HereComesTheSnow

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@VitaVitaAR@Rune_Alchemist@PigeonOfAstora

"Give yourself two more. Deep and slow. Settle the heart."

His unrequested counsel was delivered with a flinty, matter-of-fact pitch— quite clearly, Gerard was used to similarly pragmatic reception. He hoped inwardly that she'd find it a centering bedrock, as he did at her age. Twice now it was what he could offer, in about as many days— and for all it served as cold comfort, there was occasion and time for little else.

As violet flashed in his periphery and he heard the ripple of water where it didn't belong, the knight had just enough time to affix a suspicious glare onto the churlishly waving figure that had thrown the knife his way— and grunted in dissatisfaction as they disappeared, seemingly into the aether. He listened for footsteps... but only found the sounds of fighting above to greet his ears.

A snort heralded the clap of his leathered glove onto her back, urging her to shake it off. Not much else to be done right now...

Following it was the soft squelch as he pulled the blessed morningstar, cast in a flight of frenzy at the scarlet mass of fibrous threads, free from the heap of meat it and the shield had tangled within.

"No idea where that one went, but if there's more like this further down, in the final chamber..."

His frown deepened, kicking the shield clear of the tangle of red that had, of course, coated it thoroughly in blood.

He looked back to her, hefting the spiked and blessed bludgeon.

"We'll need to keep our heads above water."

He wouldn't, of course, start assumption of command here. There was a vast gap to bridge between "a little shaken" and "unfit for duty"— and as his urging would suggest, he had every intent on keeping it from beinbg crossed. Shield and mace in hand, both bloodied, the erstwhile mercenary awaited the advance of his peers.

Much as he wanted to serve as a battering ram for the Roses, he had set his diligence on the task of rear guard until directed otherwise.

The Lion's Banner: A Fire Emblem-Inspired Anime Fantasy RP

Thirty Year Old Boomer

István Shilage

Age: 32

Gender: Male

Race: Human

Appearance: Altogether disquieting to behold. Clocking in at 6'4" and all of it broad, thick muscle, the Son of the Shilage line wears his personal power like a imposing cloak about his person, each movement assured and deliberate. His gaze, when not hidden beneath the shadows of his helm, is prying, as though never far from looking for a way to open you up at the seams. His voice is an almost oppressive drone, the low rumble of splitting boulders. In times of leisure, his clothing is decidedly neutral in hue, favoring greys and browns. Hair falling to his shoulders in an unassuming mullet, it and his eyes both are dull and brown.

Personality: Tempered by wisdom and age, István represents his family of minor hedge lords within the Lions' ranks in much a similar manner as his forefathers had won any standing to begin with— brutally, and with ambition. He is noble by birth and training, not nature— often blunt and crass, just as likely to use his wits as a heavy, unvarnished club as he is to deftly trade acerbic barbs and polite doublespeak when faced with an enemy, or even annoyance. Raised by glorified soldiers, this base crudeness belies a healthy knowledge of the value of understanding one's peers and foes in equal measure, of reading tendencies and personas. Like a shark circling the waters, his eyes are restless in their search through what he's shown to try and find what makes you tick. While he doesn't lack a sense of humor, much of it is rooted in the grand and intoxicating ironies of struggle— happily shared among often unwilling audiences.

Indeed, he is staunchly and perhaps surprisingly process-driven and analytical, taking a craftsman's approach to many walks of life. He is educated well beyond that which is suggested by his demeanor and bearing, every bit the heir to a household, however minor it is. Lives life with a sense of fair play, rarely rankling at disagreements or insults earned by his blunt behavior. Believes in the value of doing one's job well, whatever it may be. As a Lion, he extends this expectation to his peers as much as he does himself— and is more than ready to turn that mind so gleeful in pulling things apart towards the task of helping people put their shit together. Everything has a structure, so it shall be robust.

His service to the banner's cause is one he has never sought to question, for it has time and again proven useful to his personal goals. He seeks to foster himself towards a proper familial succession— and following that, expand the holdings of his family. They have their foot in the door now— he will etch the Shilage name into the annals of history. To do that, he understands well that he would best reach this by dignified service and forging friendships— and for however one may find his method of navigating them, they shall too find him rare to renege upon those bonds.

