HereComesTheSnow

Final Fantasy: Lightseekers

Rudolf Sagramore

"Oh, the big one on my back? Heh... Believe me. If I have to use that, we're all screwed."

---

GENERAL INFORMATION

Name: Rudolf Shilage Sagramore

Age: 19

Gender: Male

Race: Sollan

Origin: Edren

COMBAT INFORMATION

Class: Vagrant

Weapon: A Greatsword of clear quality and balance rests easily on Rudolf's back, but never sees use aside from nighttime drills and provision of a subject for frustrated grumbles under the breath. With some prying, he'll mopingly give up the ghost— for all its dreamlike handling in the grip of even a novice, no matter the power he or anyone else puts behind a swing, the metal is dead. Won't even cut twine. The pair of more standard, unremarkable swords on his hip do the real work, uncomfortable as it is.

Inventory:

• Armoring. Worn often on the road, in the twinned spirits of comfort moving around in what you plan to fight in and in never lacking protection from Nasty Surprises. The trip northward has seen a high mask and pointy, brimmed hat adorn Rudolf's pale face and locks, two parts protection from sun and sand and three parts "always liking a nice hat".
• Greatsword
• Longsword
• Shortsword
• Dagger
• Knife, Knife, Knife (for cooking)
• Oil, Whetstone, other such upkeep tools. Included among them are sheets of parchment and charcoal, ostensibly for drafting, oftentimes for sketching. He won't make a living off his portraits any time soon, but he's got a charming sense of expression and meticulously hatched shading.
• Adventuring Gear. Your standard backpack replete with rations, bedroll, canteen, and rope. Road boots, and heavy cloak the color of dried blood to throw over it all on a windy day.
• Casual wear. We all need something for the day-to-day.

Materia: Gravity, Shield

Limit Breaks:

• Svalinn : Inky mists coalesce before Rudolf's outstretched palm, a roiling mass of shadow and flame swirling, burning, driving towards a lone point in space— then blossoming outwards into a multi-layered shield of magic that blocks fire, blocks the arcane, blocks an oncoming avalanche, all without fail. Your one get out of jail free card.

PERSONAL INFORMATION

Appearance Details: As if at odds with the small arsenal strapped to his person, Rudolf is a fresh-faced and young man of short, wiry build. Scrawny, in his own words, barely cresting 5'8 with his grown-out mop of platinum blonde. His eyes are his mother's gold rather than his father's brown, but carry a similarly dimmed luster— though less stoicism in his case, and more wary insecurity. He carries himself accordingly, the clash of heavy-hammered military training and a meek demeanor evident if one looks closely.

Personality: At first blush, a confident and composed warrior, keen as any of the blades on his person and near as keen with his tongue. He'll speak clearly, hold eye contact, exude a sense of strength as well as any son of uplifted military can be taught— but scratch that surface, and time will tell you the truth of things. The boy's facade will waver, and inevitably chip to reveal the messier picture under the hood. Easily intimidated, awkward, prone to childish sensitivity, no amount of the remarkable strength packed into his slight frame seems to have quite gotten the message to his mind, still disappointing disowned middle child, still the runt of the litter. Once his guard is down around you, you'd be shocked he ever pulled the mask off in the first place.

But nobody exists with one facet.

Beneath this high-strung ball of defense mechanisms and weak points is, by all accounts, an affable, friendly, even driven young man. He's a people pleaser at heart, his upbringing leaving him with a hatred of feeling like he's let anyone down, desperately seeking to avoid it even if it gets him in a situation he hates every second of. He enjoys being helpful, rarely balks at hard work, and understands well the feeling of being abandoned to one's fate, something he refuses to be the cause of. It's part of why his sturdy soldier's veneer gained the polish it did— he's quite studious and was surrounded by fine teachers in the older men of his family, however harsh they were with him. He wishes with all his being to meet the expectations set for him by those he considers important— that same dented confidence a tireless engine to stop being the weakling he can't help but see himself as.

Provided he isn't double-checking his back for the next dark streak of luck that comes his way, his concentration and focus are admirable both in and out of battle. He inherited a desire to cut through to the structure of things he needs to understand, tracking process and tendency to find threads to pull and gaps to prod. His spartan upbringing left him with many of the classical Midgar-adjacent gaps in intuition, taking a while to read people as well as he reads combat and making a real mess of relationships that don't feel like brotherhood, but he never considers getting to know someone a waste of time— if anything, a rare privilege he had as a common villager compared to even the least of a knightly house.

Biography: Born second in a family of career soldiers uplifted to Knighthood just two generations before, Rudolf was always expected to follow in the footsteps of his forefathers in the Shilage creed— "All that is held by blood, shall too be earned by blood." Theirs was a history of consistently decorated service, like many from their ancestral home in Midgar, and though he was never expected to succeed his father István (shoes that the firstborn Otto already seemed to be gracefully filling), he was nonetheless trained from the moment he could walk in the many arts of war, administration, and culture. Their designs on climbing the ladder certainly had ample room for distinguished commanders, savvy political alliances, stalwart, fierce, and reputable knights. Inheritance was the king, but only a fool would neglect making use of the full board. For now, they and their little slice of paradise carved in the open plains between the Midgar Peaks and Chocobo Forest would act as crucible for the next generation, no matter their birthright.

Fate had, as it so often does, other plans for little Rudi.

In spite of his immersion in the most thorough developmental programs new money and a long history in the martial field could provide, Rudolf lagged behind as a warrior, even being outstripped in time by Imre, the youngest of them. For all his hard work and focus, for all his earnest desire to catch up and enjoy sparring with his brothers and peers, he seemed to plainly be bereft of the natural aptitude for soldiery that served them so well. Where they grew tall and strong, he remained scrawny, an eternal step behind. Taking after your mother, then? So be it. Double your training menu, boy.

Desperate and dutiful, his efforts did indeed redouble.

The passage of time brought little reprieve from a widening gap, both between he and his brothers as well as between he and his stern, brutal patriarch. On his best day an oppressive cliff face, Istvan's methods grew increasingly heavy-handed before, eventually, stopping altogether. The tireless mental machine that rose to prominence as leader of some of the finest expeditionary corps in the nation had reached his wits' end— and war was brewing upon their doorstep. Opportunity's clarion call was not left to hang in still air— as The Shilage Raiders departed for the North, a stalwart young Otto in tow, arrangements were made for Rudolf to be sent away, a smidge too young and a slab too roughshod to join the war effort.

A month of travel brough him west, onto the doorstep of one Earl Cadmon Demet outside Lunaris. A scholarly man that had kept his father on retainer in his youth, Cadmon knew well the customary trade of favors in play here— it having been Istvan himself that passed down the teachings of Edric Demet onto him, after the old lord's untimely passing left an unprepared teen to fill his shoes. Rudolf was summarily made squire, and spent the wartime years furthering his knowledge of both sword and pen beneath the watch of the old ruins. The Earl was a far gentler, kinder man than his father, even if he provided the boy with all the work he could handle— and that mentorship would soon prove an invaluable windfall.

