[b]Mallaidh
[/b]

Safe? Mallaidh did not trust the sword with anyone but her blood, and even that had proven unwise in the past. Anger flushed her cheeks and the urge to add a bruised and broken nose to Rozalind’s medley of burns and blisters was so overwhelming that Mallaidh physically hurt from the effort restraining herself. It might have been noted in the clenching of her fists, or the long, hissing sigh and the extended, tight blink.

[i]She is a host in this world, an Otherworlder. Treating a child of Danu to your fist would not be wise. Check your Anger.[/i]

Others responded, curiously the dog, but Mallaidh was still too heated to be impressed.

Then the regimental man, Wolfe, spoke up about her sword, and accused it of use in a heinous black act, and of being ‘wrong’.

“You held [b][i]a[/i][/b] sword,” Mallaidh corrected, hers brows almost knitting together over the green flames of her eyes. “You can’t be so certain that it was mine.”

However, when Rozalind also supported Wolfe’s assertion, the floor of her anger fell away, leaving just an oily sick feeling swimming inside her. She ran a distressed hand through her wavy locks of beaten copper. How could she refute the divinations of the Tuantha De? She gawped at the screen, at Fragarach, wondering how its majesty had fallen into the hands of such foul vermin that would use it to end the life of a defenceless sacrifice. It should be swung in glorious and bloody combat, not used for some cowardly murder. 

The monk had returned, and the conversation turned to magic, the dragon, the question of any surviving cultists and a missing team. It all went over Mallaidh’s head, not that she made a terrible effort to understand any of it; she had much more pressing concerns. 

“So if the sword is important, should I not be allowed to see it, and confirm that it is truly mine, and the one used for-” she didn’t even like thinking about it. “To confirm it is the sword we all think it is. I might have some information about it that is valuable.”