HereComesTheSnow

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@VahkiDane@VitaVitaAR

Sir Sergio, of course, was right on the money.

To begin with, Gerard knew he wasn't going to be able to hide that fact from his fellows, most of whom already were privy to his story— and as such, he knew it to be a waste of energy to be disquieted over it. With a wan, almost wry smirk, he nodded, breathing in to speak—

"Aaaah, good Sir Knights!"

"Ah, how exciting!"

A pair of high, shrill voices killed the words before they could leave his throat, as a trio of girls that seemed younger than the Captain, younger than even his littlest sister, surged forth from the dispersed spread of partygoers as though a bolt from the blue. In a rush, they were upon he and his companion, eagerly crowding around and pelting them with questions that were every bit emblematic of their ages...

Yet in the crisp, posh tenor of their voices as they did so, he could hear their true nature. Were he surrounded like this on the field of battle, he would most likely die, even if he took two or all three with him by way of viciously earned experience and strength. Surrounded as he was now, by these non-threatening children of clearly noble stock...

He leaned back at the sudden rush for a mere moment, eyebrows high, as though recoiling away from the words.

It took nearly the same steel to level his all-too-meager preparation for this moment to the task at hand. It was ironic, a man of the sword who walked the line between life and death in as cavalier a manner as he feeling a pang of worry now, of all times. In some respects, he preferred the odds of a veteran soldier against death than a newly-bloomed Rose against their expectations of gallantry.

He glanced to Sir Sergio, hiding a plea for help beneath his moment of surprise, but found in the Knight of the Harvest Moon's stead a stranger. His body had all at once changed, as though a new role in courtly manner had filled it where reservation once stood guard. He was open, smiling bright, brimming with dramatism, playful cheek. A new side of his fellow, who had always seemed enigmatic... no, not quite right. There was something else there, something he couldn't place.

Gerard then caught the glance sent his way, and completed the breath that had been interrupted.

However briefly, he had been prepared for this.

I am a mercenary no longer. I'm a knight. A greenhorn in the Roses, but no longer am I trudging through dust and smoke without even a face to call my own— How lucky I am that we've only just ridden in from an adventure that's worth retelling.

Time to put it to use.

"Indeed," he breathed, slipping into an invitingly warm smile as he shoved aside rebellious, doubtful thoughts. He cast his free hand, gloved palm skyward, in the other knight's direction. "Forgive me, young misses. As I was just telling my brother in arms, this ball is my first— to whom might I have the pleasure of meeting?"

To hell with it. He initially had worried he'd trip over himself and overdo an introduction, but with Sergio here, he was sure he'd pale in comparison. The blonde pair's exuberance and whimsy was palpable, he doubted anything short of actively insulting them would make a necessarily bad impression— but their companion, the girl in black, seemed to want little to do with any of this.

Familiar, that. He had to agree.

Still, he wouldn't find himself troubled by a little youthful exasperation. Even if he did, he knew not to let it show upon his face. To make them feel a burden was unacceptable, so for all his trepidation at being here, at doing this, he would weather it for all their sakes. To answer their pleas was a knight's duty.

So, with a smile that was far less saccharine but no less polite, he spoke again, eyes casting themselves over the group as a whole.

"And my friend, that was but one enemy, however he may have towered over us before the Captain and I struck him down. I'm told you slaughtered a dozen."

That all said—

Sergio, you're not getting out of this either.

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

In lockstep, two dozen figures marched down the polished walkways of marble beneath the evening sun, the tawny hues of orange, pink, and gold each a parting gift from Lady Reon. At their head was, of course, the diminutive but nevertheless tightly controlled frame of Knight-Captain Fanilly Danbalion. She had hand-picked them each, representing knights veteran and newfound alike for the festivities that had been all but foisted onto them. With only a day's preparation they had done well to assort themselves in this dignified, orderly manner.

Halfway down the right flank, one such knight's eyes wandered high in a familiar path for a moment, casting their gilded gaze up to the high Spikes that loomed above Thaln's Crown. Their grey and white masonry looked as though cast from ruddy copper or brass, the sunlight caught against their western faces— But when they passed from view, his neck did not crane to trace them as it had in the past.

Instead his posture kept itself to the steady march, chin and shoulders keeping their rightly place. Their approach carried them through the interior keep's verdant, bountiful gardens, bursting with enough natural beauty that not even the throng scattered throughout, guests each as eager and honored as they, could choke. Much like the parade the day prior, his eyes slid over those that caught their arrival with cheers or hushed whispers.

They entered shortly, herald crowing the name and status of each pair that entered. Hearing his own, however briefly and bereft of titles... It was unreal. Quietly, he found himself thankful to be flanked by one of his fellows, someone he could match step with as the knights began to disperse and mingle after their entry. The awe of the moment one's dreams were realized, no matter how much they might prepare themselves for it, may have overwhelmed him otherwise.

Luckily enough, the blur of the hours preceding had left him prepared well enough. As he breathed slowly, regaining control as his long strides guided him towards a nearby arrangement of tables, glasses of burgundy wine festooning them as though rubies. His attire was, at the mercy of one of his seniors, acceptable enough for the occasion. A prompt dragging to the tailor had placed him in a modest black doublet with amber trimming above a white tunic, and tapered black trousers. His hands were gloved rather than gauntleted, an argument that he'd been whittled down from and lost. His boots, however polished they may have been, were the armored pair that he'd worn to battle— an argument he'd whittled his peer down from and won.

