You notice a sword on the rough stone ground, its dull metal blade and worn leather grip causing you to dismiss it as you walk by. Then a faint glint catches your eye, as if some innate source of power on the verge of depletion radiates out of the sword. You turn, curious, picking it up with both hands. The blade nicks one palm, and as you smell the metallic scent of your own blood, you suddenly realize the edge is now whetted and the leather bindings of the grip are now tight and dark, as if freshly made. In your head, a voice echoes. “… Mine…”
