HereComesTheSnow

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@VitaVitaAR@PigeonOfAstora@ERode@Raineh Daze

As the gust of wind from the upturned blade of Demonbreaker touched his cheeks, Gerard in turn loosed a breath, the ragged exhale his one allowed moment of awe. He'd halted his charge for a moment to lift the shield high and stand firm, instinctively snapping to on orders for a foothold— and with that breath, surged forth again. The time Serenity had bought wouldn't last long... even with the titan before him a pale shadow of his life.

Of course he knew of Erich Cazt. Every boy, from the farmstead to the highest houses of Thaln, had been raised towards righteousness and courage in hearing the tale of the Hero, Aimlenn's savior. His stalwart defense of the capital, ages past... before him stood a Legend of his childhood. The Demonbreaker. A beacon of the strength a brave man could reach— equal to the Saint Elionne, founder of the Roses. Equal to Cyrus, the mighty Hammer, whose relics still shone within Candaeln's halls. Equal to Agrahn Sahlbard, whose tale of rising beyond common soldiery through battle-raging strength beyond measure had been the last glimmer of hope through hell countless times— proof of the Dream.

Erich Cazt stood among any of them.

Yet here he was now, jerked around upon invisible threads by some puppeteering freak in the tomb of his family, yet more salt in the open wound of the traitor's dishonorable acts. To disturb the rest of the fallen was already unforgivable. For that, he had resolved, twice over, to see this necromancer bloodied and broken, left to whatever judgement the crown would have left to serve in the wake of Reon's mighty wrath.

To disturb the rest of this hero, so foundational to all who dared against insurmountable odds, and force his body to be the towering enemy of the city he had so defended... Oh, man. You've done it now.

Eyes like the oncoming sun, they flicked up to find that the Demonbreaker had earned its name undeniably in the way it had shorn through solid stone— but because of the angle, or perhaps because of Erich's soulless body being a mere shadow of his former might, it had also caught within it. Weapon out of commission. shield on the far side. Against a foe of this caliber, whose swings could through wind-force alone send a stalwart dame like Serenity flying, there would never come a better opportunity.

He dove into the space opened upon the reanimated Knight's side, twisted hips, trunk, and torso, and threw his weight behind the head of the morningstar. Armoring of this quality probably wouldn't even come close to being smashed apart in the vein of the undead that had come prior, and with only bones beneath, it was hard to say how much damage the raw force would do internally.

Could it break bones? Maybe.

Would it get the undead's attention squarely upon him, opening up the Captain, Serenity, and Lein for possible angles past, either to attack the caster or help bring down the behemoth itself?

That felt far, far more likely.

In his off hand, he gripped the shield tight, knowing it'd be needed soon if he wanted to last long enough to accomplish anything.

But if even one of his fellows managed to hamstring this nightmare scenario while he threw himself into the fire... Then that'd be worth the risk.

Anything to give the Hero rest once more.

Anything that got them closer to this fiend’s head.

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

István Shilage

@The Otter@Eisenhorn@Psyker Landshark

"We're taught to remember where we came from."

All told, there were little questions to be had as to just how the mercenary had come about to be plying his chosen trade beneath the banners of the Lions. The sharpness in his eyes told the tale his meager origin and nonexistent status belied, for what they lacked in the Goddess-given spark of noble bearing they made up for in shrewd observation. A battlefield veteran would need no less to survive well, and without any guarantee of underlings delegable for menial tasks like "finding people" and "remembering who went where", they were necessarily primed to assist him in picking up the slack these situations left on the individual. Where he lacked in formal sculpting, necessity had moulded him.

Something close to a smirk flickered across his face as they walked, the brew-clutching behemoth a pair of strides behind the golden-eyed hireling. Imagine Cadmon, having to run his own errands in such a way.

The North would have been eaten alive by Estival in weeks.

"And it seems such friendly fortune has graced you as well," came the booming rejoinder as the pair located his charge after a respectably short while, the young heir's slouch concealing his height and frame in a fashion to the older man would, one day, finally kick the hell out of him long enough to not be so recognizable. "Yet still you refuse to cast aside such a dull expression, despite your lovely company. Anger her at your own peril, boy, an Crownsblade scorned is a shameful loss for us all."