The Princess, after all, was expecting to see the arms and armor that had felled the scourge.

Keeping his reserved exterior, he plucked a glass from the table by its narrow stem, swirled it thoughtfully, and took a drink. Social lubricant was here in spades— the tension he felt was likely to break soon as it passed. Sweeping his gaze over the large expanse of the hall, he could see that several of his peers were already well ahead of him on the endeavor.

Dame Cecilia there, looking sharp in a suit akin to his, chatting up a pair of other attendees— one elven, with hair a pale green, and... a lady atop a large spider. Definitely an unheard-of choice of mount, but if the Royal Guards had let it through, he decided he'd not question it any more than politely keeping his distance. If Dame Cecilia wasn't perturbed, then surely he needn't be.

A blink, and a shift of the longsword in his other hand, held safely within its humble scabbard of treated leather. It being somewhere on the longer end of the "hand-and-a-half" scale, wearing it upon the hip would have taken a little much space at the angle he'd need. No skin off his back. It was a comforting weight in his grip like this. Centering. It, too, had seen its blade, guard, and pommel shined.

His eyes panned over to a trinity of his fellow men of the blade— Sirs Renar, Fleuri, and some as-yet-unnamed Crown Knight. The new person aside, for all he respected the pair of his fellow knights in the equation... That was far from a likely mix. Sir Renar, at the very least, made no illusions regarding his opinion of Sir Fleuri, pointedly reminding him of the tournament title he'd relegated to an old shame. How the hell did that one happen?

And yet, they seemed to already be in the midst of swapping stories, heedless of the usual friction.

... This was court, then. Above all, making impressions and connections was paramount here— regardless of who you were on the field, or in the quarters. It was as Dame Serenity said, only a night before. Were he not aware of how deep her knowledge of these affairs went... he'd have considered the young woman prescient; her youth be damned. She was here somewhere too, mingling as either Iron Rose or Arcedeen Scion— and her expectations were still very fresh in his mind.

He took another sip, catching his reflection in the glass for a moment.

His hair was getting long.

As a drying warmth fell down the back of his throat from the dark, tawny red, Gerard allowed himself a smile as a shock of vibrant, blazing scarlet appeared in his peripheral. Of all the things knightly he'd forced himself to absorb, it seemed only fitting that now was when its wild tendency to curl, wave, and spike be tamed. Brushed straight and slicked back, it certainly looked cleaner than normal— for a moment, he hadn't been sure if he recognized himself.

He wondered if the Knight of the Harvest Moon ever felt the same moment, in letting his fall like a wave of fire.

"Sir Sergio."

The glass rose slightly in greeting.

@VahkiDane

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard and Serenity Downtime Collab

&

Gerard Segremors

_{@ERode@HereComesTheSnow}

---

The Wisp and Wander.

Of the many taverns and establishments in Aimlenn, this one in particular was known for two things: a large dance hall and an elevated dining area. Bards and bands frequented this place, strumming strings and singing songs, while clientele of a decidedly middle-class position twirled with their partners to work off the heftiness of their meals and the headiness of their drinks. At times bawdy and at times eloquent, the Wisp and Wander was at all times lively, and it was with characteristic boldness that Serenity lead Gerard through the double doors and up the fanciful (if creaking) divided staircase up to the second floor. Music trailed after them as they circumvented the merriment of spinning couples; the musicians today had a flare for higher-tempo music, and the violinist, who augmented his melodies with the click-taps of his shoes, was indeed an exceptional talent for his surroundings.

“Sit down,” Serenity gestured, waving one of the waitresses over. “I’d recommend their olive salad, but I figured you’d want something heavier. Anything you want for drinks?”

“Cider, if they’ve got it.” Gerard replied, pulling a chair from under the table and seating himself quickly. The walk up to the second story had definitely reminded his legs how tight and spent they really were after the day’s conditioning, each step up the staircase a hollow refrain of the work.

He glanced over, as the waitress caught Serenity’s wave and began to start in their direction, favoring them with a polite smile as the quick tempo of the strings floated up from below. He’d spent their quick journey through The Wisp in a refrain of his own, however small. Where the Lion was bold, her eyes in front, and dauntlessly carving the path forward to their destination, the Wolf let his instincts guide his gaze, subtly gauging the atmosphere, the structure of his surroundings, the temperament of the clientele as he’d followed along. It was an old habit from his days as a soldier of fortune— honed in Velt, Thaln, and Estival’s seedier pits. Places that didn’t quite cater to such a genteel crowd as the fine folk of the capital.

“Mm, yeah.” he agreed, taking measure of the growing pit in his stomach. He hadn’t treated himself to a meal after leaving Candaeln, too absorbed in the search for refinement. “Could probably do with some meat, honestly— Anything you suggest there?”

“Well?” Serenity turned to the waitress. “Any suggestions?”

Consistency could be found in vegetables and preserves, but when it came to good meat? That was liable to change on a day to day basis. The waitress’s brows lifted slightly, but her response came quickly enough afterwards. “We’ve a boar on the roast, and our venison pies have been popular tonight, young miss.”

“Two of each then, with a bottle of whatever cider the cook’d think works best. Couple of baked apples too, and a bowl of your olive salad, with the dressing on the side.” Apples weren’t quite in season, of course, but the tartness was enjoyable too. “Anything else, Gerard?”

“I couldn’t ask for more,” he replied, turning and inclining his head to the waitress in thanks. The baked apples had already been an unexpected addition— piling on any other dishes would likely be overkill. “Thank you.”