Brief Backstory: "All that is held by blood, shall too be earned by blood." That is the creed of the Shilage family, to which Istvan was born. Recently uplifted from their roots of common soldiery in the Royal Army, the Shilages are still small fry as far as nobility is concerned— but if the Hraesleg are any indication, it is far from their ceiling. If such prominence could be found in continued military service, then they would be fools to not follow that blueprint.

Thusly, István was made to begin learning the crafts of war and rule from the moment he could walk, under the watchful eyes of both his parents and the best tutors their newfound status could muster. Knowing nothing else, he took to the lessons as a fish does to water, growing tall and strong beyond even his father by the time he reached manhood. The culmination of their efforts, he was literate and even cultured, but most of all fierce enough for service. His father's private worries that a posh and privileged upbringing would dull the ruthlessness that had served their military careers well were thankfully ill-founded— István was all but knocking down his door to ask when he would be going off to fight and prove himself.

His answer came in the form of house Demet collecting upon an old favor to the Shilage, as he was sent far to the north to assist Earl Edric in rooting out a cadre of bandits that had continually been harassing villages and townships. Once there, it was within short order that the scion of the new family had brought the old lord the head of a nuisance— and in exchange, requested to pledge his service for a time, both in thanks to his father's old friend and to better experience with his own eyes the true rigors of rule. Amused by the upstart's initiative and intrigued by his efficiency, Edric came to agree to István's terms. He would teach the heir to nascent house of southrons what he would need to know, should the plans István spoke of so boldly come to fruition— and in exchange, Edric would in no uncertain terms have his head should he dare challenge the succession of his young son Cadmon. István agreed readily. His designs were never here.

Years passed as István diligently worked as an understudy to Edric, having whipped most of the remaining bandits into an expeditionary force for his Lord— the same that had once followed the man he'd slain. As held through blood, earned through blood. They participated in numerous border skirmishes alongside Demet forces beneath István's command, specializing in breaking the enemy down from the edges, one by one, until they came apart at the seams. He served in Edric's minor court, learned his methods of administration, arbitrated small, petty disputes. It was the trial run he would need for statecraft. His retainership and service would, even in spite of a rough-hewn personality, ingratiate him to the family— even being entrusted with watching over Cadmon's military training, as Edric and his other retainers continued to try and groom the gloomy boy for succession.

This would prove vital in the coming years.

News of Edric and Amelie's death, now as though beloved Aunt and Uncle to him, struck swift and strong to be both he and the heir in their wake— but the older man had the privilege of time and experience on his side that the boy sorely lacked. He would for the two years proceeding become the lad's taciturn but shrewd advisor, imparting every lesson the father had bequeathed him unto the son in turn. When the summons from Lord Hraesleg came, István followed the boy, his Raiders in tow— however he may have been poised to administrate in the family line's absence, he liked having his head.

Such would not be Earned through Blood, either.

Equipment: A heavy flail, replete with a spiked head and pommel, nicknamed "Meteor". Sturdy kiteshield, every bit a weapon as it is protection in his hands. A humble, nameless arming sword at his side, and a harness of plate topped by an imposing great helm. Carries upon his person charcoal and parchment, both for use in writing messages as well as idly sketching drafts.

Skills: Strong, sturdy and brutal, the son of a house of glorified soldiers should not come as a shock in having a calling for violence. He is battering ram and castle gate alike, crushing his foes with mighty swings of his flail, leveraging its inherent unpredictability to the fullest. As stated already, his preferences are for methodically breaking foes both on tactical and strategic scales apart at the seams, taking their full measure into his understanding.

Atop this, he is diligent at reading those around him— certainly not prescient, but capable of more piercing insight than first glance would suggest. Good at talking shit, serviceable at talking nice. A fair draftsman for technical drawings in the vein of construction or military matters, though his still life lacks expression through the charcoal. A consistent coffee drinker, he has a discerning taste for a good brew.

Extra: CV: AI Dagoth Ur

The Lion's Banner: A Fire Emblem-Inspired Anime Fantasy RP

The Thirty Year Old Boomer

István Shilage

Age: 32

Gender: Male

Race: Human

Appearance: Altogether disquieting to behold. Clocking in at 6'4" and all of it broad, thick muscle, the Son of the Shilage line wears his personal power like a imposing cloak about his person, each movement assured and deliberate. His gaze, when not hidden beneath the shadows of his helm, is prying, as though never far from looking for a way to open you up at the seams. His voice is an almost oppressive drone, the low rumble of splitting boulders. In times of leisure, his clothing is decidedly neutral in hue, favoring greys and browns. Hair falling to his shoulders in an unassuming mullet, it and his eyes both are dull and brown.

