Sweat dripped into the first-year page's eyes as he felt the wooden staff solidly connect with the back of his knees in a sweeping blow. He tried to twist and slap the ground, as their instructors had told them, and managed a sloppy version of what was either a decent enough fall or simply a spontaneous test of gravity. With his tunic dusty from the beaten ground of the training yard used for staff work, he glumly took his place within the group of other first years. None of the ten boys had managed to go longer than a minute with the fourth-year page assigned to train them.
The stand-in trainer, a certain Owen of Jesslaw, was thoroughly likable as well, which just frustrated the boys more. He always had a smile firmly on his face, and would laugh cheerfully at the smallest jokes. The younger page's fellow yearlings welcomed him back with grimaces of understanding and pats on the back. The beaten boy struggled with a way to sum up their overly-joyous instructor.
"He's just so-" his arms waved despondently as he attempted to conjure the words from thin air, "Well, he's just so jolly."
A/N:Those poor first-years…Owen is simply far too happy;) please tell me what you thought!