. Steel creaked as all that weight and force pushed something into the ground beneath, a spiderweb of crack blossoming outward from that point. If one possessed truly prodigious hearing, then maybe, beneath rain, wind, and the din of combat, they might have caught a strained growl.

"nggggggrrrrrrhhhhhhhhhhh..."

Scheisse, what an enormous pressure!

For beneath that deadly mass of humanity's finest engineering, her finest warrior was putting all her faith into those tree trunks again. Chin tucked into her clavicle, her shoulders and bracing hands ground into the asphalt and concrete beneath as her legs rallied against the machine, the world's most brutal of leg presses. Her heart raced as she felt the cracks extend around her, earth reaching a breaking point in small stages before either of the two warriors atop it. The pulse in her head was like a blacksmith's hammer, her throbbing veins like a mighty river as they desperately kept blood, nox and willpower flowing through her frame.

She'd never felt such an enormous weight... it was as though the moon itself had fallen onto her. above, she could swear that vicious bastard was bearing into her, trying to grind her to paste with all its might—

But if that were true, she realized, on some primal level below thinking. If that were true...

Then I know where all my might stands.

And it—

She braced her core with a thick lungful of air, locking her diaphragm anew. Her base was restored, braced for proper muscle recruitment and strength. She'd learned this on the farm. She'd learned this again, in more detail, in their physical conditioning courses. She learned it a third time now, under true duress.

—Aint—

With it, she pulled inwards all the Nox she could from her surroundings, adding it to her reserves. It set every nerve in her body alight, and she felt her joints creaking, the fire in her muscles and lungs, her prodigiously thundering heartbeat, and most of all, her fading will returning. Moments later, the rush of renewed capability flooded out the burn, kept it in check, and a new store of strength held it in place, ready for her command. Of all the fabled winds, every Hastan treasured her second.

—LOSING!

And with everything here, the ground cracked ominously again— But the drone's sensors began to flare in sequence, calling for balance! balance! balance! as it, incredibly, teetered. That little bug below that it wanted to squish was squishing back.

And this time, mass moved mass again— but one was backed by the weight of the world.

"RAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!"

With a howl of fury, effort, and defiance, the big girl's legs forced themselves straight, and the second drone's strength was conquered. It staggered away, into the radius of the creaking building with any luck...

And the sight its mighty boot had concealed from the world was that of one douglas fir, stabbed into the earth as if a hammered nail. Embedded in the ground as she was, she caught the flash of Rivka's brilliant flames in the direction of the back line of drones— and the one that had punted her. Right? She thought so, it was near that building...

She sucked wind, heedless of the rain her breaths inevitably caught.

She could feel the foundations creaking beneath the suddenly multiplied weight of the stone they'd been designed to carry. Down here, it was like having those fancy ear-covering headphones. She could feel it in such detail...

Her legs felt like jelly. She'd stand because she had to, run as much as she could manage, and fight because that was her calling, but god dammit, dummkopf, you definitely got what you asked for.

Above, a speck of blue at terminal velocity, flanking a hunk of ice and metal as they screamed towards the earth. So Crystal had taken that thing down, good. Seeing her teammates in trouble was never fun. They were strong girls, strong as hell, but Selma was the strongest. She had a duty to have their backs.

And none to lollygag. Come on, stupid...

Gritting her teeth, the big girl managed to wrench one arm free— and hammer into the earth again, forcing those cracks to work for her this time. A little shakeup would push that building over the edge, and onto those bots, she could hear it. She'd yank herself free in a second—

"RIVKA, I CAN'T CATCH HER IN TIME!"

Crystal was more important. The words ripped themselves into the air through her heaving lungs in a way that, however strange, almost felt easier than if she had just tried to speak normally. Hoarseness, at a guess. Dully, she noted that she theoretically could have created an earthen slope for their icy friend to skid down if she was fresh... but the time she needed to recenter herself would be too long. No matter how much she wanted to... she couldn't shoulder everything.

She had to live with that, as she hoisted herself free and forced her legs to quit wobbling.

Game face back on, girl... nice and easy now.

She began to run back to the group, just quicker than a jog, trying to not think of the earful she'd be in for.

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@VitaVitaAR@Pyromania99@ERode

He chuffed, a low snort that left from mouth and nostril alike as a white luminescence shone overhead, stemmed from a figure spun from aether—and out of nothing, save for a single airy voice. Summoning magic, then, by one of his fellows— Sir Hope, he wagered. A spectacle like this, however awe-inspiring, would be impossible to conceal from all but the dullest-eyed lookouts. They'd effectively just strolled up and presented arms—

_{behind you.}

And a voice, soundless and wordless, rang in his head. Instincts, he realized, latching onto aggression. Catching the sound of footsteps approaching too close to where he stood, he began to turn—

THMP.