He knew how to gauge his own progress. He had been watching it hawkishly for more than a decade. Even putting aside Imre's visits that unilaterally ended in a sound trouncing, he knew that as Osprey made its final stand high in the mountains, Istvan and Otto were soon to return home as part of the triumph, and he would be found yet wanting. Weak, too weak by half, and paralyzed by his weakness, he would wait for the moon to lift high into the night and stalk the perimeter of the Lunarian ruins, alone with these thoughts. By now a common sight here at the Earl's suggestion, for both study and sparring, few paid the young noble much heed.

Then the ruins began to call to him. Voices in the darkness, answering his unspoken prayers for strength, with a bargain— just a bit of luck, equal in measure to the power he lacked. They had watched him and heard him for years now, and believed their covenant a fair win for both parties. The question was, did he?

His return to the Shilage household, and reunion with father and brother, were short-lived in their joy. A burst of black flame erupting from his palm during a spar "for old times' sake" saw him swiftly thrown out like yesterday's trash, his only boon from the war effort an inscrutable, dull greatsword his furious father had poached from the hands of a rogue landsknecht— one that could cut nothing, no matter the skill of the wielder. Magic and a contract with the shadows themselves— a shame upon them twice over. He had no use for Rudolf any more, as he had, clearly, turned his back on the Mothercrystal's Light. He had not earned this strength through Blood.

With the dulled sword tossed to his feet before the heavy gates slammed shut, the message was as clear as the rain overhead— For your sins, you never will again.

He returned to Lord Demet, now as nothing else but wayward squire, and begged forgiveness, redemption, shelter at least. Seeing a desperate boy for what he was but needing a deft hand to maintain their familial ties, Cadmon instructed the former Shilage to take residence in the warrior settlement of Sagramore at the interior edge of his domain, where he had been sent to train from time to time among their many swordsmen and swordsmiths alike. They knew him chiefly as the Earl's understudy; provided he could lid those signs of the covenant, they would accept him readily as a familiar face. Perhaps they could turn their shared obsessions over to the puzzling sword as well, while Rudolf gathered the shattered remnants of his life back into a little pile.

He would remain there for five years, taking the village as surname and joining the Sagramori in leasing out services of monster-hunting (hating it every time) and armed escort for the many scholars that studied the ruins (hating it every time for different reasons), known for sometimes being swallowed by the labyrinth. When the Blight hit, he and they were among the frontliners in the sudden war against the newfound aggression of the savage beasts. Word of Leonhart's call to arms had made its way in short order to Earl Demet, who passed it on down to the village with a single word of advice for his miserable fool of a squire, once an honest, hopeful boy.

"Go."

Traits:

• Reliably unlucky. Will drop his coins down the grate. Will strike no truer than his ability. Will draw the short straw or have a ladder fall on his head.
• Believes that honor is "the refuge of the strong".
• Does not believe in his own strength.
• Nonetheless, faultlessly will be found presenting arms before a spar or duel. Gives both their proper respect, actually seems to enjoy them once they get going.
• Finds a meditative calm in the many rituals of upkeep. Feels similarly about the rhythm of crosshatching with his charcoal.
• Is a fair hand at preparing road food like stews and grilled meats. No gourmand, but not half bad for a castle boy.
• Has a fondness for eccentric hats. The swankier, the better.
• Can sketch a quite flattering portrait, provided you're okay with it.
• Inherited his father's taste for coffee. Prefers it with a splash of cream, and a pinch of cardamom.
• Mildly easy to talk into things. Incredibly easy to drag into them.
• Doing his best, alright? Be nice!

Relationships:

• House Shilage: Estranged. Outcast. It's as complicated as it is simple. His father's final message eclipsed even words, and was the first time he had seen true fury on the man's granite slab face. They aren't on speaking terms. His brothers stand head and shoulders above him in both men's standings. All involved share the wish that he could be a little more like them. He is the least of them, but he used to still be one of them.
• Earl Cadmon Demet: A savvy, understanding Uncle in all but blood. For a while, possibly the only friend in the world Rudi had— despite the taciturn message that foisted this quest onto his squire, Earl Demet maintains regular written correspondence, watching over the boy from afar, advice never far down the page.
• The village of Sagramore: Proud warriors that train their bodies to be strong, fast, and tough as any armor, they are singularly responsible for keeping him sane at his nadir, by providing a constant stream of training, jobs, and most of all, something like a home away from home. A place to be almost normal. He's not one of them, but he stands among them all the same.
• Lord Galahad Wildemont Caradoc of Midgar: It's a rare red-blooded young Edreni man, especially one with Midgar ancestry, who hasn't heard of the dragonslaying prodigy, the gallant veteran of the War in Osprey. In many ways Galahad's tales are every bit the inspiration that Otto was.
• Izayoi of the Wild Dance, The Limbtaker, The Emperor's Demon, Kaien's Revenge: Worst case scenario. Avoid at all costs. If she's in the area, leave the area. If you can't leave the area, stay out of sight. If you can't stay out of sight, don't make eye contact. If she demands you converse, play dumb and abuse the fact that you look a lot more like Mom than Dad. If you can't avoid a fight, cheat like a bastard. Call in the other end of the deal. Worry about people knowing about that later, while you still have a head that isn't paying for Dad's exploits.

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

He awoke, surrounded by a familiar thicket, neck still burning with an icy, phantom pain. The breath that had been caught in his throat was loosed in a ragged gasp— as though leaking out in frayed ends.

Gilded eyes narrowed, as he made to dust off his shoulders, expecting a spray of blood and finding nothing. Right. "Waking" may have perhaps been the wrong terminology, given what he was told. In the first place, the Stormcaller had no reason to lie of her creation.

This world was not a dream. Not exactly, no matter that it might have been very much like it.

Ahead of him, as advertised, the same cobblestone path they had trod down upon first arrival. Somewhat shockingly, he'd not had the occasion to revisit the start of it all— Where the Founders and other collected masters excelled in their lethality almost as a rule to be recorded within this world, they in equal measure excelled at controlling that prodigious ability. On some level, such was intuitive enough to be expected of anyone, like never really cracking an egg without meaning to no matter how big you got, but that game always changed when the egg flung itself at you full-force.

He drew his blade from the sheath, inspecting the edge for nicks. He had been flinging himself into bouts with many of the founders, doggedly chasing the mountain he'd been kicked down by Agrahn in the Knights' first meeting with those from beyond. His strength and speed still lagged far behind, but his eyes were getting better at tracking their movements. Incrementally, the body adjusted, the limits were pushed further out. With each loss, a lesson was learned.

