"C'mon, go to sleep..." he muttered, trying to soothe you.

It's been about 30 minutes now, Sword's been trying to put you, a young baby, to sleep. His father (Venomshank, deity of the undead) had assigned him to help with this, with no given reason other than "practice for life".

He groaned, getting a small headache from the amount of crying you were doing. What did you need? Food? Attention? More comfort? It baffled him how much work babies were.

Sword continued to rock you back and forth, the continous motion making even his shoulders hurt.