Ah, Sephiroth. [ Martin says, tone clipped. ] They aren't that long, usually. [ Dryly. ] He might be overcompensating for something.

You really are a Breton. [ The swordsman in Martin knows better than to touch someone else's sword without reverence. He holds onto the hilt with care and respect, twisting his wrist to get a better look at the blade itself. ] I'm sure you'll do fine, D'Artagnan. I'm no star pupil—I ended up bruised and ashamed more times than I can count.

Well then. [ With mock seriousness, he taps D'Artagnan's left, then right shoulder with the tip of the blade, flames coursing down its length. Once the impromptu knighting ceremony is done, fire surrounds D'Artagnan's body and his weapon, yet does not burn either of them. ] May the fires of Akatosh keep you warm, Sir D'Artagnan.