Geralt dropped the harpy, twitching but braindead, and turned to Bull again to see he'd cleaned the field with the sword, using an armspan Geralt could only envy. A witcher sword was light, true, but razor-honed.

Geralt looked away for a moment, panting strangely. His body was made to fiht more viciously and frenziedly the longer he fought. It was only age and experience that kept him from simply turning that frustrated energy on his ally, a skill younger witchers, like Lambert, usually hadn't fully managed.

"Nice downswing. Try not to break it next time, though. I'm poor."