They weren’t gone long before Kre started to imagine all the ways in which this whole thing could go wrong. Aside from the obvious one where any one of them could get caught out of doors after hours, which would have serious unknown repercussions, there were at least a dozen others that started to fog Kre’s head in doubt and panic.
“Now would be a good time to talk,” Kre whispered to the dark room around him. He intended the statement to be internal only, to the voice lurking in the back of his mind, but he felt better saying it aloud and using it as a way to push back against the darkness.
“I know you’re there,” he said again, still whispering but with more confidence in his voice. “I don’t know why you won’t answer, but I’m not going to hurt you… me.” He wasn’t sure about that last bit. He meant it to sound reassuring, but the idea that he could even hurt something in his head was too odd to consider. Doing harm to that disembodied voice would only result in harm to himself, which he was strictly against.
‘Not disembodied,’ he corrected himself. ‘It’s in my body, but I just don’t know how to reach it.’
He thought back to when the voice returned, when he and Beleg were about to place hands on the great sword named Cormordean. It had warned him then of the potential vileness of that particular blade from the Ancient’s vaults.
“Maybe,” he thought, looking over at where Beleg’s twin swords were resting on the cabinet. They had all deemed it too dangerous to walk about after hours with the Master’s property as if stealing it so they had elected to leave it behind and Beleg went with the blades he could easily hide on his person. No one could fault a warrior that privilege, especially in a place like Yahaestra, and especially when a considerable amount of money could be on the line for his continued good health.
Kre placed his hand above one of the twin swords and could already feel the warmth from it. It wasn’t the normal warmth after prolonged use, when the metal and leather rose up to body temperature, but rather this was more of a radiant heat such as what a loaf of freshly baked bread might give off.
Soothing.
Comforting.
Enticing.
Recalling his past dealing with the voice in his head, Kre took a deep breath and called the spirit by name as he placed a hand on the weapon that it possibly bore a historical connection to. “Tralagar,” came the whisper from his lips as his fingers instinctively curled about the sword’s all too familiar hilt.
He felt the same rush that he experienced when he first took the blades in hand back in the selection room. Without realizing it, the other sword had somehow made its way into his left hand and he recalled how strangely weightless they were despite Beleg’s claim that they were too bulky for dual wielding.
Kre gave them a few practice swings and soon found himself dancing about the room as if he were a master gladiator. As he spun around to parry his imaginary foe’s blow, he realized that the door was open and the shadow of a massive figure blocked most of the light from the hall.
“Beleg?” he asked. “Did everything go all right?”
The figure took a step in and slowly closed the door behind him. “Now why,” rumbled Barry’s deep voice, “would you be looking for that slug. That little goodie two shoes wouldn’t be breaking curfew, now would he?”