Good. He smiles, licks his lips. He has no need for lesser gods, but this gift they've granted him settles so nicely through him, the spike of radiance invigorating to his celestial nature.

The charm he exudes will do nothing to an unleashed wolf, but that isn't the point. This fight has no point, no lasting damage they could do to themselves.

However, Lucifer has nothing to lose and he thrives on seeing people unhinged.

He's had it happen enough himself lately; someone else should feel it, too. Sannleikr bleeds through his surroundings.

"Your type always think the blades are the part to focus on," Lucifer says, laughing, making no effort to free his hand. He doesn't need a knife to fight; prefers it, certainly, but it's nothing more than distraction, and he catches Geralt's own blade with his palm of his free hand, letting it slice deeply. Grips tight, bloodied fingers curling around.

He laughs more, using the peculiar hold they both have and swinging them around in a full circle, a parody of actually dancing. "Bit of a standstill, wouldn't you say?"