senses huntsman spears

I had picked up one of their black metal spears. They felt cold and greasy to the touch, and just holding one made my joints ache a little. They quivered with a kind of stone-flake, primitive enchantment that had been shaped into them with hours of throbbing drumbeat and primal screams. “Some kind of iron alloy. I think the damned thing runs on hate. That’s how you shoot it. You’ve just got to hate hard enough.”
“Seems about right,” River Shoulders rumbled. He had one hand wrapped around my forearm, my entire freaking forearm, gently. The other was braced against my chest—my entire chest. “Okay, on three. One,” he said, and he put my arm back into its socket.

Battle Ground Chapter 10, Page 97