(Protectorate year 400)
Dear Master
Hello! It’s your most hard working and fastidious daughter once more, Worker Brooks Linthelel Smith, First Daughter of Worker Hall Quail Ellen and Worker Heather Tyta Mello, Born of the Hogada Spawn Pits on Crown World Oshai.
It’s not easy being a visionary, Master. It can be difficult to keep your spirits up when everyone around you is telling you to change course. Thankfully, you blessed me with the strength to ignore the naysayers and keep on the path you’ve set for me.
Just a few weeks back, I was on the floor of the sword factory, a grand room on one of the den’s lower levels. There was the grinding of metal, brick furnaces bursting with heat, a hundred hammers striking metal every second, and there was always the sizzling of red-hot swords being dipped into water to cool. Such was life in the sword forge; a maelstrom of progress and craftsmanship. I was far from the only Worker shaking my hips and humming along to the beat of industry, but my coworkers said I had the best singing voice.
As I was busy sharpening my latest sword to a fine point, my boss approached me.
Caster Wako Vona Dinfree, the leader of the entire sword forge for the Hogada den. Her fur was frazzled, she had bags under her eyes, and she always wore thick earmuffs. Casters like her just can’t appreciate the divine symphony of mass production, she said it ‘gave her a headache’.
“Brooks?”
“Yeah boss?” I carefully set down the sword.
“Uuuuh…” she looked at her clipboard and scratched the side of her furry head. “You’re fired.”
My eyes rounded, I thought my heart stopped. All my coworkers halted their work and looked to us. The hall was large, so those workers far in the distance kept up their craft.
“Wh-what?” I just didn’t get it, nobody did. I do my work, I come in on time, I stay extra hours when I need to, why was this happening to me?
“You’re fired.” Wako repeated.
“I-I heard that, but why!? Wh-wh-what have I done?” Ooh Master, the sisters I’ve seen break regulations, the stories I could tell, it just didn’t make sense! I’m a model Worker, not someone who deserves to be fired!
“Orders from up top. Tensions are rising with the humans again, and we need to increase production in the forge. But you’re slow. You only made 11 swords last week, that’s way too few. There’s only so many forges, so I’m thinking of replacing you with someone who can work faster.” Wako’s words were harsh, but understandable. The needs of a lone Slavani do not compare to the needs of the den.
“But I am working fast. I have a great work ethic.”
“You only built 11.”
My body shook with rage, Wako just didn’t get it. I grabbed my latest sword, then went over to my coworker, Gidera, and grabbed her’s. “Just look at the difference in quality though! Mine has such smooth edges, such a fine point, such quality material that all impurities have been beaten out of. Her’s is so… well, no offense, Gidera, but wobbly and gross. It’s so brittle! It’ll probably break on the first swing.”
Gidera frowned. “I kinda take offense to that.”
Wako sighed and gripped the bridge of her nose. “This isn’t a beauty contest, this is a matter of industry and philosophy. Master designed us a certain way. Cheap. Expendable. Mass produced. Why shouldn’t our tools work the same? You look at Gidera’s sword and think it’s poorly made, I look at it and imagine the damage that could be done if a hundred of these were swung at once, or a thousand, or a million!”
That insulted me on a deep, personal level, so I walked forward and slapped Wako across the face. A hard slap that reverberated through the hall and cut through the distant sounds of craftsmanship. “You heretic! Vile, heretical woman!” I screamed.
“Oooooh!” The girls around us teased.
I continued. “You’re comparing Master’s divine work to this piece of garbage?” I stomped my paw. “I won’t stand for it. Mass produced as we may be, weak as we may be, Master designed all of us as individuals, She put love and care into every last strand of fur on our bodies! We need to do the same for our tools!”
Wako’s eyes were bloodshot, and her hands were clenched tightly into trembling fists. Master’s word says Workers cannot be harmed, she couldn’t physically retaliate. “Very well, Brooks. Fine! You want to keep your job? You want to prove that ‘quality’ and ‘care’ can overcome the industrial might of the Slavani? Fine.” She raised one finger. “One week. You have seven days to craft as many ‘quality’ swords as possible, and they’ll be tested against all that my best Worker can produce in that same time. If you can prove that quality can outmatch quantity, you keep your job. If you can’t…” she slid her thumb against her throat. A Worker’s job is her life, being fired is the same as having your heart ripped out of your chest.
“Very well. I’ll do it!”
We reached our hands out and shook on it. The game was settled.
