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Sword
Before I'm even taken out, you notice me. There is an elegant curve to the scabbard, the protective sheath in which I sleep. My case, made of plastic, with a covering of aqua-teal paint, recalls the designs of an older time, when things such as I were wrapped in wood. The scabbard in and of itself is enough to make you appreciate the craft of making me.
Above the scabbard is the hilt, and then the handle. In different languages, and throughout the ages, these were termed different things. But on me, and in english, these names will suffice. My handle is wrapped in strips of blue canvas, overlaying a white material. There is a design on my handle, a raised edifice. An homage to the oriental dragon. Around the handle-on the butt and the hilt-are raised effigies of fish, stingrays, and crabs. Since much life comes from the sea, these are good symbols to have protecting your hands.
When you pick me up in the scabbard, the weight is unbalanced. You are expecting perhaps a heavier sword, but I am not one of those. You will see a confirmation of this when I am drawn, but even within the scabbard, the glimmers of the past echo through. You draw me out, slowly. I am balanced in your hand, and you can easily see why generations in the far east have and still do appreciate swords like me.
In my case my purpose seems decorative, yet I am sharp and capable of hurt. That thought is lost in your mind as you gaze on the blade, the true sign of the spirit of the sword. Long and lithe is my blade, and here you see the curve along the back of the sword more properly. You notice the design, an elegant sin wave near the edge. You've heard rumors, perhaps, about the purpose of this wave. It is not, let me assure you, any of those. It is simply aesthetic, not more, not less. But that is all that is aesthetic about me, you'd notice, if you were not lost to the reflection in the blade.
Tales are also told of that reflection. Some have told that they can see the souls of those they have killed inside their swords reflection, some have said they can see their own end in the depths of the sword. I can claim nothing, except that what you bring to the sword is what you take away. If that is not enough of a caution, then hear this.
I am made for pain, to deal it out to my weilder's enemies. Mine is a cutting blade, made to slice through limbs, torsos, necks, with little or no difficulty. But as you are imagining weilding me in such a fashion, a warning: there is spirit in me. If you are untrained, you will be hurt in weilding me in such a manner. Spiritually pained, though you may not know it, and in many cases physically pained as well. I am not for the uninitiated.
Fearsome beauty, I have, as well as fearsome ugliness. There is no beautiful pain, inflicted upon enemies or upon yourself. I, like all weapons, am made for war. Unlike other weapons, I have an enticing beauty in crafting and in weilding. That is perhaps what makes me more dangerous than other weapons. It is easy to lose sight of the danger when caught in the beauty.
The glint off me is eye catching, to be sure, but the glint still remains when bathed in blood.