There's a nasty part of Lucifer's mind, weighed down by the side of Sannleikr that he loathes, that wants Geralt to carve up every piece of this vessel. As if that will finally allow him freedom from this shell, wings pulling out of a cocoon like an insect. Maybe, maybe if enough is torn apart he'll just be archangel once more.
He would even hedge a bet that this unclean beast could hold his form, though with how he isn't too chatty means getting a 'yes' out of him would be next-to impossible.
It's a pipe dream, anyway, as Geralt's sword tears a fresh wound across his upper chest instead of his neck--Lucifer bending his spine back uncomfortably--revealing just a brief shine of holy before blood pours free. He sidles around Geralt like a snake, always keeping out of grasping range, clearly unbothered by the sword and any marring of his vessel, but careful of anything else.
He holds up his knife and licks a bit of Geralt's collected blood from it before spitting it back out in disgust.
"Still don't know what you are, interesting. Shame I took away all your bark." He sighs. "It really makes this too boring."
He draws on his power in a way that he hasn't done not even once in Abraxas, though saving Wilhelm in the Hunting Grounds came close. The corridor fills with an unnatural light, the bend of his wingspan silhouetted along the chamber's walls, his eyes firelight. He wanted to draw this out. Get in a good ol' fashion scuffle. But one-sided conversation? Oh come on, he needs more engagement than something salivating for his blood. The dead dog on the floor may've been a chattier opponent, what did he know?
He closes the distance for what he intends as the last time, channeling the flare of his power and dumping it into his age-old thermokinesis to grasp the sword once more and burn through the blade until it's impossible to touch and melts it down to nothing.
no subject
He would even hedge a bet that this unclean beast could hold his form, though with how he isn't too chatty means getting a 'yes' out of him would be next-to impossible.
It's a pipe dream, anyway, as Geralt's sword tears a fresh wound across his upper chest instead of his neck--Lucifer bending his spine back uncomfortably--revealing just a brief shine of holy before blood pours free. He sidles around Geralt like a snake, always keeping out of grasping range, clearly unbothered by the sword and any marring of his vessel, but careful of anything else.
He holds up his knife and licks a bit of Geralt's collected blood from it before spitting it back out in disgust.
"Still don't know what you are, interesting. Shame I took away all your bark." He sighs. "It really makes this too boring."
He draws on his power in a way that he hasn't done not even once in Abraxas, though saving Wilhelm in the Hunting Grounds came close. The corridor fills with an unnatural light, the bend of his wingspan silhouetted along the chamber's walls, his eyes firelight. He wanted to draw this out. Get in a good ol' fashion scuffle. But one-sided conversation? Oh come on, he needs more engagement than something salivating for his blood. The dead dog on the floor may've been a chattier opponent, what did he know?
He closes the distance for what he intends as the last time, channeling the flare of his power and dumping it into his age-old thermokinesis to grasp the sword once more and burn through the blade until it's impossible to touch and melts it down to nothing.