"Hey, the hell's your problem—"

Only for his pauldron to crash into that of a billowing, towering stormcloud, her eyes burning as she stalked forward. As she stopped and glanced his way, barely registering the collision, he stuffed the snapping retort down; insults still feeling far too familiar on his lips all the same for knighthood. He wasn't among sellswords anymore— pointless roughhousing was out of character.

Beneath his brow, still tight, his eyes narrowed when he took a step back both mental and physical. The culprit was Dame Shanil, whose piecemeal history Gerard had little knowledge of on the best days...

But everything I have learned points to the Rebellion. So if you have to guess, Gerard...

And here, the brief flash of a grievance died quietly.

Personal grudge. Something real big, too, if she had tunneled in that hard. Frosty as he'd grown to realize the raven-haired elf to be, he was pretty sure he could trust his instincts on this, at least— she kept to herself far too much to shoulder-check for the juvenile thrill of it. She'd been distant thunder ever since the Order had realized these to be rebels, and not the bandits they claimed to be. Not one word spoken before or during the ride out here— just seemed to center her gaze somewhere dead ahead of them all.

He knew this well.

It all added up.

Felt like he had another piece to the puzzle she was, honestly.

And so, that rising anger in his chest probably couldn't even come close to whatever drove her straight through him. He had no right to complain, either— how many times had he done similarly in his life? All he knew was that single-minded march towards slaying his enemy for years now. Already, she was moving on— unbothered by whatever wasn't immediately pressing. If he'd gotten mad, he'd have gotten mad at the wind in her wake.

"We'll have his head by midnight." Gerard instead spoke again, in a tone tightly controlled and sharp as a sword's tip this time, as he fell in line with her. They both had bigger fish to fry— and their only difference was that their foes hadn't personally wronged him. He might have been uneducated, comparatively, but he wasn't an idiot.

He'd already made sure everything was ready to go. Gear checked out. He himself went without question. Handed his horse off with a gruff word of thanks. Why stand around with his thumb up his ass, when the Captain had already gotten the plan up and running?

...

The knights began to move as a unit, splitting off from their mounts and venturing further into the thicket, still keeping to the road— for now. The plan was simple, as far as they went— simple and standard. He certainly didn't mind that. Easy to follow for anyone, easy to carry out beneath anyone. This type of assault on enemy encampments— encircling, enclosing, and then eradicating— it was like putting on an old glove.

It didn't tell him much about her, save for maybe that she didn't mind the classics. And there was something to be said for not overcomplicating things earl—

A flash of red caught his eyes and pulled him in full to the world, gleaming in the dull light and unmistakable for its crimson hue. Blood, fresh. It seemed to cascade down the side of the man, stemming from a massive and ragged gash in his flank, impossibly bright against the pallor of his skin and the wood of the busted cart he was slumped against. Not long for the world at all. Too much lost. But fresh. That bright meant the wound couldn't be older than—

Steel slid free from leather, and a burst of motion came from the front, further ahead than even he and Shanil. Their leader, surging forth at the sight of a life nearing its last. He didn't need to guess why, but...

His eyes darted around them, flicking between the tall, jagged, and ever-darkening trees and shadows that lay beneath. Those same animal instincts were screaming at him, just as they were at every knight who could match or exceed his tenure in war.

"Knight-Captain, that's—"

His mind flashed to what they'd learned of their quarry before riding here. His habits, his mode of announcing himself... how he sent the half dead to their home villages, to scream warnings of his arrival. Every single time, it had already been too late. A deep breath pulled into his lungs.

They knew.

"—bait, dammit!" he growled, kicking off his toes as his sabatons tore through the soil of the road, only a stride and a half behind Dame Serenity. His longsword found its way into his hands on its own accord as he'd made the connection, and settled into an ox guard as he skidded to a halt behind the pair of blondes. The elder's read of the scene before them, naturally, mirrored his own— and though he lacked any shield, he instinctively reflected her in turn, interposing himself between the opposite line of trees and the Knight-Captain.

The perpetrators could come from goddamn anywhere— but he was certain they would. Seeing it up close, the wound was fresh enough that he was convinced they'd likely heard the Knights' mounted approach— and definitely seen the angel's light. It was his job to meet'em halfway, whenever they showed themselves.

He had nothing to add to the exchange of words— Dame Serenity was right already. Instead, he kept his eyes moving between shadow to shadow, and ears straining to hear each shift in the woods.

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Did an overview as well.

