His scythe— Requiem.
Its long, matte-black handle was sleek, it's handle extremely cold in his palm. As he drew it out, he felt a chill travel through his spine. The blade was housed in a metal sheath. With a soft motion, he unsheathed it—and the moment he did, a sharp shhhhhrip echoed in the small dressing room, the sound of air being cut. The edge shimmered faintly, so sharp it hurt to look at.
"Wow," he whispered.
He gave it a few experimental swings, testing its weight and balance—it felt like it was made for him. Then, as if guided by instinct, he found the chain mechanism and noticed the silver bracelet it was attached to. Slipping it on, he channeled a tiny pulse of Aether—and the chain connecting the scythe to the bracelet in his wrist vanished as if it was never they to begin with.
He kept the scythe carefully back to it box then turned to the last two boxes.
