"Preparing," he said. He pulled out tiny vial of clear liquid.
"Step back." He dd not take chances with the poison. It was far too potent. A residue of it on your finger, that finger touching your lips, your tongue, would kill you. He'd never harmed anyone through carelessness and would not do so now.
He pulled the glaive over to wear he sat. After upturning the vial he pulled the cork out, now with a slight sheen of the thin liquid coating it. Holding the dry end, he coated the edge of the blade in poison—invisible, deadly.
"Don't touch this," he said. He leaned it in a corner well out of the way. In a few minutes, after it had dried thoroughly, he would secure the blade in its cover.