[ sam considers, briefly, what it might look like if he were to try and talk them all out of this. he's been in tight situations before, knows when to try and step in to take advantage of a chink in their armor, but as the bandits start to move closer and sam surveys the lot of them - catching, perhaps at the same moment, the bloody doll in the bag - he knows there's no talking anyone out of this. there's no avoiding this, either.
his senses aren't as quick as geralt's, this is a fact he has come to realize and started the process of being okay with. no matter what, no matter how, geralt would always be faster, stronger, more aware. thankfully, sam's got years of practice in that sphere, and knows that when someone like that moves, you best follow suit.
the bandits seem to notice just about the same time sam does, and suddenly everything is chaos. geralt is already gone, sam's lost track of him before he even realized he needed to be keeping track, but he doesn't have long to worry because one of the bandits is on him, swinging their club - or sword - or whatever it is hard and fast at sam. he is able to parry a blow, dodge another, and gets one strike in and then another. nothing lethal, especially not with the practice sword, but he hits something hard and hears air rush out and thinks maybe, maybe this won't go too badly.
that is when something hits him, hard, against his left side. he turns towards it just in time to stop what had next been a swing towards his head, but only for a few moments. the bandit in question had been the one talking, the one giving orders, and sam thinks of rumlow. of a collapsing building. the bandit is talking even now, saying something about the small campsite not far from here, the screams, the blood. sam recognizes crazy when he sees it, managing enough air for a -] Man, shut the hell up. [ before, upon realizing his grip on the sword was slipping, diving into the middle of the bandit in question and taking them both into the sand.
he gets a few good hits in, but so does the bandit, and while sam knows he got his dagger out somewhere along the way, the bandit had made a go of it, tangling them both in limbs, sand, punches, and groans. they roll, and sam feels something cut him, but he's not sure if its the bandit or a sharp rock, as all his focus is on the knife. on getting it away. they roll again, and in the movement of it, the bandit gets his hand around a rock - clocking the side of sam's head and catching him off just enough to get the upper hand, ending up leaning over sam, sam's own dagger now held to his throat, puncturing the skin just enough to burn.
the bandit spits, a sharp curl of a grin splitting his face where a black eye has already started to form, blood running from the corner of his mouth. sam struggles, or tries to struggle, but stops when the dagger pushes just a bit further into the skin of his neck. ] Any last words?
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his senses aren't as quick as geralt's, this is a fact he has come to realize and started the process of being okay with. no matter what, no matter how, geralt would always be faster, stronger, more aware. thankfully, sam's got years of practice in that sphere, and knows that when someone like that moves, you best follow suit.
the bandits seem to notice just about the same time sam does, and suddenly everything is chaos. geralt is already gone, sam's lost track of him before he even realized he needed to be keeping track, but he doesn't have long to worry because one of the bandits is on him, swinging their club - or sword - or whatever it is hard and fast at sam. he is able to parry a blow, dodge another, and gets one strike in and then another. nothing lethal, especially not with the practice sword, but he hits something hard and hears air rush out and thinks maybe, maybe this won't go too badly.
that is when something hits him, hard, against his left side. he turns towards it just in time to stop what had next been a swing towards his head, but only for a few moments. the bandit in question had been the one talking, the one giving orders, and sam thinks of rumlow. of a collapsing building. the bandit is talking even now, saying something about the small campsite not far from here, the screams, the blood. sam recognizes crazy when he sees it, managing enough air for a -] Man, shut the hell up. [ before, upon realizing his grip on the sword was slipping, diving into the middle of the bandit in question and taking them both into the sand.
he gets a few good hits in, but so does the bandit, and while sam knows he got his dagger out somewhere along the way, the bandit had made a go of it, tangling them both in limbs, sand, punches, and groans. they roll, and sam feels something cut him, but he's not sure if its the bandit or a sharp rock, as all his focus is on the knife. on getting it away. they roll again, and in the movement of it, the bandit gets his hand around a rock - clocking the side of sam's head and catching him off just enough to get the upper hand, ending up leaning over sam, sam's own dagger now held to his throat, puncturing the skin just enough to burn.
the bandit spits, a sharp curl of a grin splitting his face where a black eye has already started to form, blood running from the corner of his mouth. sam struggles, or tries to struggle, but stops when the dagger pushes just a bit further into the skin of his neck. ] Any last words?