Fergon and Pamilva stood with mouths agape. The dwarf was sweating profusely even despite of the cool air that now occupied the room. Pamilva gripped the hilt of her sword tightly, readying to draw in the event of a fight.
Zeal had walked behind me, followed still by the crates and bucket. Only one of the crates still had any sort of seafood. But the little one cared not for the food, at least for the moment.
She looked scared. The voice emanating from the sword had unnerved her even though she was, technically, its master.
The little one found comfort in my presence. Her little hands gripped at my pants. I was tempted to hoist her up and place her on my shoulders again, but doing so may impair my ability to defend her and everyone else.
That said, the sword posed little direct threat to me. If need be, a simple attack spell could either expel the spirit spirit the sword or outright shatter it.
