fandomhigh | Campsite Gym, Wednesday night

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Campsite Gym, Wednesday night

Tyler? Pedaling about as fast as the exercise bike will go. It's training, yo.

And every few minutes, he looks to see if anyone is about to join him.

He's not sure how he wants the sparring match to turn out, although not beating English Peter into a coma would be a good step for him.

[OOC: Open to all. Also, this should be in

fandomhighdorms, but I messed up. My apologies.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Peter misjudged the speed of Tyler's punch enough that it plowed into his shoulder with almost full force. He jumped backwards, rotating the shoulder a bit to check its movement.

Bouncing on the balls of his feet, he waited for half a beat, then moved to Tyler's right, sending a hard jab straight towards his sternum.

"Ow," Tyler muttered as the blow connected, then gritted his teeth and bounced a bit on the balls of his feet.

His next blow was a roundhouse, aimed squarely at Peter's nose. Peter's perfect nose.

It didn't take very much for Peter to dodge the blow to his face. Because it was a fist. Coming at his face.

He smoothly moved to the right and threw a quick jab-cross towards Tyler's chest.

Tyler managed to didge that one.

And realized Peter was better than he was.

Oops.

Moving as fast as he could, he spun a roundhouse kick at Peter's stomach, hoping to surprise him.

The kick definitely surprised Peter who didn't generally expect feet to be in play. He gave a hearty "oomph" when it landed and stumbled back a step.

With a quick two steps, he was close enough to Tyler to prevent another kick right away. Peter threw a hard cross towards the spot where Tyler's shoulder and chest met and an uppercut towards the sternum.

The blows connected, again, and Tyler paused for a moment to catch his breath

When he looked back up, he moved much closer to Peter with two quick steps and shoved at him with both palms. "You think you're good," he rasped, and there was something very hard in his eyes.

A bit confused at the statement, Peter replied "not particularly, no." He took a step or two back to allow Tyler to call out if he wished.

Tyler grimaced.

And launched himself at Peter, trying to bear-hug him and tackle him to the mat in one rapind movement.

Peter's brain took a second too long to register Tyler's intention. He hit the mat hard and had his breath knocked out of him.

Kneeling over Peter, Tyler aimed quick hard jabs at his tomah and chest. Rat-a-tat.

The continued blows shocked Peter who'd again been expecting a more civilized mode of combat. He blocked several of Tyler's blows before thrusting his hips and lower abdomen up and to the right to try to throw Tyler off him.

Tyler tumbled off, but stayed on his knees, rough fists aiming blows at Peter's chest.

Peter felt his temper running out of control at the complete disregard for any rules of combat. "Time!" he shouted, slapping the ground with his hand. Standing up carefully, he stood over Tyler. "Just what do you think you're doing?" he asked in the voice of the High King.

"Fighting," Tyler said, still crouching, still with wild eyes. "Thought you were doing the same thing."

His hand went to his torso, where he could feel blossoming bruises.

"No, we were sparring. The point of which is not to destroy your opponent but to practice moves to be used in combat." Peter flexed his hands which were definitely beginning to hurt. Cursing his lack of sense in leaving off gloves, he continued, "why the bloody hell were you trying to kick my ass."

"How can you know yourself if you don't go to the limits?" Tyler said. "Sorry for not fighting nice enough."

he sprang to his feet. "Call this a draw."

"Please," Peter said derisively. "A man finds himself through real combat. Not playing in a sparring ring. You want real combat next time, tell me."

Tyler ran a hand through his hair and grabbed for his shirt, jerking it over his head. "Whatever. Reading about combat doesn't make you an expert, you know."

"You're right," Peter said in a cold voice. "Which is why I haven't just read about it. I'm a knight. It's not just a pretty shield. I've fought battles and led men. I've lost men too, but I've never betrayed them. So come back to me and laugh at me for 'fighting nice' in the arena when you've done the same."

Tyler startled visibly at what had been said, especially the bit about betraying his men. His hand went to his temple as Robert Paulson's face flashed through his brain.

And of course Peter was a knight. Why not.

"I've lead-" he started, then stopped himself, pulling his hand back to his sides, turning to face Peter directly. "Know what, let's leave it. But you really have no idea what you're saying. None."

Noticing the startle, Peter took a deep breath and then another, remembering that Tyler wasn't one of his men and he wasn't King.

"I apologize if I misjudged you," Peter said. He bowed to Tyler and found his own shirt to pull over his head.

"It's not really something I talk about," Tyler said, recovering himself. "The last year has been a very strange time in my life, is all."

He held out a hand. "Stickbugs?"

"I'm no stranger to strange times in one's life," Peter said with a crooked grin.

He took Tyler's hand and shook though he didn't lean out of his center of balance at all if there was a throw attempt starting. "Stickbugs."

Tyler shook the hand rather limply, his face still troubled. "Good man," he said. "See you at the cabin."

Then, hesitantly, he added, "Did I mess you up at all?"

"Mess me up?" The colloquialism took a second to catch up in Peter's brain. "I think I'm going to be awfully sore in the morning, but I'm not injured, no. Are you well?"

He took a closer look at Tyler's face and asked again, more seriously, "are you well, Tyler? Is there anything I can do?"

Campsite Gym, Wednesday night

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