∴ A Training Sword with Bite ∴
You half-step-half-stumble through the sturdy storeroom door and pull it closed behind you. Sinking to the floor, you feel your way over flags, wary of any sound that might give you away.
Your fingers brush besom bristles and the base of a barrel. Cursing yourself for a craven, you consider clambering into the cask. Without a weapon you have no hope of defending yourself, but perhaps you can pass unnoticed.
And then the unmistakable chill of steel on sweating palms – fingers follow a broadly-tapered blade to the schilt of a feder. You hesitate – could this keep the intruders at bay? Grasping the string-wrapped hilt, you raise the weapon into guard.
A training sword it may be, but something about it cries out for the fight.