Wasn’t as though he knew much of the menu, either.

Regardless, as the waitress about-faced on her heel and descended the stairway, kitchen-bound, Gerard found himself already anticipating the courses to come— something he assumed would strike a middle ground between road rations and the at times otherworldly food whipped up by the Candaeln chefs. Cuisine served equal to that of the royal family was no mean feat, and had indeed blown him away that first evening after recruitment. He’d always marvel at the kitchens’ ability, surely.

But taking the simpler pleasures was nice as well, from time to time. On that, he didn’t believe he’d ever be able to fully change in the name of invoking the prestige of this new knightly title. It was nice, then, to know it was good enough for someone who had been born and raised for the prestige as well. It made things easier.

Another thing on the “easier” side of the spectrum…

“So a griffin, huh?”

Talking shop. Having seen the pinions on Fleuri’s helm and swapped stories between the three divisions, Gerard had to admit his curiosity was sparked by the idea of staring down a beast he had only ever really believed he would see in heraldry. After the inevitable swapping of stories between the three divisions in the days of riding that followed their victory, he’d gotten a piecemeal recreation of events after the tree’d been felled.

“Heard you got the kill on it. That right?”

If possible, though, a firsthand account of fighting the thing would be what he trusted the most. Especially from a comrade he held in such esteem, and especially if it might be his turn to do battle with such a fantastical beast the next time they encountered one.

The griffin again.

Serenity made her exasperation obvious with a rolling of her eyes. At the distance of an audience to a storyteller, of hearsay made on the road back, a fight against a griffin could have been glorious, but the reality of the fight offered little in terms of martial excellence or strategic wit.

“No,” the flaxen-haired knight replied. “Morianne.”

She could preempt his questions easily enough, and there was no point in holding Gerard’s curiosity against him to begin with. “The beast was a griffin in name only. Intellect dulled by the hateful shame of captivity, strength shackled by its meager diet, and instincts scrambled by the sheer chaos of its surroundings, it did nothing more than lash out at its surroundings.” The corner of her lips twitched, a flash of an unkind sneer. “Meaningless pride robbed it of its opportunity to flee before two knights leapt on its back, and at the sight of my own advance, it chose to leap over me in order to savage the archers at my back.”

Serenity shrugged. Unless she lied, it wasn’t a good story. And unless she lied, it wasn’t her kill.

“Needless to say, Morianne ensured that it had not leapt higher than the reach of my sword.”

The picture she painted certainly dashed the tall tales the battle had been warped into by hearsay against the rocks, that much was inarguable. To be expected, even, but rather than a triumph of skill, wit, and might…

“Two knights got the thing in an advantageous position like that and it didn’t end there.”

…It now sounded more like a complete mess. A once-remarkable opponent, shackled by circumstance into something feebler, mind and body already frayed to the limit by its captivity. The beast itself ignoring her presence as a close threat to deal with, instead lunging past her for further-off nuisances that, in his mind, ought to have been well out of reasonable range.

…”Why not just stab it?”

He frowned, brows pulling together as the low, flat tones of confusion crept into his voice.

Passing upon a gilded opportunity to end things then and there for, apparently, little benefit. When he considered Dame Serenity Arcedeen, caught in the middle of it all, it wasn’t hard to place her dissatisfaction. The young woman before him was defined by her focus and orderly manner, both in bearing and in the few spars they’d shared. He understood that much well enough— and in turn imagined the chaos to be all but infuriating.

And then there was the issue of Morianne’s involvement, forcing it into her range for the ending strike. A final twist of the knife to the mess— at least, for her. Just as much, she sought to embody the virtue of independence.

No. That was wrong.

Moreso than anything else, she wanted to prove her strength as one who stood alone. Both someone who wouldn’t be shackled by the tumultuous competencies of whomever her compatriots might have been… and, most pointedly, as one who rejected the interference of outside assistance. It was subtle, but he’d seen it in the way she stiffened at small offered favors.

Like every fight is a duel. She’s more realistic than that, but it’s that kind of want for the purity of it.

Breathing in deep, he rubbed his temples for a moment, massaging away the train of thought. Puzzling over strangeness that was locked in the past wouldn’t get anywhere good, and even he wasn’t dumb enough to ignore all those good reasons why the disdain had flashed across her face in speaking on it.

When he breathed out, it came as a wry chuff.

“Well, I threw sand in my opponent’s eyes. Can’t say I got him in top form, either.”

Serenity stared at him.

Then, as if contemplating deeply his previous questions, she coolly placed her hand over her mouth, eyes taking on a deathly serious light.

But her shoulders shook nonetheless, and when she removed her hand once more to speak, there was just a tinge of red in her cheeks.

“Well,” the Arcedeen scion replied, tone as flat as mole-infested plains, “At least it was your sand.”

It was at this timing that the waitress spun over again, balancing their entire meal on her hands and forearms. Without waiting, Serenity helped set the table, pouring a mug of cider for the both of them while the matter of utensils and meats were being settled. A welcome distraction, perhaps, but maybe just another spot of that wilful independence.

“Enough of that dreary talk anyhow,” Serenity said. She raised her own mug, the contents sloshing merrily. “A toast, to valiant futures.”

Nearly, but not quite there. She’d almost, almost cracked— but that composure made sure to win out in the end. He wasn’t some genius when it came to reading people. An old hand, at most generous.

