No one's going to buy this off of me. And I don't know that it'd survive hitting anything.

[Therion draws the sword to show him. Every spot of rust on the blade has been sandpapered away by a meticulous, dexterous hand; the cutting edge sharpened; the metal refinished with something that still smells faintly of honey; but the scars and pitting from years of neglect remain.]

Did my best, but beeswax and linseed oil don't work miracles. Figured it'd get me one good swing if worse came to worst. ...Anyway, if the kid it belonged to really is dead, you can bury it. But you never know. He might need it one day.