Humble steel. In good condition now, but his aggression matched against the one-armed rabbit's skill poorly. He'd heard through the grapevine that Rui's singular dedication to mastery over swordsmanship allowed her to project her slashes beyond the edge of her blade. The sheer belief in the possibility of impossibility forcing it into truth, in so many words, more or less. He'd requested a few bouts and pointers, but both had seen slow going. He could work out the method, or at least a beginning of the framework, of that technique. Rolling wind up the blade's length as though painting the slash onto the canvas of the world was... working as a point of visualization. Far from pulling it off in any respect. Judging from the way the clashes had nicked his edge in their bouts, he had half a mind to wonder if his blade would even, really, hold up to the stress of whatever force he needed to put through it to get that going.

Certainly, his sword wasn't of the caliber to parry them when they were sent his way, not after it had already been tested by the strange, weighty and stiff cutlass on Rui's hip. It would be a good long while before he could replicate the feat, if botching it had parted mind from heart so cleanly.

In the solitude, he allowed himself a sigh of dismay. Incremental improvements wouldn't help them take a dragon down, not if they wanted to waste less than half their lives in here. Even as strength and speed improved, bit by bit, there was only so much ground they could cover when fighting at the weight class of a siege engine with wings. He was hunting a breakthrough, but stuck pressing his face against a wall.

Use your head.

Reon above, he'd been trying. Earnestly as anyone could ask of him, near as he could tell, but never to any avail. There was something missing here. Something he couldn't see. A weight on his ankle, shackling his perception to the narrow field of what he already knew.

Rather than continue down the path laid out for them, he instead pushed into the brush, stepping into the forest that, in a few respects, might have been his oldest teacher in the art of war. Here, beneath canopy, was where he had learned to step with care, to aim a bow, to discern the smell of blood. He was no woodsman by calling, not even truly matching Rolan... but the change in scenery felt welcome. Between excitable discussions with his peers, grilling the founding knights for every scrap of advice he could get his paws on, and the bustle of the old city, he'd not known quiet for a fair while, outside of sleep. As he continued to venture off the beaten path, descending further and further beneath the overhead cloak of green, his voice naturally began to turn, as it so often did, Inward.

The physical was improving. Of that, he could have no doubt. More slowly than he wanted, but the raw athleticism still inched forward. His body wasn't the issue, then. On that front, he was in lockstep with his peers by all accounts. That wasn't the root of this "blocked" sensation.

At some point, he sat onto his haunches, cross-legged beneath a dark point of shade. Roots of a felled tree.

If not body, then mind. Maybe it is the mind that imposes the limits. What the mind can't see, the mind can't rush the body into.

What held him back?

---

---

Quixote

Time passed.

This place was not a dream. It was something very much like it. He didn't know how much or how little it had been. Maybe three hour. Maybe three days. Other than the canteen of water at his hip, he had taken nothing into himself. The forest itself was unnaturally quiet— to him more like a cave. Sound and sight had left in even measure.

In this place, he was alone. Naught but his mind to accompany him. This being the mind's realm, as dreams were, maybe everything had fallen away. He could no longer see three feet in front of his nose. He, and this clump of earth beneath him, may have detached and floated into the inky void that the canopy had painted onto nighttime stars overhead.

Even in the fugue states he would drift into at Candaeln, lost in his own circular contemplations, spirals of rote nothingness, there was still sight, sound, touch, presence of others.

Here, him.

Only, him.

Always, him.

Perfect. He was what he needed to examine.

Break down.

Interrogate.

Find truth of.

Unstick the wheel.

He had spun so long, yet still felt the same ground beneath his tread. Why.

What shackles you? Others leap. You dig in.

Straining against great stone. Trying to move it half embedded. Dull. Dim. Unpolishable?

No. Dance. Serenity told you. May not be bright, but can think just fine.

Serenity.

Serenity Fionn Renar Sergio Nicomede Fleuri Fanilly Steffen Tyaethe.

They think otherwise. Not liars. Front half too frank. Back half too honest. That isn't a difference. Yet it is.

Back further. Quartermasters. Condottieri. Coworkers. Church offered squireship.

Further. Not what we're looking for. Past is something accepted. Got us here. Taught us much. Unlearning certain things. Deeper.

What is deeper than history?

What history carves into the soul?

Feels true. Problems don't come from things that happened since it's me alone that's here. I cannot train my history. What has it left me with?

Ahh, dammit. It's getting hot. Like I'm on fire. There's ice in my gut but fire in my throat. What is this?

Oh, right. The anger. That terrible anger that always takes me. How does it rise every time? Everyone feels fury at injustices. Why am I lost in it? Fionn's blood runs hotter, but his head's cooler. Sergio's a man of passion, but his eyes don't lose their light.

Sir Agrahn himself can lid his flames. I am unchecked like a campfire set too close to summer bush. They have something I don't.

What do they all have? I spend so much time watching.

...And there's no injustice to be had here. Am I angry at those alone? Impossible.

I am a man. I am not a paragon. I am not such perfection. None can ever be.

This rises from something else. I'm stung like a poison dart has hit my neck. Why?

How are we still here? It was supposed to be me keeping my mind that would unlock my growth. Sir Agrahn stands upon a pinnacle and has no need to lie in how I may get close. Knowing where my head is, what I can do, how I can fight best, surely that's the answer. Instead of running in like an untethered bull, I should be the cunning wolf.

He was a common soldier that rose to this prominence. I always wanted to do the same. Who he is and has been are abundantly clear, right?

Soldier. Mercenary. Farmer. Man. Knight. Who I am and who I have been should be just as much.

What am I, then?

...

...

...

Scared.

I think I'm scared.

I always call what propels me "courage". Courage is the overcoming of fear. No matter what, I'm fearful.

It's why I consistently talk through circles as the day goes on. Why I always eschew rest. Why I fight like I'm cornered, no matter the setting, no matter the foe. What am I cornered by, to become so insensate?

Fear is normal in battle. Not dying is something everyone wants.

But everyone will die. Have I not accepted that?

No, I have. I had to, or else war would have broken the boy I was. I throw my life on the line in a way nobody scared of simply dying should.

What, then?

Jeremiah. The Boars. You fought like you were wounded. What went through your mind?

Icantletthismankeeplivingafterwhathesdoneforthegoodofthepeopleofthalnvillagerslikemomanddadigottacutthismotherfuckersheadsmooveoffifidontwhatkindofknightamianywayreonwouldbeashamedhedeservestoburnbeneathherflamesjustlikeanyotherslaverihatepeoplewhorunamoklikethisicouldhavebecomeamercenarythatranoffthedeependifthingshadgonedifferenthuhdyinglikethiscouldhavebeenmemaybeitstillcouldsoigottakillhimfirstforthejusticeforthepeopleforherguidinglightformydreamkeepcaptainalivekeepfionnalivecan'tlosethemcanlosemehavetogettherekillthisbastardandweallgohomeandyouvetakenastepinvanquishingvillainybeneathabannerofgood

Reon alive, not that much at once.

But it's in there.

The demon is in there. Fear. The core of it.

Look to the core.

I'm not afraid of just dying. I've told myself I'm ready to die for the mission.

