![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
stream of whatever #5
Maria walked into the corner of her study and searched.
"Nope, wait, where is it, CD rack, coat, AAA! spider, ... here we go." She fished it out.
It picked up the moonlight from the window. It was the sword handed down to her from her ancestors - well, okay, her grandparents bought it off EBay for $50 and gave it to her last Christmas. Miraculously, however, it was actually a decent weapon, and felt just right in her hand.
It was a Viking sword, though the hilt and scabbard were more stylized for twenty-first century tastes, and was refitted with a carbon-fiber hilt that made the whole thing just a bit heavier towards the tip. The blade itself was sharper than a razor, enough for even an amateur to cut a clean, even strip all the way around a slab of beef on a gyro spit. Peculiar circumstances had dictated that that be the first thing she tried.
Maria had been quick to recognize the signature on the ricasso. It was a local smith, a hobbyist she'd met at work. It was odd, though, how he'd just struck up a conversation like that: as a member of the cleaning staff, patrons tended to ignore or even look right through her as they passed. Oftentimes she'd see friends and classmates who didn't recognize her at all. All that aside, the guy's work was simply brilliant, and Maria often wondered why on earth the guy on EBay sold the sword for so cheap. Its maker would've charged her seven times that after the friends' discount.
Did someone tell the seller the sword was bad somehow? Did he have awful luck with it and conclude it was cursed? Did he become a pacifist for religious reasons, deciding to practically give away all the symbols of his old and violent ways? Did he just forget to add a zero? If that, why did he sell it anyway? And how did the sword get all the way to Iraq in the first place?
But, alas, as it had been every other time, those questions would have to be answered some other day. Maria drew the sword from its scabbard, which she threw onto the chair for now. The blade looked unsettlingly white as it passed by the window.
And now to deal with that thing downstairs...
"Nope, wait, where is it, CD rack, coat, AAA! spider, ... here we go." She fished it out.
It picked up the moonlight from the window. It was the sword handed down to her from her ancestors - well, okay, her grandparents bought it off EBay for $50 and gave it to her last Christmas. Miraculously, however, it was actually a decent weapon, and felt just right in her hand.
It was a Viking sword, though the hilt and scabbard were more stylized for twenty-first century tastes, and was refitted with a carbon-fiber hilt that made the whole thing just a bit heavier towards the tip. The blade itself was sharper than a razor, enough for even an amateur to cut a clean, even strip all the way around a slab of beef on a gyro spit. Peculiar circumstances had dictated that that be the first thing she tried.
Maria had been quick to recognize the signature on the ricasso. It was a local smith, a hobbyist she'd met at work. It was odd, though, how he'd just struck up a conversation like that: as a member of the cleaning staff, patrons tended to ignore or even look right through her as they passed. Oftentimes she'd see friends and classmates who didn't recognize her at all. All that aside, the guy's work was simply brilliant, and Maria often wondered why on earth the guy on EBay sold the sword for so cheap. Its maker would've charged her seven times that after the friends' discount.
Did someone tell the seller the sword was bad somehow? Did he have awful luck with it and conclude it was cursed? Did he become a pacifist for religious reasons, deciding to practically give away all the symbols of his old and violent ways? Did he just forget to add a zero? If that, why did he sell it anyway? And how did the sword get all the way to Iraq in the first place?
But, alas, as it had been every other time, those questions would have to be answered some other day. Maria drew the sword from its scabbard, which she threw onto the chair for now. The blade looked unsettlingly white as it passed by the window.
And now to deal with that thing downstairs...