"ACHOO!"
The sneeze echoed like a trumpet blast inside the cramped merchant carriage. Luther groaned and rubbed his nose, eyes squinting as the cloud of road dust swirled through the air. The wooden wheels clattered against uneven stones, each bump threatening to throw him face-first into the opposite wall.
"Bless you," the sword muttered dryly from beneath the black cloth tied around its scabbard. "Though maybe next time you could sneeze quieter—some of us are trying to maintain our dignity."
Luther shot the weapon a deadpan look. "You're a sword. You don't have dignity."
"Oh, says the saint who uses me as a footrest," the sword sniped back as it vibrated.
