Bree sat in her room, eyeing the sheathed scimitar in her lap. It was a fine weapon. Much better than her own. But it scared her.
The weapon had belonged to someone else before her. Someone powerful. Whoever that person was, their very will had become tied to the blade, investing it with a sort of sentience. Not a personality or a will of its own, simply an urge. A need to see its previous owners duties completed. Their goals achieved.
It no longer seeped memories or feelings into Bree’s consciousness and, if it began to again, Bree was certain she could control it. Still, she was cautious. What if the blade’s purpose clashed with her own?
She couldn’t recall much of the torrent of images and feelings the blade had assaulted her with, just fleeting emotions and impressions. They were like water, slipping through her fingers whenever she tried to grasp them. She did, however, have the strange feeling that the blade, Tempest, was meant for good. That it’s purpose coincided with her own. More importantly, she had the feeling that even though she was not its original owner, Tempest had been calling out to her. Waiting for her.
She smiled, having made up her mind, and drew the beautiful blade from its sheath. It filled her with a cool, calm feeling, diminishing the oppressive heat around her. A now familiar green mold crawled up her right arm as she held it and stopped at her elbow.
It belonged to her now. It was a part of her.
She replaced the sword in its sheath, strapped it around her waist, and left the Shrine to meet up with her comrades.
There was work to be done. Kelmarane was calling.