Post by ddhlee on Jun 30, 2006 23:26:44 GMT -5
A lonely blade rested hot against the corner of an anvil, its tips bled red heat. Naked, only its edge and a fragile-looking core of pure iron rested on it, branded with a hammered insignia of a serpentine claw: a dragon's claw.
The twin edge of the silvered blade bore a beautiful shine compared to its ugliest parts, especially against the warmth of the forge. As its body began to chill, its sharpness found focus and became a single entity: one weapon. A man picked it up, wrapped two pieces of wood against its naked core, and wrapped cord around the sandwiched iron before sticking a copper medallion into the end of the weapon. It was a footman's sword, but like all swords, it was still deathly ideal for combat, and that was what made it beautiful.
It rested on a shelf, alongside other weapons made like it with the hard hands of a forger's and the hot softness of the fire.<p>
As time would pass, the shelf never moved. Wars had came and wars had gone. Blades sometimes would be taken and replaced, but one sword always rested there with patience. In time, the swords began to be replaced with metal-bore muskets. Open barrels that held swords were replaced with closed metal barrels of black powder. The muskets left and were replaced, but the sword remained as it was and time moved as it did unyieldingly in the quiet room as wars began and ended, and the muskets found themselves replaced with the twined lock rifles.
One day, someone reached for a rifle and knocked the shelf. The sword clattered to the ground, dust of centuries knocked off of it. The man, like all others who had never realized such a thing existed, looked at the ancient craftsmanship with the eyes of an archaeologist. The sword went to another man, dressed not in armor but in colors pinstriped against his uniform. Surprise struck the man's face, to find something so old! The weapon was unsheathed for the first time before those looking on, and admired the beautiful double-edge sharpness that sheened the mustard lamplight. The blade soon found a home on the man's belt.
Two days later, the earth awoke to rumbling as men screamed to each other. Explosions rattled a gray world and the man with pinstripes wore the sword. Screaming to his men in a rally, he undid the blade for all to see as he yelled for formation, when a sniper's eye caught the blade's sheen and with a lone brass bullet, snapped the weapon into core and blade, and fell the weapon into the man's chest.
The twin edge of the silvered blade bore a beautiful shine compared to its ugliest parts, especially against the warmth of the forge. As its body began to chill, its sharpness found focus and became a single entity: one weapon. A man picked it up, wrapped two pieces of wood against its naked core, and wrapped cord around the sandwiched iron before sticking a copper medallion into the end of the weapon. It was a footman's sword, but like all swords, it was still deathly ideal for combat, and that was what made it beautiful.
It rested on a shelf, alongside other weapons made like it with the hard hands of a forger's and the hot softness of the fire.<p>
As time would pass, the shelf never moved. Wars had came and wars had gone. Blades sometimes would be taken and replaced, but one sword always rested there with patience. In time, the swords began to be replaced with metal-bore muskets. Open barrels that held swords were replaced with closed metal barrels of black powder. The muskets left and were replaced, but the sword remained as it was and time moved as it did unyieldingly in the quiet room as wars began and ended, and the muskets found themselves replaced with the twined lock rifles.
One day, someone reached for a rifle and knocked the shelf. The sword clattered to the ground, dust of centuries knocked off of it. The man, like all others who had never realized such a thing existed, looked at the ancient craftsmanship with the eyes of an archaeologist. The sword went to another man, dressed not in armor but in colors pinstriped against his uniform. Surprise struck the man's face, to find something so old! The weapon was unsheathed for the first time before those looking on, and admired the beautiful double-edge sharpness that sheened the mustard lamplight. The blade soon found a home on the man's belt.
Two days later, the earth awoke to rumbling as men screamed to each other. Explosions rattled a gray world and the man with pinstripes wore the sword. Screaming to his men in a rally, he undid the blade for all to see as he yelled for formation, when a sniper's eye caught the blade's sheen and with a lone brass bullet, snapped the weapon into core and blade, and fell the weapon into the man's chest.
