[@pathfinder]
From the depths of the quiet, darkened temple sat in contemplation a woman, resting against her own spear as she listened to the words of the cursing soldier. He'd spoken to her, time time again and admittedly in all the years she'd not truly answered. It was all a part of the strategy. The sickened soldier began to cry, and a twinge shot through her as if a lance had sliced through her. It was finally time. For any great blacksmith or even a simpleton could tell you whence you asked that a forge is made not from softness and loving it, it is burned in a forge and beaten until black and sharp.

The woman walked toward Anistasius,  and she watched him try to stand. From under his weight the spear aged through battle and years had finally snapped. The resounding crack echoed through the temple, followed by weak hacks from the soldier. Athena reached down and gripped at his arm, dragging him to stand and face her propperly.

"Here, use mine," Athena quietly offered, holding out her own impeccable spear. "You have many questions, and I have a few answers, Anistasius." Athena held out her hand in a cupping fashion, her grey eyes boring into Anistasius' s face, not flinching away. He'd never be this way again. "Cough once more, you'll be well."