"Not today," he says, because the idea of Gideon and Camilla going after each other with swords does sound worthy of spectating. He's pretty sure Gideon would be dead meat in that matchup, but that's mostly because Cam is ballsy enough to draw on God and not even let her hand shake. "Here we go."

John emerges with a sheathed blade clasped in his hands. The scabbard is something he found at the general store, bulky and generic in cheap leather. There are rhinestones; it's not great. But the hilt emerging from the top is a beautiful sweep of black steel around supple dark leather, every curve precise.

He draws. The blade is dark and glossy, and sits easy in his hand, for all that he holds it like a total amateur. John sets the ugly scabbard aside and hefts its weight.

"To tell the truth," he murmurs, voice dropped low, "I've been keeping this in hopes someone would come along to wield it." He lifts his eyes from the sword to Gideon, and for a moment seems to assess her: the way she holds herself, the wary slant of her mouth. The eyes. He always comes back to the eyes. "This is not a safe or gentle world, and I find myself without a cavalier."

He lays the blade across his open palms, offered out.

"If you agree to raise this in my defense, should I need defending... we'll find ample opportunity for you to use it." She does not yet comprehend what she's dealing with. Not what's coming for them, or what it means to have God in her corner. "And I'll be at your back, should you have need of spooky necro shit. Fair?"