Arin Kama

The Blade of the People

“We harvest what we need. Everything else gets cut away.”

— Old Arin proverb

The Arin kama is not born from war. It comes from the earth—curved and shaped not for combat, but for survival. Its crescent blade once harvested grain and carved snow-hardened rootstock from frozen terraces. It was made to slice, to clear, to endure. That it also happens to kill with startling efficiency is, to the Arin, a simple matter of utility. Of course it does. That’s not the point. It just has to. In its purest form, the kama is a short-handled, crescent-bladed sickle. The blade curves inward like a scythe's whisper—tight, controlled, pulled in rather than swung out. Originally forged for clearing frostgrass and wildvine, or trimming back overgrown trail-edges near the cliff passes, it became an everyday object in mountain life. And as with so many things in Areeott, what is useful must also be trusted. What is trusted, in time, must be sharp. You’ll find them in homes, not armories—hung on nail pegs above firewood, tied to the side of a pack, buried in tool rolls beside hatchets and wedges. No one thinks twice about a kama in plain sight. In fact, most don’t notice them at all. The ones shaped purely for farm use are duller, broader, often with wooden or stone-backed blades for leverage. But those carried by scouts, couriers, monks, and House Guards are leaner, tempered, made with intent. The transition from harvest tool to weapon doesn’t come from a reforging—it comes from a decision.

The blade itself is forged from cold-tempered steel, sometimes silver-alloyed or backed with a black iron spine for weight. It's sharpened along the inner curve, allowing it to hook, trap, or carve through muscle and sinew as easily as it would through stalks or hide. The haft is short—usually no more than a foot—and made from dense woods like firebirch or sealed ash, often wrapped in leather or cord for grip. Changelings are known to conceal mechanism-locks or collapsible variants in theirs, folding the blade flush into the haft until it’s needed. Some even hide the entire weapon in belt loops or trail-bracing canes. But even the simpler kama is not to be underestimated. Its curve allows it to cut without commitment, to stay tight to the body in confined spaces—perfect for the vault corridors, the narrow back alleys of high canton streets, or the blind spots beneath the hanging bridges. It excels not in show, but in surprise. Many users wield two—one in each hand—or pair them with a short spear or tool-hand. Among the monks of the Inner Vale, the kama features in a close-form style meant for sudden breaks: one hook to pull, one to finish. They don’t leave bruises. They leave silence. There are variations, of course. Longer-handled versions exist, used more for leverage or reach—especially among those tasked with clearing trailbrush or dealing with predator vines that curl along the broken ridges. Vault-runners sometimes fit theirs with ridge-tooth backspines, allowing them to use the blade like a climbing tool when no rope is safe to trust. But at its heart, the kama is a hand’s reach of curved metal—a tool that does not look like a threat until it’s already opened something vital. The House of Takana employs them less often than the chokuto or spear, but they are not uncommon among tunnel sentries, barrow scouts, or those tasked with watching the blind sides of active trade posts. The weapon does not lend itself to intimidation, which is precisely why it’s used. No one starts trouble because they saw a kama. They only realize what it was after it’s been used. Artisan kamas are rare but respected. Some changeling crafters in the Vaults specialize in seamless folding locks that allow the blade to snap open with a flick. Others in the higher cantons still shape them by hand, notching the grip with simple carved ridges or weather glyphs—more out of habit than flair. Few are named. None are worn for show. It is not a ceremonial weapon. It is not meant for grand duels or pageantry. It is meant for precision. For utility. For that one clean second between threat and safety. And in the Agriss Mountains, that second is often the only one that matters.

Mechanics & Inner Workings

“A straight blade waits to meet force. A curved one asks for opportunity.”

— Excerpt from banned Azar treatise On the Edges We Carry

The Arin kama is a study in functional restraint—simple in shape, but refined through generations of necessity. Every part of the weapon serves a purpose, and nothing exists for show. Its lethality comes not from complexity or flair, but from the way it fits into the body’s movement, into the patterns of survival, into the rhythm of someone who knows they may only get one clean chance to end a fight. The blade is forged in a tight crescent, the inner curve honed to a razor edge. This design allows the wielder to hook, carve, or pull through a target with precision. Unlike a forward-facing blade that demands a swing, the kama strikes from the wrist, from a turn of the elbow, from a movement small enough to go unnoticed until it’s too late. There’s no need for reach. No windup. The blade follows the hand, and the hand moves like a thought.

