*COMPLETE* Allayria promised to do what it takes to stop the Jarles, to make the ugly decision. She thinks, at last, she understands what the dynast meant. The lesson earned from the top of that lonely cliff and given the dark murky water below.
It...
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It's hard to breathe.
Fae rasps, wheezing, clutching at her side, pressing against the searing sting. She sways a little, but swings the knife out just in time, ignoring the jab of pain as she shifts away.
"This corset," she pants, readjusting her grip on the wooden practice weapon as her other hand pinches the pain, "is giving me cramps."
Keno shrugs.
"That's what happens when you compress your midsection, Your Majesty."
She registers that this is a mocking use of the honorific, but she ignores it, digging her knuckles into her side to abate the discomfort.
"You've got to change the breathing too," Keno says, rising up to a normal stance and shifting closer. He places a warm hand between her shoulders, sliding it down to her lower back. "Deep inhale, quickly. Stretch that side out."
"I'm going to ban corsets," she tells him, leaning to the side, stretching out the spasm.
"Don't half-ass it: ban the whole dress."
She wheezes, leaning forward, hands on her knees.
"Don't tempt me."
She straightens up, shifting back into a combative pose, and he follows suit. He too has a wooden knife in hand and he twirls it around his fingers as he contemplates her.
This is a ploy, a blustery show-off a trick to distract from the subtle shift of his left boot, which slides back, lifting almost imperceptibly up from the ground. She pretends to watch the knife, keeping track of the other movements in her periphery, monitoring how his free hand shifts to his side.
When Keno lunges Fae springs to the side, evading, despite the tangling rustle of her heavy skirts. He shifts, course-correcting, coming at her again, and she watches the knife, shoving the arm that holds it up with her forearm when he slashes again, moving around him once more so he will have to turn.
None of this really surprises him—it's what they have practiced, but she knows he has a ploy in the queue, a little trick at the end of this roleplay for her. She can see it glittering in his eyes as they go through the motions, as she moves them into the southwest corner of the stables. They chose here because, as Keno pointed out, hay is a far more comfortable landing than stone.
He's probably banking on this, but Fae is banking on another quality of hay—how light it is. So when she's led them to the spot she scouted earlier, when her foot digs in, beneath the loose dirt and hay, she gives him a wide smile and, instead of feinting again, she kicks a blast of hay, dust, and muck straight up into the thief's face.
In the blur of debris she rushes in, one skirt-burdened knee jamming into his side as her hand clamps down on the knife-wielding wrist, shoving it away.
There are bits of straw poking out of Keno's hair and a vaguely surprised expression on his face before it suddenly breaks into a smile.
"You learned that one from Allayria, didn't you?" he says, letting the knife clatter on the ground. "She's always had a devious flair for the under-handed."
