As you pick the sword up, wrapping your hand around the grip, you feel a soft sigh run through you. It is a sensation of satisfaction which seems to come from the sword itself. It’s not as heavy as you had imagined it would be, and it feels good in your hand, perfectly weighted so the blade is not dragging your arm down.
This is obviously not Academy issued. This is very, very old. Older than the colonies themselves, maybe. This looks like something that might have been made back on the original Earth. If it is, that means it is worth millions. So why does Terra have it in a tent in the middle of nowhere? And why does it feel so perfect in your hand?
Before you know it, you find yourself wandering away from the camp, swinging the sword, admiring how it arcs through the air with a singing sound which thrills you to the very core of your being.
You hear the word inside your head. It isn’t quite your thought. But swords don’t have thoughts, do they? No. Of course not. That would be superstitious. This is a very beautiful weapon and simply holding it makes you feel better about everything. Your experiences with Terra and the others have left you feeling like the weakest link, but with this sword in your hand, you feel strong. You feel capable of almost anything.
There is a little track forming where Henry Jennry, Sarah, Boris, Terra and Sarah again all walked the same way. You can probably follow it quite easily if you pay attention. But should you?
By the time you’ve finished thinking about it, you’re halfway down the mountain. The sword is such a pleasant distraction, you can barely stop admiring it even as your feet move. You should probably put it away, but there’s no scabbard and that means there’s nowhere to hold it besides in your hand. This is a sword which likes to breathe, you can tell.
A sudden shriek in the distance drags your attention away from the weapon. That’s Henry Jennry’s voice, you’d know that nasal high pitched whine cry anywhere. You break into a run, come crashing through the bushes and find yourself at the top of a ten foot bluff overlooking a small camp where Boris, Sarah and Terra are standing surrounded by two dozen people wearing clothing they almost certainly dyed themselves. They are brandishing weapons, sharpened stakes of wood.
Before you know what you’re doing, you’re hurtling off the bluff, sword drawn high above your head as you emit a war cry which sends a shiver even through your bones. Jennry’s followers look up at your falling form then scatter into the forest. They’re not so brave when a screaming lady with a big sword falls on them. You descend heavily to the ground with a heavy impact which sends a painful jolt through your body.
You stagger up, sword still in hand and find yourself looking into the eyes of Nina Terra. There’s pure fury written there, and it’s directed entirely at you. You find yourself retreating under the force of it, her expression chilling you to your core.
“Let it go,” she growls. “Now.”