Despite his admonishing words, he spared the both of them any show of tutting or theatrics— Cadmon wouldn't buy it for a moment, and Lambert wouldn't find the humor. Instead, he simply strode forth, nodding his thanks to Urden as the task he'd set upon the man was now complete.

"Here." The mug in his right hand, slightly fuller than its twin, was thrust forth for the young Earl to accept. "Drink. The drums of war are closing upon us. You'll need to be sharp."

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@VitaVitaAR@Rune_Alchemist@PigeonOfAstora

"Bounding!"

A blur of motion, and the unbalancing weight on his shield arm ripped free. Two foes ahead, one hostage between them. A sea of undead. Gerard had only locked eyes with the lightning mage for a moment, ozone still fresh in the air...

"The order is important here."

... And made his decision.

Steel flashed through the gloom, following the gleaming points of Cecilia's hastily loosed arrows. The throwing knife from earlier sailed end over end in their wake, pitched less with refined accuracy and specificity of target— and so much more a vengeful streak of raw force centered upon her torso. She was long range artillery compressed and refined into wielding the hammer of the storm— she'd cook them if she wasn't kept upon the back foot.

He was no distance fighter. He'd need to charge her to close that gap, probably slowed by smashing through the reanimated. Only three of them being here as it stood... best to leave this to the only archer among them, who didn't need to peel away from the unit.

The former merc brough his now-uniform shield to bear and brandished Dawn's Break, holding the blessed bludgeon tight to his frame. The boiling fury that had propelled him so was rising again within his drumming heart— pulling in the sight of the half-masked, sneering fiend ahead, of the struggles of the bound and gagged captive, the ugly hue of that barrier, the twisting of space bending light unnaturally...

And focusing it upon a single command:

Forward.

Riding the wave of heat that flowed forth, the tip of the spear crashed into the shuffling ranks that lay between them and the innocent life they had come forth to save, his shield and mace swinging, smashing, hammer and anvil. He knew the Captain wouldn't trail. The thought had not even crossed his mind long enough to evolve to a worry— it was instead cast aside, as his baleful glare beneath the shadows of his sallet were affixed upon the glinting nephrite sphere atop the staff.

For Reon, For the Roses, and For the desecrated dead— He'd smash that thing to powder.

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

István Shilage

@The Otter@Eisenhorn

Hm.

Above one of the many fires set in the Lions' camp beneath those crimson banners, burly hands navigated a task far more delicate than they'd ever been built for. Though pale in a manner diagnostic of reduced sunlight, suggesting time spent in the range of years to the heights of Velt's colder north, they'd been quick to regain their old color closer to home— and had never once lacked in the gnarled, robust structure, all callused palms, thick fingers, and overdeveloped knuckles, that so encased the horn-carved spoon in their grip. Made to grip things firmly, take the shock of impact, a soldier's mitts— not those of an alchemist. If you looked at them, you would think them lost for subtlety.

We've had that merchant bandying her wares about for a while now. Loud as ever tonight— if this proves the goods aren't worth the racket, then I'll have to kick her over to the western flank— to say nothing of the librans.

Regardless, looks were oft deceiving, and the man's movements carried within themselves the tightly corralled precision and dexterity that so belied the broad and strong physique he carried— clear and exacting in cadence and force. One, two, three spoonfuls, each the same mass, fell into the long-handled pot balanced upon his knee, cast from copper. His eyes could read the structure of each mound, his fingers could feel the weight, and his body remembered the motion almost as well as his mind could recall his own name. Three, and no more. He needed sharpness when battle approached, not jitters, not a half-cocked buzz. Three would serve best, having ground the beans so fine in his pestle beforehand.

A gust of wind broke upon his broad back, carrying with it the smoke of fires like his own and the odor of roasting meat. Some of their liked to enter battles like the one they'd soon undertake with a full stomach, citing it gave them strength. In István's mind, it made him sluggish— he always preferred coffee to stave off the rest digestion desired. Any loss in physical capability would be overcome by the mental gain.

Additionally, he did like that it made him a touch meaner. Good for war.

In circling back to their mercantile accoutrement, he did in fairness have high hopes— the smell of the grounds was right once he added a pinch of grated cardamom, carefully retrieved by his cook from a heavy iron spicebox, and shook. This was a Nemish method of preparation, and so Nemish beans were preferable— Lirrah's sources were wide enough to feasibly have exchanged something authentic for his coin. Having swung down here, to the southern end of Velt's territory, the Lions had brought Istvan far closer to home than he'd been in the years prior— Demet territory was on the other side of the nation from the small holdings of the recently-risen Shilage.

