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Description
Underneath his hard leather breastplate, underneath the padding, was a raw, purplish mass of bruised skin and muscle. He'd deal with the pain later. For now, he was enjoying being in Illeria's presence.

Illeria was the one with the practice knives. She was the one that was raking a dull blade across his battered ribcage. "Dead," she spat, poking him near his sternum. Her taps were growing more insistent as the lesson wore on. He could tell that she was angry he wasn't putting up much of a defense. But he couldn't help it; he was so busy stealing glances at the rest of her body, that he couldn't keep track of what she was doing with her hands.

Actually, that was giving himself too much credit. That was like saying if he could keep his eyes away from her bared midriff or her scandalously full chest, and just concentrate on fighting, he'd be able to stand his ground. Untrue. He was a hopeless fighter who was pitted against an apex predator.

This was not how the lessons began. They started very formally, rigidly. There was theory, followed by vastly slowed down practice of moves and counters. It was when she demonstrated those moves at full speed that he first saw Illeria truly come alive. She exulted in doing physical violence. She was good at it. There was a spark in her eyes that he found intoxicating. Now the sessions were brutal affairs where he played the part of the training dummy so he could warm himself by her furious fire.

"Dead again." She struck a jab in his belly hard enough to double him over. This lack of restraint typically heralded the end of the lesson. Her face was a mask of disgust. "Same time tomorrow, an hour before sun's zenith," she said, bowing slightly before walking towards the exit. He couldn't wait.

Description
Underneath his hard leather breastplate, underneath the padding, was a raw, purplish mass of bruised skin and muscle. He'd deal with the pain later. For now, he was enjoying being in Illeria's presence.

Illeria was the one with the practice knives. She was the one that was raking a dull blade across his battered ribcage. "Dead," she spat, poking him near his sternum. Her taps were growing more insistent as the lesson wore on. He could tell that she was angry he wasn't putting up much of a defense. But he couldn't help it; he was so busy stealing glances at the rest of her body, that he couldn't keep track of what she was doing with her hands.

Actually, that was giving himself too much credit. That was like saying if he could keep his eyes away from her bared midriff or her scandalously full chest, and just concentrate on fighting, he'd be able to stand his ground. Untrue. He was a hopeless fighter who was pitted against an apex predator.

This was not how the lessons began. They started very formally, rigidly. There was theory, followed by vastly slowed down practice of moves and counters. It was when she demonstrated those moves at full speed that he first saw Illeria truly come alive. She exulted in doing physical violence. She was good at it. There was a spark in her eyes that he found intoxicating. Now the sessions were brutal affairs where he played the part of the training dummy so he could warm himself by her furious fire.

"Dead again." She struck a jab in his belly hard enough to double him over. This lack of restraint typically heralded the end of the lesson. Her face was a mask of disgust. "Same time tomorrow, an hour before sun's zenith," she said, bowing slightly before walking towards the exit. He couldn't wait.