A note concerning swords

The sword could easily be described as sinister. Five feet long, single edged with a slight curve in the eastern style, its blade was forged of a metal black like a beetle’s shell. The guard and pommel cap were crafted from pristine bone, delicate and ivory in color, and the grip wrapped in smooth leather the creamy white of a maiden’s skin. A menacing blade indeed. Beside it was an exquisite scabbard, fashioned from the same fine bone as the guard and pommel. Linked to the scabbard by a slender chain was a jade and shell comb. If such a sword were to make a sound, one would expect the gnashing of demons or the lamentations of its victims, certainly not the whimpering pain and broken sobs of a young woman. At the time, the blade and its scabbard lay upon a woman’s colorful festival kimono, which was also at odds with the weapon’s apparent demeanor.

The warrior pulled out a battered flute and clean, bright notes filled the night air. The tune was poignant, defined by the carefree and idyllic character of youth. It was a song written by the only son of a village smith for the youngest daughter of the apothecary. Though the warrior played with a practiced ease, the song lost nothing in the playing. As the last notes reverberated through the air the crying from the blade had ceased.