You and Ianthe knelt to fix the containers at his instruction. You reluctantly melted the comb of bone attaching your sword to your straining arm. As an afterthought, you did what you had been told to in the letter from your past self: you iced the whole blade over with a casing of bone, and found the result significantly more pleasing to the eye and brain. You could never castrate its anger, but thus sheathed, the sword—that object of your resentment, and hate, and protective panic—could be dimmed somewhat, like a lampshade dimmed a lamp.

Harrow the Ninth - Act One, Chapter Six