On paper, Simon ought to be embarrassed to have been taken for such a ride by a small, blind mage. In practice, somehow, he doesn't find himself with any regrets. It's a good match, for all Myr's handicaps, strong offense versus steady defense, and the training Myr draws upon is something Simon's never had to counter before, not with a mage or another templar or anyone else. The bruises he'll have tomorrow will be well earned. He'll relish them, in a way he doesn't feel like he often does anymore.

In most of his experience, when a templar gets this close to anyone fighting with a staff, it's already over--but when that barrier finally winks out, and he thinks he's closing in for victory, he doesn't anticipate that deft disarming, and the surprise leaves him vulnerable to what he thinks, for one silly irrational heart-jolting moment, is an actual attack. It could be, if he'd somehow misjudged this mage. He could be dead for letting his guard down around someone who needs neither staff nor actual blade to be dangerous.

But he's not; the hand on his stomach is nothing but a hand, and the last move is still his to claim, using the elf's surprisingly substantial weight against him and flipping him to the ground to pin him lightly with the reclaimed polearm.

"So you did," he says, mildly surprised and audibly impressed.