Wishbones and Candycanes!
Swords are awesome! Heck, that statement is practically a tautology to some of us. Sword. Awesome. This is an essential reality - an assumption ubiquitous in modern fantasy (and masculinity). These things can do anything from binding legions of the undead to cutting bullets in half.
When my first sword arrived some four years ago, I was an odd fuss of erstwhile and giddy: part of me wanted to greet the occasion with the gravity which popular fiction had led me to believe appropriate, while the rest of me wanted to go cut shit and look awesome doing it... because I HAD A SWORD! (I was clearly on top of the world. Clearly.)
The first blade of that sword has since been converted into nifty little bookmarks, the second into a horseshoe, and the third is currently asking me to look the other way while it develops a nasty S-curve. But the guard, handle, and pommel remain: worn, weathered, stout, and beautiful. No matter the blade to which they're fitted, the ensemble has the same feel: it's my sword.
It still needs a name, my sword (some folks do that, oddly enough). I haven't had the need or presence of mind to give it one yet. Most ideas just sound over the top cheesy: "Oh wait, let me grab Connatus!" or "yeah, but I was parrying with Slither." Don't get me wrong, I have more attachment than to think of it as just another tool, but I didn't hesitate for a second before wrenching (literally, with that tool) the forward quillion into a more pleasing arrangement. And where others would spend hours with penetrating oil and steel wool, I tend to skip to medium grit sandpaper and a steel brush.
It's just a very personal tool. No. No, that would be my penis. This is different! (but I can see where feminist critics get off in harassing fantasy writers about sword worship now...).
Anywho... I had the chance to play with several friends' swords, yesterday. Each had some interesting qualities that were good, bad, or ... the stuff of 'character'. I naturally lost a few fights while I got the hang of each blade, but some iffy fights became insurmountable. My mental previews and plans were vague or blank. Too many variables, probably.
For me, that's the relationship I have with my sword: I may not be any better or worse with my own setup, but with my finger wrapped over that dented guard, I can see my way through a fight before the fight. I win almost every time (... in my head). In the middle of the fight, I also know what I have to work with.
Four years. Three blades. Two pommels. And - as of last night - one handle.
When my first sword arrived some four years ago, I was an odd fuss of erstwhile and giddy: part of me wanted to greet the occasion with the gravity which popular fiction had led me to believe appropriate, while the rest of me wanted to go cut shit and look awesome doing it... because I HAD A SWORD! (I was clearly on top of the world. Clearly.)
The first blade of that sword has since been converted into nifty little bookmarks, the second into a horseshoe, and the third is currently asking me to look the other way while it develops a nasty S-curve. But the guard, handle, and pommel remain: worn, weathered, stout, and beautiful. No matter the blade to which they're fitted, the ensemble has the same feel: it's my sword.
It still needs a name, my sword (some folks do that, oddly enough). I haven't had the need or presence of mind to give it one yet. Most ideas just sound over the top cheesy: "Oh wait, let me grab Connatus!" or "yeah, but I was parrying with Slither." Don't get me wrong, I have more attachment than to think of it as just another tool, but I didn't hesitate for a second before wrenching (literally, with that tool) the forward quillion into a more pleasing arrangement. And where others would spend hours with penetrating oil and steel wool, I tend to skip to medium grit sandpaper and a steel brush.
It's just a very personal tool. No. No, that would be my penis. This is different! (but I can see where feminist critics get off in harassing fantasy writers about sword worship now...).
Anywho... I had the chance to play with several friends' swords, yesterday. Each had some interesting qualities that were good, bad, or ... the stuff of 'character'. I naturally lost a few fights while I got the hang of each blade, but some iffy fights became insurmountable. My mental previews and plans were vague or blank. Too many variables, probably.
For me, that's the relationship I have with my sword: I may not be any better or worse with my own setup, but with my finger wrapped over that dented guard, I can see my way through a fight before the fight. I win almost every time (... in my head). In the middle of the fight, I also know what I have to work with.
Four years. Three blades. Two pommels. And - as of last night - one handle.