Roland had a distinct feeling that he was somehow going to regret this. Because the look on her face was already fully prepared to make him eat dirt, and enjoy doing it. He asked her, sure, he was getting on her nerves. But this was a rare opportunity to actually make something of himself when he came here to serve. He wanted to be a Mordecai, and instead of treating the moment with a sense of mockery, he buckled down into the stance he knew best and prepped himself for the beat down he was about to receive.
Again and again and again, his back slammed into the ground, his joints were locked, and his blows were dodged or the momentum used against him. Roland was out of breath and sweaty, his shirt clinging to him, his hair matted into a fine layer on his forehead. And while from an outward stance it seemed like he was just getting his ass kicked.
And they'd be right.
Roland's breath came in sharp, heavy waves as he pushed himself off the ground his back already throbbing and he paid attention to where she'd shown him his failures, and mimicked how she'd defended against them to change the field of battle. There was no right or wrong way to counter, and each punch thrown was an opportunity gained by the opponent to overcome, overthrow, or dismantle if they knew the technique.
Roland was tired and in his exhaustion he knew it was only going to be a matter of time before she put him down for the rest of the night. Roland saw an opening and he took it, his fist circumvented her guard and smacked her hard into the ribs. Eyes wide like saucers, Roland cackled. "Ha! ahahah!" And before he knew his back hit the ground for the last time, the wind knocked out of him and he was left gasping for breath.
The laughter was intermingled with groans of pain, radiating up into his shoulders and subsequently rattling into his skull. "Okay that was fun" he admitted, once he'd regained some semblance of breath. "So we should set up some regular sparring sessions. Same time tomorrow?"