( The arrow hits its target. If he cared enough, maybe he could have done something to deflect it reflexively when the movement caught his eye. Maybe as a demon he could move swiftly enough to grab it, or maybe not. They'll never find out, because demons don't give a shit about horses. She is not his priority, not even as it embeds itself several inches into her shoulder and she stumbles, her knee hitting the dirt and a squeal of pain scraping from her throat.

He's too busy tracking the trajectory of the arrow backward to its source.

He sighs. It sounds resigned. He always knew this was a likelihood, there was always a very good chance this could happen.

But he knows something else, too:
Geralt can die. He's seen it happen. He, on the other hand, cannot. As long as parts of him remain, he will heal. Those are pretty good odds.

He draws his sword, and so begins the game. )

Well, if it ain't Father of the Year over here finally rolling in. I'd say better late than never, but I can't get over the fact that you left her to get got in the first place.

( Howdy, Gerald. )