[ On some level, he understands where Sam is coming from. It's not an attitude he's unused to; he knows if he puts a dagger in Jaskier's hand, Jaskier would be no more at ease learning how best to split a man's throat open. But to Geralt, it comes down to something more simple, which is that it isn't really about defending yourself with minimal damage. It's about walking out of there in one piece. And the reality is, he's never been taught any other way. The ability to spare a life is a luxury—one that he can occasionally grasp because he knows how capable he is, but not one most others do.
He does drop the point of the blade. His lips tilt ever so slightly. ] Hardly. [ He offers the sword back to Sam. ] Don't be discouraged. I'm not an easy mark.
[ Except when he is. He's reaching down for his own sword, deciding it's time to see how Sam does when they do cross swords, when the faintest rustle catches his attention. It's distant, but he knows something's wrong before he even sees what or who is coming: nothing carries through the air so distinctly as the smell of fresh and dried blood. Shit. His fingers wrap around his sword. He takes Sam's arm with his other hand, already pulling him towards the sparse trees around. That's what he hates about the desert. The complete lack of cover. He doesn't explain, doesn't say anything, just gives Sam a look that says he should keep quiet and come along.
There are voices drifting now. Too far to make out words; close enough that he can tell they're men, a few of them—three or four—and out here? That tells him all he needs to know. A tension runs through him that isn't usual, like he's already halfway resigned to what's about to happen. Maybe he is. Either way, he isn't looking to hide, just to avoid attention: slipping his sword back out of sight along the side of Roach's saddle, but without quite releasing his hold on its hilt. ]
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He does drop the point of the blade. His lips tilt ever so slightly. ] Hardly. [ He offers the sword back to Sam. ] Don't be discouraged. I'm not an easy mark.
[ Except when he is. He's reaching down for his own sword, deciding it's time to see how Sam does when they do cross swords, when the faintest rustle catches his attention. It's distant, but he knows something's wrong before he even sees what or who is coming: nothing carries through the air so distinctly as the smell of fresh and dried blood. Shit. His fingers wrap around his sword. He takes Sam's arm with his other hand, already pulling him towards the sparse trees around. That's what he hates about the desert. The complete lack of cover. He doesn't explain, doesn't say anything, just gives Sam a look that says he should keep quiet and come along.
There are voices drifting now. Too far to make out words; close enough that he can tell they're men, a few of them—three or four—and out here? That tells him all he needs to know. A tension runs through him that isn't usual, like he's already halfway resigned to what's about to happen. Maybe he is. Either way, he isn't looking to hide, just to avoid attention: slipping his sword back out of sight along the side of Roach's saddle, but without quite releasing his hold on its hilt. ]