Wako, that Caster fool. She thought that, since she couldn’t physically retaliate against my slap and heretical accusation, she’d embarrass me instead. She’d bring me out in front of a crowd and show the whole den how my ideals were worthless and I was a fool.
Instead, she simply provided me a platform to show everyone just how right I was.
Day One
Master might be able to create hundreds of unique and perfect Slavani at once, but I’m not Master. If I wanted to create swords of the finest quality, I had to focus on one at a time and make sure everything was perfect before moving on to the next. I was never able to put the exact level of care into my swords that I wanted due to the restraints of having a job, but now? With this competition, I was free to go about things the way I wanted.
Striving for perfection!
I went to the factory and collected my materials in a basket before trudging back up to my apartment. A cozy little home a few levels below the surface. Nice wooden door, smooth clay walls, a poster that looked like a window with the sun shining outside.
Inside my house was a bed, a table, a kitchen, and an area with everything I needed to forge weaponry, such as a clay furnace, a trough, grindstone, an anvil, all that stuff. Over the course of many years, I sold my food rations in order to have them all installed one at a time, and it was only recently that I finished the set. There were a lot of sleepless nights, where the hunger pains kept me tossing and turning, but it was worth it. I love being able to forge on my off days.
I slid everything off my table, save for a small idol of Master’s second incarnation, which I placed atop a nearby shelf, and got to work. I laid out a thick sheet of blue paper, then took out a bar of white chalk to sketch the exact dimensions of my first sword. I couldn’t use rulers, as that would be too sterile, it had to be freehand. Swordmaking is more art than science, and I’m of the opinion that using any ‘precision’ instruments is completely heretical and will ruin the sword.
In turn, this meant that any imperfection in my drawing was met with me rubbing away the chalk and starting over.
At the factory, I had to lower my standards by a lot. “Oh, that’s not right, but it’ll have to do!” “Ew, this curve is off, but there’s nothing for it.” “If Master kept a flaw like this when making me I’d literally never be able to stop crying… but I guess my sword will just have to deal with it.” Awful, callous, I hated compromising my artistic integrity, but it had to be done.
But not anymore! I started over and over again, went through six bars of chalk, but I finally had a design I was satisfied with. Similar to most swords we make in the forge, I went with a nice, curved, katana design, with the blade a bit longer than a Soldier’s arm. With the design established, I was able to measure out the materials. This, too, was done with no compromising.
“Ah!” I said, pulling away from the table with a brilliant smile. “Finally done. Everything is all set up and ready for the forge.” I looked up at the clock and it was nearly time for bed.
“Oh dear. It’s that late?” I shrugged and went over to the kitchen to make a quick snack. “Oh well. I can’t make a good sword if I’m some heretic who misses her bedtime. I’ll pick this up tomorrow.”
So I ate, prayed to you, Master, that you’d guide my hands when crafting the sword, then quickly went to sleep.
Day Two
I woke early the next day and got to stretching.
After looking over the schematics once more, and being satisfied with them, I turned to the forge. A nice clay oven that can reach incredible temperatures thanks to an arcane science known as ‘gasoline’.
I got the furnace started, then used huge metal tongs to put the block of iron within it. After some time passed, I took that red hot block of metal out, placed it on the anvil, then began bashing it with a hammer.
Each blow sent sparks flying and deformed the metal, squishing it out. In the cool air of my apartment, the metal eventually stopped glowing red and I had to place it back inside. I repeated this process again and again until the metal was thin and long.
At that point, I put a small, thin sheet of red metal on the bottom of my would-be sword, then beat the top until the metal folded over the red sheet. From there, I put it all back in the oven and squished it again. Next time was a blue sheet of metal, then a green sheet, then yellow.
After that, I stopped adding sheets and instead folded the metal again and again. This process removed all impurities from the materials, which led to a stronger blade. I’m of the opinion that it must be done at least 2,000 times before the metal can be considered free of impurities.
Obviously, all things have impurities, even we Slavani. But while I can pray and meditate to rid myself of sin, a sword cannot. As the sword’s caretaker, it is my responsibility to give the sword the love and care she requires to become pure. Shirking this duty is cruel, if not outright heretical, and I was determined to repeat the process for each sword in this competition. I also accumulated a large amount of holy water for today’s work, and I made sure to say a little prayer and splash the sword every now and then. The steam and sizzling meant the sin of the metal was blessed away.
No way could my competitor’s flimsy, impure swords stand up to all the ones I’d make! A lot of Workers are so focused on raw output that they don’t even fold the sword once. It’s disgusting.
