"What a rude little wench!" The sword cries under my grip, the weight of its words stinging through my palm. "Honestly Demon King, thee leaveth me to grossly rot and stagnate f'r one thousand years and then thee introduceth me to this wench? The lady almost did drop me! No lest does she have a foul mouth!" the sword exclaims with a surprising amount of anger, considering it is an inanimate object. Such a coldness lies within that rusted voice that one might assume that with just words alone this sword could freeze over half the landscape with just a single sentence. And it calls me rude!
But worse than the words and that insufferable, medieval tongue that it speaks in is the biting pain that zaps at my hand where it is in contact with the sword, as though it personally wants to cause me as much discomfort as possible. Considering I have only just met this sword, I would say that our first introductions aren't going as swimmingly as planned.