Cecilia: Archers were always valuable in any military cohort, and Franz's Faceless were no different, snapping up any where they showed interest regardless of persona. As such, Gerard finds Cecilia to fall quite neatly into the familiar role of "mouthy, sometimes lazy backliner", though he couches such descriptions in the spirit of intra-company banter and stereotype. Her ability with the bow is no joke, and thus far her penchant for petty thievery and mischief hasn't earned her any real ire— if she's nicked something from him, she's made sure it wasn't of import first. He can appreciate that, just as he appreciates having her watching over he and his fellows in the vanguard.

Renar: Going beyond their shared commitment to training? It's hard to believe the wealth of dirty tricks Renar's worked out, and Gerard's erstwhile line of work saw underhanded tactics as the name of the game. There's really no end to the devious stratagems and gambits spinning away in the head of the "Bastard of Brias", and each one is made in the name of stacking the odds most heavily in his favor— a merciless drive Gerard can't help but respect. Not only is the man's unfettered will to earn glory and legitimize himself a daring dream in the vein of Gerard's own, but on a much, much simpler level... Renar gets it. You've gotta do what you've gotta do. Whatever danger his plans may involve, and whatever disagreements they may politely nurse on ideals like chivalry and a proper, knightly image, Sagramore trusts Renar's judgement with his life.

Shanil: To be blunt— Gerard had never met an elf in his life until he joined this order. His impression of them had grown out of a heady mix of childhood fables from the border to Velt, bawdy drinking songs he'd long learned to take with the next month's shipment of salt, and rumors and campfire stories passed around his corps, usually taken with the next two. When he first encountered Shanil, he found her to be... hard to read, beyond the surface. Beautiful like the stories, sure, and seeming to be haughty like the scuttlebutt... yet, not exactly so. Too melancholy was the air that hung about her, and it reminded Gerard of the curt brusqueness he'd come to learn he possessed in speech, a carelessness of the tongue stemming from a mind that had seen much. She's made it clear he's not allowed to pry further, and he respects it, content with letting her be hard to read so long as he can count on her as a comrade.

Tyaethe: The First and Youngest is in her own right a legendary figure within and without the Order, and as such is due all respect. Hailing from an age when men cracked mountains, Gerard simply weathers whatever indifference she has for him and his capability, seeing her two hundred years of experience as a valuable perspective to listen for— and moreover, a summit to reach. While he implicitly understands it's a rare threat he'll meet that she can't handle, no real knight would sit by and let someone else, vampire or no, take care of things forever. Additionally, while he quickly managed to dampen Reon's taught opinion on vampirism after a little logic to the tune of "she's faithfully served this order as a Paladin of Lady Mayon, you know this", he's quite spooked by the idea of having his blood drank—a hypocrisy he doesn't acknowledge, given how freely he would spill it to spill more of an enemy's.

Gerard: His own worst enemy, a man to be cast into the hellish flame of training's crucible and hammered into better, more proper shape by learning's watchful eye. Gerard sees himself for exactly what he is— a farmer turned mercenary, learning only now what it means to be a knight, cutting above the grim trade he plied before with true virtue and dignity, with Justice and perhaps even Honor. He must do all he can to be a good, proper student, and weaponize the skills that got him here to their fullest while he learns everything else. Fierce, Rageful, and No Longer Expendable, he navigates the battlefield on the edge of his blade— and it can only get so far on its own.

Lucas: Something like a little brother. A very eager one, at that, always seeking to mimic and follow Gerard's lead. The man honestly doesn't know what to do with him, despite being the second-eldest of four siblings on his homestead— the younger sisters always found their little ways of keeping his head from getting too big, whereas Lucas seems to exist in adulation of him. If anything, it disquiets the same man who knows how to blink away sprays of blood and bone: for all of Lucas's natural agility, dexterity, and potential, trying to fight like Gerard would get him killed before long. He's tried to impress upon the younger man to play to his strengths and dial back the effusive praise he (in his mind) doesn't deserve, but it doesn't seem to be working.

Fionn: A man after his own heart, and proof his dream, in some way, is no lie. Fionn's extensive mercenary background and tireless honing of skill and strength forged a fast commonality and friendship between the pair, being one of the few knights the younger truly loosens up around. If Fionn can survive, make merry, and keep his past where it belongs, than surely Gerard can manage the same, if not even more. Interestingly, the Veltic man also seems to be a natural counterweight to him— a devout Mayonite rather than Reonite, a patient fighter who would rather work off the counter and wait for the right opening rather than force one onto his opponent, a protector to shield the innocent rather than a furious sword raised against the wicked. That balancing force might prove crucial, and Gerard's happy he's found it in a friend.