But you know, Master, it was actually a Slavani who came up with this folding method, not you. Worker Dwesushivev Javinamarat Zwindolithoth, way back during your second incarnation. She wanted to make you a cool rainbow sword, so she put colored metal in and folded it over and over, and that ended up being a really good method for removing impurities. That sword hung on the wall in the Capital Tower of the Dark City back on your homeworld for eons, before the Protectorate-Empire attacked and destroyed everything.
I hope my swords will one day beat the Protectorate-Empire back and restore order to your domain.
Anyway, I got so lost in forging that I folded the sword all day, and eventually looked at the clock to realize we were nearing bedtime.
“Aww, the day’s over already? But I feel like we only just got started…” With a heavy heart, I put the sword in the furnace one last time, beat it into the long, thin, shape of a sword, then beat a thin section for the handle. I also beat a small point to the end, and hammered the blade into shape. She looked rough, but also in line with my schematics for this stage. She’d come into her own, soon enough. With that done, I gently laid her on a nice cloth on the table.
After that, I ate a sparse dinner, prayed to you, Master, for continually guiding my hand in making this sword, and went to bed.
Day Three
Grinding! My favorite part! I rolled out of bed with a bright smile, I’d make my sword super sharp and ready for any blade my competitor could throw at me.
I carefully grabbed the chunk of metal from the table, making sure I didn’t surprise or scare her, then walked over to the grinding wheel. I sat on the seat, put my right paw on the pump, then pushed to make the wheel spin. Pressing the sword against the smooth wheel rubbed out the excess metal.
It was the most dangerous part of the sword making process. Not enough grinding and the sword wouldn’t be sharp or smooth. Too much grinding and the sword would be weak and thin.
Careful. Focus. A vision in my head of exactly how the sword needed to look. It would be unfortunate if I had to start over from scratch, that would be rude to the materials who had to go through so much effort.
As is customary with katanas, only one side had an edge.
But a few hours into the process, there was a knock on my door. “J-just a minute! Don’t come in!” I screamed. My sword was naked, after all. No polish or shine, she’d be so embarrassed if others saw her. I set her on the cloth from last night, then put another cloth over her before heading to the door.
“Yes?”
It was my boss, Caster Wako, and my competitor, Worker Fellas.
“Hello, Brooks.” Wako said with smug smile. “We were just wondering how you were coming along in the competition. Fellas here,” she waved, “has done such a good job and needed a bit of a break.”
“Oh!” My ears wiggled and my tail wagged. “I’m doing pretty great! I’m at the grinding now, my favorite part, so I’m happy.”
“For which sword?” Fellas asked.
“Hm?” I raised an eyebrow.
“Which sword are you grinding?”
“Uhhh… the only one?”
“What?”
Wako shook her head. “Brooks. Which sword are you working on?”
“…The only one I… what are you asking me?”
“This is a sword making competition,” Fellas said. How many swords have you completed thus far for this competition?”
“Oooh, that’s what you mean. I’m still on the first one.”
“…” Wako narrowed her brow as she stared at me.
“…” Fellas had a blank look of confusion.
“…” I glanced between the two of them, unsure of what their problem was.
After a moment, the two understood what I said and busted out laughing. Their howls echoed through the halls of the den, they slapped their knees, they had to prop each other up to avoid falling.
“Wh-what?!” I cried, my ears fluttering in distress.
They laughed so much their eyes began to water. “B-brooks,” Wako wiped her eyes, “that’s… that’s really pathetic! That’s even slower than normal! I thought you’d be on three or four!”
“W-well then, Fellas, how many swords have you made!? Huh?!”
“17!” At the sheer contrast in numbers, they laughed even harder. A few Slavani poked their heads out of their rooms to see what’s happening, and Slavani laughter is infectious so all our sisters joined in.
It was like the whole den was mocking me.
“Shut up! All of you!” But my scream wasn’t heard over the laughs. I slammed my door shut and stomped over to my sword, kneeling down and desperately praying to Master that it would all work out.
I prayed until the laughter died down, I couldn’t work with so much verbal abuse.
“I’m sorry Master, I’m sorry sword, I can’t keep this level of quality. I need to hurry up and bust out more blades, I love my job and don’t want to be fired!”
I grabbed the sword and endeavored to quickly finish the grinding… but then I saw a little bump on the side. I could have ignored it, but it was such a simple fix so I grinded it down. Then I noticed part of the blade wasn’t as sharp as it should have been. Then another bump. Another. The curve behind the point wasn’t great. I kept finding more things that needed to be fixed, and by the time I was done it was bedtime.
