Even though Myr's anticipating the throw and the fall, letting himself relax so it's less of a bruising jolt when he hits the ground, it still knocks the breath out of him. He's content to lie there defeated until he can regain it, and the first thing out of him when he does is a laugh. "Oughta do that again sometime," he manages at length. "That was fun."

He's sweaty and exhausted and mana-drained and bruised all over, but right now that feels marvelous because he outdid his own expectations--against a templar, to boot. (A templar in rather fine condition, at that; he didn't miss the opportunity to feel what he could with his hand against Simon's belly.) Maybe there's some hope for him after all; maybe he doesn't have to feel so guilty and worthless about struggling to keep his skills sharp, about holding on to what he can't have any longer.

Maybe all that will go away once the adrenaline fades.

But maybe not.

He pats Simon's makeshift sword with one hand. "All right, I yield. Let me up before I get any colder down here."