The blow rings across Lucifer's face and he is slightly surprised that it's strong enough to turn his head. There is blood on the vessel's lip where it's been split, a smear of bright red across his chin rough with a perpetual day's worth of stubble; the injury seals itself up smoothly, like pulling a zipper, and he doesn't bother to get rid of the blood.

"Interesting," he says, the taste of copper on his tongue. "Allow me to retort."

His Grace surges up and lashes out in a telekinetic blow; in the close quarters of the woods, trees surround them on almost all sides. There is little room to be had that doesn't involve heading towards a thick trunk.