Arin Shortsword
Sword of the Shepherds
"We are not meant to live beside danger, but within reach of a blade that remembers how to greet it."
There is a kind of silence to it. Not the silence of stealth, but of normalcy. No ceremony surrounds the Arin short sword. No proud flash when it's worn, no special title when it’s passed from hand to hand. And yet, it is perhaps the most seen weapon in the whole of Areeott—not because it’s shown off, but because it simply never leaves anyone’s side. It’s not a soldier’s blade. It isn’t made for dueling, for ranks, or for battles with clean lines and clearer motives. It’s a worker’s sword. A companion. Something built for use and wear, not impression. Short, heavy, and slightly curved, it’s a blade meant to chop as well as slice, to hack through summer brambles and stubborn undergrowth, to split firewood or slice up kindling on the side of a trail. Its profile sits somewhere between a short sword and a machete—wider than a chokuto, heavier in the hand, and far more forgiving when it hits green growth or bone. It has presence, but no pageantry. These swords are carried openly, but not boastfully. Among the Arin, it would be absurd to mistake one for a threat on its own. You carry one for the same reason you carry flint, cord, or a waterskin—because going into the wilderness without it is foolish. Even in the villages and upper cantons, they’re kept behind doors, hung from pegs, slid into farm kits or kept in sled compartments. Not everyone wears them every day, but everyone knows where theirs is. During the spring and summer, they’re especially common. The newer growth that chokes the trails and creeps over pass-roads is too soft for an axe, but too thick for a knife. A short sword can make clean work of it in one stroke. But it remains useful all year. In winter, it cuts frozen tarp lines or can pry open a frost-shut hatch. In autumn, it carves hanging fruit or splits gourds. In summer, it fends off biting deer-things or anything else foolish enough to wander too close to the sheepfold. Inside the hilt of most Arin short swords lies its second purpose. They’re hollowed for survival essentials—flint and steel, fish hooks, waxed thread, bone needles, a folded oilcloth, a few feet of cord. Whatever the owner thinks they might need when they’re too far from home to go back. The cap is often twist-locked, sealed in brass, with a waterproof lining and sometimes etched with trail-signs or initials. The blade itself is forged from practical steel, not show-quality silver or folded alloys—though there are artisan versions, and even a few with changeling-smithed fittings. Most are single-edged, with a shallow curve and thick spine that carries weight into the chop. A fuller may be ground into the flat to reduce weight without compromising strength. It’s meant to be used—not worshiped—and resharpened dozens of times across its life. The scabbard is usually wood or boiled leather, reinforced with brass or iron, and often carved or painted in the personal style of the owner. Some feature Alpine curling motifs or stylized animals—rams, bears, vultures, wyverns—while others are marked with family emblems, harvest scenes, or personal symbols no one else would recognize. Others are completely plain, worn smooth by time. There’s no tradition for this—it’s a matter of personality. Some Arin decorate. Others simply need the damn thing to work. No one names these swords. They don’t need names. If it has a story, it’s worn into the edge and grip—cut into the way it fits the hand. It’s not a “last line of defense.” It’s not some final answer to the dark. It’s just the thing that’s there when you realize you don’t have time to go looking for anything else. Sometimes it saves lives. Sometimes it just cuts lunch. Either way—it’s always where it needs to be.
Mechanics & Inner Workings
"He cut down the snarl root, split it for tinder, cleaned the blade on his pant leg, then used the same sword to slice the last apple. Didn’t flinch once."
The Arin short sword is a survivalist’s tool disguised as a blade, and its construction reflects that in every choice—beginning with the grip. Most are hollow-handled, not out of fashion, but out of necessity. The pommel cap twists open with a firm seal, usually brass or steel, treated to resist cold, grit, and moisture. Some are simple and bare. Others are cleverly machined with tight threading, pressure-sealed rings, or locking collars—engineered to be opened by gloved hands in a storm or fingers stiff with cold. Inside, there is just enough space for a handful of essentials. Not everything you could ever need, but just enough to make the difference when you’re too far from home and too close to trouble. People pack what makes sense for them. A flint and striker for fire, a wrapped bit of twine or sinew for lashing, a tightly rolled oilcloth to keep a spark dry. Some include a fish hook or two. A waxed thread and a bone needle. A twist of line. A tiny cube of hard tallow, or in some cases, a rolled scrap of sweet root wrapped in cloth—for warmth, or just the comfort of having it. Others hide personal charms inside: a carved trail sign, a shrine bead, a sliver of wood from a family hearth. None of it is showy. It’s not for telling stories. It’s for living through them.
