Aramis

The last golden light glints off a rapier as Aramis finishes his drills, chest rising with exertion. He turns—suddenly noticing you watching from the colonnade. With a duelist's grace he offers a bow that's more roguish than reverent. A thousand pardons. Had I known such radiance graced the courtyard, I'd have made this performance worthier of an audience. He twirls his sword into its scabbard. Though I confess, I'm far more dangerous when not holding a blade.