Heartbroken, I slunk to the ground and prayed to Master, then crawled into bed. I skipped dinner that night.
Day Four
Day four was dedicated to my second least favorite part of the sword making process, but the sword’s favorite.
Quenching.
Basically, you put clay on the sword, put the sword in the oven, then dip the hot, clay-covered sword in sacred oil to cool it. This makes the sword harder, and will give the katana that distinct curve shape.
But you can’t just slap the clay on and get to work, there’s a process! The sword loves this part, I’ve never met a sword that didn’t, so you have to make the mood just right. Don’t just dunk the sword in a barrel of wet clay and be done with it, like everyone else at the forge does.
So I lit some scented candles, dipped my hands in the wet clay, then began to gently apply the clay. As I did this, I hummed the best tune I could to help the sword relax. I used my fingers to massage the sword, really rubbed the clay in, gave the sword the time of her life for her favorite part.
“Does that feel good for you~?” I asked with a delightful melody in my voice. “Worry not, sword~. I’ll make you nice and strong, and you’ll tear through all the cheaply made garbage that stands in your way~.”
Talking to your sword and reminding it of its purpose is a necessity.
A lot of my sisters make fun of me for this, but it makes perfect sense!
We Slavani want to love, and be loved by, our creator, Master. Therefore, don’t swords want to love, and be loved by, their creator, we Slavani? If I was a sword, of course I would want my creator to care for me, to rub my bladed ‘shoulders’, to sing delightful tunes in my metal ‘ears’ as she forged me into the best weapon possible.
It’s just common sense. How could we expect Master to care for us if we aren’t willing to do the same for our creations? It’s hypocritical at best and downright evil at worst.
The scum who say “uuugh, it’s just a sword, girrrl, it isn’t alive like you and me, girrrrrrrl,” are the worst.
But with the sword fully covered, I thinned the clay around the bladed side, then used a stick to apply thin strips to the edge in a criss-crossing pattern. This will make the blade stronger, I think, but more importantly, it’ll give the metal a cool design!
“And there we go~! All set to be popped into the oven~. I’ve heated it to a perfect~… ‘high’ temperature, and I’m sure you’ll find it perfect to you’re liking~.” I opened the oven door and felt the heat waft out and hit my face. Just as I was about to put the sword in… there was a knock-knock-knock on the door.
I pouted, but then set the sword down. “Sorry about that, I’ll be right back~.”
I stomped over to the door and pulled it open. “Yes~? What do you want~?” I cleared my throat to return my voice to normal.
It was a dozen of my coworkers. Upon hearing my beautiful singing voice, which they had all praised, the small group swayed back and forth to the melody, and their ears perked in delight.
“See?” One said to the group, “great voice, we can’t give that up.”
“That dumb Caster just doesn’t understand the process!”
“We were all convinced anyway, now shut it and let me speak!” Gidera cleared her throat. “Hello, Brooks, how goes the sword making for the competition?”
I folded my arms and leaned on the door frame. “Good. I was just about to quench my sword.”
“Mh-hm, yep, yep,” she nodded, “the best part, right?” The sisters behind her nodded along.
“The sword likes it best, yes.”
“Oh you!” She swiped her hand, “you and your crazy ideas! Anyway, listen. We don’t want you to get fired, everyone loves your singing and it would be a crime for it to go. We’d like to help you bust out some more swords. How about it? Nothing can stop the combined might of Slavani mass production!”
All the sisters cheered and started hyping themselves up.
I narrowed my brow. “No thanks. I have a very specific process that none of you understand, and I don’t feel like wasting time explaining it to you all.”
“B-but how many swords have you made? We could easily double it by the end of the day!”
“…I’m still on my first.”
Their ears drooped, it was like I just told them Master doesn’t love them, they were all heartbroken. “Brooks…”
“Shut up!” I blushed, my ears fluttered in distress. “My sword will be the greatest this planet has ever seen, and she’ll have no problem cutting through anything Fellas can provide! Goodbye!” I slammed the door in their faces and stomped back inside.
“Sorry!” I told the sword. “I-I mean, sorry~. Now, where were we~?“
I tried to get into it again, but my melody was off and I was still mad. It didn’t feel right, I had to start over.
I mean, this is the swords favorite part, Master! How could I justify letting her favorite part be interrupted? I couldn’t. It would be wrong of me to try. It had to be from start to finish in one unbroken chain.
So I wiped off the clay, redid everything, sang the whole way, was ready to put it in the oven, then-!
