∴ A Demanding Presence ∴
The blade that the monk holds out to you is broad – broader than any you’ve seen before. A fierce triangular jag extending from a graceful blackened crossguard, the immense faceted wheel of a pommel perched above.
You hesitate, weighing what you see of the sword against what you know of yourself. An untrained initiate, you are far more comfortable with wooden swords and makeshift bucklers than you are with this sudden, strange world of steel weapons and warrior monks. You wonder if the beaming brother is mocking you, waiting for you to reach out and accept the sword only to crumple under its weight. You search his face for answers, but he only smiles placidly, patiently.
At last, more from embarrassment than any sort of certainty, you reach out awkwardly to take the green-wrapped grip. Your eyes widen as the monk relinquishes the prize – the sword is solid and robust and real, yes – but somehow you can hold it. Somehow you’re longing to swing it. You glance up again at the smiling monk, and he gives a single nod of silent assent.
You step back into measure, and await your first lesson.