[ His gaze snaps to the sizzle, then at Dean's face. What—? The small part of his brain still engaged in real thought tells him it's the corrosive substance in his claws and to move on. So he does, pressing the advantage as the demon crumples on his bad leg.
Good to know broken bones will do something despite Dean's continued lack of pain. Unlike before, Geralt is moving as though his wounds don't hurt, either. They bleed as expected, dripping down his side, his leg where the blade catches—though the pump of his heart is slow, keeps the gashes from spilling blood as quickly. Maybe he's starting to limp a touch, too. But his responses seem to be physical. Things his body can't help doing when injured.
Geralt's attention is elsewhere. Fixed on his target. He could hear the birds before, but now he can pinpoint each one from a distance. The grains of sand shifting under his feet. It's nearly overwhelming; he has not taken his elixirs for ages, and normally, he prepares for it. Fuck if he knows how or why it triggered, but right now, he hasn't the time to dwell.
Instead, he tries to close the space before Dean can get too far and recover. He flips his sword over his wrist, slashing downward at the same time he throws out another Aard blast. There's a strength behind it that wasn't there the first time. If more blood drips on Dean, it might burn even hotter, like he's bleeding poison directly from his veins.
A low snarl rumbles in his chest. The demon's refusal—or inability—to put on even a facsimile of emotion, of still being Dean somewhere deep down, only makes it easier to separate the face he's looking at from the man he came close to calling a brother. Perhaps he should have stopped him sooner. Or perhaps he would have merely called forth the demon sooner by putting an end to Dean. Whatever the branching paths, the monster he faces is not the one he owes an explanation to.
(Poor, poor Witchers. You truly feel everything.) ]
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Good to know broken bones will do something despite Dean's continued lack of pain. Unlike before, Geralt is moving as though his wounds don't hurt, either. They bleed as expected, dripping down his side, his leg where the blade catches—though the pump of his heart is slow, keeps the gashes from spilling blood as quickly. Maybe he's starting to limp a touch, too. But his responses seem to be physical. Things his body can't help doing when injured.
Geralt's attention is elsewhere. Fixed on his target. He could hear the birds before, but now he can pinpoint each one from a distance. The grains of sand shifting under his feet. It's nearly overwhelming; he has not taken his elixirs for ages, and normally, he prepares for it. Fuck if he knows how or why it triggered, but right now, he hasn't the time to dwell.
Instead, he tries to close the space before Dean can get too far and recover. He flips his sword over his wrist, slashing downward at the same time he throws out another Aard blast. There's a strength behind it that wasn't there the first time. If more blood drips on Dean, it might burn even hotter, like he's bleeding poison directly from his veins.
A low snarl rumbles in his chest. The demon's refusal—or inability—to put on even a facsimile of emotion, of still being Dean somewhere deep down, only makes it easier to separate the face he's looking at from the man he came close to calling a brother. Perhaps he should have stopped him sooner. Or perhaps he would have merely called forth the demon sooner by putting an end to Dean. Whatever the branching paths, the monster he faces is not the one he owes an explanation to.
(Poor, poor Witchers. You truly feel everything.) ]