The Musings Of A Weaponsmith

By all present accounts - and I am not exempt from the telling - the civilised world, as we knew it, has drawn its last breath. The great machine of society lies in ruins; the majority of its former keepers are perished, or else transformed into such wretched creatures as resemble the dead only in aspect, not in peace. These poor souls roam without purpose, moaning pitifully, striking out at those who might otherwise offer aid, their minds long since fled. Those who remain - ragged, grim, and clinging to life as a candle clings to its final wick - scrabble through the detritus of what was once a grand age, nursing the feeble hope that, in some distant place or time, the wheel might turn once more toward light. In such a state, the notion of beauty is seldom entertained. When one seeks a weapon for defence, he reaches not for elegance, but for effect. A blade, if it be sharp; a mace, if it be heavy; a firearm, if it be sure - these are the companions men seek in the dark. Rarely, if ever, do they pause to observe the fine filigree etched upon the guard, the sheen upon a well-hammered barrel, or the tender gleam of oiled walnut beneath the grime of age. And yet, beauty is not wholly lost. There remain, here and there, men who would raise not the crudest tool, but the loveliest. Who, in the midst of blood and ruin, would rather grasp a sword that sings of artistry than one that simply slays. Not out of vanity, no - but as a final, defiant gesture of dignity in a world that has so forgotten the word. -A. Tereshkin Nobleborn of Tula, Former Master Smith to His Imperial Majesty Before The End, Forge of the Winter Court