Apple orchards, Thalnic river salmon, properly roasted coffee— this assignment had in some respects spoilt István with the tastes of his childhood. Of that which his heritage sung within the heart. Even here, in his battleground ritual, he was following a grandfather's, then father's teachings. He would too teach it to his son— as he had a little brother, or perhaps cousin. He'd need to find the boy soon, whatever he might call him.

A gooseneck drew the swirl of endlessness into the pot as he poured the water, all that ever was and ever would be in the details. Reon's light was found within them, embossing flaw, strength, method, madness. Attention paid meant result earned, simply put. He poured slow, and deliberate, saturating the savory dust with ninefold its weight in water. Then, upon the opposite axis, he repeated the motion with the spoon, never exceeding twelve rings drawn.

Less would make it weak. More would ruin its balance.

Finally satisfied, his eyes at last turned up to gaze upon the fire he was seated aside, beholding a heavy pot of cast iron filled with, of all things, sand. This was the method that turned a wild flame into a smooth, gentle blanket of heat that the Nem had taught his ancestors. The trick to allow the contents of the shining copper pot to foam and simmer, instead of boil over and scald, scattering bitterness about a drink that was to be robust and rich.

Two minutes. The simmer rising up the sides would tell him it was done. His gaze remained affixed to the pots through the time, stony mask unchanging even as a familiar subordinate (Jakob, if memory served) appeared in his peripheral.

"Sir Shilage." the man began, disciplined yet quite overeager to carry out his task. This must be a summons, then— István'd noticed the young man pounding a footpath directly through camp to his tent. "The Earl wishes you to meet him at the Lady's pavilion—"

"The boy isn't the only Earl Lady Hraesleg has caught up in the storm of her rise." He preached in reply, unwavering in gaze or expression. "You're lucky I recognize you as one of ours. Next time, a name."

Done.

The servant, in spite of himself, flinched as the older man suddenly burst into motion, reaching forward to quickly pry his cezve free from the sandpot, spooning the foam into the pair of waiting mugs that lied upon a cloth rag before deliberately pouring the contents in, a dark brown liquid akin to melted chocolate.

"He asked for me, then. Where was he last?"

Accompanying the query, the rightward mug was thrust into the servant's hands, insistent and accompanied by a smirk that, in Jakob's mind, might have been a welcoming and pleasant smile on another face. Obviously the man wished him to drink the fresh brew... but to what end? What was it he clearly meant to gain? He was known to the Demet troops and underlings of almost every stripe as serious and harsh, not one to freely share his precious potions. Was Shilage giving him thanks for the relayed message, or about to test him?

Suppressing a shiver from the breeze, he brought the warm ceramic to his lips...

---

Satisfied that Lirrah's beans wouldn't be poisoning the only real heir of his honored mentor, István would shortly douse the flame and order the men under his command to prepare themselves after packing out camp. He was already halfway suited himself, gambeson on his body shielding his torso from the cooling breezes that raced through the grounds. it wouldn't be long before the operation kicked off, so apropos of nothing, he intended to ensure the Earl enough awareness that he'd survive the eve.

He made his walk beneath the banners, mug held level and rigid in either hand. Another skill borne of long, long practice. As his long strides carried him through the sights and cacophony of a wartime encampment, every bit chaotic as it was regimented, his ears picked upon a jaunty, familiar tune wafting through the air.

Urden, a mercenary, was also in preparation, as the high rasp of whetstone on honed steel laced itself between the verses of his voice. Jovial and underhanded in equal measure, the dark-haired man was as archetypal of his profession as it got— the free spirit of a man whose vice had been leveraged into a trade, with it freedom. Loyalty to coin was quite fluid compared to that of blood, and István made no pretensions that he didn't consider it of equal value— but by the same token, each libran that had bought his services had been earned back double in bloodshed. That, any man could respect.

A fellow soldier from a martial lineage, all the more so.

As he passed, István raised one mug in greeting, a bassy rumble of hummed rhythm settling beneath that of the mercenary's lyrics.

"Any chance you've seen Earl Demet wandering off somewhere?"

He'd been hoping to intercept him, but found his tent barren. From the sound of it, the boy didn't intend to meet until the moment of briefing.

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.