The Marquis' Fist of Fury

Rest found himself in the training grounds of the garden, waiting for the Marchioness, Ailish Rosemary, to finish changing into more suitable attire for their duel. He stared up at the clear blue sky, feeling utterly perplexed by the situation he had found himself in.

"Um… How did this even happen again?" he muttered, his tone filled with disbelief.

"I'm terribly sorry for this, sir," came the apologetic voice of Deeble, who stood by his side, looking as if he had committed some great crime.

As Rest idly stood there, his question was met with an even more sincere apology from Deeble, who seemed to be suffering from some internal torment.

"The lady… well, how do I put this? She's quite… direct. She tends to express herself with her fists and magic rather than words."

"So, in other words, a musclehead?"

Deeble flinched, visibly uncomfortable, but eventually nodded in agreement.

"Yes… that's one way to put it."