This story needed more action.
The twin swords in his opponent’s hands did their level best to mesmerize Mark. It was almost hypnotic, the way they swayed easily first here, then there, then high, then low — and suddenly they snapped out of their pattern to slash. He might have stopped them, even then, except for the vicious stamp-kick that his foe somehow managed to painfully administer to Mark’s leg. The twin swords slammed into Mark’s gut, smashing him to the floor.
He was wearing armor there, naturally. And on his legs. And the ‘swords’ were padded wood, because this was a training bout, not a death-match. But Goddammit if that still didn’t hurt like the Devil.
Settling into Yig’s Domain had been surprisingly easy. He had plenty to eat, clothes to wear, and even a bed to sleep in. Everything was far cruder than he had been used to as the heir to Deseret, but Mark ruthlessly forced down even any hint of petulance or disdain that tried to bubble up. Self-pity was a decadent luxury, these days.
So was boredom, so when Yig had suggested a training program Mark had happily gone along. He had assumed that it was mostly would be about keeping his edge, for hadn’t he been given proper training? He soon learned of the depths of self-delusion to be found in that slightly arrogant assumption.
For example: fighting a collection of snakes in full plate (steel, and slightly dusty) armor was something that sounded easy enough to Mark, right up to the moment where he realized that the snakes were more or less enchanted to use that armor effectively. And that they didn’t fight fair. And that they had reflexes like, well, a snake’s.