Fanilly: Unproven. Hell, unknown. Gerard's opinion of Fanilly is that of a patient, cautious hire, waiting to get an idea of how his new boss operates. He of course has full respect for her office, and will ultimately follow whatever orders the Knight-Captain doles out with full focus on their objective, but he can't see the point of the tradition that anointed her to begin with. To exacerbate matters, he regularly needs to check his observations against those of Serenity, a truly unforgiving voice in his ear.

Fleuri: If the image of the aspirations Gerard holds must be chosen among the Knights of today, Fleuri would doubtless find himself a frontrunner. The son of House Jodeau ticks all the boxes— a gallant and courageous fighter, a devout Reonite having squired beneath a Paladin, and loyal to the cause without question, upholding virtue with a cool head atop his hot blood. Someone worth watching very closely. A Knight Exemplar if there ever was one, Gerard sees only Fleuri Jodeau, Knight of the Iron Rose— The Flower of the North must be a shackle whose binds the man has shaken, lest the Black Regiment shackle Gerard.

Serenity: Polished and razor-keen everywhere you could think to ask, Gerard was initially quite shocked at how well the young noblewoman handled herself in the early bouts they shared after his recruitment into the Order, faultlessly honed skill belying her youth and navigating the gulf between his experience and hers. Had he any more an ego, his pride might have stung at the thought of trading exchange for exchange with one so blue-blooded and "untested", but he felt the weight and breadth of her training. It's as undeniable as the bruiser's bulging on her knuckles— Just as Renar, her drive is to be respected. Just as Fleuri of House Jodeau, Serenity of House Arcedeen is in the running for an image of what knighthood is meant to be. She even takes it a step further than the Reonite— offering cues and corrections on the finer details of the new station Gerard finds himself in, every now and again. Familiar enough with the type of dry, acrid wit she appreciates from his past, Gerard sees these small charities for what they are, and makes every effort to be a diligent student.

Morianne: The troubadour is in many ways an oddity to Gerard, weaving magic through the air with the medium of music and carrying what seems to be an attempt at weaponizing a lute. He understands well that the realms of the arcane are beyond his ken, however, and is hard-pressed to deny the unique rushing strength her spells can impart upon him— whatever cutting words she might launch his way, he's spent six years filtering out. In this case, it's nice that they'd be coming from a force so game-changing for infantry like him. No doubt about it, whatever personality she may have, she's kept her role here far longer than he has.

Katerina: The healer, the chef, more than likely the most crucial cog in the machine of any expedition save the captain herself, Gerard can overlook far more than an unfamiliar accent and penchant for black comedy. Katerina is someone who is in all respects a lifesaver— and Gerard knows without a shadow of a doubt that he has a responsibility to not give her fits in that. The food would suffer if she was mad at anyone. Beyond that, she's agreeable and forthcoming, if at times stubborn— nothing he'd have the right, let alone desire to complain about. His regard for her roles can't be overstated. He knows firsthand just what her grim punchlines feel like when people like her aren't around.

Hope: Confusing. Not just because he's a man in spite of his ethereal, almost waifish beauty, but also more fundamentally so— his mother hen routine runs aground against the rocky coasts of everything Gerard has learned to do. A man of action, work, and adrenaline, Gerard sees this dreamlike state of contemplation and demureness that Hope almost floats through life with as unfortunately ill-founded in combat, where decisive action and quick reaction is key. Atop this, Gerard's internalized expendability leads him facing danger head-on for victory's sake, which lies in direct opposition with Hope's patience and care. He understands readily the good soul Hope has, and holds the many kindnesses in high regard... but is quietly flummoxed whenever he's their recipient. It ought to be something worth moving past. Maybe that's on him.

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

Dusk brought the colors of flame to a sky of light, whispy clouds, each painted an ethereal rosé by Reon's final light and Mayon's heraldry announcing her approach. Beneath them, unmistakable and undeterred by the long, blackened shadows of the approaching brush, rolled the thunder of war. It rode over the countryside of Cental Thaln in a single wave, announcing along the road a tight collection of warhorses, surging across its length in a diamond tipped by points of caught sunset— Cavalry. Armor.

Knights.

Within the mass of riders, a pair of eyes continued to track the blurring trees and tawny scenery as it rolled past, their amber hues focused and alert, as though checking each shadow for the gleam of a steely edge, or latched bolt. Close to the front of the line, and off on the left side, their owner was theoretically, in one of the more dangerous spots within the riding formation they'd taken, doubtless— but save for those darting eyes, his face remained set in its hard, stoic lines.

It was, so far, hardly new— only four months ago, the knight had rode much the same way, for much the same task. The sword on his back hadn't changed, nor had the piecemeal armoring upon his torso and limbs, nor had the constant thudding of hooves against ground, drowning away all noise save for the rushing wind that tossed his short black hair behind him. All that had really changed was the comrades, and their station, and the time. Dawn for Dusk. Sellsword for Knight of the Realm. Familiar and faceless for unmistakable strangers. There may have been a poetry to it, Gerard could guess at that much, but whatever it may have been, whatever omen he could have pulled from it, was beyond him and his ken.

