Two blades crash together with a piercing clang, one that would make any regular person cringe and force their teeth to go numb. But not Geralt -- he had been doing this entire life.
A little swordplay wouldn't hurt him one bit.
Though to be frank, the witcher was very surprised by the stranger jumping from foot to foot in front of him, attempting their best to parry or at least dodge and block his attacks. A rapier wasn't a lot versus a steel, double-edged sword; as well as he certainly had more experience than his opponent. But, he had to admit, the fighter was quite skillful and agile with their lighter weapon, and he was quite surprised, yes, quite surprised indeed by just how much of a fight they had managed to put up and how their energy drained slower than a regular opponent's.
His mind preoccupied with deciphering who could be behind that mask and hood, he executes a half pirouette. He brings his sword above him at lightning speed with the hopes of catching his opponent off guard, but at the same time knowing what would come next if he had the right assumption of the stranger's identity.
They, seemingly having expected the move, dodge and pivot on their left foot to stand behind Geralt. Taking their rapier blade in their other hand and pushing the blade lightly against the witcher's throat, the thin steel hovers on his skin in warning of what could come next.
How the infamous Rivian reacts surprises his opponent greatly: he lets out a low chuckle, gently pushing the rapier away from his throat. They jump back in anticipation of any further attacks, weapon at the ready.
"I knew you weren't aiming to kill," he elucidates, bringing his steel sword over his shoulder and fixing it in place, letting his arms hang loosely by his sides in a relaxed and trusting manner. The stranger effectively puts their rapier at their side before taking a step closer.
"Is there a single person in this forsaken world who wouldn't want to?" The stranger's voice was at such a pitch where it was impossible to determine whether it belonged to a man or a woman, but Geralt only noticed the honey-smooth, mellow texture of every venomous word they pronounce.
"Hard to agree with the latter."
His lips curl into a half-smile and he takes a confident stride forwards. Lifting one of his gloved hands towards the stranger's scarred and battered face mask, he pulls it down and smiles upon seeing the painfully familiar turned-up nose, small yet colorless lips, and defined, heart-shaped jawline.
"I knew it," he says simply, as if talking to no one but himself. His opponent's lips tweak upwards, and she softens her voice back into it's natural high a alluring pitch, returning its almost nonexistent Nilfgaardian accent.
"Of course you did. After all, you were the one to teach me that move. I was only trying to make it more obvious, in case your old age has crept up here and affected your memory too," she replies in a joking tone, pointing both fingers at her head with one at each temple.
"Don't be overzealous, Lucja, I'm only two hundred years old."
"Give or take a century." She adds with a small shrug to her left, almost mumbling her comment through her teeth; but her companion hears it as if she was speaking clear as day, and he smiles in amusement.
"So what brings you back here?" He asks, remembering that he hadn't seen her in several decades for a reason.
"You."
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Promise | Geralt Of Rivia
Fanfiction"Nobody cared as to who I had been or who I wanted to become...people only saw me for how my hand could balance a blade. I had no choice Geralt. I became a monster."
