a knife! (NO!!)

Dawn was swift approaching, and the lightening skies were soon to be full of golden rays from the sun as it crested the eastern horizon. The shore was quiet and calm, with only the gentle lap of cool waves against the sand and the sound of his own breathing to be heard. Things had been quite strange lately, the pack was bustling with activity and yet he felt stagnant. A soft sigh escaped the waif as he ambled quietly along the waters edge, gaze roving the beach for tiny spouts of water that would indicate the presence of buried shellfish. Instead, his eyes caught the glint of tarnished metal buried in the sand. A dim, ruddy shine brought forth by the ever-rising sun. A low trill of curiosity rumbled in his narrow chest, and the dappled male plodded closer to inspect the treasure. How long had it been buried there, waiting for someone to uncover it?

Careful ministrations of dainty paws began to scoop away sopping wet sand, forming a small, haphazard pile between his forelimbs as he worked. As the blade of the short sword began to emerge from its waterfront tomb, recognition glittered in the depths of his pale green eyes. It was only once the hilt was unearthed that his suspicions were confirmed. He knew this kind of blade- a short sword that was all too common in his homeland. How had it managed to wind up on these shores? No matter, it was time to take it home. Even if that meant stashing it away for a while, waiting for the time when he could safely possess such a treasured sword.  

The familiar landscape of the beach flew past beneath harried paws as the dark blur of the petite slave tore across the sands, towards the shelter of the wave break that jutted out from the far end of the beach. Restoring the blade to its former glory wouldn't be too difficult, though he suspected that the wrapping around the hilt would need to be replaced entirely after such a long time buried in tidal sand. He tucked himself against the rocky outcropping and away from the caress of the waves, reverently grazing the soft pads of his paws over the familiar edges of the blade. How long had it been since he'd seen one? Nostalgia clung to the edges of his mind, though years of trauma numbed the true extent of the emotions.

Scooping wet sand into his paw, the dainty male began to slowly work along one side of the tarnished, rusted blade in small circular motions. It was going to take quite some time to work the worst of the damage from the metal, since he didn't have the luxury of proper tools at his current rank. Regardless, he knew well enough how the process worked that he was certain he could at least have the Wazikashi in acceptable condition by sun-high. He hummed a gentle, familiar lullaby to himself as he worked. Every few inches of metal needed to have a new paw-load of sand applied and slowly smoothed over the blade. Once he'd passed over the first side for the first time, he paused to examine the state of the freshly scoured metal. The surface was still pockmarked with areas of deeper-set rust, and the sand wasn't fine enough to render the blade perfectly smooth in finish. However, it didn't look terrible and so he flipped the short sword over and began anew on the untouched side.

By the time the first round of scouring had been performed on the blade, the sun was reaching the mid-point of its full height in the sky. No doubt there were a few pairs of eyes scouring the Plain in search of him, but he was well enough camouflaged against the backdrop of the dark rocks that he wasn't concerned about being interrupted quite yet. The old lullaby permeated the air in a low, lilting melody while he mindlessly worked, rising and falling in volume as the strain of his task shifted.

By the time the sun had reached its highest point of ascent, the worst of the damage to the blade had been cleaned away, and he found himself carefully honing the working edge of the blade against a cleft in the rocks. It would work well enough to sharpen the blade, though far from perfectly. Perfection would come when he had the tools and resources available, he figured. For now it was enough to have the short sword itself, a small memento from a home he wouldn't be returning to. The sodden, half rotted wrappings of the hilt were next on the agenda. Indeed, the needed replacement immediately. Would anyone notice a rabbit skin missing? With tail tucked and posture defensively hunched, he clutched the damp hilt between his teeth and hurried to the den that he shared with the princess. Blessedly, she was already gone for the day. He tucked the sword away in a hollow near the back of the den, where he slept out of sight of any visitors.

Pilfering a rabbit skin was easy enough, he was growing incredibly adept at evading notice while he moved through the plains. And so when he returned with his prize, it was easy enough to hide away in his sleeping furs and begin the painstaking process of cutting the skin into strips. Thankfully, he had just the tool for the job now! Once the soft hide was cut into thin strips, he could carefully peel away the former bindings of the hilt. It was a shame to lose the beautiful crisscrossing pattern of the leather and its intricate knotwork, but for now this would do just fine. And so the sunset dappled slave carefully bound the hilt with overlapping, crossed strips of cured rabbit skin. The pale brown hide seemed lacklustre in comparison to some of the beautiful hilts that he'd seen in his time, but at the end of the day it was his sword now. This was his own craftsmanship, used to restore a long forgotten weapon to its former glory. Well... a shade of its former glory, he supposed. Better than rotting in the sand, certainly.

Tenderly and with a great deal of pride, he tucked the Wazikashi away beneath his bedding and sighed wistfully. Eventually he'd be able to use it freely, and perhaps even wear it across his body in a sheath like a proper warrior. For now, this would have to be enough. He was well behind on his chores for the day, and so it was better to get a move on before someone hunted him down properly.

(WC: 1123)