Arngeirr watches with bated breath.  He hopes, he prays to every god of the Hugelands, that his friend it not harmed.  What wonders could this item hold?  Was terrors?  How could he anticipate anything that was to happen next?  And beneath his excitement and his anxiousness, a small part of him wondered, was this right?  Not only was it right to put Korsarro through this, but was it right to do this at all?  His father had always made a point to let little Arngeirr - for he had not always been huge - know that the box was never to be opened, and the contents inside were never to be touched, or terrible things would happen?<br/><br/><i>As Korsarro dons the sash and ties it in place, he feels something strange in the back of his head.  The prickling of hairs down his back, the sensation of a gentle breeze, though surely none could pass through his isolated chamber.  For a moment he wonders if the breeze is something else, something </i>watching<i> him.  Could it be the sash?  The ancient demon whose essence was supposedly bound to the item?  Observing him.  Judging him.  Looking at him.  Or perhaps it was all just paranoia, pent up agitation at the days events mixed with guilt for his failures and the desperate plea to not be reduced to some gibbering monster-<br/>
<br/>
Then all at once it is gone.  The sensation lifts, leaving him to wonder if it was ever really there, or if it truly was just a figment of his imagination.  All that remains is lurking worry, an uncharacteristic concern about his height.  Arngeirr was huge - Korsarro was certainly not.  For some strange reason the thought latched itself onto his mind, nagging at him incessantly.  Then it too was gone.<br/>
<br/>
The room was silent.</i>