( In the end, the artist formerly known as Dean winds up fucking himself up a bit. It's familiar, this fight. This opponent. The rhythm may be faster, the blows may be harder and more unforgiving, but it's still familiar. Enough so that muscle memory steps in, his body knows that when Geralt whirls around he's likely to carry the momentum through with his sword. He knows there's an easier way to block it than to try and position his own sword in time.
He raises his off-hand forearm up intent to Sign himself a shield automatically, thoughtlessly.
Only for nary a god damn thing to happen. Nothing. Geralt's blade cuts deep into the meat, the muscle. It hits bone, and it's only his enhanced reflex speed that keeps him from getting the whole god damn limb severed then and there — he brings up his sword, uses it and his own friggin' Ulna to shove, and then rips himself backward out of immediate strike range.
Frankly, he looks more puzzled than hurt. Black eyes flick back to green again. )
What the hell? Oh, you gotta be kidding me.
( It doesn't work? Why doesn't it work? What horseshit is this? )
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He raises his off-hand forearm up intent to Sign himself a shield automatically, thoughtlessly.
Only for nary a god damn thing to happen. Nothing. Geralt's blade cuts deep into the meat, the muscle. It hits bone, and it's only his enhanced reflex speed that keeps him from getting the whole god damn limb severed then and there — he brings up his sword, uses it and his own friggin' Ulna to shove, and then rips himself backward out of immediate strike range.
Frankly, he looks more puzzled than hurt. Black eyes flick back to green again. )
What the hell? Oh, you gotta be kidding me.
( It doesn't work? Why doesn't it work? What horseshit is this? )