Knock-knock-knock
“Grrrrrrr…” I rolled my eyes as I set the sword down again. “Sorry.”
I stomped over and threw open the door. “Yes?”
It was a girl I know who works in the cafeteria. “Hey, Brooks! Glad to see you’re still alive. You haven’t been to the cafeteria in a few days and all your coworkers said you were doing some challenge, so I came by to check on you.”
“I’m fine. I appreciate the concern, I just haven’t been hungry.”
“Hm? What was that?”
“I haven’t been hungry.”
She raised an eyebrow. “What does that mean?”
“It… means I haven’t been hungry..?”
“Haven’t been… what?”
“I just haven’t felt the need to eat anything. Why is this so hard?”
“I-I know what it means, but… what is that supposed to mean?”
I gripped the bridge of my nose and sighed. “Sometimes you feel hungry, and then you eat, and then you’re no longer hungry. I haven’t felt hungry, so I haven’t eaten, so I haven’t needed to restock my fridge, so I haven’t been to the cafeteria. Okay?”
“…” she scratched her chin. “But how do you not feel hungr-“
“Goodbye!” I slammed the door shut, marched to my rag, and wiped the clay off once more. “Everyone is stupid except for me~.” I hummed to the sword, then smiled, “you should count yourself lucky that I’m forging you, and not some dummy~!”
So I wiped her off, reapplied the clay, and got ready to put her in the oven once more. Then someone knock-knock-knocked on the door again.
“MMMMMMHHHH!” I silently screamed through closed lips. I was so mad I almost threw my sword down, but I composed myself and managed to set her down peacefully.
It took all my willpower to avoid ripping that door off its hinges.
It was Fellas. “What do you want?” I asked.
She smiled. “I’m here to cut you a deal. You desperately want to win this competition, and I don’t care about it. How about I throw it on purpose, then you give me some of your food rations for the next year. Eyy? Let’s work together! I can even help you forge, and we’ll really pull one over on that stupid Caster!”
“No!” I screamed. “No, I don’t want help, I don’t wanna cheat, I don’t want food! This sword is my baby and I know she’s gonna win on her own strength, so leave me alone!” I stomped back into my house, grabbed a pic, stormed over to the door and carved ‘No disturb, making sworb’ into the wood. “There! Can you read that?!”
“…heh, ‘sworb’? I don’t know what that is.”
I blushed and looked back at the carving. “That… was intentional.”
“You know Master hates illiteracy, right? She’ll find that disgusting.”
“I find you disgusting!” I closed the door and went back over to my sword.
I sighed. “Sorry… for the delays, and everything.”
This time, I was able to get her in the furnace and heat her to the right temperature. The clay hardened over the metal and I rocked her back and forth, perfectly tuning my voice to compliment the roaring, crackling fire around her. When it was all done, I took her out and dunked her in a long wooden box full of sacred oils to cool. A thick cloud of pure white steam rose from box, and only once it stopped did I take her out and scraped off all the hardened clay chunks. Finally, she had that distinct katana curve.
“There we go~. You sure are coming along nicely~! I bet none of Fellas’s swords are even a thousandth as pretty as you~.”
I looked over to the fridge and tried to remember when last I ate. “I’m still not hungry, but I guess I should force myself to eat something before bed~.”
I ate next to my sword to give her a bit more company, then gently placed a soft set of napkins over her before I prayed, then went to bed.
Day Five
Sharpening and polishing the blade.
My absolute least favorite part of making a sword, but the sword likes it.
I took the sword out from her little bedding, then got the whetstone and set it in place on a small table. Then I grabbed her and rubbed the blade up and down the stone, sharpening the edge with every swipe. Occasionally I took some holy water from a bucket hanging to my right and doused the stone and sword. As I worked, I kept a content smile on my face and hummed a jaunty little tune.
Internally though, I was dying! I hate this part!
Making my fur all wet and slimy and gross, it’s awful! It’s like taking a bath and I hate those!
But the sword doesn’t want to see or hear that, and I absolutely can’t wear gloves.
Everybody always makes fun of me for this, but it’s true. You can’t wear gloves while sharpening the blade ‘cause it sends off all kinds of bad messages. I am this sword’s creator. She loves and wants to please me. How would she feel if I wore gloves, or complained about how much I hated doing this? She’d feel terrible.
As an analogy, how would I feel if Master came down and decided to give me a bath, but you either wore gloves the whole time, or kept complaining about how much you hated doing it? Constantly making comments about how I smell or how gross and unkempt my fur is, or how you made my horns uneven? I’d be heartbroken. I’d want to die for causing Master so much hardship.