Personality: Tempered by wisdom and age, István represents his family of minor hedge lords within the Lions' ranks in much a similar manner as his forefathers had won any standing to begin with— brutally, and with ambition. He is noble by birth and training, not nature— often blunt and crass, just as likely to use his wits as a heavy, unvarnished club as he is to deftly trade acerbic barbs and polite doublespeak when faced with an enemy, or even annoyance. Raised by glorified soldiers, this base crudeness belies a healthy knowledge of the value of understanding one's peers and foes in equal measure, of reading tendencies and personas. Like a shark circling the waters, his eyes are restless in their search through what he's shown to try and find what makes you tick. While he doesn't lack a sense of humor, much of it is rooted in the grand and intoxicating ironies of struggle— happily shared among often unwilling audiences.

Indeed, he is staunchly and perhaps surprisingly process-driven and analytical, taking a craftsman's approach to many walks of life. He is educated well beyond that which is suggested by his demeanor and bearing, every bit the heir to a household, however minor it is. Lives life with a sense of fair play, rarely rankling at disagreements or insults earned by his blunt behavior. Believes in the value of doing one's job well, whatever it may be. As a Lion, he extends this expectation to his peers as much as he does himself— and is more than ready to turn that mind so gleeful in pulling things apart towards the task of helping people put their shit together. Everything has a structure, so it shall be robust.

His service to the banner's cause is one he has never sought to question, for it has time and again proven useful to his personal goals. He seeks to foster himself towards a proper familial succession— and following that, expand the holdings of his family. They have their foot in the door now— he will etch the Shilage name into the annals of history. To do that, he understands well that he would best reach this by dignified service and forging friendships— and for however one may find his method of navigating them, they shall too find him rare to renege upon those bonds.

Brief Backstory: "All that is held by blood, shall too be earned by blood." That is the creed of the Shilage family, to which Istvan was born. Recently uplifted from their roots of common soldiery in the Royal Army, the Shilages are still small fry as far as nobility is concerned— but if the Hraesleg are any indication, it is far from their ceiling. If such prominence could be found in continued military service, then they would be fools to not follow that blueprint.

Thusly, István was made to begin learning the crafts of war and rule from the moment he could walk, under the watchful eyes of both his parents and the best tutors their newfound status could muster. Knowing nothing else, he took to the lessons as a fish does to water, growing tall and strong beyond even his father by the time he reached manhood. The culmination of their efforts, he was literate and even cultured, but most of all fierce enough for service. His father's private worries that a posh and privileged upbringing would dull the ruthlessness that had served their military careers well were thankfully ill-founded— István was all but knocking down his door to ask when he would be going off to fight and prove himself.

His answer came in the form of house Demet collecting upon an old favor to the Shilage, as he was sent far to the north to assist Earl Edric in rooting out a cadre of bandits that had continually been harassing villages and townships. Once there, it was within short order that the scion of the new family had brought the old lord the head of a nuisance— and in exchange, requested to pledge his service for a time, both in thanks to his father's old friend and to better experience with his own eyes the true rigors of rule. Amused by the upstart's initiative and intrigued by his efficiency, Edric came to agree to István's terms. He would teach the heir to nascent house of southrons what he would need to know, should the plans István spoke of so boldly come to fruition— and in exchange, Edric would in no uncertain terms have his head should he dare challenge the succession of his young son Cadmon. István agreed readily. His designs were never here.

Years passed as István diligently worked as an understudy to Edric, having whipped most of the remaining bandits into an expeditionary force for his Lord— the same that had once followed the man he'd slain. As held through blood, earned through blood. They participated in numerous border skirmishes alongside Demet forces beneath István's command, specializing in breaking the enemy down from the edges, one by one, until they came apart at the seams. He served in Edric's minor court, learned his methods of administration, arbitrated small, petty disputes. It was the trial run he would need for statecraft. His retainership and service would, even in spite of a rough-hewn personality, ingratiate him to the family— even being entrusted with watching over Cadmon's military training, as Edric and his other retainers continued to try and groom the gloomy boy for succession.

