"The only rule on this floor is that you don't seriously injure or kill anyone," Allairavar's voice is light; his eyes say that there have been more close calls than he'd like. Miles of distance could exist between the ability to fight and discipline. Draega has plently of the former and not as much of the latter.

"I'm curious as to why you're out here working yourself so hard, though." Walking over to the table off to the side, Allairavar touches the pitcher of water. A bit of craft cools its contents enough that sweat beads on the outside of the. He pours two glasses - one for himself and one for Guts. "Habit?"