[ The faint squint of his eyes is both considering and about as close to impressed as Geralt ever expresses openly. Mm. Yeah. They'll need more. Something that doesn't go as far as what his kind get up to in Kaer Morhen. (The winters are long and they're durable folk who indulge in too much ale. Blood's been spilled. Rats have been involved. Vesemir has thrown them all outside into the blizzard before.)
He retrieves both daggers from the board. It shifts, then, into a square piece of wood, marked with a plain grid: filled dark and not, like a chessboard.
Throwing however you like is simple. He offers Dean his knife back with one extra blade and an added caveat: ] No spinning on black. Half spin on white. Every proper strike on both, the other drinks.
[ They can't play for misses; it'll never work. But this might do. Not as if he needs a reason to be drinking in the first place. ]
no subject
He retrieves both daggers from the board. It shifts, then, into a square piece of wood, marked with a plain grid: filled dark and not, like a chessboard.
Throwing however you like is simple. He offers Dean his knife back with one extra blade and an added caveat: ] No spinning on black. Half spin on white. Every proper strike on both, the other drinks.
[ They can't play for misses; it'll never work. But this might do. Not as if he needs a reason to be drinking in the first place. ]