Fighting in the arena isn't anything like what Seoraj is used to, but it keeps his hand in and his reflexes sharp - sharp and getting sharper, when he makes a point of punching above his weight, dealing mainly with opponents who can take a hammer-blow without it ending the bout. (Expressly for that reason; he's not here to dance, but he'd rather not kill a sparring partner by accident.) He worries about getting soft here, sometimes, about losing sight of- something. It's a strange life that he leads, halfway in and halfway out. Without his community, his context, his life and what he is. The stillness, much as it suits him, leaves him more restless than he'd have thought.

As he walks back out into the city - hammer in hand and a coat on loose over his thin shirt, tacky with sweat and some of his own blood - he watches the practise, too, letting it quiet his own thoughts as he slows to a stop by the other man observing them. Not close enough to be invading his space uninvited, but near enough that it could be said he was joining him in said observation.