( He absolutely would love to chop its bloody head off — but the bastard's directly atop Geralt. It's too risky for him to swing his sword hard enough to behead the thing, odds are the blade would carry straight on through into Geralt's face. That, he imagines, might thoroughly piss off both of his traveling companions.
Instead, he acts on instinct and throws out a hand. From it comes the blinding white light of Grace — celestial and avenging, it blasts the creature off of Geralt without touching so much as a hair on the Witcher's head. The first gift he ever earned from that giant fuck-off rock at the center of the world. Old reliable. Unfortunately, there aren't many things out here for the monster to slam into for a little bonus damage. A conveniently located cactus or boulder outcropping would be nice, but no such luck. It goes reeling through the air some ten or fifteen yards, then skids to a stop on sun-hardened desert dust, kicking up a cartoonish cloud around it.
Dean offers a hand out to Geralt, to help haul him quickly to his feet.
That blast should've snapped a leg or two. Should've stunned it for at least a second. It should not already be on its feet, clearing the distance with jerkier, even more feral movements — but it is. Almost as quickly as Geralt is upright again, that thing is nearly in strike range.
The sound that comes from its throat will stick with Dean for days. It is hoarse, gravel-dirt-dust-dry, crackling and abject. He realizes with a horrific start that it's trying to scream, and only parched, mournful vocal static is coming out.
He means to put it out of its misery. A quick dip down to his boot where he keeps a dagger, and one expert fling sends it flying through the air. It's more than enough force for the blade to embed itself all the way to the hilt in the dead center of the creature's forehead. He genuinely, genuinely thinks that will be enough to do it.
It does not stop running. Apparently these things don't abide by traditional zombie rules. Who'd have guessed? )
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Instead, he acts on instinct and throws out a hand. From it comes the blinding white light of Grace — celestial and avenging, it blasts the creature off of Geralt without touching so much as a hair on the Witcher's head. The first gift he ever earned from that giant fuck-off rock at the center of the world. Old reliable. Unfortunately, there aren't many things out here for the monster to slam into for a little bonus damage. A conveniently located cactus or boulder outcropping would be nice, but no such luck. It goes reeling through the air some ten or fifteen yards, then skids to a stop on sun-hardened desert dust, kicking up a cartoonish cloud around it.
Dean offers a hand out to Geralt, to help haul him quickly to his feet.
That blast should've snapped a leg or two. Should've stunned it for at least a second. It should not already be on its feet, clearing the distance with jerkier, even more feral movements — but it is. Almost as quickly as Geralt is upright again, that thing is nearly in strike range.
The sound that comes from its throat will stick with Dean for days. It is hoarse, gravel-dirt-dust-dry, crackling and abject. He realizes with a horrific start that it's trying to scream, and only parched, mournful vocal static is coming out.
He means to put it out of its misery. A quick dip down to his boot where he keeps a dagger, and one expert fling sends it flying through the air. It's more than enough force for the blade to embed itself all the way to the hilt in the dead center of the creature's forehead. He genuinely, genuinely thinks that will be enough to do it.
It does not stop running. Apparently these things don't abide by traditional zombie rules. Who'd have guessed? )