Sun Mote Copse I've been swimming from the Wallace

What Fennec was putting down wasn't set lightly, as one might set holiday silver carefully upon folded, cloth napkins in preparation for a fancy meal. No, this was a teenager taking a hunting knife and jamming it down several inches into a wooden picnic table. Niamh picked up on what she was trying to infer, and something snapped. She felt it snap, and she felt her lips peel back, but she didn't growl. Instead she tilted her head to one side and then the other- both sides crackled loudly. 

"I think you could use a break from flower-picking, Fennec." Her tone insinuated that this wasn't a suggestion, but a thinly veiled command. She was also passive-aggressively belittling Fennec's chosen task. Whatever it was that was bothering her was hanging over her shoulders like a dark cloud and Niamh was going to try and deal with it the way she dealt with things best. "You seem tense. Y'know what fixes that? Sparring." She said. She slid one foot to the side to square her stance- pushing it right over the little sprig of spearmint she'd smelled moments ago, flattening it.