Renar's lust for power. Fleuri's overcoming the past. Fionn's mastery of the blade. Serenity, for so long at her age, election of Captaincy.

Am I ready to die for my dream, the way they are?

...

I should think so. I've wanted to be a knight since I first heard the tale of the Demonbreaker. Even though I knew it was never to be my birth's station. I still grabbed sticks and played at swordfighting, in woods so very like these.

...

...

And I hated when he told me we would never see the real thing with our own eyes. Such a small thing, but it did make me mad. I knew he was probably right. I think I wanted to prove him wrong this whole time, deep down.

And here I am, regarless. Clinging to that dream like he's still right there at my back, reminding me how impossible it is to reach for those of us so humble. How nobody, not even today's knights, could do what the Demonbreaker or Sword Saint or the Mighty Hammer did.

Have I not proven my ambition's worth following, on this one-in-a-million chance I got lucky enough to hit it big on? I'm here, humble-born and knight nonetheless. This isn't something I have to die to achieve.

I've already done this much. If I was going to fail, I'd have failed long ago.

We were kids. Not like he meant to shatter the ground beneath my feet. Kids are wrong about shit all the time.

I fear living to see myself fall short? What was everything before this, if not that? I still got here. I'm still breathing.

Everyone else here has something they're chasing with just as much fervor. Every fiber of their beings, centered on a goal. They'll make anything happen to get there. They've been here for so, so much longer. They haven't crumpled under the weight, or driven themselves mad. They just keep pushing forward. They know they'll get there. They just need enough time.

I've been acting like I have none, and it's in turn made me take the most.

Damned fool you are, Gerard.

Yes, yes. A knight is a symbol of hope and victory, that good triumphs over evil. You've died for that cause a dozen times over, if you rolled the dice just a bit different.

Try living for it. Impossible dreams are being chased all around you. You've been sent to a plane where you can speak to those who dared to be extraordinary to such extremes they are immortalized in legend. None of them threw themselves away to get there, like they didn't value anything they carried in their hearts.

Be selfish. Live on.

Quit trying to drag yourself along. Run forward to the you that's ahead. Allow yourself to stumble, you can just keep getting up until you get it right. You've proven this much.

Can you keep up with him?

---

---

His canteen was empty when he arrived at Candaeln next, raccoon-eyed but alive nonetheless. Coal-colored hair wild as ever, his bearing was haggard yet, somehow, sturdy as ever. The time away from food was impossible to avoid, but he'd marched through much worse. The eagle-eyed would note a whole lot of wear on leather grip of his sword— the ghost of a tight grasp, and thousands of swings. His voice was an uncomfortable rasp. Were he not as alert as ever, one would be easily forgiven for believing the man to have just awoken.

The path ahead was clear now. He had observed it in his vigil. Didn't really expect any surefire methodology for it from even the founders, it'd be an insane thing to ask anyone to teach, but he did have examples of what he needed to achieve, a preliminary to his grander design.

Don't call it that. Don't get a big head.

He knew how to think, but he wasn't terribly bright. He wasn't the quickest study by any measure. Casting aside a fear was only half of the equation, at least for somebody like him. He needed more time, even when freed from desperate fervor, when faced with the towering threats they'd run into. More time to rise to their ranks. Changing the way he fought would be slow already— he was far from out of the fire. Maybe he'd never fully leave it. He needed to ensure he could grit through it, instead of praying his luck didn't run out.

There was one such man here, infamous for bargaining from the Lamplighters all the time he needed to end up crushing Maglad's throat no matter what had hit him.

He'd always wanted to pick Cyrus's brain, anyway.

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@VitaVitaAR@Raineh Daze@Krayzikk@Octo@Psyker Landshark

In answer, Gerard roughly snorted, casting his hand high over the shoulder for Fanilly to see behind him.

"They aren't kidding, Captain. If your only recourse is blind luck and honest cards, this is how far you get. It isn't like there are many rules you could break and be punished for. That said,"

It would be obvious enough even to somebody unfamiliar with the specific workings of the game like her that this hand was much the same as those before— a trashfire. No shared suits, nothing that could reasonably forge a sequence, no face cards, an almost cosmically bad draw. He didn't have Renar's head for numbers, but over the rounds he'd been doing what he could to count— there had to be more than one deck in here. The look Parvan had shot Edwin a few hands back had sealed that much as far as you could before outright catching the man slipping his hand beneath the table.

He turned he cards out to face the assortment, waving them for a moment to keep the good Captain's attention as he made a show of folding, the backs of each on full display to her. Build a small kernel of association, context she could use to start working off of. "—I'd say you should sit in too. You won't learn the rules or get far unless you've got the devil's own mind for cheating, but if you keep your eyes open, you'll probably catch onto some of the tricks. That's a skill that'll help you for anything under the Sun."

The cards fluttered down to the table as he rose, offering her his seat and whatever pool of pastries he had shepherded through the crossfire of the high-rollers, insofar untouched.

"Take my seat for a hand or two, train the observation a little. I'll stretch my legs, grab one of those other decks lying around, and step back in proper in a few minutes, if it's all the same to everyone."

Beneath his genial suggestion, hidden with uncharacteristic grace, the young Reonite had reached the same conclusion as both his peers.

He was going to hunt down every distinct deck they'd found and marked in this place, scramble them thoroughly into one patchwork conglomerate of 52, and drown these two in more of their own bullshit than they could keep track of.

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@VitaVitaAR@Raineh Daze@Krayzikk@Octo@Psyker Landshark

Gerard remained quiet as the brief interplay passed through the tangent on his leftward flank, noting down the jockeying for position. Marked cards worked best in dealing hands, and it'd be the clearest determinant of which mark corresponded, the freshest in memory. Gretchen had clearly clued into the need to disrupt the order that the table had settled into prior if they wanted a toehold— magically or otherwise.

He pried the edges facing him upward from the table, stonily peering down on number and suit.

3 of diamonds. 8 of spades. 5 of hearts.

Wow, this hand's bullshit.

He blinked beneath his statuesque mask, and glanced over to the one facet of the table that seemed to be just as lucky as he, and produced a friendly smile the next time her eyes returned to the table as opposed to fuming over her cards.

"A little late in the day for it now, but I don't think we ever asked your name, ma'am." he owed the Hundi an apology on that front. "Sorry about that. I'm Gerard; you are?"

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@VitaVitaAR@Raineh Daze@Krayzikk@Octo@Psyker Landshark

Gerard bristled beneath the weight of one implication, but snorted away the second as he pulled along a chair from another table and wedged it between Gretchen and Renar's seats, thudding report of oak against ancient tile his cavalier retort to either shot across the bow.

"For shame. I spent so long winning my food on gambles..." His he spoke with a regretful sobriety that could only have been an affectation, possibly lifted from conversing through the many mock offenses one could have sullied Sirs Nicomede or Sergio with whenever they felt like planting a tongue in their cheek. Combined with the wolfish glint that seemed to never leave his gaze on mission...