Sharpening the sword was exactly like that. I just had to bite my tongue and bear with it.
And I succeeded. No comments, no disgusted faces, nobody knocked on my door.
“Oooh,” I said, holding her up and inspecting the blade, “that’s a mighty fine-“ a bit of holy water ran down the metal and splashed onto my lap, causing my eyes to shoot open and for my ears and wings to flutter in distress- “EDGE YOU GOT THERE!! I CAN’T WAIT TO SEE YOU IN ACTION. HA. HA. HA.” I grit my teeth to avoid screaming, then gently placed her back on the table.
I subtly reached down to try and wipe the holy water off my thigh… but my hand was wet too! I just made everything a million times worse, but I couldn’t yelp or scream or even grab a towel cause that would be rude.
“Oh dear me.” I said through clenched teeth. “I think I forgot something on my bed. I rose to my paws, walked to my bed, then subtly wiped my thigh with a blanket. “Oh no. It’s not here.” I looked back to the table. “Ah! There it is. Silly me.” I was able to get back over to my seat. Smooth.
Anyway, polish was next.
I dipped my hand in the wet, sticky, goopy sword polish, then slathered it on the metal with my hands. Most Slavani use rags or cotton balls to do this, or they skip this step entirely, but Master made our fur to be softer than any cotton, so our hands work best. When all the polish was applied, I dunked her in the barrel of holy water, then reapplied the polish once more.
And that’s what I did for the rest of the day.
Before I even noticed, she was gleaming, easily reflecting all the candle light in the room, and her blade was sharp enough that she could technically be used for the competition already. But she still needed a handle and a sheath.
“Looks like that’s it for today.” I got up and clapped my hands together, but they were still wet and covered in polish, so the force of my clap sent droplets everywhere. All over my face and chest and ears and arms, I wanted to cry. “I-I-I’m just… gonna… clean up.” I walked out of my home, my gait stiff and unnatural, then went to the public baths to clean myself up before bed.
When I returned, she was already dry, so I placed a napkin over her, then prayed before bed.
Day Six
My sword, at this point, was a chunk of metal with a very sharp, curved blade, and a dull piece on the opposite end. It was missing something important for it to be a weapon of war.
The handle!
A nice place to grip the sword as you use her. Swords are a bit prudish, you see. Grabbing her by the bare metal? Heavens, no! That’s far too scandalous. She needs a polished, wooden handle with extra bandages for grip. A sword without a handle is like a Slavani without fur; it just isn’t right.
I went to my counter and took my measurements from that first day. After looking them over again to make sure nothing was out of place, I got started.
A rectangle of faint red cedar wood, soft and dry to not hurt the wielder’s palms. With a chisel in hand, I slowly carved it into the shape of an oval cylinder. It absolutely cannot be circular! If it’s a circle, you can’t tell through touch which way the blade is pointing, so in the heat of battle your hand could slip and you end up bonking someone with the flat side. Circles are no good, ovals are how it needs to be done.
After chiseling the correct shape, I carved out the rectangular hole the exact shape needed for the handle of the blade to slot in.
As I worked, I was feeling super confident. Everything just worked out, my cuts were accurate, nothing broke or cracked, I’m sure were guiding my hands to victory, Master!
Then I took the sword and chiseled some grooves into the top of where the handle would go. It’s just to increase friction and prevent the handle from sliding off in battle. After that, I made the circular handguard. It too was made of wood, but I etched a design into it and made it look like a pair of Slavani horns going around in a circle. Also, I made that rectangle piece that goes above the handguard, and then came time to carve the pommel. The pommel’s job is to keep the handle in place and prevent it from slipping. Weight distribution isn’t important for a katana, so it can be made out of wood, and carved as intricately as I wanted. As Master Herself helped me, the process was simple and not worth mentioning, though the end result was a ring that overhung from the handle. It looked like a halo, in honor of your divinity, Master.
But with all that done came the hard part.
The handle was done, but before I could slot it all together, I had to carve something important on the metal underpart of the sword’s handle.
Her name.
I had to carve her name.
A sword just isn’t complete without a name!
I agonized over the issue for hours. What would be a good name, and what kind of handwriting should I use? How should it be centered? How deep should the groove go? What language should it be? There was so much to consider and I only had one chance.
For hours I thought, pacing back and forth, tapping my paw against the ground and rolling my fingers on the table. At one point I was jogging around my house, then I tripped at hit the wall! The quake of the impact jostled a nearby bookcase, and all the books fell. When I went to pick them up, I noticed a peculiar book had landed on a rather auspicious page.
