[ The mountain rumbles as if it means to flip itself again. He could manifest another weapon, call upon his wolf. But Geralt's mind simply doesn't work that way in combat. His fingers close around a rock instead. Not ideal. Better than nothing.
Until Nero calls his name.
The sword flies in his direction, that ridiculous roar of an engine attached to it. He catches it—rolling out from under the creature as he does. He waits, baits it forward. Then he plunges the blade into its frozen chest with a sharp crack. Blood pours from the wound, but it lurches forward despite that. Thick shards fly forth.
He ducks under them. Swings the revving sword at one of the creature's legs, taking it off at the knee. The entire weight of it—a full block of fucking ice—collapses atop him before he can dodge its path. It knocks his breath from his lungs. He curses. Gives the thing a shove, too distracted with getting it off of him to notice the icicle that flies in his direction until it's far too late.
He throws his shield up on instinct, certain it will not stop it in time even as he does. ]
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Until Nero calls his name.
The sword flies in his direction, that ridiculous roar of an engine attached to it. He catches it—rolling out from under the creature as he does. He waits, baits it forward. Then he plunges the blade into its frozen chest with a sharp crack. Blood pours from the wound, but it lurches forward despite that. Thick shards fly forth.
He ducks under them. Swings the revving sword at one of the creature's legs, taking it off at the knee. The entire weight of it—a full block of fucking ice—collapses atop him before he can dodge its path. It knocks his breath from his lungs. He curses. Gives the thing a shove, too distracted with getting it off of him to notice the icicle that flies in his direction until it's far too late.
He throws his shield up on instinct, certain it will not stop it in time even as he does. ]