This would prove vital in the coming years.

News of Edric and Amelie's death, now as though beloved Aunt and Uncle to him, struck swift and strong to be both he and the heir in their wake— but the older man had the privilege of time and experience on his side that the boy sorely lacked. He would for the two years proceeding become the lad's taciturn but shrewd advisor, imparting every lesson the father had bequeathed him unto the son in turn. When the summons from Lord Hraesleg came, István followed the boy, his Raiders in tow— however he may have been poised to administrate in the family line's absence, he liked having his head.

Such would not be Earned through Blood, either.

Equipment: A heavy flail, replete with a spiked head and pommel, nicknamed "Meteor". Sturdy kiteshield, every bit a weapon as it is protection in his hands. A humble, nameless arming sword at his side, and a harness of plate topped by an imposing great helm. Carries upon his person charcoal and parchment, both for use in writing messages as well as idly sketching drafts.

Skills: Strong, sturdy and brutal, the son of a house of glorified soldiers should not come as a shock in having a calling for violence. He is battering ram and castle gate alike, crushing his foes with mighty swings of his flail, leveraging its inherent unpredictability to the fullest. As stated already, his preferences are for methodically breaking foes both on tactical and strategic scales apart at the seams, taking their full measure into his understanding.

Atop this, he is diligent at reading those around him— certainly not prescient, but capable of more piercing insight than first glance would suggest. Good at talking shit, serviceable at talking nice. A fair draftsman for technical drawings in the vein of construction or military matters, though his still life lacks expression through the charcoal. A consistent coffee drinker, he has a discerning taste for a good brew.

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@VitaVitaAR@Rune_Alchemist@PigeonOfAstora

The jarring of the impact carried through his grip, cross his elbow, and down the length of his arm, and with it came the knowledge that his strike was sure and true. In its instant wake, the billow of white-gold flame of derelict flesh meeting aggressive purity, and the deep, ugly crack of a shattering knee twice the size of any man's.

As the momentum of his rush carried him further, in his peripheral he saw the hulking mass of reanimated flesh shift, waver, and then sag to the floor. A breath later, the mighty crash of the massive hammer falling to the floor, the arm carrying it in tow. Crippled. Nearly dead. Not quite yet—

Before he could pivot and skid to a full stop, something flashed to his front, and before his eyes could pull the form from the blurring metal his shield rose to intercept its path. Reflexes acted faster than thoughts and commands. The speed and direct path meant that there wasn't time to rely on anything else.

A deep, thunking report— thrown knife. Had to be. Too common a sound in his old profession— it was a rare mercenary that didn't try to learn the skill to pass the time, if not add it to their arsenal.

His instincts told him to pry it free and sling it back at the enshrouded figure near the stairwell. Occupy the threat, pin him in place to defend or throw him off his retreat course to dodge. For it's own sake, even, there always was a certain satisfaction to harassing ranged fighters with the sudden surprise.

However, fate did not allow this.

He heard Dame Cecilia's incantation, the growling winds that surrounded her next arrowhead.

He heard Lein's hastened warning, before the hammering thrum of his bowstring, sending arrow after arrow downrange.

He heard the Captain's yelp of surprise, panic creeping into her tone as, with a sickening squelch—

Move.

He whirled, bringing the blessed morningstar to bear with another mighty swing. A hit to the spine to freeze it in place was the general notion. Instead, he was greeted with the sight of Dawn's Break smashing into red threads of animated muscle that were extending from the severed shoulder, towards his neck. Another moment and it would have choked him.

His eyes followed the tendrils from their root point, the burning flame warding off those that sought his end.

"Captain!"

He burst into motion. Even one second wasted, and the Order would be tarnished with yet another fallen leader. They'd already brushed with death, her and he, just two days prior— and already, he had made up his mind. She was young, inexperienced, thrust into a station few could be ready for. None, he would argue, none her age would be. A kid. No older than he when he first became a faceless grunt.

Dawn's Break flew, hurled in the direction of the stump's base. He needed his hands free. If Reon smiled upon him, the weapon may even have grazed the mass of tendrils in its flight.

An instant behind came the shield, cast in the path of the remaining tendrils that would check his movement. They grabbed, snatched, reached for things to crawl along, devour, and choke— the disc of wood and metal would occupy them for the crucial moment he needed.

