[No idea why it worked. But the less Nero questions this place, the more it's been working out in his favor. His claws dig through snow into what feels like rock as the mountain begins to shake, and he shoots up a glare to the fucking hands above them.
Nero gets to his feet, clenching his fingers, waiting to catch himself if the mountain begins to flip --
Gives him a good second to really appreciate Geralt in a fight. He's mostly been too into their practice fights himself to turn around and take it in, but even a few seconds tells him one real, hard fact:
Geralt is brutal. His movements aren't graceful or fun. They are simply force. Violence. Trained.
Credo would've loved it.
It's only a half-second, a fraction, of a thought, because in admiring Geralt's sword strokes he sees the ice flying through the air, straight as a bolt from a crossbow.
He's fought with Geralt, but he's never seen a shield. Never suspected the guy could make a shield. And, honestly, when it comes down to it, Nero is still pure instinct in a fight. He doesn't have the sword to strike them down, doesn't have the time to warn Geralt --
So he just moves in front of them. One. Two-three. Three of the shards of ice embedding into his chest in a quick rhythm as he hisses a fuck from between his clenched teeth. Blood dribbles down his (now even more hole-filled) coat to mix with the last frost's blood. He's pretty sure one of them went straight through.
That really does not feel. Healthy.] Ow. That's cold. [His voice echoes out of a demonic mouth, until the trigger falls through and his body turns back to its human form. Oh. Great timing.]
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Nero gets to his feet, clenching his fingers, waiting to catch himself if the mountain begins to flip --
Gives him a good second to really appreciate Geralt in a fight. He's mostly been too into their practice fights himself to turn around and take it in, but even a few seconds tells him one real, hard fact:
Geralt is brutal. His movements aren't graceful or fun. They are simply force. Violence. Trained.
Credo would've loved it.
It's only a half-second, a fraction, of a thought, because in admiring Geralt's sword strokes he sees the ice flying through the air, straight as a bolt from a crossbow.
He's fought with Geralt, but he's never seen a shield. Never suspected the guy could make a shield. And, honestly, when it comes down to it, Nero is still pure instinct in a fight. He doesn't have the sword to strike them down, doesn't have the time to warn Geralt --
So he just moves in front of them. One. Two-three. Three of the shards of ice embedding into his chest in a quick rhythm as he hisses a fuck from between his clenched teeth. Blood dribbles down his (now even more hole-filled) coat to mix with the last frost's blood. He's pretty sure one of them went straight through.
That really does not feel. Healthy.] Ow. That's cold. [His voice echoes out of a demonic mouth, until the trigger falls through and his body turns back to its human form. Oh. Great timing.]