<div class="floatleft">(https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/87/7a/e2/877ae2a8cb4cf149a7531a31949cc154.jpg)</div><strong>Name</strong>: Mael<br/><strong>Location</strong>: Kaen Morhen - Outdoors<br/><strong>Tagging</strong>: Arlaine, Open<br/><strong>Wearing</strong>: Grey shirt, leather leggings<br/><hr/><hr/>As Arlaine raised her hand to strike him, Mael didn't flinch. In fact, he leaned in a bit, offering his chin out for her to strike. If she didn't use magic - Which he could feel she wasn't, through the lack of vibration through the Viper Witcher's medallion (a relic, but it still worked) which had been gifted to him a few years back - her lean frame wasn't likely to do much damage. In fact, if she struck him with a closed fist he would have been willing to bet that her hand would hurt more than his jaw. Stepped into the strike hadn't been his intention. Decades of training had formed into instinct. Sure, he wasn't the strongest of the witchers when it came to blows, but he prided himself in being able to take a punch. And for some reason, he didn't even think to step out of the way.<br/><br/>Fortunately for one of them - he wasn't sure which - her hand dropped back down to her side and his body, unconsciously tensed up, relaxed as he took in a deep breath. Her next words were... well, confusing, and his face showed it. Why wasn't he reacting? It was Lucrezia that had driven the point home for Mael as he had sat down, bottom lip and eyebrow cracked from a training bout with Conor that had gone too far. He had pushed it by powering what should have been a sparring-level elbow to Conor's jaw, but with enough strength to snap his brother's head back and send him stumbling a few steps. It had been unexpected, and Conor had returned it in kind, and three blows later, the much smaller Mael was on the ground, bleeding.<br/><br/>Lucrezia had scowled at the young witcher-to-be as he sat down, trying to force the tears out of his eyes.<br/><br/>"Why did you hit Conor, Mael?"<br/><br/>"We were fighting."<br/><br/>"You were sparring, there's a difference."<br/><br/>"What difference? It's not like..." He should have known better. Talking back to the witches in charge of their training was forbidden, and interrupting them was even more so. His face was snapped around, the right side stinging from the back-handed slap Lucrezia had hammered into him with the force of a person twice her size. The ring on her middle finger left a bloody imprint on his cheek. Mael roared and shot to his feet, on to be shoved back down by his neck by the magically strong witch.<br/><br/>"A witcher's emotions are not to be used at will, Mael. An Angry Witcher, as was shown almost a hundred years ago by the spiritual predecessor of this place, is a force to be reckoned with. Kings tremble, Emperors make fearful plans, sorcerers and sorceresses draw back when an angry witcher goes to war. And as such, emotions are not to be used lightly, or without great cause. You must learn that, or you will not survive your training. I really don't care which."<br/><br/>And years of implementing Lucrezia's words into his life had him confused at Arlaine's question. She kept on talking, and he nodded, managing a small, hopefully comforting smile as he took a step forward, placing a hefty, calloused hand on her shoulders.<br/><br/>"Having been with her this long, you would think I would be used to her antics by now," He said softly, trying to maintain the smile, and failing, letting it turn into a grimace," But no. It's like an icy dagger shoved into my chest every time. And... maybe she doesn't know that she's doing this, even though I doubt it, but it's who she is. Believe me, I want to... hurt her as well," What kind of hurting was left in doubt over that pause. He stopped talking and peered down into Arlaine's eyes.<br/><br/>"You need to calm down a bit? Okay?"