But in times like these, such would be enough. Even if the humble student couldn’t break the poise of the master, his jest hadn’t fallen onto deaf ears. As she stood to pour out their drink, he allowed himself to be happy with that much.

“To our health and our dreams.” he added with a smile, raising his mug in turn at her toast. For a moment, he was like a mirror image— albeit one with almost every detail swapped. Dark hair across from flaxen, common birth from noble pedigree, and simmering amber meeting piercing blue.

But in spite of it all, a like-minded comrade, tireless in her hunt for the ideal self. A Knight of the Iron Rose, embodying all that solemnly sworn duty.

Egészségünkre!

The barrel of his mug tapped against hers with a cheerful, hearty report.

And with tongue wetted, Serenity dug into the meal before her. On social occasions, there may have been room for conversation, but when it was just a meal? It would be a travesty to let the food grow cold in lieu of words. Grease dripped from the boar roast as she sliced into it and she wrapped each portion in salad greens before taking bites. The venison pie was delectable as well, thick gravies soaking deeply into the crust and the gamey meat melting against the roof of her mouth as she took large bites. Compared to the chefs at Candaeln, even this could still have been considered a rustic selection, but dwelling over how fanciful the presentation was or how many herbs went into a sauce was a waste of time.

Meat tasted good even with plain salt, so long as one knew how to control the fire.

And so, she ate in silence, occasionally mixing olives into meat pie, occasionally rolling boar meat into gravy-soaked crust, occasionally dabbing slices of baked apple into acrid dressing, experimenting with the vast combination of flavours on the table, breaking her meal only to cleanse her palate with small sips of cider.

Soon enough, only a few slices of apple remained. Serenity folded her hands over the table and set her gaze on Gerard once more. “Well now. In matters of the near future, Gerard, where do you imagine the Knights will be next?”

“Wherever evil threatens the lives of the people.”

His meal already long finished, a skill picked up on the road, Gerard’s answer was equally swift. He met her gaze evenly, a long-fostered conviction burning soft embers behind the eyes.

This was what he had set out to achieve— already attaining the title and membership of a legendary order he once believed beyond reach. To waste the opportunity was utter anathema, as if turning his back upon all the blood, sweat, and tears that had colored his checkered path into Candaeln’s gates.

This wasn’t a prediction. He doubted Dame Serenity really expected one from him.

“If there’s goodness and justice to be done, then we’ll be there to see it through.”

He had drilled the words into his head for years, as though mantra. They came forth practiced, almost pointedly so, but never again would they be hollowed by doubt.

“Why do you ask? I can’t imagine you don’t have an answer to the question yourself.”

Well, what was she to expect? Serenity moved her cup to her lips, then set it down. It was empty. She would not be refilling it.

“Abstraction is good for painting in the distant future,” the young woman replied. “But in this case, I’m speaking in concrete terms.”

She glanced over to the side, over to the unceasing din down below. Strings and drums, winds and songs. The click-clacking and the du-thumping of heels and boots, as couples spun in dizzying circles.

“The slaying of the Bandit King and the subjugation of his subjects speaks well to the results that the Iron Rose’s new cohort can deliver, regardless of the process in accruing such results. We’ve slain an evil that threatened the land, enjoyed a victory march on our return to Aimlenn, and by tomorrow, you’ll hear songs of how our Knight-Captain struck down the Thousand-Man Slayer with a thrust akin to a falling star.”

An index finger and a thumb, thick and callused, nails trimmed so short it looked painful, plucked one of the remaining slices of apple and swirled it through the vestiges of gravy. Serenity tossed it into her mouth, crunching it down with a ferocious relish.

Gerard wasn’t smart, but he knew how to think. And if he so idolized tales of chivalry, he’d know too, of what always occurred after the dragon was slain and the hero had returned.

“What happens next?”

The former sellsword blinked, but didn’t make any show of disappointment at having missed her cue. Instead, he followed her eyes down, casting his own gaze over the merriment of those below. Wheeling pairs of merchants, artisans, citizens… all with faces light, letting the rhythm of the tireless musicians play their cheer ever higher. It was a night of revelry, song, drink, and food— and it had come in the wake of the bombast of their parade, as she’d said. A celebration continuing, well into the night.

It wasn’t lost on him that these were people more well-to-do than most anyone in his little farming village, his own family included. People that he had pegged, rightly, as “too genteel” a crowd to compare to his past lives.

A few eyes met his in passing as he swept his vision over the wheels within wheels, their whirling joy fixing for a moment on the fresh face above.

He was sitting above them, he realized. A Knight, even though upon its lowest rung, classed as nobility.

“The stories will spread through the realm,” he breathed, looking back to Serenity. “Those songs will reach every ear there is to hear tell of what we did. The realm celebrates.”

A soldier to the core, he knew when he was being led somewhere. Her patient shifting of the query had seen to that— but had the shift in her gaze also served that end? Did she mean to show him this view, to impart this perspective as one of her lessons?

“The Iron Roses are held in high esteem by the crown. The royal family will hear as well.”

It seemed unthinkable, assuming so much, but when had he ever known her to move without purpose?

“When a threat like that is struck down, a feast follows. A banquet in our honor, hosted by the sovereign.”

A meeting with the new blood.

His grip upon the handle of his mug tightened, if only just.

“And plenty of young ladies wishing to see your moves on the ballroom floor.”

