Alistair rests the sword in both hands, gingerly testing its weight. It's...exceptional. Easy to tell it's balanced near perfectly, even with the scabbard on. No telling what sort of condition the blade's in after so many generations --
-- Maker, as if he were actually planning to swing this bloody thing instead of burying it in a closet somewhere. Is he mad?
He unsheaths it a few inches just to see; immediately sheathes it again. The uncomfortable knot in his chest hasn't abated, but he's gripping the scabbard more firmly now, and the urge to fling the sword at Cullen's feet has puffed away like smoke.
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Alistair rests the sword in both hands, gingerly testing its weight. It's...exceptional. Easy to tell it's balanced near perfectly, even with the scabbard on. No telling what sort of condition the blade's in after so many generations --
-- Maker, as if he were actually planning to swing this bloody thing instead of burying it in a closet somewhere. Is he mad?
He unsheaths it a few inches just to see; immediately sheathes it again. The uncomfortable knot in his chest hasn't abated, but he's gripping the scabbard more firmly now, and the urge to fling the sword at Cullen's feet has puffed away like smoke.
"Thank you." Barely audible.
(He sounds like he means it.)