Well, not everything in life fits like a glove.

"I had just kicked the addiction, too. Guess I'll have to share."

He knew his way around a card game, around dice, around many of the games of chance that kept idle minds and hands at bay in camp or on the road. It was nigh-impossible to escape in that life even before drinks began to flow— and sticking around long enough had taught him that his instincts to play an honest hand made him an easy mark.

As he settled into the seat and waited to be dealt in, he turned this fact over. An early bluff like that would keep things questionable for now, but even as he slipped behind an thoughtfully impassive mask (this one fitting better than any glove could), he already knew Renar at the very least wouldn't buy it for a second.

If he tried to win, he'd likely drown in a sea of feints, misdirections, and plain old outright cheating— he himself was the honest type, but had sharp and experienced eyes for things like card-counting, loaded sleeves, so on. He didn't fancy his chances at calling those present out and winning the inevitable slugfest, either, so their tricks would stand...

He glanced between the pair on either side of him.

He couldn't cheat well... but he could definitely be a known quantity.

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@VitaVitaAR@Raineh Daze@Krayzikk@Octo

Somewhere in the realm of the second scolding starting up, Gerard’s response was to loose a breath as he continued his “ornery cat” treatment, setting Gertrude down with little in the way of fanfare. True to metaphor, her feet caught her well enough, leaving the knight to eye her warily as Renar swooped in to say his own piece, the pair of them in lockstep before he knew it.

“We’ll have to take what we can get.” he intoned ruefully to Sir Nicomede a moment later, Fionn’s veiled threat ringing in his mind more than it seemed to in hers. “She’s a stubborn one. More like me than different, there. We rural folk don’t change our minds easy.”

The spark of recognition had been mutual between them, though he'd spent longer tempering his expectations. His prior life had seen his ability to read body language, the subtle postural and gestural differences between people, honed to a razor's edge to account for every important person keeping their face behind a blank slate of blackened leather. Gertrude, whether she intended to or otherwise, couldn't hide the way she carried herself.

"By your leave, Ma'am." he then said to Fanilly, inclining his head and electing to ignore the flush of her cheeks. Pretty a girl she may have been, but he was quietly thankful that this hadn't gotten too distracting for their commanding officer. In this world, that would have been a hell of a weak point that enemies could potentially exploit... In any event, such would be why Captains had lieutenants, and other advisors. For now,

He turned those same analytical eyes to the mirror image in front of him, no doubt a twin save for perhaps her muted personality. Looking her up and down for a moment, the poor girl turned in a sorrier sight than her lively sister. Weak at the knees, leaning on the broom, barely caring to muster her retort beyond a caution that may well apply to all present...

"Right, let's get going. You look like you need food more than anyone. Lean on us if you need to."

In earnest, Gerard set off, leading the two blondes and whomever elected to tail them down a familiar path, towards blessed sustenance. While on his own he would have stomped through at a concerted march, possibly breaking into a jog, he kept things to an easy amble to account for Gretchen's fatigue.

They came upon the kitchens in short order, the exterior mess sparsely populated at the moment save for a unremarkable figures, one emerald-haired and dress-clad Hundi... and a pair of unmistakable figures, each carrying the same fidelity as Agrahn had in Gerard's prior dream. His eyes narrowed, pensive, as they drew upon them in their approach. One of these was an honored founder, whose legend was unassailable as it was an ongoing inspiration.

The other...

"Sir Edwin. Sir Parvan. It's an honor to meet you both." he said, certain to address them at the very least. If Sir Cyrus was here in this dream as he was in his prime... then Gerard had to imagine that this would be the maligned half of the brothers (at the very least in all but name, Gerard had always heard it told as them sharing blood) before he had turned upon the Order. If he were still worthy of being within this dream, then he was doubtless still worthy of, at very least, this much respect.

Ideally, he'd get the pleasantries out of the way quickly. Gretchen looked like she needed beef and barley the way most people needed air in their lungs every couple of seconds, and while he had plenty of questions from his childhood days bubbling beneath the surface, he had a job to get done first. As he understood it, the Founders were expecting them anyway— they'd be there when provisions were set.

This smelled all wrong, personally. If this was to train them when they had such legendary figures as even mere assistance... they needed everyone at the top of their games before tackling the city.

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@VitaVitaAR@Raineh Daze@The Otter@Octo

"Real piece of work we've picked up here, huh?" a familiar voice noted from somewhere behind the ornery blonde, conscious in its flatness of tone, clipped in delivery. Fionn was already building up a head of steam similar to the one he'd gotten for Clarice not far away, openly asking Cyrus for "insight" dealing with Gertrude's disrespect— Gerard knew his friend well enough to see through the veil. It was closer to asking for permission than anything else.

He wasn't too happy with her attitude this whole time either, far from it, but seeing her throwing Fionn and the Captain off their games a step removed gave him ample room to cool things before they boiled over on the interior, summoning the image of annoying bastards past. He wasn't going to turn furor over onto a spoiled brat, not yet, but he needed to kill the situation quick. She had a point, in spite of her bile— maybe she was part of the test. Working as a cohesive unit meant keeping lines of command clear and unmuddied, unquestioned. If they got stuck on this issue, they'd be bogged down and waste time. On the field, that was trampling. Death. They needed to reestablish direction. Get wheels spinning again.

"I take it if we've got a stocked library here for Sir Rolan to dig through, we've got fully stocked kitchens as well, Sir Cyrus?" he called to the larger knight, as conversationally as he could beneath his reverence for a central figure of his childhood legends.

A steady, insistent tug at the scruff of her collar pulled the taller blonde up and away from the impromptu staredown like she was an ornery cat. Not enough to start garroting her with her frilly getup, that'd take a different, sharper kind of pressure, but enough to more or less force the issue.

"Because Gertrude's bringing up a fair concern here, Captain, even if she's a gadfly about it—" he spoke again, golden eyes catching the smaller knight's as he held his face in neutral cast. She was likely getting a decent read upon him by now, after they'd shared the battlefield and their talks— enough to tell that he was keeping a fair amount under a tight lid in his own right. He glanced over to the "maid" before continuing, throwing a thumb over his opposite shoulder. "If she's getting hungry, it stands to reason the rest of us would as well. Armies march on their stomachs— and we still don't know what exactly we'll be getting into as we head through the city. We might be here a while."

He hadn't really paid it much mind when she sharply shrugged off his assistance at the start. Better he just bear with a little more vitriol by taking her ire off the people that needed their heads focused correctly.

The part of him that still tried to be generous found itself noting that this was probably damn stressful, to be totally fair...

"Unless we hear otherwise about how this all works, I think going source some rations makes sense, Ma'am. We may need the strength. Can get these two some grub while I'm at it. Your call."

