The weapon is thrust further in to his grip but at the cost of pain - the nails bite through layers of fabric to puncture the flesh of his shoulder and Gannicus hisses through the pain. He takes it because it's worth it - he works his grip tighter on both the wrist and the wood in each hands and forcefully wrenches the two apart with a grunt of effort. The nails tear free from his flesh, taking with it blood and strands of fabric. It's an unfamiliar weight in his hand - nowhere near as light or as balanced as a sword - but he neatly reverses his grip on the plank so it was now his to swing as he liked.