Serenity stood up abruptly, her eyes catching the waitress’s gaze again as she deposited a few glimmering coins upon the table. She stepped away then, bold strides bringing her closer and closer to the din of the lower floor once more, pausing only to wait for Gerard to catch her cue.

A procession required only a good riding posture and the ability to look at everyone and no one at once. But for a social occasion? Setting aside her companion’s ability to inhale food at record pace, one certainly couldn’t be expected to hold a conversation for long without an invitation drawing them away from the banquet tables either. Food offered energy, drink offered headiness, and both had only space to be expended upon the ballroom if one wished to not be seen as a violent boor.

“Come now,” she spoke at the bottom of the steps. “Awkward amateurism may be charming to some, but it’s better to charm with skill than with foolishness.”

He didn’t keep her waiting long, rising shortly after she began to make for the stairs. Briefly, he wondered how he’d be able to get by if he recalled the steps to a csárdás…

“You’re right,” he agreed after a bark of laughter, his frame halfway down the stairwell. “Best I not embarrass the Order by tripping over my own feet.”

…But quickly cast them away. At best, such a folksy dance would only invite an intrigue he wasn’t confident he’d be comfortable accomodating, at worst, it would cast into harsh relief the gulf between who he was and who he was forging himself into. His mother’d taught him the village tradition when he was nine. To hear it be mocked would doubtlessly stoke a fury in him that would prove disastrous.

Foolishness beyond compare, and none of it so charming as to be forgiven for want of social grace. He wasn’t too proud to deny that he would need better schooling.

“If I’m to do anything, I ought to do it well,” he began as he drew level with her, before gamely extending a callused, strong hand. For so long, it had held a blade tight to seize life. For so long, his feet had moved on the wheels of war, rather than of court. “And I could hardly imagine being in the care of a better mentor than you, Dame Serenity.”

He bowed his head.

Were there anyone he trusted to teach him bridging that gap, she stood before him.

But Serenity did not take his hand.

“Chin up. Like there’s a string suspending you from your crown. Roll back and relax your shoulders. Your neck looks good, so don’t shorten it with tension. Chest out, stomach in. A weak stomach affects the entirety of your posture. Keep your back straight as well. Imagine you have a painting from your shoulder to your waist. That painting should be perfectly flat.”

With each comment, she pressed her hand against the body part in question, taking well to the persona of a severe instructor. If he sought to do well, then she would instruct well. Well enough that it would only be want of motivation that would prevent Gerard from becoming competent when barroom bands became ballroom orchestras.

“After you get your posture down, focus on your limbs. Extend them boldly,” Serenity continued, having not yet moved the two of them into the dance floor yet, “and be prepared to move them in a controlled, deliberate fashion. Listen to the music, it’s your second partner here. Envision a duel, but rather than disrupting your partner’s rhythm, you match it, so that the two of you can both showcase the full breadth of your ability.”

She snapped her fingers in tune to the music’s tempo, waiting for him to notice too how the musicians’ own movements matched the swing and sway of their music. Two steps to bring herself in front of him once more, and Serenity modeled for him the ideal posture. Two phrases, waiting for him to settle into this new form, and she turned, finally taking his hand into her own.

“You are tall and fit, but your partner will wear heels, and few of them are trained the way we are. Place your hand against my back firmly, and use that as your guidance. They won’t feel anything through their corsets anyways, so don’t be shy about it. If you feel the pressure of their body increase, listen for their footsteps and see if they match yours. As a knight, they won’t expect the most grandiose movements from you, but they do expect you to be chivalrous.”

And then Serenity settled her gaze upon Gerard’s, the azure of her eyes melting away into the bright warmth of a summer sky, her lips parting into a handsome smile.

“So above all, don’t fake your smile. You do not need to love someone to want them to enjoy their evening, and if you can’t find it in your heart to wish even that, then bring a pleasant memory to mind, or enjoy the skill of the musicians who have made this night possible. Your partner will always be connected to you. They will feel your tension or your disinterest, and for a young, impressionable lady? They will feel that they are the source of your tension and disinterest.”

The smile flickered into a smirk.

“Even if they are, it’s still quite rude to make it obvious during such merry occasions. Now, do you have the tempo in mind and something to enjoy in your heart?”

Although the flash of surprise passed over his face unbidden, by the moment Serenity’s hands firmly guided his broad shoulders into place it had been excised, in favor of attentive focus. His martial training had come from the watch of a mercenary quartermaster, focused upon bringing the unlearned up to manageable par and enforcing tactics and formation rather than technique. This, he wagered, was the breed of fine-tuned specifics and insight one could only learn from private schooling.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

The ball of his foot softly struck the ground, quickly catching the time and beat of her snaps as she melted into the persona of an exacting instructor. He was no master swordsman, but any warrior worth their salt who had survived as long as he could catch, read, follow, and break rhythm. Each exchange of blows were the strings, each step and shift of weight the percussion— without proper stance or command of space, you were sure to falter.

This, as she thoroughly illustrated, was only different in two key areas— Firstly that he wasn’t reading that rhythm with intent to break it, and second that he was trying to share it with his partner, not overwhelm them off the back of any missteps.

Dueling, as it were, was a game of lies. Dancing was the stage of honesty, and as she said, chivalry. Pull from the dream, if nothing else.

“Believe it or not, I’ve got a few.” he replied, meeting her smile with one of his own. Perhaps not so dazzling, for his was not the visage of summer azures, but altogether he found a warmth that settled into something earnest. It softened the harder edges of his face, the same that he had often left set in stern, focused lines. Placing a hand upon the small of her back as instructed, he stepped them onto the floor, a slow, deliberate circle drawn from their movement.