He was a farm boy, not the highborn nobility that lead this troop and comprised the vast majority of the Iron Rose Order, a collection of knights that had been the stuff of legends since long before his ignoble birth. His time under Reon's harsh light had served him well as a soldier in many way— it granted a strong back, integrity, and no fear for the odea of hard work. Days on end of striking and plowing the earth had given him many a knightly strength— but none of them that sort of drama. He hadn't the education, hadn't the right way of understanding. Trying to find some meaning where he hadn't the tools to forge any could prove disastrous. What if he'd fallen to disquiet? Cast fear, the jailer of action, into his mind? It would do nothing to serve him. Not in battle.

So by the time the thunder slowed and softened to a canter, Segremors had the werewithal to discard it, leaving only a single conclusion in its stead: All this meant was that his experience wasn't for nothing. For every last day he'd thought of giving up on the dream, that he would fall into an early grave toiling away as a mercenary... He'd find moments like this. Familiarity, from which stemmed confidence, stifler of fear. He'd run through his share of raids upon enemy camps in the six years prior.

This really was nothing he hadn't already faced— the only difference was that now he was more prepared, better trained, and among comrades of unquestionable caliber and skill.

They say Jeremiah's a veteran of the Red Flag war, on Cazt's side, so we'll need to assume some military discipline compared to common brigands, the freshly-minted knight told himself, now once again looking ahead to the Captain, and that it's not through any strokes of luck that he managed to rout crown soldiers so thoroughly. We're a storied unit. Elites. If he's earned a response that marshals us at all, he's got more than a bandit's tricks up his sleeve. For all it speaks of him...

Within the depths of his blood, black tar began to leak in, burning pitch that spread out from the heart with each recalled atrocity.

Sending the mortally wounded back to their homes as strickened doomsayers, managing barely three wheezing breaths warning of his approach before they succumbed.

Pillaging defenseless villages for food, coin, women, children. Places so like his home, far to the north. Anyone they didn't feel like holding for ransom, for labor, for Goddesses knew what, they gleefully cut down.

Spitting bitterly in the face of the realm they'd lost, trampling on the backs of those that simply tried to keep the wart off their doorstep. Using innocent lives to issue the challenge they were answering.

Justice. Justice. Even if Her light burns low, they would bring these men to swift Justice.

The smallish knight looked back over her shoulder. Momentarily, her eyes caught his— finding a knotted brow and fiery aurum. Then they slid on to the next night, then the next, then finally cascading down to the ranks behind. This'd be their first time working together. It remained to be seen what she was like.

"It won't be much longer that we will need to proceed on foot," she said.

Tack another new thing to the board.

Her voice, high and clear, managed to carry out to the line even over the racket of transportation. Fine by him. He was a footsoldier often, before all of this. If nothing else, hearing her speak told him he at least wouldn't have too much trouble catching her among the clamor of travel or melee— a young girl's voice tended to cut through the dull roar sharply enough. This situation ran counter to all he'd known prior in that regard, so used was he to the deeper, gruffer, and just as uncompromisingly loud bellowing of grown men.

To speak further on being an erstwhile sellsword... he held his certain quiet misgivings about the storied traditions of selecting for captaincy among maidens born under the full moon. He couldn't claim to begin to understand how it would affect their leaderly merit, for all his faith in the Celestial Goddesses. Even knowing she had two hundred years of the First and Youngest's experience guiding her hand, it couldn't be denied that Knight-Captain Fanilly Danbalion as both new and young in the role— barely older than he, when he'd first met his Quartermaster.

With a rough grunt of assent, he kicked off the stirrups as he dismounted his brown, nameless Rouncey, gripping tight the reins as his gaze continued to bore straight ahead. Where he on his, he'd probably have drawn his blade by now. It was good to be checked by others here, if only via presence.

But this was a matter of Knighthood, not Mercenary Companies. It was still yet his place to comment, for it was barely his place to begin to know. The Order of the Iron Rose had held its prestige through this method of selecting its new leader for far longer than any of them, save the aforementioned Paladin, had been alive. He could not ignore that, not as easily as he could ignore his misgivings. Already he'd learned well that a background of nobility and focused, hard training could begin to account for such a gulf in age and raw battlefield experience— Dame Serenity Arceeden, somewhere nearby, had seen to that over the span of multiple bouts together.