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@VitaVitaAR@Raineh Daze@The Otter@Octo

"Try not to let her get too hurt before you’ve wrapped up your current problem~”

A puff of air escaped Gerard's nose, and with it about a dozen unspoken sentences, none of which would serve to help the knights' case or garner any enlightenment from Knight-Witch Merilia, their honored "examiner". A Witch was a being of immense arcane power, the woman herself clearly of certain capricious character, the state of dreaming famously vulnerable to all sorts of hexes and curses, and most importantly— his way with words was almost certainly going to cause more harm than help, at least right now.

That moment they'd returned to the plateau as an ensemble, he'd instantly tensed his bearing for battle, more or less expecting the collective to be worth starting with those Talderian Auxilia, or something to that effect. Maybe another of the founders. Even as they began to descend through the ring of clouds, leaving behind the scenery that had seen him trade a limp headbutt for Sir Agrahn's fist through his abdomen, he was still a little on-edge.

Instead, he simply spared a glance towards Sir Fleuri within the twenty-something throng of Knights that had been selected for these latest trials within the realm that layered above the waking world— seemed their previous conversation had indeed touched upon the truth of the prior affair. There wasn't any way the first dream could have ever been coincidence, coming right after they'd faced down the shadow of the Demonbreaker. It was benchmarking for the threats to come.

The first of many, by the sounds of it. Guess Paladin Tyaethe really insisted— or I really don't understand the scope of Dame Merilia's abilities.

A gleaming mass of spires in all white from afar as their plateau floated down burst forth from the rolling fields of green like a great crystal, each point a tower that he could tell, even from here, dwarfed the Spikes in the waking world. The city was colossal beyond his experience in four countries and counting—

And as far as I could tell, creating this place or projecting it or taking us here— whatever she did hardly broke her a sweat. he noted, sideyeing the way they'd come over his shoulder for a moment as he stepped forth. Witches are scary.

But enough on that. by the same token, there was no choice but to work with the situation they'd gotten. Close to him, seemingly haphazardly tossed into their ranks, one of a pair of unfamiliar maids was nursing a broomhandle to the dome after an unceremonious landing. Twins, Blonde with a splash of a few other colors... yeah, these weren't anybody that had been working a post in Candaeln as far as he knew.

"Sorry you and your sister got dragged into this with us. You alright?"

They had a set of true-blue outsiders on their hands. Best keep them taken care of— at least until more facts than "this is one of my little sister's apprentices" came to light. Why a maid would be a mage or vice-versa, he couldn't say, but...

"We... we need to get moving."

"Right. Name's Gerard. We'd best keep you both in the middle." He spoke quickly, his offered hand suddenly a grip and a pull around the crook of the elbow, hoisting the nearer girl to her feet as some order and direction returned once the Captain had taken the reins anew. At this point, he knew well enough it was impolite to cut her off before there was a word to get in edgewise, but the situation wasn't one they could really dawdle in. Once it was clear that the pair were good to go, the wolfish knight fell back into "rank" with his peers, quietly scanning the southern flank as they walked.

He didn't know what to think of Candaeln's gate, impossible to miss as it was, being entombed within a great wall— but he definitely knew that it was only his violent, visceral encounter with Agrahn that tempered his awe as the knights were met with a man that could only be The Hammer. Everything about him larger than life, Gerard was fairly certain he felt that first boom of laughter hit his chest as Fionn struck up conversation.

He's got both arms. Whatever image of him we're talking to's probably the man in his prime— definitely before his death, at the very least.

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

&

Fleuri Jodeau

A lily, still kissed by morning dew and first rays of gentle gold, was plucked from the garden with a farmer’s care— truthfully so, not as coy language for the ripping away one reserved for unwanted weeds. He had selected it, after brief perusal, for the least damage to the rest of the growth, cut the stem cleanly with the knife ever-present on his belt, even in peacetime, even at leisure. In his heart, he knew she would forgive this— Lady Reon was a guiding hand just as she was a fierce justiciar. All the passion in her heart that burned into fury for the sake of the enslaved, for seeing their torment avenged was too shared in gentle warmth among the grains, the flowers, the men of the land that tended them, coaxing out their potential and bounty. It was said love had many faces. As the one who looked upon all the world in the wakeful hours, hers was doubtless even-handed whether a man served her in taking life or giving it— having walked both paths, Gerard knew it must have been so.

Often he saved the visits for later in the morning, preferring to spend the first glimmers of sun at a half-marathon beneath the pearlescent golds and greens. Lapping Candaeln, usually, at a steady pace well below those maximal bursting sprints the evening often saw. Drinking in the distance, building his wells of long term stamina. For the march, for the ride, for the melee. What it lacked in the specificity that made every technique more efficient over time, it regained in the broad strokes. Additionally, for a man who lived in his own head so often that even his peers took note, the morning runs served well as meditation— to get thoughts in order before the day presented him with questions anew.

With his good arm, he pressed into the doors of the garden shrine, a small but nevertheless artful building of arch and spire— his was a poor head for appreciation of beauty as far as he was aware, but the glow of dawn was caught within the stained glass murals of twinned lilies and roses, the tiered gardens were opening with the light into vibrant bloom, and the eternal flame and sacred pool were pristine and deep as always. It would be harder to find it dull. He entered thus with his head bowed, and his stride light. He had strict orders, at least for today, to find better things to do with his time while the body rested.

Two, three, four… within a handful of steps he was before the silent tongues of red-flecked gold, a fragment of the same mother blaze that Her Paladins drenched their weaponry, in some respects their very souls, within. In sharing that root, this fire was every bit as sacred, every bit as connected. There could be then no better conduit for those that wished to be heard.

He cast the lily into the flame, bandages on the arm drinking the warmth, and dropped quietly to a knee with hands clasped. Habitually, he would mutter his daily prayers in undertone, tending to have slotted into a moment of solitude within the shrine more often than not. Here, he held his tongue— Perhaps his switch in schedule had lined him up with another by coincidence.

Perhaps it was Her Providence that brought two of her adherents here together at First Light.

Sleep had not come easily to Fleuri last night. Ever since yesterday, the knight had found himself afflicted by unease. The gravity of this situation with the shard, it was not something he had ever expected to face. At the time of his knighting, he had been certain that Cazt's rebellion would be the most dire and history-worthy event that he'd have a chance to be involved in, that he would never live to see and participate in anything of such high stakes for Thaln. Back then, he deeply lamented that he had missed out on the glory of fighting and defeating Anzel's traitorous forces, and was utterly convinced that he would not live to participate in anything comparable. Suffice to say, those beliefs and predictions were very, very wrong.

This was worse than Cazt's rebellion. Usurpers could be fought by steel and courage, and even if they could not be defeated by sword and spell, they would inevitably succumb to the passage of time. But the shard of Angroron was a threat and a foe that could not be defeated by worldly might. Even the greatest of the elves was only able to delay this threat, and it was only by the intervention of both Reon and Mayon that it was ultimately defeated. This might not be the entire weapon, but even this mere shard had proven to be capable of terrible destruction in the wrong hands.

This was beyond the ability of swords and axes to handle. They would need the goddesses.