Chin high. Shoulders back. Painting through the torso… a little abstract, but it fell in line with the more familiar cue of pressing his back flat to a wall. It brought the chest and core into place— a lot of cues at once. Much more ramrod in posture than the target minimization fighting called for, how it loaded hips and trunk for explosive bursts of motion.

In minding them, a juggling act for a moderately-unfamiliar subject, tension would often resurface— but the Arcedeen scion was never someone to mince words or hold her tongue. Each and every time, a reminder would fly forth, and his effort would redouble to relax, paradox though that was. She made for a strict taskmaster, but he would ensure the lessons would ingrain themselves into his frame, just as swordplay had. He would meet her intensity to teach with an intensity to learn.

Though not necessarily clumsy, he was far from perfect, and perfection would never be achieved in a single night. But this would prove a bedrock from which he could work, and refine. It required diligence, but moreover, so too did the generosity his fellow knight showed him. There was nothing that said she needed to be so thorough. She didn’t need to instruct in the first place.

Yet here she was, reining him in when he stepped too far, urging him forward when his rhythm began to lag, and keeping his posture tall and dignified. Each correction, each cue, each moment of praise or further polishing was time she had every right to spend on her own, relaxing on the night of victory.

Perhaps it was his gratitude that kept the smile on his face, even when his body tried to rebel against the unfamiliar demands and some element of him failed.

It was certainly the reason the mistakes became smaller and smaller, the failures became less and less frequent, as the evening carried on.

And carry on it did, until the music petered out, the dancers shuffled off, and the Wisp and Wander shifted from a place of merriment to a place of quiet drinkers and muffled conversation. Even if the knights were inexhaustible, the world around them was not, and as the lute player mustered what remained of her focus into her final phrase, Serenity angled for an end as well, guiding Gerard to cut diagonally through the dance floor with long strides, before twirling into one last show-stopper of a pose.

He still stank, but at least the mud that his boots tracked was hidden beneath every other footprint upon the wood. His hands were the bigger problem, sweaty from the paradox of a perfect posture whilst perfectly relaxed, but one was not expected to dance for as long as the two of them had either.

Serenity stepped back, dipping into the mimicry of a curtsy, before escorting Gerard off the dance floor. As they passed by the musicians, she slipped them a few coins, favouring the band with a nod. Even the most blue-blooded aristocrats ought to have a respect for the arts, after all, if they had so thoroughly enjoyed it.

Once they were alone again, the flaxen-haired lady gave her evaluation in full, between sips of diluted cider.

“You change your tempo too suddenly. Lengthening your stride will help with that. You focus too much on your shoulders, and that causes your arms to stiffen unnaturally instead. Imagine your hand resting on your partner’s instead, and use only minimal strength to keep it up. Your jawline is handsome, so you can do with shifting your chin up a bit more. Yes, like that.”

A nod.

“When the dance ends, step back as I had and take a small bow. Thank them for their time, then escort them as I had for you back to where you invited them.” Serenity folded her arms. Gerard was a quick study, focused and without meaningless pride, though he would benefit from improving his comprehension through questioning. It was a shame, in truth, that he was likely unable to have enough time to really get himself to a level where he would impress.

Time passed equally for all though, and Reon and Mayon chased each other across the sky uncaring of mortal lamentations down below.

“But you will do good.”

She raised her mug in his direction, but withheld the toast.

“And I expect you to take initiative. If you sense a lady stealing glances towards you, approach them, introduce yourself, and invite them to a dance. Even in times like these, it’s a lady’s shame to thrust herself upon an object of her interest.”

The mug inclined, firelight upon steel chandeliers reflecting off the golden liquid.

“It’ll be an occasion, after all. An occasion to fortify old bonds and forge new ones.”

From her assessment, Gerard seemed to be a tightly wound bundle of nerves. He couldn’t really bring himself to disagree, either. Each note was a further spike in his mind, an illustration of the careful balancing act that impressing upon the ballroom floor would prove. The more he learned, the less he knew— the burgeoning competence began with all the weight that came from learning to read one’s faults. As with fighting. As with any skill.

“Initiative.” He repeated, firmly nodding. “Initiative I can do.”

Yet her expectations were laid bare, and she had given more than all the tools he needed to achieve them. Why should nerves matter? To a man that had so recently stared death in the face and dared to press in, what was simple learning?

He raised his mug in turn, this one filled instead with clear water rather than liquid, golden courage. Enough of that rested within his gaze, as memorized the view of “proper head posture”. If he could get that down to the memory below memory, set in the bones and muscle, it was one less thing to sweat over.

After a moment more of feeling the position out, he relented, and took a drink. Slow and deliberate, as though trying to smooth each motion. Learning in concepts gave one an affinity for practicing in concepts— this was nothing so churlish as theater for Serenity’s benefit.

“It’ll be a rare bond that’s old that I may fortify in Aimlenn,” he mused, gazing up into the twinkling flames of the chandelier for a moment. “So that leaves me with twice the ability to forge bonds anew.”

A smile.

“The time you’ve given me here is invaluable, Dame Serenity. You won’t see it wasted. That’s a promise.”

He stepped back a single pace, lowering his head and torso in a small, tight bow. Only one thing left to properly tie it off, to show his work and attention.

“It’s getting late. Shall we return to Candaeln?”