The blade itself is thick-spined, slightly curved, and designed to carry weight through a swing. Unlike the more elegant chokuto, which excels at drawing blood with surgical cuts, the short sword is built to hack—through brush, sinew, bramble, or bone. It’s the tool you use when something is in your way, and you need it not to be there anymore. The back edge is often dull, used to hammer or pry. Some are notched slightly at the base, meant to grip and tear rope or bark. Others have been flattened along one side to split branches or lever open a stuck panel. There are even versions forged with a subtle hollow in the mid-blade, allowing for hooked cuts when skinning or cleaning. A changeling-made blade might hide even more—etched compass bearings on the grip spine, collapsible striker blades set into the guard, magnetized thread sheaths, or interior caps that seal with a snap rather than a twist. These are not cheap, and they’re not flashy. But they work. And that is all that matters. Even the scabbard plays its part. Most are wood or hardened leather, reinforced at the tip with a metal band and carved with vent slots or grip points. A few are fitted with hidden sharpening plates—thin stones pressed into the inside lip so the blade stays keen each time it is drawn or returned. Some travelers in the colder cantons build emergency tinder slots into the back of the sheath, hidden beneath braided wraps. Most people don’t notice. That’s the point. The Arin short sword is never just a weapon. It is a walking companion, a wilderness guide, a fire-starter, a bone-saw, and when all else fails—a last resort that doesn’t require your full strength, just your willingness to use it. Nothing on it is decorative unless it earns its place. Nothing is wasted. It does not demand honor, or attention, or a place in the stories. But it will be there—when you’re cold, and bleeding, and the last match is wet. It will open what needs to be opened. Cut what must be cut. And keep something alive—maybe you. It has no clever name. Just a hundred reasons to exist.
Manufacturing process
"The Arin short sword: Heavy, curve-weighted, gut-sharp. Not for show. Not for sport. A working edge for a working world."
The process of crafting an Arin short sword is not an art of indulgence. It is not for ceremony or the sake of tradition. It is a matter of necessity, carried out with the same deliberate hand that repairs a roof before the first snow or patches a boot before a long walk. Like nearly everything in Areeott, its construction is defined by need—and a refusal to accept failure as an outcome. It begins, almost always, with the blade. The smith chooses a high-carbon steel or a local alloy known to hold a hard edge even in wet and freezing conditions. The metal is heated and drawn out by hand, not folded or tempered in some grand ceremonial fashion, but worked—by heat, by muscle, by memory. The blade is thick along the spine, slightly curved along its length, and tapered to a utilitarian point that can puncture hide, split wood, or saw through overgrowth without bending. One side is given a full edge. The other might remain flat or dull, depending on the client, sometimes grooved to allow for improvised prying or scraping.
The balance is deliberately forward-weighted. This is not a duelist’s weapon. It is a chopper. It needs to swing through things—wet thicket, frozen brush, tangled cord, bone, and bark. If the smith does it right, the swing does most of the work. If they get it wrong, the user has to use strength they may not have, at a moment they can’t afford to hesitate. Once the blade is shaped and cooled, it is honed and tested. Arin smiths test their blades the way a farmer tests a fencepost—with hard strikes, sudden turns, and no illusions. If it chips too soon, it goes back into the forge. If it warps, the billet is thrown out. A weak blade doesn’t get fixed. It gets replaced. The hilt is another matter. Built from hardened woods, horn, or reinforced brass tube—depending on purpose—it is hollowed with care and fitted to conceal a small cache of tools and emergency gear. The inside of the handle must be watertight, or close enough to it. The inner cavity is lined with wax or a thin metal sleeve, and the pommel is machined to screw in or twist-lock cleanly, with threading fine enough to resist snow grit and the kind of wear that comes from years of use.
Changelings have refined this process even further in the vaults. Some include locking pressure compartments, shock-resilient caps, even small inset alignment ridges to ensure the contents don’t rattle or shift when the blade is drawn. These variants are expensive—not because of their beauty, but because they will not fail. The grip is wrapped last. Some are corded. Some are leather-bound. Others are left bare and scorched to raise the grain of the wood. Every part is built to take a beating. Decorative touches, if they exist, are added after: a carved band near the guard, a burn mark of a family crest, a hand-painted trail marker on the sheath. These are personal, never required, and always earned. The sheath is often built alongside the blade, not as an afterthought but as part of the whole. It must be tight, weather-sealed, and built to ride easily along the hip or across a pack. If the blade is sharpened on draw, the throat is lined with metal or stone. If it is meant to carry extras—flint, cord, tinder—the sheath is carved or shaped to accommodate them without compromising weight or noise. No part of this process is ritualized. No part is sacred. But it is respected. Because when the snow hits too early, or a trail collapses, or something comes crawling up from a vault where no one thought anything still lived—it’s not the masterwork blade that saves you. It’s the short one. The quiet one. The one you didn’t leave behind.