Fleuri's morning had been spent speaking to the blacksmith about the prospect of some new gear. A new sword with a durability enchantment- and some improved armor. It'd cost him, for sure, but with such a terrible metaphysical threat on the horizon, now was not the time to hold anything back. Whatever Fleuri could still afford, whatever wealth and resources he possessed needed to go towards preparing for whatever was to come.

At the current moment, he was heading to the shrine with a hand full of lilies to pray to Reon. He needed some time to focus on spiritual matters. Ordinarily he would have come earlier in the morning, but the blacksmith matter had delayed him.

However, it appeared there was already someone here- Gerard the former mercenary. Fleuri knew of Gerard's devotion to the Sun Goddess, but had never spoken to him at length about it. In fact, he so far had rather limited interaction with the commoner-born knights, aside from Renar, whom he did not like interacting with.

But this knight was most certainly not Renar.

"Good morning, Sir Gerard," he addressed the knight as he slowly strode into the shrine. "It appears I am not the only one come to pray to Reon this morning."

“Good Morning, Sir Fleuri,” he replied, tone still a little hushed as he pulled it forth from the depths of quietened prayer. A standard greeting in any other parlance or setting, but here in shared reverence of the Goddess of Sunlight, it felt like it took new gravitas, blessings upon Her faithful. Meeting the other man with an inclination deeper from his bowed head for a moment, it wasn’t long before Gerard’s gaze slipped back towards the red flecks in the gold.

“For what it’s worth, I’d say you rarely are— we just tend to miss eachother.” he explained, breaking the clasp in his hands momentarily to display the network of cloth covering his forearm. “I tend to spend the initial hour or so of first light training my stamina. I’d guess that usually puts me in here a bit after you, but as you can see…”

A smirk, light on humor, as he stared into the flame, burning gold caught in his amber eyes. It was clear that sitting on his haunches when he was so entrenched in the routine being discussed wasn’t a comfortable position to be in, nor one he was terribly fond of.

“I’ve had some pretty harsh orders not to push myself, so I’m a bit earlier than usual for the morning conversation. I’m sure she won’t mind the switch.”

As far as Knights of the Order went, Fleuri had always ranked high in Gerard’s mind on examples to take note of, their backgrounds every bit as similar as they were different. On the surface alone, there was plenty to pick at between those two extremes… but little of it worthy compared to exchanging words with the man.

Somehow, he’d found scarce little time to do so, in more than just passing pleasantries.

“You seem much less the disorganized type than that, though. Am I wrong?”

"I'm not exactly on my normal schedule either," Fleuri replied. "Not with this shard matter suddenly rising to the surface."

It wasn't so much a physical difficulty to maintain a schedule- after all, the knights still had their castle, and had the freedom to choose how their mornings were being spent. Nonetheless, it felt to Fleuri like the world had been turned upside down, and the full effects of the proverbial inversion had yet to be felt. Perhaps it was foolish to make the assumption that his knighthood would be served in a peaceful era of rebuilding, but he had never expected something like this would come up.

"I never anticipated that we'd ever be facing a threat anything like a shard of Angroron. I too would normally come to the shrine earlier, but with what changed between now and a few days ago, I've found myself needing to attend to other matters."

In addition to the possibility of obtaining better equipment for the times to come, Fleuri would also be spending time today sending letters out. His family needed to be informed of the danger present in Thaln, and Fleuri also wanted to give some old friends and rivals from his tournament days some assurance that he made the right decision joining the Iron Roses. He wondered if Gerard had any similar business of his own.

"But no matter the worldly matter to address, we must find time to commune with the goddesses. After all, it was they who granted the power that shattered Angroron and saved the world the last time."

Gerard blinked, realizing he’d either been misinterpreted or much more likely made an incorrect assumption regarding the regiment his compatriot’s daily goings-on followed, and decided quickly to shelve the matter rather than let it start bogging things down. Such would be impertinent in the midst of communion with their shared Goddess, probably—

But as a more direct concern, talking in circles would be to give voice to those very same thoughts that had so often taken his focus from the world around him in these quieter moments, pulled him away from direct action towards the lofty goal of true knighthood.

“True,” he breathed. “Their blessings come in every form. Often I’m here to ask for simple clarity in their light— fruitful purpose to the labor that awaits as well as the labor I’ve already done.”

A holdover from his days in the fields. The village of Shilage had always held Lady Reon in high regard, making their daily vows to her as the Crop-Raiser moreso than the Scales and Spear of Justice. That he had invoked her as Breaker of Chains on that fateful day…

Their will worked in strange ways with fate, but he could not doubt they tugged upon the threads. His faith had kept him from the brink. What else could he do, but stay the course?

“It goes without saying that their wishes regarding the shards don’t need a lot of guesswork, though— Shattering the thing the first time is plenty clear. I’m dumb, but I’m not that stupid.”

That said.

His gaze slid over again, to regard the other man— He had said the words in passing, but…

“I was raised on stories like that one, like Elionne’s, like that of the Witch-Queen. Only the most fanciful of the legends make it as far out as the border villages, maybe. But… What did you expect, coming in?”

He had an ancestor that had sworn into their Ranks, Gerard knew that much— had Armand not left his family any such tales?

"Surprisingly, not much," Fleuri answered. "I figured that with the War of the Red Flag over, the kingdom would be entering an era of peace and consequently, the Iron Roses' duties would be mostly peacekeeping. Stamping out banditry and rogue mages, dealing with occasional orc incursions, and maybe the odd Cazt holdout. It's actually the reason I didn't join the Roses earlier, because at the time all I was thinking about was glory and believed there was none to be had with them at this time."

Fleuri leaned against a wall, as he mused about his past.

"We definitely did have stories of the Roses among our house," he continued. "Armand Jodeau is probably the most notable, but my grandparents were both Roses. When I was young, they'd regale me tales of those days, of their deeds and adventures. As a child, their stories made me want to join the Roses, but as I got older and more foolish, I became fixated on how unsung their tales were outside of their tellings."
The knight paused, appearing somewhat saddened and regretful. The last time he had attempted to speak of his regrets in his past, all it succeeded in doing was making Renar hate him even more. But Gerard seemed a more understanding sort, despite his association with that un-knightly knave.

"Suffice to say, I was wrong about the lack of threats this era would face, and I was wrong about the importance of being remembered in the troubadour ' tales. I only hope that what I gained from my foolish years- the experience, the money, and such- will be able to do some good in the coming days."

“Well, we’ve all got our paths, I guess. I’d be remiss to claim mine any less foolish or naive.”

Through the retelling, Gerard’s expression had remained in neutral cast, quietly taking things in, as was his habit— Fleuri was right not to expect the snap judgements their peers might have offered. He’d been seeking perspective, after all, and over the years had learned it best taken in its full breadth before speaking. Inference from half-formed thoughts had a way of leading him astray.

If I learn to fight with these soldiers, I’ll be able to cut down more evils than I ever could without. A sword against the wicked, like any good man is.