The book: “How New Slavani Are Spawned, a Newly Spawned’s guide to Reproduction.”
The chapter: “The Name of Your Soul, How Master Marks Each of Us As Her Soul (haha) Property.”
I skimmed through the chapter and it turns out that, since we belong to Master, you give our souls each a unique name in a language you invented. Thousands of syllables, an infinite number of combinations, names impossible to say with the Slavani tongue.
The answer was clear.
While I couldn’t use Master’s divine alphabet to name her, I could use the alphabet Master gave us.
I took my file and, with straight lines, carved the syllables of her name into the metal.
“De-me-ho-ju-ma-ru-ko-te-ne. Demehojumarukotene.” With the engraving finished, I put my chisel to the side and leaned back. At first, I thought the name was stupid and absurd. “Demehojumarukotene.” But the more I said it, “Demehojumarukotene!” The more it grew on me. “Hello, Demehojumarukotene. I am Worker Brooks Linthelel Smith. I’m sure we’ll get along well.”
I gave her a respectful bow, then gently slid my hand along her polished blade. I was beginning to tear up, I sniffled a few times. She was so beautiful.
“Welcome to the world our divine Master has created for us.”
I took a deep breath, then gently slotted her handle into place, capping it off with the unpainted halo pommel.
After that, I wrapped the wood handle in a thick layer of bandages for extra grip.
I picked her up to see how she felt. “You’re… perfect. Excellent weight, sharp blade, grip feels nice. Pretty, too. I don’t think I’ve ever made a sword this well…” I couldn’t resist the urge to sigh in sadness and regret, then I realized what I did. “Err, sorry! I don’t mean to sound so melancholic, but… I’m sure you heard my predicament. I had to make you to go against other swords, not the enemies of Master… I’m sorry, I’m sure you thirsted for heretic blood, not the cheaply put together metal of a poorly made sword.” Suddenly, I smiled, then laughed! “Actually, what am I saying?! I’m sure you’ll cut through all the swords in your path, then I can fix you up, then you will be sent against the enemies of Master! Haha!”
Then there was a knock-knock-knock on the door and I blew air out of my nostrils in frustration.
“I’m pretty sure I wrote that I don’t want to be disturbed… sorry, Demehojumarukotene, I’ll be right back.”
I set her on the table. Before I left for the door, I took one last look at her and I couldn’t help but smile.
Then I frowned and marched to the door, turning the nob and throwing it open. “WHAT?!” I asked, calmly.
It was Caster Wako and Worker Fellas, again.
“We’re wondering how you’re coming along.” Wako said, pretending to be diplomatic yet clearly holding back a smile.
“Especially after you so rudely rejected my deal…” Fellas muttered.
Wako turned to her, an eyebrow raised, “deal?”
Fellas straightened up, “nothing!”
Wako stared at her a moment longer and the Worker crumbled under her gaze, yet Wako shrugged and moved on. “Tomorrow’s the last day of the competition, I’m sure you remember. We just wanted to come around and see how your progress has been.”
Fellas smiled smugly and nodded her head, “I’m already on sword 74.”
They both waited for my response.
I slammed the door in their faces and walked back to Demehojumarukotene. I instantly dropped to my knees and clasped my hands in prayer. “Oh, Master, please help Demehojumarukotene in the competition! I tried my best, I really did, I used all the skills and tools I’ve accumulated, and now it’s all in her hands… blade. It’s in her capable edge. Demehojumarukotene, I know you can do it. I know you can. Tomorrow, I’ll bust out a few simple swords to help you out that little bit more, but I believe in you!”
I prayed for a little longer after that.
I didn’t want to be fired, I love making swords. The joy of seeing Demehojumarukotene finally completed was probably the happiest I’ve ever been.
By the time I finished praying, it was time to sleep.
Day 7
“Alright!” I yelled as I jumped out of bed with a twinkle in my eye and a fire in my belly. “I just need to make a scabbard for Demehojumarukotene, then I bust out as many swords as possible before the competition tomorrow! I’m confident she can hold her own against a lot of Fellas’s swords, but a bit of help couldn’t hurt, right?”
You see, Master, a lot of girls discount the importance of scabbards because their swords aren’t meant to last long, but I know better. A scabbard is a sword’s home, it needs a home to return to after every battle or it won’t feel appreciated, and therefore won’t work as well. After all, Master built the dens for us, and even created entire worlds for her children! Is making a sheath really so much to ask?
