Field Sword

Washi’s weapon of choice is a nodachi measuring just over five feet in length. A thirty-three centimetre hilt, bound in a complex cocoon of dark teal cloth to match its scabbard, is designed to accommodate the two hands required to support the sword’s impressive but plain one-hundred-and-twenty-two centimetre long blade. The hand guard sandwiched between both the blade and hilt takes the form of a six-pronged wheel, although after a few careful inspections with his fingertips, Washi sits convinced that the shape of the tsuba has more in common with a flower than a simple wheel.

While his tutors rightfully claim that such an unwieldy blade belongs on its owner’s back and not their hip, Washi regularly shuns this advice to grasp his blade securely between his hands. With his impairment demanding adaptation to make life comfortable, the proud field sword, which could plough through the first wave of a cavalry like a butcher’s knife through butter, has been reduced to a makeshift walking stick; used to navigate corridors and to, unintentionally, trip up unsuspecting commuters as its owner turns a corner. The end cap affixed to the scabbard once depicted a still life of foliage, but now bears nothing but scuffs and scrapes from the countless hours it has spent grating across the floor. With almost every delicate detail lost, and its mouth held shut by a length of Tyrian purple cloth wrapped around the join between the scabbard and the hilt, it could be argued that the field sword has seen better days. Some may consider this treatment as dishonourable; a waste of a proud and powerful sword, but one could just as easily argue that Washi’s quality of life is arguably more important than his combat prowess, which is something he devotes little faith to.