Oooh, Shiny!
The metal/not-metal feels cold and warm and oh-so-right in my hands. Something primal calls out to me, to my heart, raises every hair along my arms and neck and sends shivers down my spine. Begs me to keep it. Hold it. Caress it. Worship it. Love it. Love...
Hate...
Hate her. Take it up, slice her in half, laugh as top separates from bottom in a scarlet spray.
It tells me to go through the little girls that nearly got me killed like a whirlwind of righteousness, the blade singing through the air. It screams for blood.
I want the rusted can taste in my mouth. Want the feel of living flesh yielding to the pointed wood end as easily as a vamp does. Want the stench of spilled guts to blot out all trace of oiled metal.
It's right. It's mine. It says so. I want to listen.
I'm not sure I'm strong enough to wield it.
I know Faith isn't.