Tymon was tiered, his brow poured with sweat as he grappled with his foe. The smell of the last twenty minutes perspiration was beginning to waft further than just his nostrils. There was little he could do to remove the sweat bar flick his head to try and stop it from streaming into his eyes. His hair, he reflected, was far too long for the kind of harsh physical punishment and he made a mental note to keep it shorter as he punched and rolled for what seemed like the hundredth time in under a minute.
He fought with his adversary in a small room with bare walls. The heat borne from his body created a hot oppressive and muggy atmosphere which slowly became hotter as his ordeal continued. The bare walls, a natural cream colour, reflected the harsh white light back into his eyes giving him yet another reason to close them and think of England. The whole room reminded him of other days and other battles, all hard fought but he had won them all; that day would be no different.
His hands and wrists were covered in a thick sludge which clung to every crack and crease. The substance had little resemblance to what it had once been yet it still held that distinct smell. He rolled to the right using his solid right should, and then forward using his lesser left shoulder. He punched with the heel of his gnarled and tough hand pushing through his target into the table beneath it. He continued his toil punching and rolling, and rolling again until finally he felt that he was done. The dough was kneaded and ready to be put in the oven.