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@ERode

"Hardly," his glib reply came readily in the wake of her just. "He and I have a good arrangement— he handles the long distances, I handle running into enemy lines. Works great for us both."

Beneath this veneer of flippantness, however, he didn't miss her giving him a similar once-over as he'd done moments ago, starting down at the soil-caked boots and quickly darting across the attire on his frame. Drab and shabby clothing. Understated, putting it mildly, and well-worn. Good for training, if nothing else, and casual enough for a farmboy— but knowing Dame Serenity...

"If you'll have me, I'm all for it. I need to learn the city more thoroughly anyway."

Was she, always polishing and preening and ensuring she put her best foot forward, no matter the circumstance, really fine with it? With the way she was noting down all the run-down fabric, Gerard had his doubts. Not when this was a point on propriety she could hammer home, a teachable moment for the etiquette both knew he lacked. If it came to expectations, he definitely expected her to expect better.

...Still, though.

It was a nice night after a good victory.

Cross the bridge when you come to it.

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@ERode

"Speed, Gerard... C'mon, speed!"

For all his worries of unfamiliarity with the city laid before him, Sagramore found that eager strides made short work of the directions given, even in spite of a walk's slower pace. The sun had only just passed its zenith when he'd set forth from the outer gates of Candaeln— and still had plenty of time to weigh upon him like an anvil as he ran. Tucked away from the usual bustle of city life as this hill was, a little grunted self-coaching wouldn't garner many odd looks.

"Agghh...motherfucker." a ragged gasp tore itself from his burning lungs as he crested the hill and fought to keep his urge to keel over locked away.

The concern of recognition from the parade had flickered through his mind after crossing the moat, but it was quickly allayed as he'd stepped into the throng. It was the pomp and circumstance and fantasy that had drawn the eyes— so much of them had affixed onto his unusually polished armor, or more likely the immense trophy he'd been waving around. When it came to his face, he clearly still had no trouble melting into the crowd, even now unmasked.

I guess that's the upside to having so far to go, his stream of consciousness mused, taking thought's place while his heart hammered. Won't be recognized until I'm ready for it.

...

The moment he'd been allotting for rest came and went— and, ever dutiful, he descended the slope to start anew, each step down closer to a jerking catch of the weight than the last.

The day drew on as he continued like this, sun sliding closer and closer to the earth as the knight threw his nose into the grindstone. Each sprint would shorten, each rest would lengthen, but it would not be until the low light matched the amber of his eyes that his will finally relented and listened to the protests of his body.

...

The walk back to Candaeln, given the pounding his calves had been put through, was by necessity a leisurely one. For the first few blocks his legs had felt to be made more of gelatine than bone and sinew, each step being a labor in its own right. Consistent a worker as discipline had forged him into, even he now found himself admitting that his fervor had pushed things... a little hard.

But, that consistency proved a virtue in equal measure— by the time Reon's blazing glory acceded to Mayon's gentler, calmer light in Aimlenn's cloudless air, he could walk normally in spite of the soreness. Recovery came quickly when the conditioning was maintained— a wisdom any proper soldier would have drilled into them first and foremost.

And just as well, too. Rounding a lamplit corner, the flash of a flaxen braid catching the glow was hard enough to miss on its own. His posture, instinctively by now, straightened. The frank, flat appraisal and prim bearing that accompanied were unmistakable, especially when they came from right at eye level.

"And as ever, you're fresh as a daisy, Serenity."

There was no heat on the reply, and a cordial nod followed it quickly. It hadn't taken much time at all within the Order to realize that the young noblewoman was quick to get a read on him— and while he didn't consider himself terribly difficult in such a regard, he had to admit he readily appreciated the honesty she brought with it. A mentor to an unfamiliar world such as knighthood was a blessing, one he dared not overlook.

"Guilty as charged." a humble smile played across his face as he gauged her attire. Casual and light, moreso than he'd usually taken her for— but still carrying her blade on her hip. Smart. You never knew. "Been out on the hills near the wall, running myself ragged. What about you, just on a stroll?"

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

South from gates. Simple enough.

Destination set, Gerard's steady march saw him float through the grounds of Candaeln at a pace not exactly leisurely, but far from the prior explosions of speed he'd torn through the yard with.

If it overlooked the river, she was probably intent on sending him right by Calnahen's banks, outside of Aimlenn's sturdy walls. Admittedly, Gerard couldn't place the watchtower in question from his memory— in the few times he'd had the privilege to see the city from afar, such as this morning, he was always most drawn by his awe at the immense spires, letting the surrounding farmlands sort of fade into the foreground.

But, her directions had left it clear, even if his sense for the city landmarks was lacking— just get out of the gates and follow the river as it flanked the southern face of Aimlenn. Any idiot could manage that. The watchtower she spoke of would show itself soon, if it were tall enough to appreciably be counted as such. Up on the cliffs, surrounded by a crowding of other buildings... By all rights, it oughta be impossible to miss.

River cutting through the land would make for muddy soils as well as a certain grade. Maybe not the rolling hills of central Velt, but the slick would more than make up for a gentler incline. For all the long walk it'd be, hard to ask for anything more true to life.

By now, his advance had taken him onto the drawbridge across Candaeln's moat. He glanced down, taking in the brackish, murky, and very still water below. He'd seen his fair share of moats in battle too, if one wanted to speak on "true to life".

His eyes narrowed, the mind behind them thinking for a long, silent moment.

...

