At last, the spell breaks -- or cracks a bit, at least. Alistair huffs a more fully-formed laugh, and shifts the sword in his grip so he can tap a fist to his chest.
"Ser yes ser." Smiling. "Let's see, then -- "
He draws the scabbard away: cautious, still, but less like the sword's going to spring from his grip and stab him for his audacity to hold it. Lightly, Alistair skims his finger over a patch of scrollwork near the hilt. He touches the same fingertip to the side of the blade; when it comes back with little more than a dent in his skin, he mutters, "Definitely needs a whetstone."
But hardly any rust. Cailan was likely the last to hold it, and being as vainglorious as he was, Alistair's brother seems to have taken pains to keep his great-great-however-many-greats-grandfather's sword looking well. If it's not quite functional...well. On principle, Alistair should take care of that, even if it just ends up mounted over the fireplace in his and Cullen's theoretical home.
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"Ser yes ser." Smiling. "Let's see, then -- "
He draws the scabbard away: cautious, still, but less like the sword's going to spring from his grip and stab him for his audacity to hold it. Lightly, Alistair skims his finger over a patch of scrollwork near the hilt. He touches the same fingertip to the side of the blade; when it comes back with little more than a dent in his skin, he mutters, "Definitely needs a whetstone."
But hardly any rust. Cailan was likely the last to hold it, and being as vainglorious as he was, Alistair's brother seems to have taken pains to keep his great-great-however-many-greats-grandfather's sword looking well. If it's not quite functional...well. On principle, Alistair should take care of that, even if it just ends up mounted over the fireplace in his and Cullen's theoretical home.