The haft, always short, is made from mountain hardwood—firebirch, sealed ash, or icewood, depending on the canton and purpose. Its grain is treated to resist the wet and cold, and it’s cut to fit the palm, often wrapped in cord or hide to improve grip in bad weather. Some are balanced slightly forward to give the blade more weight behind its hook. Others are neutral, made for fast repositioning. In every case, the handle must feel like an extension of the user’s hand, not something gripped in panic. Among changeling makers, and a few scattered engineering-minded crafters in the vaults, folding variants exist—manual systems that allow the blade to nestle into the haft or fold flush against its side. These aren’t flashy or fast. They’re precise, silent, and meant for storage or concealment, not surprise attacks. The locks are simple, mechanical, and sturdy enough to hold even under strain. The best ones don’t clack when opened. They slide into readiness like a held breath. In use, the kama isn’t made to posture. It’s made to disable, finish, and move on. Its edge seeks tendons, gaps, soft lines behind bone. It doesn’t need to be swung. It only needs to land. And even when it’s not being used for violence, its shape lends itself to survival—cutting brush, slicing rope, harvesting root crops from hard stone, even bracing for short climbs when hands alone won’t do. That kind of duality is the reason it was kept. Its effectiveness is the reason it was refined. And its silence is the reason it’s feared.

Manufacturing process

“There are two kinds of cuts. One makes way for spring. The other keeps spring safe.”

— Nera Vesk, Lenin blacksmith

The process of crafting an Arin kama begins the same way most things do in Areeott—with intent, not ceremony. No one forges a kama for glory. It is shaped to serve, shaped to last, and shaped to kill without fanfare if it must. A good one doesn’t draw attention. It simply waits, sharp and quiet, for its moment. First comes the blade. Most are forged from cold-tempered steel or iron alloy, though silver may be used in cases where monsters or specific threats are expected. The metal is heated in a compact, high-intensity forge—typically a small hearth in a family forgehall or a changeling-run shop beneath the vaults. The shape is always curved, inward and tight. The smith draws the crescent by hand, never from a template. Every blade is slightly different, the curve suited to the user’s balance, their grip strength, or the type of work the weapon is expected to do. Some are broader, meant to slice through thick growth or armor straps. Others are thinner, quicker, shaped for speed and flow. After the blade is forged, it is quenched and ground with painstaking precision along the inner curve. This is where the cut lives—not at the edge alone, but in the entire arc. The bevel is refined slowly, notched by eye, and tested on brush, hide, or hanging threads. The point is honed last, meant to slip behind bone or into a joint, but never at the cost of balance. A kama that pulls too hard can be felt in the wrist. That’s a flaw. A proper one guides the hand.

The haft is typically carved from dense mountain hardwood. Firebirch is the most common—light, strong, and resistant to warping in the cold—but others use ash, stonepine, or recovered vault woods salvaged from old infrastructure. The handle is shaped to fit the fingers, sometimes slightly flattened along one side for orientation. Most are oiled, sealed, or wrapped in cord, but the craftsmanship focuses on the structure, not the look. Some makers pin the blade in place with brass studs or bone pins. Others use deep socket joints reinforced with resin and pressure binding. Among changeling engineers and vault-forge specialists, collapsible variants are assembled with hinged joints, internal locking pins, or friction-slot mechanisms. The folding kama is a point of pride for many—less for the trick itself, and more for the precision it takes to build one that doesn’t rattle or catch. Each piece must fit flush. The edge must remain protected. And when drawn, it must feel as solid as a fixed blade. Finishing is modest. Some users burn simple marks into the grip to indicate trail paths or family ties. Others do nothing at all. The weapon’s meaning lies in how it’s used, not how it looks. Once finished, there is no ritual or blessing. No oath. It is simply tested—cut against brush, meat, cloth, bone. If it passes, it is considered ready. If it fails, it is reworked until it doesn’t. A good kama does not need to be deadly on its own. It needs only to be part of a whole—the hand, the body, the decision. What makes it dangerous isn’t the blade. It’s the person who knows exactly when not to draw it.