The young woman, scion of a great house in Thaln, was barely a year older than their Captain; yet pretty much already Gerard's height, deceptively strong, and polished in her technique as you could ask of any fighter he'd ever met. Moreover, while his physicality and relentless pressure had kept things more or less square in each exchange, none of his grab bag of mercenary tricks had fazed her remotely— she'd already prepared for how unclean and unkind war could be (thanks to a sporting competitive history with one Sir Renar Hagen, a ruthless poleaxe wielder further back) in spite of her youth. If anything, Gerard had to admit he came away the student of the two of them, quietly taking notes from her noble bearing on the things they both knew he was weak.

Perhaps the moon did have a way of so choosing people like them. He certainly had made no shortage of prayers to Reon and the Sun for victory, after all.

So, while Dame Katerina, one of their fellows focused on the mysteries of the arcane, jested mirthfully and loudly in that nigh-impenetrable dialect (amazingly, not its own language) of hers, Gerard kept his tongue. While the crowing jokes of signaling for fair fights, leaving half their retinue behind, and banking on the appeals of Dame Sir Hope and Paladin Tyaethe rained down overhead of the throng, Gerard's mouth remained a resolute line as he patted down his fittings, tested the pull of his knife from its bandolier, and his sword from its scabbard.

"Good. Ready."

The report, a tight and low almost-growl lost in the murmurs of his fellows, seemed destined only to ever reach his own ears— and such would be all he needed.

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard

Name: Gerard Segremors

Age: 21

Gender: Male

Race: Human

Appearance:

Sagramore Gellért

A man hammered into the shape of violence. Gerard stands at roughly average height for a warrior, somewhere in the nebulous range between 5'10 and 5'11, and upon his well-trained frame he wears the battlefields his amber-colored eyes have seen. His skin is rather fair, but pockmarked with a network of light, faded scars, each its own lesson learned on the job. As one might expect, repeated brushes with death have similarly weathered his gaze, going alight at the prospect of battle and burning like small suns in its midst— only to fade into reservation outside of it. He's not necessarily guarded or unapproachable in his posture— but rather, seems almost content with quietly fading into the throng, as though the pressures of having a face to his name are unexpected, and unfamiliar. His hair is a coarse, happily untamed mat that falls near his eyes, and black like coal. Probably cleans up rather handsomely, in theory, but is better used as a gauge for how tense a room is— if things are brewing, he'll feel it, he'll be ready. His casual wear is all simple, dark colors, but never far from either some weapon or armoring.

Personality: Gerard is seemingly caught in the interstice between his erstwhile profession and the chivlarous future of which he'd dared not dream. At his core, he's still the reserved, idealistic farm boy that grew up on the many tales of Thaln's heroes of ages past, still believing in the ideals of knighthood— Justice, Order, Compassion, Charity, Piety. That the stark realities and cruel injustices of the world exist to be overcome by the chase of heroism. That he's doing the right thing. but mercenary life has checked those ideals with bloodshed, fury, and the many cruelties mankind has endured by its own hand.

The result is a man that seems to be at odds with himself, ever so subtly. He is wholly unfamiliar with courtly manner, brusque and bordering on impertinent with his words, but simultaneously self-effacing, earnestly humble among his peers within the Order, at times even bordering on reverence for knighthood as a concept. While he can join tavern brawls heartily and nestles in right at home in rowdy, bawdy atmospheres like those he shared with his mercenary band, on his own he seems more than a little quiet compared to the stereotypes suggested by his background, indulging in his own contemplation during solitary moments such as training in the yards in the early morning. He would give his life for his fellows— and the cause they undertake.

His conviction, however, is unquestionable. Gerard is devoted to the new life he leads, having leapt at the chance to join the knightly order and become an outright force for good. There are many cruelties in this world that he, as a man and knight, cannot abide. He's seen them all, time and time again, as his chosen trade ground each test of his faith into his body and mind.

Enough for him to, without a second thought, take up the sword once more to put them to an end, to drag evil into Reon's burning light.

One way, or the other.

Brief Backstory: Born to a small family in a small village in Thaln's northwestern fiefs that borders a large stretch of woodland, Gerard (Gellért in the village dialect) grew up like many other rural boys— hunting, fishing, and making merry within the woods whenever not set to work with his father in the fields. With such a proximity to the border with Velt, he was raised quite obviously adherent to the Church's teachings, in his case as a Reonite, and was instilled with a strong sense of justice and wonder for the tales of knightly virtue and valor championing Her Paladins. He grew into a strong, hardworking lad, more than fit for any path he chose in life— And when a mercenary corps espousing the virtues of fighting the good fight for the Goddesses and making a living through your sword, perhaps even proving yourself worthy of knighthood? He was sold.

