"Ah, right, you may not know." Prophet clears his throat and pulls out his sword to show Creon. It's easy to see that although the half-orc has lean, corded muscle, he has some trouble wielding the massive blade. "This ain't just a hunk of good cold iron here, it's a relic of my tribe back in the Hold. I've got a few others, too, I gathered them up from where they were gathering dust when I was a kid. They... called to me, I guess you'd say. And I learned to call back. So with a little time and effort, I welcome the spirits of the past to give me strength."
He shrugs and slides the sword back away with only a little awkward jostling. "The battle-minded spirit is the one I'm closest to, and summoning it is sort of like working myself into a battle rage, gives me strength and clarity, but it lasts longer. Try telling that to the warchiefs, though, see what happens." He snorts derisively and folds his arms. "Point is, I'm a lot better in a fight if I have time to prepare."