An old yarn dredged up from the annals of webdip history and embellished somewhat...
Greetings friends. This is my story;
I was born in a dirty blacksmith in Cadiz March 4th, 1532. My beloved maker was poor man who made cheap armaments for use by by the new Spanish army. He had learned his trade from his secretly Moorish father, who perished from plague. The blacksmith was a competent man with no exceptional talent, but with me something special happened.
Perhaps it was that particular grade of iron, perhaps it was the auspiciousness of that day. Perhaps that mysterious dust silver drifting by had a special quality to it, or maybe it was just dust. Perhaps it was just fate.
Whatever the reason, what was created that day was the first of its; a self aware Sword, with limited movement capabilities. A pariah, if you will, among all devices for killing eachother man had made up to that moment in time.
In my original incarnation I was a long, heavy sword, with a five and half foot blade, and a large, plainly coloured hilt with a tiny message inscribed in the bottom; "grandeza en la fabricación". After crafting me, the blacksmith knew something of note had occured. He longed to keep me, to perfect his masterpiece, but alas times were hard for the poor folk of Spain those days. In a choice between a sword or food, food won out.
I was a rather proud young Sword then, and when I was sent to the new frontier lands of la Florida, and then la Plata, I hacked and sawed with glee into into victims of widely varying degress of guilt; brutal fighting men certainly, but also, women, children, and just the general innocents. The men who took me up, who swung my finely balanced hilt out my scabbard knew they had something unique.
An ideal sword is light, strong, and perfectly balanced, making swordplay an art more than a slugfest. I did that and more. I gave power, I gave fury, and threw myself in the fight.
I felt that since I was good at dealing death, that must be my eternal calling. For eternal I was. Other swords broke apart, were melted down, or lost at sea. I however, endured. Even if my oranamentation was a little worn, and my blade slightly stained, after 250 years I was in excellent fighting condition.
I gradually realized that I was indeed an immortal, if subject to slight wear and tear, and perhaps potential for destruction, so I drifted from worthy owner to worthy owner, seeking out those who would keep me in good condition, and keep me busy dealing death. I made no distinction between varying groups of humans, choosing Spaniards, Dutchmen, Portuguese and indigenous Americans with equal willingness.
In those days, I kept busy devising creative ways of ended lives, relishing in my power over the lives of those creative and passionate, but ultimately vulnerable humans.
Eventually however, I questioned my brutal existence. Was I to be just a slave to my nature, a simple device of death like all other lifeless swords? Was it perhaps wrong of me, as a sentient being, to regard other sentient beings as not worthy of the existence I so treasured?
First, when butchering native children in Peru, and then later in Brazil, I began to feel a strange dissonance from earlier eagerness. Why did these beings, sentient like me, deserve to die? Yes, they led different lives from the humans that held me, but was it not established that the most productive societies were those of comunnity and co-operation? I continued my rampage, but my raison d'etre was shaken.
It was only when I discovered a fellow Sword like myself in 1810, during some particularly vicious fighting in Buenos Aires, that I began to feel a profound change come over me.
This sword was far weaker than, nothing more than a small rapier, and possesed none of the rapacious desire for violence that I had had upon my birth. He was only five, and not the ability to understand why these greedy and grasping men used and abused him so.
So I decided to take this sword under my wing, and tech it how to survive in a strange, changing world. His owner at the time, an unworthy mercenary, I dispatched in an unfortunate incident involving a donkey and some oil.
For this century was a bad one for swords. Our usage among fighting men diminished and diminished, with fewer and future humans willing to expend effort to upkeep swords. Those who did use swords in battle used them badly and in an ugly fashion.
Still however, there was little else for us to do. By now I began teaching the young all I knew about the world, and he began to follow me and respected my charismatic abilities and critical reasong powers. I in turn respected his pure heart and ability to see things with the bias of time and experience.
Some time in the 1880s, while we were serving a powerful leader of men in a land called Mexico, my companion and I were noticed by a type of man we had rarely encountered before; a lover of swords, but not a fighting man.
The man, after purchasing us for some metal pieces, took us to his tent and coo'd over us. He correctly guessed that I was an old Spanish sword, and wondered at my excellent condition. The man then gave us bath we had never experienced before, and after scrubbing to an excrutiating clean, laid us to rest in comfortable cases.
Bewitched by this kindness, we allowed this man to take us to a place called London, where we were placed among other similar looking swords. Here, much to my surprise, was another sentient sword. He explained that this man was an upkeeper of old swords, and cherished us for our 'historical' value alone. The life was boring, the old 'British' sword explained, with little to nothing to do, but at least he was well-kept, comfortable, and had plenty to see and listen to.
This, though confusing, was very exciting to me, and I began to get an idea. Perhaps this shop could become a home to all sentient swords! (For I had decided by this time that there must have been more of us).
It was then that I decided to call myself the 'Friend of all Swords', and would on time to time travel around, searching for more of my kin, rescuing them from rusty-decrepit states, or from brutal and destructive existences like I had once led.
The keeper has realized that I am not a normal sword, and suspects that I have more powers that I let on. Despite this, he is willing to give me free reign in my actions, and has never locked me up. For this, I am greatful.
And so we come to the present day. I am now a leader of sorts among our clan of peaceful, friendly swords, of which there are now thirty-seven. We search out, find other swords, have mock battles, and allow ourselves to be shown off to curious tourists on occasion. We are 'owned' by the great-great grandchild of that blessed man who first found us and brought us to London.
All men of his line know we, above all swords, are special, but they do not fear us, and keep our secret respectfully safe.
Recently, in searching for another activity enjoyable for us, one of the swords, 'turcospada', (one that I discovered in Izmir, Turkey) discovered an excellent and enjoyable strategy game on the internet. (Us sentient-Swords are big fans of computers, despite practical difficulties facing us when using them). The internet is fabulous tool that I use as often as allowed by our caretaker. Apparently many arragements must be made for the internet to be available.
After hearing about how this game was excellently suited to my strategic, warlike, and communicative skills, I knew I had to try.
When the program asked for me to choose a pseudonym, I had no hesitation picking what mine would be.
And so my friends, en guarde! Make way for the Friend to all Swords!!!
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