And just like that, the sixteen year old boy walked into Hell. A country bumpkin with a strong back and a steady hand was, at the end of the day, still a country bumpkin. He fell for the pitch hook, line, and sinker. Spending years fighting pointlessly, seeing lives waste away, and people trod upon as lower than dirt, it wore heavily on Gerard. At times, his faith in justice was tested, at others, it was all that kept him pushing forward. Year after year, battle after battle, the weathering took so many things from the boy, now just behind the tip of the spear in each engagement— his illusions of war's glory. His naiveite regarding his purpose, and his future.

Hell, they even got his face. They'd been called "Franz's Faceless" by anyone who knew of them for a reason, despite officially being the much vaguer "Black Regiment".

Regardless, the band of mercenaries was by no means incompetent— their captain lead with a firm, measured hand, the quartermaster had a frank outlook on weaponry and training recruits, and in the end they did indeed follow the tenants of Reon by capturing a particularly well-defended encampment of slavers holed up in one of the ruins dotting Velt. For their efforts, the group was disbanded shortly after, the take large enough and pardons convincing enough for the leadership to call it a wrap— and folded into the Church of Reon's militant arm if they so wished. Fearing disillusionment but chasing a lifelong dream as closely as he could, young Gellért accepted, and soon after was recruited into the Order of the Iron Rose. He continues to pursue his idealized image of a knight with a desperate fervor, and it permeates his every moment.

Equipment: A fairly standard longsword of just over a meter's length from pommel to tip, a well-kept kit of half-plate as he cannot yet afford a full, custom-fitted suit. A sturdy, large knife for general survival purposes (both clearing brush and sliding through gaps in armor, should need arise). Should his favored weapon be unusable for whatever reason, he has a penchant for making due with whatever he can find. A beggar is never a chooser on the field.

Skills: While not an exemplary swordsman like the order's founder, he is schooled well for a mercenary and trains vigorously to improve his mastery, day in and day out. His style is rooted in simplicity and pragmatism, at times even leaning near brutality compared to the romanticized and beautiful swordplay of the ideal knight he wishes to evoke, a carryover of life as a soldier-for-hire. A trained, keen eye can spot many similarities to properly denoted longsword fencing technique within various Fechtbücher beneath the roughness of it— the kid's fundamentals are there, simply learned secondhand as opposed to the traditional knight's manuals, and applied with a dash of that distinct recklessness of the expendable. Vicious, pragmatic, and fully committed, thoughts fall away as the body is taken by a wartime trance. It's no pretty thing, but it's gotten him this far.

In addition, he is quite comfortable with a wide variety of other tools and weapons, such as spears or handaxes. He had to make do with what was on hand for much of his life— both as a man-at-arms and as a simple boy from the woodlands. He is a natural at speaking to common folk on their level, and holds a host of skills found in a boy whose childhood was spent within Thaln's countryside. Has a mild moderate problem, however, with prioritizing his own safety— it's an act that he is still learning to no longer refrain from.

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

I made everything a little dumber and more melodramatic

Gerard

Name: Gerard Segremors

Age: 21

Gender: Male

Race: Human

Appearance:

Sagramore Gellért

A man hammered into the shape of violence. Gerard stands at roughly average height for a warrior, somewhere in the nebulous range between 5'10 and 5'11, and upon his well-trained frame he wears the battlefields his amber-colored eyes have seen. His skin is rather fair, but pockmarked with a network of light, faded scars, each its own lesson learned on the job. As one might expect, repeated brushes with death have similarly weathered his gaze, going alight at the prospect of battle and burning like small suns in its midst— only to fade into reservation outside of it. He's not necessarily guarded or unapproachable in his posture— but rather, seems almost content with quietly fading into the throng, as though the pressures of having a face to his name are unexpected, and unfamiliar. His hair is a coarse, happily untamed mat that falls near his eyes, and black like coal. Probably cleans up rather handsomely, in theory, but is better used as a gauge for how tense a room is— if things are brewing, he'll feel it, he'll be ready. His casual wear is all simple, dark colors, but never far from either some weapon or armoring.

Personality: Gerard is seemingly caught in the interstice between his erstwhile profession and the chivlarous future of which he'd dared not dream. At his core, he's still the reserved, idealistic farm boy that grew up on the many tales of Thaln's heroes of ages past, still believing in the ideals of knighthood— Justice, Order, Compassion, Charity, Piety. That the stark realities and cruel injustices of the world exist to be overcome by the chase of heroism. That he's doing the right thing. but mercenary life has checked those ideals with bloodshed, fury, and the many cruelties mankind has endured by its own hand.

