[ Sam's bird attacks with a viciousness Ciri doesn't expect, but she notices -- if only vaguely, out of the corner of her eye -- and finds herself appreciating the creature in a way she hadn't before. Good.
Her horse, on the other hand, is nowhere near so battle-ready as Red. His nostrils flare, and his head tosses violently, flecks of foam spitting from his curled lips as he screams and dances back despite Ciri's firm grim on the reins. He is too unsteady, too frightened -- nothing like her Kelpie, Ciri laments angrily not for the first time, swearing through gritted teeth as she fights to maintain control. With a vicious yank, she pulls the horse back around, but he reacts too slowly. A knife nicks his foreleg, and he rears, hooves wild in the air.
On the one hand, her horse's untrained terror lands with crushing force on the newly one-armed man who'd fallen to his knees beneath them, putting him out of his misery. On the other--
Ciri ends up on the ground.
She knows how to fall; she twists, landing on her shoulder with a grunt, keeping her sword above her, just in time to knock away a blow from the man with a knife. He's screaming obscenities at her (they all are), and the horse is snorting and stamping, and above them Red is screeching, and the screams continue. But it's all just noise. All around them, thick, thorn-covered vines rise up from the dirt to the sound of more screams and curses. Someone grabs a branch out of the campfire, as if that might be enough, brandishing it like some sort of holy charm as Jaskier's vines lash out at him, sparks flying.
Her swing was too wide, her sword arm flung too far to the side as she tries to get her bearings in the drawn-out moments, the stretched-out seconds between hitting the ground and rolling over. The knife slides back into her vision, the brigand's twisted snarl above. Rocks digging into the small of her back. The man's weight, twice her own, bearing down on top of her. Ciri twists, shoving herself to the side with as much force as she can muster, shifting his weight toward her sword arm, pinned in the dirt. It throws him off, as she knew it would; he'd been attempting to keep her from lifting her blade again, but the sword is not her object. The wolf's head pommel of the dagger at her belt slides into her fingers. Quick as a flash. He is only confused for a moment, but a moment is more than enough. Ciri drives the knife decisively between his ribs.
And all the while, that dull background noise of battle, drowned out by the frenzied drumbeat of her heart. It isn't excitement, she realizes with a strange, faraway calm, as hot blood pours over her front and she shoves the body off herself with a heave. Her eyes shine, too bright, too green, the energy rippling around her in a visible glow against the grey of dusk. It's fury.
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Her horse, on the other hand, is nowhere near so battle-ready as Red. His nostrils flare, and his head tosses violently, flecks of foam spitting from his curled lips as he screams and dances back despite Ciri's firm grim on the reins. He is too unsteady, too frightened -- nothing like her Kelpie, Ciri laments angrily not for the first time, swearing through gritted teeth as she fights to maintain control. With a vicious yank, she pulls the horse back around, but he reacts too slowly. A knife nicks his foreleg, and he rears, hooves wild in the air.
On the one hand, her horse's untrained terror lands with crushing force on the newly one-armed man who'd fallen to his knees beneath them, putting him out of his misery. On the other--
Ciri ends up on the ground.
She knows how to fall; she twists, landing on her shoulder with a grunt, keeping her sword above her, just in time to knock away a blow from the man with a knife. He's screaming obscenities at her (they all are), and the horse is snorting and stamping, and above them Red is screeching, and the screams continue. But it's all just noise. All around them, thick, thorn-covered vines rise up from the dirt to the sound of more screams and curses. Someone grabs a branch out of the campfire, as if that might be enough, brandishing it like some sort of holy charm as Jaskier's vines lash out at him, sparks flying.
Her swing was too wide, her sword arm flung too far to the side as she tries to get her bearings in the drawn-out moments, the stretched-out seconds between hitting the ground and rolling over. The knife slides back into her vision, the brigand's twisted snarl above. Rocks digging into the small of her back. The man's weight, twice her own, bearing down on top of her. Ciri twists, shoving herself to the side with as much force as she can muster, shifting his weight toward her sword arm, pinned in the dirt. It throws him off, as she knew it would; he'd been attempting to keep her from lifting her blade again, but the sword is not her object. The wolf's head pommel of the dagger at her belt slides into her fingers. Quick as a flash. He is only confused for a moment, but a moment is more than enough. Ciri drives the knife decisively between his ribs.
And all the while, that dull background noise of battle, drowned out by the frenzied drumbeat of her heart. It isn't excitement, she realizes with a strange, faraway calm, as hot blood pours over her front and she shoves the body off herself with a heave. Her eyes shine, too bright, too green, the energy rippling around her in a visible glow against the grey of dusk. It's fury.
Geralt isn't even here. ]