"We'll be woozy 'till tomorrow," he says, but he hauls himself to his feet, his limbs feeling sodden and heavy after lying so long the way he was, sprawled bonelessly on the ground. He's swaying as the blood rushes to his head, pausing here and again to snort a little in amusement at the way he feels mildly hungover, even.

"'ll have a hell of a backache," says Krieg, not sounding upset by this in the slightest. His axe...oh. His axe is still on the ground. Well, whatever. He can leave it there, that's all right! He can spar with his hands and feet, and they can try and kill each other like civilized people.