Earning money and serving Reon hand in hand… that’s basically halfway to knighthood already. Nobility means money, doesn’t it? If I save enough, build enough, that opens doors even to commonfolk like me.

Sir Agrahn was a common soldier too. If I walk his path with all my being… maybe I’ll be accepted into similar company.

Words passed through him, echoes of such empty-headed days. He shoved them down. The past was the past… If he had as much intention of growing past it as he claimed, it by all rights needed to be kept there. He couldn’t change it— what could be changed was himself.

“I feel pretty similar about my past life. So far, I think the time at war’s kept me alive, if nothing else. Training’s training, no matter your motive for it, no matter what in life granted it to you— So better we’re here late than never, no? Better we had our time in the trenches, making mistakes?”

He’d been telling himself these things for a while, when grappling with the winding path his life as a warrior had taken. He wondered how that stacked up against Sir Fleuri’s views, as a man who had all the potential and ability and standing he may have needed at any one time, once of eligible age. Would he see it the same way, as someone who seemed to believe his choice was the only thing that had stood in his way?

For Gerard…

“If I had to talk personally, it’s the hard lessons that stick the best when you learn them. Maybe it’s because I’ve a thick head, but I can’t say it’s all for nothing. You didn’t keep hounding the tournament ring forever, right? At some point, you realized you’d found your mettle wanting. You knew you had to change and did it.”

There was a steel in his words, beneath his usual deference and respect for those that, in his mind, were further along the road he walked towards that ideal he held dear. Conviction that there must be some truth here.

If there wasn’t, where the hell would it leave him?

“I’m not a mercenary any more… but I was for six years. Everyone seems to appreciate that I’m here in spite of that, having come into knighthood off a one in a million chance. So are you still a fool, Sir Fleuri? Or are you here in spite of what you used to be?”

"I can't say for sure I'm not a fool," Fleuri replied, "But I want to think I'm less of a fool than I used to be. And every morning, I intend to be even less of a fool than I was the previous day."

Just the last few missions felt like they had imparted some very meaningful lessons. And that was before Merilia's dream and everything that had happened since.

"You're right about the hard lessons, he continued. "Whatever our paths may have been, they've led us here, and helped us to become what we are today."

And for what it was worth, his time wasn't entirely wasted. He gained money, some influence and fame, and plenty of combat experience- even if it was merely in a regulated, non-lethal setting. What mattered now was putting what he had gained to good use serving the crown and the goddesses.

"So, now that we're here, what do you think of it, Sir Gerard? What do you think of finding ourselves at the very forefront of what could potentially be the crisis of a century for Thaln?"

Even and balanced wisdom, in spite of his regrets.

Gerard nodded, seeming satisfied enough with the response for a moment.

“Me? Much as I hate the idea of my mind turning to blind rage the moment I start actually learning to use my head again…” he chuffed for a moment, seemingly content to keep the dry humor of professions past around a while longer. “It’s daunting, but it’s our duty. Each one of us is bound by Oath to stand against such evils as this, with all our courage. These artifacts are so accursed they tear up whole countrysides, as the legends go— if they’re being disturbed, collected, our goddesses forbid put back together? We have to act. We don’t deserve to bear the name of the Saint’s Order if we don’t.”

His eyes narrowed.

“I’ve been ready to put my life on the line for ages. I won’t say it’s not a frightful position we’re in, but at the same time, I am thankful to have a noble fight to take up my sword for.”

"I know what you mean about how daunting and dire this situation feels," Fleuri confided. "I'd consider this potentially worse of a threat than Anzel Cazt and all his traitorous forces were. But as you said, it's our duty to face this threat, just as Elionne and her knights faced down the Vos Korvungand, the dragon Volkstraad, and a traitor within their own ranks."

That last one sent a chill down Fleuri's spine. Could it potentially happen again, he wondered. Was there any way they could have seen Edwin's betrayal coming, and if history repeated itself, would the current knights be able to see it coming? He thought of asking Tyaethe, but he was hesitant to dig up what may be a painful memory for her.

"I only hope that we can prepare for it. That dream that we were sent was a sobering wake-up call for me to focus more on becoming a better fighter. I'd say that it was fortunate timing that the dream came when it did, but I don't think it was a coincidence at all."

“It wasn’t.”

He spoke with a surety that wasn’t quite authoritative, but rather stemming from a mind that had found a fitting way around everything thrown at it. He didn’t have the facts. He wasn’t really going to, as far as any reasonable expectation guided him. What he did have was a pretty good guess.

“Not if we all had it. Not if each of us had it tailor-made— Nico and Fionn faced aspects of Sir Florian. Serenity, Dame Sescille.” He skipped mentioning Renar after a moment’s consideration. The consistent tension between them, in his mind, was their business. If he wasn’t going to try and play peacemaker between them… He would at least not say anything that might further stoke things. “Myself against Sir Agrahn. Shared visions are rare enough on their own— but to give each of us the image of the Founders in life?”

For what must have been the hundredth time, for what felt like the thousandth, his mind’s eye flashed back to the shadow looming over him, raising his blades high with not even his infamous Berserker’s Rage, but instead, cold, tight, overwhelming force. Anger held in check by purity of purpose. Never sacrificing clarity for crushing power. Eyes that burned like furnaces, never wildfires.

Everything that he needed to become.

“I know little of Witches, but I know Dame Merilia’s been around as long as the Order has at least. She’s been keeping an eye on things for all that time. When she was watching us all from up there, she was making sure we knew how far we have left to go.”

"Aye," Fleuri agreed. "We have a long way to go, that much is clear. But I believe that we can get there, one step at a time."

“We will.”

His gaze lingered on the flame as he rose, as though his utterance were a vow to the Goddess on her burning chariot high above rather than an affirmation of Sir Fleuri’s. For a moment, stillness took him, posture rigid and expression flinty, stoic, serious.

And then… the corners of his mouth quirked upward, just so, as he turned.

“Until then, Sir Fleuri—”

A hand, free of the nursing wing’s mummification and callused by nigh on two decades of hard, fruitful labors, fell onto the senior knight’s shoulder. It carried with it camaraderie, brotherhood. Trust, even.

“I’ll keep following your lead.”

Faith was more than devotion to the Divine. It was also found, perhaps even stronger, in confidence in those around you.

“Let’s make it a Good Day.”

@Crimson Paladin

Blades of Iron Roses: An Anime-Inspired Knight RP

Gerard Segremors

@VitaVitaAR@The Otter@Conscripts

Gerard caught the expression, offering Fionn a slight, barely perceptible shrug as response— communication that was a signal horn between Faceless, but for normal, better adjusted people? It did everyone involved the favor of expressing "hey, I don't really get it either" with some subtlety. It'd be enough for the attentive. He turned his head to the Captain, throwing her a nod to affirm.

"Yeah, I wouldn't want to waste your time. Especially now that you're working a lead on the important stuff."