If he, so convinced of his battlefield tenure, allowed her to die under his watch...

He could never call himself a Knight.

Pulled free from the scabbard on his back, his longsword was a steely thunderbolt, crashing down upon the trunk of sinew with all the cutting force its blade and wielder, oldest and purest of allies, could muster.

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@VitaVitaAR@Rune_Alchemist@PigeonOfAstora

Two arrows loosed, their flight heralded by the deep hums of once-taut string. Cecelia’s to the hooded goliath’s cannonball shoulder, wind magic sheath primed to knock the joint open should the head catch into whatever hammer-swinging muscle lied beneath. A beat later came Lein’s, sent into the murky depths of the hood itself, towards eyes, nose, maw, a harassment of any sense still left in the wake of its former life. A one-two punch that would give most foes pause, if even for a moment, if defended or allowed to sink home.

A third arrow, propelled by a change in orders, was instead sung its approach by clattering, smashing, and pounding drums. Sir Gerard, ever impetuous, strove to make good on his word.

His sabatons pounded the damp, musty tile. Sparks flew as his shield caught the the beard of a swinging axe upon its metallic border, only to be shoved aside as steel, sinew, and speed collided with strung-up bone. A human battering ram, knocking all clear from his path.

His golden eyes flicked ahead, noting the trajectories of his comrades’ shots and he selected his own target in turn as he bore down upon the hulking undead. Another time might have seen him realize that as proof of his continued training within the Order, no mean feat that having the eyes to react to flying arrows was—

Face. Shoulder. Two targets. Just like Jeremiah. Win by forcing third. Kill joints. Kill base of force. Kill options.

—But the fight had now taken him, and left nothing in pride’s place but battlefield rigour.

His charge was swift, and in the span of three breaths he had cleared a line to the giant undead and was upon it. Its black hammer was heavy, its form distended and bulbous beyond humanity. A deep, threatening mystery of what horror they faced lurked within the shadows of its hood as it towered over him, further accentuated by his sudden drop in posture. Intimidating. Plainly and simply so.

He grit his teeth, an open snarl.

He came in the wake of two arrows, loosed by some of the land’s most skilled, aimed true and thus surely giving him this instant he had seized. He held in his hand Reon’s own thunder, cast in the visage of Her Morning Light and still burning with her blessing.

He had but one fear in his heart, knowing the task that stood before him.
All others had been burned away. The boy from the farm that would have once balked, gagged, fled this abomination was dead. There was no room for him any more. For too long, there had not been. In his place stood a man, forged by war, who refused to falter.

Victory would expect nothing less.

He swung Dawn’s Break into the monstrosity’s kneecap, looking to land just after the arrows did, and do it with authority.

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@VitaVitaAR@Rune_Alchemist@PigeonOfAstora

The former mercenary, by contrast to Cecilia's flighty and careless whimsy that so befit the wind spirits her bow ensconsed, had become a picture of tight-lipped and grim violence, smashing the puppeteered bones free from the unholy strings that held them aloft behind furrowed brow, unspoken snarl, and furnace-like eyes. Gerard instead responded to the shaken-off concerns by closing the gap between himself and the other three whenever the fight may have pulled one astray, surging to fill whatever holes their maneuvering and distance management opened in their small, diamond ranks with bludgeoning, swinging steel.

Keep formation tight, and she could worry as little as she liked. That was the role of heavily-armed brawling escort like himself to an archer like her to begin with, in all fairness.

Against these foes, he was glad to have taken Dame Serenity's shield off her hands— there were few men-at-arms alive that overlooked its capability as a weapon in its' own right, merging a wall of steel to block the jerkily swung but visibly fresh blades sent their way with a good mass strapped to the off hand to return with full-bodied shoves, charges, and back-handed swipes that crashed into the enemy as though a mighty chariot.

The silhouette stalking up the stairs, doubtless, was another of the Lieutenants at play, meaning to take another of their number off the formation as the rest descended. They were fuller of form, careful in their stride, heavier in their footfalls as the ascending steps thumped with their approach, beneath the many sounds of battle. With nothing else to go off of, the valiantly conscious part of Gerard's mind that hummed beneath his familiar battle-rush spoke of a third refrain, to be sure.

