[ In the split second he's diverted (by the lack of blood, by the lack of any fucking reaction to being struck), he catches an elbow to the face. Dean receives the solid crunch he's waiting for. A trickle of blood drips toward the edge of his lip. His ears ring. For a blink, the sun shines too bright.
He steps back to create the distance he needs to whirl around. The momentum drives the arc of his sword; he lets it carry through into the next few swings. Landing a hit will do, but his true purpose is to disarm—the first rule of any fight involving weapons. Especially one with a demon who doesn't seem to feel much, if anything, at all. Had he the time, he might've sought Castiel or someone out for the requisite holy water. But once Ciri called for help, Geralt took off in an instant.
The terrain is flat, at least: hard dirt beneath their feet, tiny loose pebbles that skitter across the ground. Geralt isn't wearing anything except the lightweight cloth Jesper gave him, meant for projectiles and not for slicing blades. In the heat of the desert, armour isn't much of an advantage. He prefers to rely on his reflexes than his ability to take a blow. And he is fast, but he's not powered by a non-living entity. The longer the fight drags on, he knows the more he'll feel it—that there's an upturned hourglass to every battle he's in. ]
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He steps back to create the distance he needs to whirl around. The momentum drives the arc of his sword; he lets it carry through into the next few swings. Landing a hit will do, but his true purpose is to disarm—the first rule of any fight involving weapons. Especially one with a demon who doesn't seem to feel much, if anything, at all. Had he the time, he might've sought Castiel or someone out for the requisite holy water. But once Ciri called for help, Geralt took off in an instant.
The terrain is flat, at least: hard dirt beneath their feet, tiny loose pebbles that skitter across the ground. Geralt isn't wearing anything except the lightweight cloth Jesper gave him, meant for projectiles and not for slicing blades. In the heat of the desert, armour isn't much of an advantage. He prefers to rely on his reflexes than his ability to take a blow. And he is fast, but he's not powered by a non-living entity. The longer the fight drags on, he knows the more he'll feel it—that there's an upturned hourglass to every battle he's in. ]