How incredibly curious! To think that a peasant militia would possess a man with a will strong enough to echo on even after your blade forced the tainted essence of the Defiler into his arcanovascular system. You smell not a wiff of righteous hypocrisy wafting off of his wiry, well muscled body, so he did not survive in truth. What stands before you is a reflection of his soul in a mirror, had his morality reflected your own.

Not quite as autonomous as those who turn upon receipt of your profane gift, but far moreso than the average revenant. As if you had created Clint purely on happenstance, rather than through deliberate measure.

Which is why you must ask him a certain question with your sword held at the ready. "Who do you serve?"

"Superbia. Avaritia. Luxuria. Invidia. Gula. Ira. Acedia," he intones the sins that spell your name with a hollow reverence. His blue eyes flicker like candles against the pitch black of his sclera. "These words were revealed to me as your essence rode roughshod over the soul that once inhabited this corpse, my lady. The sins and compromise of his contradictory existence drowned in the depths of your boundless, unshakable purity, and in death we are enlightened."

With those words, he drops to one knee before you. In his hands there appears a blade that could have been forged from the summer sky, woven of daydreams and the careless thoughts of mortal men who cannot help but sin. He thrusts it into the ground, hands clasped about the hilt as if in prayer.

"He thought the life of a sword to be a sinful thing, so he sought to bend it to a plowshare," the high-revenant says. "And when he found his efforts made for a mediocre tool, he left it to rust. Eyes clouded by the fog called ennui, the fool mistook peace for virtue. He allowed the mundanity of everyday life to hollow out his heart, praying that his true nature would wither like the desert peach in winter."

You look down on him with red eyes blazing with hellish light. That doesn't answer your question.

"No more. In death, the fool has received life anew. Thy effervescent purity hath sharpened an edge upon this rusted blade," he continues his soliloquy. You have absolutely no idea what the man is on about, but you try not to let it show on your face. "You, who see the world with eyes unclouded by doubt: this worthless blade is yours to wield as you see fit. Let the only rust upon it be the blood of thy enemies."

Silence hangs in the air for a brief moment.

Then it hits you, "You're the sword, aren't you?"

"Indeed I am, my lady," Martin replies. Is that amusement in his voice? The voice of a newborn revenant? You're not sure how you feel about that. "I, Martin Aurelion, am your blade, to wield as you see fit, against whomever you see fit."