History
"Every year the bramble thickens, and every year the blade returns to meet it. This is how we live: we cut back what encroaches."
The Arin short sword has no founding legend, no battlefield of origin, no lone smith whose vision reshaped the world. It simply happened—the way snow happens, the way a ridge buckles over time. It was the inevitable result of a people who needed something stronger than a knife and smaller than a sword. Its earliest known examples don’t come from armories or vaults, but from tool racks and sled kits. Worn, wide blades with no guard, no flourish—just a reliable curve and a grip wrapped in whatever cord or hide was available. Some were forged by blacksmiths, others repurposed from broken weapons or scythe blades filed down and reshaped. The line between tool and weapon was never clear, and the Arin never pretended otherwise. For generations, these blades were called by whatever word felt right. Just “the blade,” or “that old thing,” or “my short.” But regardless of what it was called, it stayed at hand. Farmers carried it into the fields to clear back chokevine. Herders wore it to cut loose tangled animals. Vault scouts kept it as a backup when their spear was lost. In the border cantons, it became part of the traveler’s kit—not out of fear, but out of habit. Even in the oldest House Guard journals, the short sword appears constantly—listed not as a formal issue, but as “personal sidearm” or “field tool.” Some guards even carried one alongside their chokuto, not because it was standard, but because they knew that in close quarters or muddy terrain, the lighter, broader blade might be the one they’d actually get to draw. Changelings in the vaults refined the design further. They began to hollow the grips, adding storage compartments, fire-starting tools, collapsible fish rigs, and folding bone needles. These tweaks spread quickly, and soon enough, even surface-dwellers were modifying their hilts and requesting balance shifts for trail carry or heavier swing weight. But none of this changed the sword’s nature. It was never glorified. Never enshrined. It didn’t become a mark of caste or profession. Instead, it became something everyone had. Something you gave to your child when they were old enough to hike alone. Something you passed to a neighbor who’d broken theirs on a frozen root. Something that sat behind the door until you needed to trim branches, pry open a jammed trap, or end a fight that came to you when you weren’t looking for one. Its history is not written in battles. It’s written in years of use. In notches made from bark, from bone, from bread loaves and buckles and bandits. It is a history of presence, not power. And in Areeott, that makes it one of the most enduring blades ever forged.
Significance
"Any man may carry one. Any woman may use one. The law does not consider it a weapon until it leaves its sheath with intent."
The Arin short sword holds a kind of quiet, practical significance that doesn’t announce itself—because it doesn’t need to. It is not sacred. It is not a badge. It is not romanticized in song or legend. But it is known. Known in the way that a hand-tool is known, or the smell of woodsmoke in winter, or the sound of boots on frozen ground. It is part of the daily rhythm of life in Areeott, and that, in and of itself, is a kind of reverence. Among the Arin, it is one of the few weapons commonly carried in full view by civilians—not as a show of strength or a threat, but as a practical extension of one’s readiness. A farmer may have one looped through their belt when clearing brush. A courier might keep it strapped to the side of a pack. A grandmother might have one leaning by the back door, half-buried in the firewood pile, only the grip exposed. Its presence is not remarkable. Its absence might be.
The short sword is a symbol not of violence, but of preparedness. In a culture where weather can kill as easily as monsters, and where the terrain itself can betray the careless, this blade is part of how people endure. It’s the thing you grab when you’re heading out and don’t know exactly what the day might throw at you. It’s not the thing you reach for when a fight breaks out—it’s the thing you already had on you, when the fight broke out five seconds too soon. Among artisans and families, its personal significance can run deeper. Some decorate them, not because tradition demands it, but because the sword becomes a companion of sorts. A reflection of its owner. The carvings and paintings along the scabbard or grip aren’t ceremonial—they’re personal. A goat-mark for a herder. A trail-sign for a courier. A curling vine for someone who loves the spring. These details are often subtle, never meant to impress. They are a quiet way of saying: this one is mine. It’s not a weapon of status. But it is a weapon of trust. If someone lets you borrow theirs, or places it near your bed while you’re recovering from a wound or illness, it means something. It means you’re expected to return. It means someone assumes you’ll need it—and that you’ll know what to do with it when the moment comes. In the end, its significance is found in its reliability. No one brags about their short sword. But no one jokes about being caught without one. It doesn’t belong to war. It belongs to survival. And that makes it, in Arin eyes, one of the most meaningful tools anyone can own.
"It’s the sort of thing you don’t appreciate until it saves your fingers. Or your life."
Item type
Weapon, Melee
Rarity
Uncommon
Weight
2 lbs
Dimensions
28 to 32 inches
Base Price
10 gp
"Oh little blade beside the fire
You cleave the meal
you cleave the mire
No feast nor field without your steel
No path too dark, no cut can't heal."
Comments