Gritting his teeth, the wolf's amber gaze affixed the figure with an open glare, catching the burst of burning Aurum of Reon's fury as he brought Dawn's Break smashing through the clavicle, then ribcage, then spine. All that spared it of his wrath, speaking frankly, was knowing how thin they had already spread. Unless they held for their fellows behind to crash into the enemy from above, hoping they would make short work of the strong foes they'd already been faced with... he couldn't go for this one's throat. Not yet. Not on his lonesome.

So instead, he howled.

"Another one coming up!" he called, about-facing to bring both shield and morningstar to bear on the new threat. "If we're going through him, I've got point!"

The burliest and meanest of their number, and armed with a Paladin’s steel, him as the battering ram just made sense. His prior career had shaped him for it.

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

italybros we are so fucking back

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@ERode@VitaVitaAR@Raineh Daze@Rune_Alchemist@PigeonOfAstora

So be it, then.

The palm on her shoulder was lifted away, and instead freed her of the shield that had served as her answer. He shifted his grip on the mass of wood, metal, and hide for a moment, listening to the all-too-familiar words she gamely chided their number beneath...

"Good hunting."

And left in tow of the group at large, bringing up the rear as he looped his fingers around its handle. A resounding "yes" to the unspoken question beneath his words. Assurance delivered through action and intent, wasting little else on the answer Gerard knew to expect. Of course, she was willing. He almost felt a fool to hold those doubts, small as they'd been.

The lesson she'd left them with, ringing in his ears even in the wake of the familiar sound of a blade sliding free from a scabbard, was all too familiar to him— to the point where in spite of her tone addressing the group at large, Gerard quietly wondered if the reason he now held the first duty of the Iron Rose upon his left arm was purely just that he was there to take it.

... No matter, though. Whether or not it was her intent, the result was the same.

To Lein's very point, they were already spread thin with this much— Down to four alone in the span of two lieutenants, and if he'd stayed behind with her, it'd be the captain and the archers. A death sentence if walking into any more hordes of undead alone, forgetting any of the other bigshots. The gambit by this conspiracy was fairly clear, in his eyes.

"They've been peeling away protection of our command with each of the bigger threats they've sent, taking choke points so we don't have much option in the matter." he breathed as he concurred with the Hundi archer, toneless save for tension. It boiled his blood to think about, but he fought, desperately, to keep a lid above the fury that had served him so well and keep thinking. "You're right. We might be looking at Jeremiah again, if this is how they intend to play it—"

Leather creaked as his grip on the morningstar tightened, knuckles close to white beneath the gloves. It occurred to him, through the rush of black fire pouring away from his heart, that it may have ended up that he held seniority among the four of them in raw battlefield experience.

"We have to keep tight above all else. I don't know if they've any means to cut these passageways off..."

A burning tree flashed through his mind, followed by the flash of a heavy arc of steel, followed by a spray of blood, cresting the blaze.

"But extended as we are, we can't afford another split regardless. Too easy to get drawn out and picked off at that point."

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@ERode@VitaVitaAR@Raineh Daze@Rune_Alchemist

From the rear, as ordered, a hand fell upon the lion's broad shoulder as the amber-eyed wolf leaned in behind it, speaking in tight, but measured undertone.

"You gonna play along?"

A question of intent, at the very least trying to couch little else behind its timbre. It was all he meant to ask.

In his opposite side and held low at the hip, he rolled his wrist and tested again the weight of Dawn's Break, the blessed morningstar's brilliant sheen already hidden beneath a banquet of the formerly-reanimated, old blood's burgundy blackened by the low light. Knowing her... she would, normally, happily oblige such a duel— a perfect instance to prove merit in the skill she prided herself upon to the point of battlefield asceticism. A formal challenge like this would be the perfect venue to stand out...

And yet.

His eyes narrowed in quiet suspicion as they regarded this "Damon Cazt", cockily waving the rest of them along as though a herd of armored sheep. His ears were pointed, curving up into knifelike tips. His skin was pallid, as though he'd not steeped out of this crypt and into the light for years. His strength was eminent in the single hand that managed his hefty crossbow, far broader and more robust than normal variants and already drawn taut.

Finally, and most obviously, his eyes. They were a searing red, far brighter than any should be even beneath torchlight— they almost seemed to glow. Gerard had seen that before, exactly once— upon the face that so disappointed their new obstacle to not behold among the raiding party's number. Blood rubies by any other name.

