The demonic sword huffed as it floated lazily in the cabin air, circling Luther like a bored cat eyeing its disinterested owner. Its crimson form flickered faintly on the blade's guard, pulsing in rhythm with its irritated tone.
"Are you done staring at that shiny rock," it drawled, "or should I start counting how many times you blink?"
Luther didn't even look up. Sitting cross-legged on his bed, he studied the black crystal on the table, its surface gleaming faintly under the oil lamp's golden light. It pulsed like a slow heartbeat, soft, steady, and wrong.
"Doesn't it look strange to you?" he muttered.
The sword gave an exaggerated groan. "Strange? You mean aside from the fact that it's black, hums like a cursed lullaby, and probably ate half a town's souls for dessert? No, looks perfectly normal to me. A fine centerpiece for any psychopath's dining room."
Luther rubbed his temples, muttering under his breath, I should've thrown you into the ocean when I had the chance.
