It was an easy match to sell, when the boy stole the wooden article from the air. Esfelt had noticed, and let go of the collar belonging to the next neck he was going to squeeze and submit. Sweat kept him cool despite the heat of his muscles, and he breathed slower when the stream of rough skin to bruise ebbed. Even with the promise of trying their arms against their commander, they'd rather stand and watch, next. Esfelt, who had already built a momentum, rolled a shoulder and darted closer to Shy.<br/><br/>He extended his arm, which cocked back the shoulder her blade thrust at. The result was a punch that almost hit her, and a successful avoidance of the wooden tip. Most of the things that happened to Esfelt was his choice when there was adrenaline moving in him. Shy wasn't traditionally taught, which made him harder to figure out, but a stab has to start somewhere before the hilt, and the energy could usually be intercepted our dodged with a timely reading. As the knight was feeling, he wouldn't mind pummeling the boy a little.<br/><br/>Esfelt saw it, because he wasn't blind. It added to the stressful chemicals in his veins. Such a handsome youth, drinking up the sun when it had poured most of its luster out on the day, already. He thought it was an insult, and that Shy shouldn't have use for such pretty as a soldier, but there it was, drawn on his skin and glowing in his eyes. It made the commander hesitate at first, and then not at all. He was heavier, but without a weapon. By any kind calculation that should put their speed at the same advantage.<br/><br/>There were matches for marking during more strict training, but this bout had not been that kind of educational since he first stepped on the sand. A tap from the wood could not be enough, so any superficial touches that would have been worth something with a real steel edge would be regarded as nothing without stopping power here. So Esfelt stepped lively, with the clarity of viciousness Selin had given him at steep price, and rushed toward his young costar in this farce.<br/><br/>It was easy to imagine beating her face to chicken food, when he could see himself bending her over and straightening her spine from the inside. His arm shot out, and its length took back some of the length Shy borrowed from the sword. It was a bid for the boy to avoid him, at cost of footing, so he could use his strength and barrel faster once the smaller body was in anyway airborne. Efelt had the intentions of rushing Shy then, tackling and embracing.<br/><br/>If Shy was the wiser, he'd catch the wood with his free hand, when the swing was at less than critical juncture - for fairness - and yank it out of the boy'd hold. If Shy held on, Esfelt would meet the careening body with his traveling fist, helped by the pull and Shy's forced advance.