Sleuth wrinkles his nose. "That's a gist, I guess. And...not anything. I mean it ain't exactly voluntary. Don't want my cornflakes turnin' to buckshot in my throat like a crazed fuckin' Midas. Don't ask me about the finer mechanics, I got no clue."

He walks along the table until something catches his eye. "Haha! Would you look at that? I had one just like this, not too long ago."

He plucks up a feathered quill from where a quiver of them sit in an inkpot, then stumbles forward a couple steps at the sudden weight of the broadsword in his hands.