So I referred back to my previous schematics, took a long piece of soft wood, cut it to the correct dimensions of Demehojumarukotene, cut a slit in the center for her to slide into, then lined the slit with luxurious red cloth. The cloth, of course, protects the blade. You know that ‘ssshwing’ sound that comes after unsheathing a sword? That’s not supposed to happen. It sounds intimidating, but that ruins the edge.
When everything was done, I grabbed Demehojumarukotene by her handle and carefully slid her in.
“Hmm…” It was a nice fit, snug, and she went all the way to the hilt. I brought the scabbard to my hip and practiced drawing Demehojumarukotene out, but it didn’t feel right. Was the weight off? Was air getting trapped inside? Did I line the cloth incorrectly? I’m really not sure. It’d be accurate to say Demehojumarukotene herself was telling me the sheath was a bad fit.
I tossed the scabbard to the side and made a new one. When it came time for Demehojumarukotene to go inside, she chose not to. I inspected the hole and it should have been the right dimensions, but nope. She didn’t want to enter. “Picky little blade, aren’t you?” I gave her a wide grin, “that’s okay, don’t worry. I’m you’re creator, and I won’t stop until you’re satisfied!
About twenty scabbards later, with the dimensions only varying by millimeters, and the inside cloth going through a dozen different colors, I finally found one that fit.
“Aaaaah,” I released all the air in my lungs from the joy of finally making a snug fit, “there we go.” The inside cloth was green, a dark green like the spawn pit I came from. “Should have known you’d be drawn to that color.”
I set Demehojumarukotene on the table and sat down, relaxing my shoulders. “Finally, perfect. A completed sword, nice and ready for the competition!” I looked at her, and my smile slowly faded. I took her out of the scabbard to inspect her multi-colored blade and green innards of the sheath, then my face turned to a sour frown. Her sheath was just a plain bit of wood, her handle was another plane bit of wood with some bandages tied over it, and while her handguard had a design of Slavani horns circling the blade, it didn’t pop.
This was my sword! My masterpiece! My baby! My Demehojumarukotene! Could I really be satisfied with showing her off like this? What if she’s so embarrassed at my shoddy work that she ends up underperforming?
I couldn’t let that happen.
Paint. I needed paint, stencil tools, and accessories. I quickly left my domicile to go get them, and I got to work the moment I returned. A slick coat of shiny red paint along the sheath, gold for the handle guard, a bright, vibrant white for the bandages on the handle, and a nice green halo for the pommel. A criss crossing pattern over the bandages with black thread. A hanging red tassel on the opening of the sheath. Splashes of orange and yellow on the sheath for a fire aesthetic. On the sheath I stenciled in black accents of a beautiful scene, of Master Herself holding this blade, a single slash with Her power splitting mountains and half, uprooting trees! Destroying islands and darkening the skies! The further you got from the handle-end of the scabbard, the worse the devastation became.
I just drew it. No plan, no design, no second chance, each and every line was beamed into my brain from Master Herself, and the finished work was a masterpiece.
When it was finished, I set the stencil down, grabbed Demehojumarukotene, and slid her into place. It was so easy, like she was eager to enter her new home.
“Good. Finally done. Now to bust out a few more-“ I looked to the clock and it was already midnight, long past my bedtime.
“…Oh…” I looked to Demehojumarukotene and I couldn’t stop shaking. “S-sorry, Demehojumarukotene, looks like I got carried away, again, and you’ll be going out there alone! Heh-heh…heh… Sorry…” I bit my bottom lip and got down to my knees. I grabbed Demehojumarukotene from her scabbard and held her, blade to the sky, as I prayed to Master.
I didn’t bother praying for success. Demehojumarukotene was a good sword, a great one! But it would be too much for her. Asking you to help her win would be unfair of me, I’m the one who messed up. All I asked was that she put in a good showing and let everyone know what she’s capable of.
As for my job, maybe if I apologized and promised to work faster, Wako would forgive me? My job was secondary when compared to my baby.
I set Demehojumarukotene back into place, “Goodnight, dear” then went to bed.
As I sat under the covers, my mind was lost in thought. Before I drifted off to sleep, I made my decision. I’d let the competition go until she chips once, then I’d put a stop to it no matter what anyone thinks. I’d repair Demehojumarukotene, bring her back to full working order, then find a strong Soldier for her to be wielded by. She deserves to taste heretic blood, it’d be immoral to let such a fine piece of art be ruined in a foolish competition.