A duel with a vampire was far, far more lopsided than those between scions of noble houses. With his blessed armament and uncompromisingly aggressive tactics, Gerard knew that he could serve as enough of a stand-in for a Reonite Justiciar to be a key equalizer here. If it were him in her shoes, he'd likely appreciate such support.

Yet, it wasn't him. It was her. Whatever choice she made, he intended to follow. Dame Serenity of House Arcedeen was a singular knight, that much was clear in everything she did. A "challenging foe" alone wouldn't be the reason she might balk, and step away from the cliff's edge she made a point of walking along with her methods. If the First and Youngest was what they had to manage vampiric expectations, even knowing she was likely exceptional among them... this would eclipse "challenging" by a good margin.

So he wanted to know—

Was this, too, within the reach of her pride?

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@ERode@Crimson Paladin@Conscripts@VitaVitaAR

A breath pulled in, as the shot whizzed past the assembled vanguard's heads from the rear. Spinning end over end, and cloaked in an unknowable sheathe of luminous, arcane wind, the stuff of sylphs and storm, the arrowhead was a streak of white as it tore its path into the purple glow of the chamber, tailed by Gerard's gaze. The tomb of the traitor and his kin was far beyond tarnished by this cabal of necromancers— the amount of shambling, rattling corpses given new, unnatural life by the sickly lavender pouring from their eye sockets had to be tantamount to desecration. He was no holy man, granted, but...

The dangerous points of Dawn's Break, a hallowed morningstar once wielded by such a devout figure as the Paladin Armand, seemed to hunger as they caught the point of white upon the gilded head. His grip around its haft tightened as the projectile made final descent, his weight shifting forward in turn for the charge. In his left hand, one of the rondel daggers retrieved prior from the Crown's armory. A point, a line, a rod of steel that could turn a strike away, catch a blow upon its sturdy diamond-shaped edges, a wedge to pry a guard open. He wasn't an expert by any true measure, but expertise wasn't needed. Ideas would do, so long as they served the purpose of breaking down the dead that walked.

On his back, the longsword that had served him, always. Should he need to leverage skill where ferocity and momentum faltered, it would be there.

Perhaps against whatever lieutenants waited beneath. For now, all Dame Serenity's plan needed from him was thunder, to chase the lightning. To her, and to Dawn's Break, he was more than ready to oblige.

The meteor hit the tile flooring, and outward exploded the howling wrath of the storm, a blossoming wind that scattered their reanimated foes' number throughout the chamber, leaving as many standing as it knocked aside, but all off their balance.

He breathed out, and felt the rush pass through him as his gold eyes shone beneath the visorless sallet, familiar and comforting as anything could in battle.

Then his boots shoved off the stone, and he surged forth in lockstep with Sir Steffen, hammer to the massive anvil at his side. Few presences would be as welcome as the Ingvarr's, a titan of strength and craft in even measure. There were few better suited to smash into unsuspecting enemy lines with—

He swung the morningstar with grit teeth, bearing shoulder, torso, and hips behind the unfamiliar weight as it bit deep into the skull of the nearest. It caught for a moment in pallid skin, spikes crushing cranial plate...

And then, rushing forth as the bone beneath crumpled into a spray of fragments, there bloomed a wave of sacred, shining flame that engulfed the corpse as it crumpled back to the crypt's floor, animus once again severed. Even after all these years out of service, the blessings placed upon the weapon were as strong as ever... Good.

They'd be needed for much more than this fodder.

Another approaching, carrying some blade the body had been buried with. It swung limply, as one would experct of its shambling gait. However, if there was any indication given by the breaking dawn in his hand...

With a clash of sparks, the edge of the swinging blade was caught upon the dagger, and shoved aside, opening the centerline of both combatants.

Though given new life by magic, no amount of puppetry would match a body that still lived in speed. Gerard brought the head of his borrowed bludgeon back around in a backhanded swing, a dull percussion line sounding as its weight pulverized the undead's ribcage. Even ignoring the damage, the raw torque was enough to knock it clear from the path of their charge, easy pickings for those that followed. No longer a concern.

And their crashing, crushing charge wouldn't stop here. An old hand at this, Gerard knew well that the whole idea was defeated by arresting momentum.

There were a few more ahead. Between him and his peers, their sickly lease on life wasn't long for the world.