From deep within Arthfael's mind feminine laughter rolls up, reverberating through his mind. The laughter is deep, resonant, and feminine--caressing his mind--and at the same time flaying it.<strong>"You may try, little devil--but I have always been the wielder."</strong>Here, the beautiful katana's golden guard flares and the barbs bury into his arm--connecting to the bone therein--grafting to Arthfael's arm.<br/><br/><strong>"None have ever been my master."</strong><br/><br/>The Time Dragon's wings fall with a loud flapping that sends ash from the great battle spiraling in all directions<strong>"Ahhhhhh you are quite young, a thousand years is young as the planes and Gods measure time . . . I will leave you with this--beware who you trust and who you call friend--be even more wary of those you name enemy. You are not the first of you king and you shan't be the last, dark one, few of your predecessors lived long, as the planes and Gods measure their time--all of them were very nearly peerless in battle--but all of them chose their friends and foes poorly."</strong><br/><br/>Without another word the Dragon and the Gray maelstrom contract and disperse--and time resumes its tread.