The result is a man that seems to be at odds with himself, ever so subtly. He is wholly unfamiliar with courtly manner, brusque and bordering on impertinent with his words, but simultaneously self-effacing, earnestly humble among his peers within the Order, at times even bordering on reverence for knighthood as a concept. While he can join tavern brawls heartily and nestles in right at home in rowdy, bawdy atmospheres like those he shared with his mercenary band, on his own he seems more than a little quiet compared to the stereotypes suggested by his background, indulging in his own contemplation during solitary moments such as training in the yards in the early morning. He would give his life for his fellows— and the cause they undertake.

His conviction, however, is unquestionable. Gerard is devoted to the new life he leads, having leapt at the chance to join the knightly order and become an outright force for good. There are many cruelties in this world that he, as a man and knight, cannot abide. He's seen them all, time and time again, as his chosen trade ground each test of his faith into his body and mind.

Enough for him to, without a second thought, take up the sword once more to put them to an end, to drag evil into Reon's burning light.

One way, or the other.

Brief Backstory: Born to a small family in a small village in Thaln's northwestern fiefs that borders a large stretch of woodland, Gerard (Gellért in the village dialect) grew up like many other rural boys— hunting, fishing, and making merry within the woods whenever not set to work with his father in the fields. With such a proximity to the border with Velt, he was raised quite obviously adherent to the Church's teachings, in his case as a Reonite, and was instilled with a strong sense of justice and wonder for the tales of knightly virtue and valor championing Her Paladins. He grew into a strong, hardworking lad, more than fit for any path he chose in life— And when a mercenary corps espousing the virtues of fighting the good fight for the Goddesses and making a living through your sword, perhaps even proving yourself worthy of knighthood? He was sold.

And just like that, the sixteen year old boy walked into Hell. A country bumpkin with a strong back and a steady hand was, at the end of the day, still a country bumpkin. He fell for the pitch hook, line, and sinker. Spending years fighting pointlessly, seeing lives waste away, and people trod upon as lower than dirt, it wore heavily on Gerard. At times, his faith in justice was tested, at others, it was all that kept him pushing forward. Year after year, battle after battle, the weathering took so many things from the boy, now just behind the tip of the spear in each engagement— his illusions of war's glory. His naiveite regarding his purpose, and his future.

Hell, they even got his face. They'd been called "Franz's Faceless" by anyone who knew of them for a reason, despite officially being the much vaguer "Black Regiment".

Regardless, the band of mercenaries was by no means incompetent— their captain lead with a firm, measured hand, the quartermaster had a frank outlook on weaponry and training recruits, and in the end they did indeed follow the tenants of Reon by capturing a particularly well-defended encampment of slavers holed up in one of the ruins dotting Velt. For their efforts, the group was disbanded shortly after, the take large enough and pardons convincing enough for the leadership to call it a wrap— and folded into the Church of Reon's militant arm if they so wished. Fearing disillusionment but chasing a lifelong dream as closely as he could, young Gellért accepted, and soon after was recruited into the Order of the Iron Rose. He continues to pursue his idealized image of a knight with a desperate fervor, and it permeates his every moment.

Equipment: A fairly standard longsword of just over a meter's length from pommel to tip, a well-kept kit of half-plate as he cannot yet afford a full, custom-fitted suit. A sturdy, large knife for general survival purposes (both clearing brush and sliding through gaps in armor, should need arise). Should his favored weapon be unusable for whatever reason, he has a penchant for making due with whatever he can find. A beggar is never a chooser on the field.

Skills: While not an exemplary swordsman like the order's founder, he is schooled well for a mercenary and trains vigorously to improve his mastery, day in and day out. His style is rooted in simplicity and pragmatism, at times even leaning near brutality compared to the romanticized and beautiful swordplay of the ideal knight he wishes to evoke, a carryover of life as a soldier-for-hire. A trained, keen eye can spot many similarities to properly denoted longsword fencing technique within various Fechtbücher beneath the roughness of it— the kid's fundamentals are there, simply learned secondhand as opposed to the traditional knight's manuals, and applied with a dash of that distinct recklessness of the expendable. Vicious, pragmatic, and fully committed, thoughts fall away as the body is taken by a wartime trance. It's no pretty thing, but it's gotten him this far.

In addition, he is quite comfortable with a wide variety of other tools and weapons, such as spears or handaxes. He had to make do with what was on hand for much of his life— both as a man-at-arms and as a simple boy from the woodlands. He is a natural at speaking to common folk on their level, and holds a host of skills found in a boy whose childhood was spent within Thaln's countryside. Has a mild moderate problem, however, with prioritizing his own safety— it's an act that he is still learning to no longer refrain from.

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

get ya deads on

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Fantasy Knight RP Interest Check

I’d been making a habit of rereading the early game in the past year to double check certain things for Gerard, so I remember all the big homies. Good to see you again regardless