History

“There’s no difference between cutting rope and cutting hamstring. Only the angle.”

— Harlan Jeks, Iron Gate mountaineer

The history of the Arin kama is quiet, like most things that last in Areeott. It has no moment of glorious invention, no singular craftsman who first bent a blade into a crescent. It emerged naturally—inevitably—from the needs of people who spent their lives coaxing a living from cold soil and thin air. In the earliest generations, it was a tool, plain and nothing more. Used to harvest low-growing frostgrass, cut feed from steep ledges, clear vinegrowth from pathways and cave mouths, and carve back the hardy creepers that grow between stone cracks along the upper passes. It was a farmer’s blade. A gatherer’s hook. A reaper’s hand. There was no shame in it, and no reverence either—just an understanding that a good blade curved to the work.

But survival in Areeott has never belonged purely to the strong. It belongs to the prepared. And over time, those who carried the kama began to shape it differently—not to replace the tool, but to improve its usefulness in a world where danger and daily labor are indistinguishable. A sharper curve. A tighter haft. A blade that could cut more than grass if the moment called for it. The kama didn't change because of violence—it changed because violence was always nearby. It became the standard trail tool for vault scavengers, for ridge walkers, for hunters who couldn’t afford to miss a cut. Later, when the House Guards began to refine their use of more discrete, concealed weapons, the kama found its place among them not as a main weapon, but as a fallback—quiet, fast, and unforgiving. Among the changelings, its adoption took a more mechanical turn. Vault-born artisans began to design collapsible versions, folding crescent blades hidden inside hollow hafts or strapped inside bracing rigs. These weren’t acts of showmanship, but survival engineering: a blade that could be part of a pack frame or walking rig until it needed to become something sharper. Though it never achieved the formal martial legacy of the chokuto or the spear, the kama endured. Because it had to. Because it worked. Because it was always at hand. It didn’t need a history steeped in blood. It had a history steeped in use. It became a part of the daily kit—not a soldier’s weapon, but a worker’s blade. And in Areeott, that’s more than enough to make it dangerous.

Significance

“The sickle is older than the sword. More honest, too.”

— From 'Steel in the Soft Earth', anonymous Arin soldier’s reflections

The Arin kama holds no titles. It earns no salutes. It does not rest on velvet in the halls of the Barons. Its significance is not ceremonial, symbolic, or sacred—it is practical, quietly lethal, and deeply woven into the unspoken rhythms of life in the cantons. It is significant because it is useful—and among the Arin, that is the highest kind of value. A tool that can cut grass, shape timber, skin a kill, and end a threat without being spoken about, or even noticed, is a tool worth keeping close. The kama is not the weapon you display. It is the one that gets things done.

Its role in Arin society is subtle, but constant. It’s a standard part of trail kits and survival packs. It's in the hands of vault scavengers and slope-gardeners, monks, weather readers, and quiet men who don’t like to be followed. It isn’t taught in military halls, but people learn it anyway—passed from parent to child, from master to apprentice, from survivor to survivor. The lessons aren’t dramatic. They’re direct. “Hook low. Step left. Don’t hesitate.” Its presence says something about the Arin mindset: never waste. Never show more than you must. Hide your strength in function. Be ready. Be quiet. Be done. Among the monks of the Inner Vale and the Shepherd-paths, it carries further meaning—not as a sacred weapon, but as a perfect example of restraint made deadly. The monks carry it not to kill, but to control. A sweep here, a hook there. A strike that disables or ends. It is an instrument of economy—of effort, of motion, of thought. Among changelings, its significance often lies in the craft itself. A well-designed kama, especially a collapsible one, becomes a badge of cleverness. Some contain etched trail-phrases or hidden joints; others hold centuries-old designs passed down within a family of artisans. They are not heirlooms in the romantic sense, but they are respected, and they are used. Always. To outsiders, the kama is easy to overlook. It doesn’t look like a weapon. It looks like a garden tool. That is, until the motion is already finished, and someone is bleeding—or worse. In this way, it reinforces a greater truth about Arin weaponry: that power doesn’t come from what you see. It comes from what was already in motion before you noticed. So the kama holds its place not through drama or status, but by being the thing no one saw coming, in the hand of someone who never wanted to use it—but did. And then kept walking.