By DigitalSymbiote
You feel the whetstone sing across your body, each stroke sharpening you with purpose. Your witch's hands are gentle and steady, grasping you by the hilt and dragging the stone across your cutting edge.
Your soul croons in resonance with each sweep, your witch's motions honing more than just the metal of your body. Sweet sweet Purpose echoes into your mind with each stroke, every motion bringing you closer to being the perfect weapon for Her.
You shiver just slightly with each pass, and She smiles. Her voice sings your praises in rhythm to the whetstone; thanking you for your service, commending your performance. She speaks to you of the last time you were drawn, and the precision with which you cut down Her foes.
It fills you with something like warmth, something like love, something you feel echoed back from Her hand on your hilt.
You are Hers.
Her weapon.
Her Blade.
And when She next pulls you from your sheath, you will serve with Pride, just as you always have.