Shaking his head as if disappointed in himself, he kept walking. There was a whole city to get through, and half the day'd been spent parading.

At least the riverbed wouldn't get him poisoned.

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

It’s still not too late

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@Raineh Daze

For a brief instant, something flickered behind his eyes as he took in Tyaethe's suggestion. He respected her titles and accolades, and all the experience that had forged them. That much would always ring true. But for Reon's sake...

"Alright, alright, you don't gotta be a kid about it."

He knew when he was being mocked. He affixed her gaze with a blunt, level-browed exasperation of his own, albeit much less rooted in the sentiment of slowing down your words for a stupid kid. He was a stupid kid, fair enough, but he'd held conversation fine thus far. Screwing with the cadence was just obnoxious.

A snort escaped his nostrils as he took a step away in a half-turn out, towards the direction of the Candaeln gate, and rolled on. Whatever. He'd dealt with worse from worse people, though maybe that was what had made them so much easier to ignore. Who the hell cared about what people you didn't respect thought?

"Aimlenn's a big city. Most everywhere on the main approach here is flat enough— I didn't expect anywhere to be a terribly steep climb further in." he relayed his reasoning simply, neither crumbling beneath embarrassment nor stoking the flare that had come and gone. No point in either. Own the mistake, take in the correction, and move on. That was the only way forward.

"I'll go hunting, Ma'am." When his head turned back to face her, it held no tension as he inclined it in gratitude. "Thanks for the tip."

With that, the young man pivoted on his heel fully, and strode further into the sunlit yard, new objective in tow. Not like she had any reason to lie about it. Over his shoulder, he threw her a hearty enough wave...

"I'll swing by the chapel when I'm back!"

... And a reassurance that he'd listened to everything, in spite of the gripes.

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@Raineh Daze

"You're right, he should've." the erstwhile mercenary agreed readily, almost tonelessly, amber gaze following hers into the middle distance. "And the next one like him will again. Whether it's a trio of us, or just me."

He had to ingrain the goal. He had to visualize the state in which he matched him blow for blow, strike for strike, strength for strength. If it could be achieved, it was there— Sir Agrahn. Sir Cyrus. Could he measure up to them, legendary titans of the field? He didn't know. He certainly didn't feel like a once-in-a-lifetime warrior... But the type of greed to chase those mythical figures had gotten him this far. And if he reached even a fraction of their ability, the Bandit King he'd fought would be trivial. Of that, Gerard was certain.

As for her query, he nodded along his understanding— to be turned into a supernatural, superhuman entity at the age it seemed she had, it did stand to reason that she'd not have much cause to worry about honing the body, when it was already so empowered. Lucky him. It was a rare day anyone got to elucidate the honored Paladin.

"It's a drill from my past life." he began, "We used to sprint uphill to improve our dashing ability. It gets the legs used to exploding forward for harder and longer— the way I fight is all pace and pressure, so being able to crush distance quickly, suddenly, and keep swinging hard, time after time, is as important as it gets. It is endurance work, in a way— but it's also just building up the strength that gives you raw speed. Doing that, over and over, so I could keep swarming a defense like his until it breaks. It took us a bit to crack him open."

A wry grin played over his face, mirroring that of his comrade. "If only we had a hill. Pushing up from below hits you twice as hard."

He knew she had a point, regarding recovery. Nobody could work themselves endlessly, grinding truly down to the bone, and expect to gain much. If you had nothing left to build upon, then your house was sure to crumble— If you endlessly sowed your fields the same way, never feeding the soil, your crop would dwindle with each passing month.

He'd felt it firsthand on march, years ago. Roving between battlefields made for rough living, and with strictly constrained meals, at times it was a miracle the Regiment hadn't strung themselves out completely. He'd lost friends that way. Hunger was a powerful motivator, but exhaustion made mistakes appear where they never should've.

But...

"Thanks for the concern, ma'am. And the advice— I'll be sure to peruse it after this. Right now, I feel able enough to at least manage this much."

He had to strike it hard and fast. Attacking one's own weakness was rarely so easy as the day you were both able and not only willing, but driven. Rest could come in a few more laps.

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@Raineh Daze

That's what Elven sounds like? Huh... Lilette? Lilette, Lilette, that's not a name I've—

"... Anyway!"

Whatever, don't worry about it. Got it.

He eyed the not-actually-at-all-young woman cautiously as she rose up, straightening her back and pinning him with eyes that seemed just a touch too bright in the shade, her refuge from Lady Reon's disdainful eye. Though her deathly pallor and lynx pupils were proof enough that she was far from an ordinary girl... he still found need to remind himself that this was the same person who had donned that towering harness of plate, and swung around what was only now the second largest blade he'd seen in five years on the field.

It was hard to link them. Such different visages arcane helms and girlish frills could present.

"Oh, that."

He folded his arms, and loosed something halfway between a sigh and a ragged grunt. Now, it was his turn to look into the middle distance for a moment, searching for his phrasing. He didn't take terribly long to arrive on it— now that it didn't quite feel like he was about to be chewed out, there wasn't so much need.

"Trying to settle my mind, I think." he ventured, looking back to her beneath a furrowed brow. "Whenever I look back on Jeremiah... We did kick his ass, the Captain, Fionn, and I. But if it was just me, I'm not so confident. Think I get torn in half more often than not."

All told, it was a markedly casual assessment of such grim odds. He'd already faced them.

"So I want to start working right away, before we have to face someone or something like that again. I might be on my own for it, y'know?"