Moonspear cymylau

Good, good. The boy is doing better. He dodges the snapping of teeth adroitly, but Revui is getting closer. Llewellyn will not be able to avoid his onslaught, albeit a clumsy one, for long. He continues to dance on his toes, not making any offensive moves, waiting for the young mand to strike.

"Knock me over," he says imperiously, head thrust up, his stare down to the boy gimlet. "You can do it. Come on." He is tiring of the spar himself, though in a different way. His muscles feel bunched and sore from misuse. Like holding one's breath underwater. He has been holding himself back for several long minutes now, and it is exhausting.

Who knew holding back could be so exhausting?