His heart pounds, sweat builds up on his face, running down in rivulets of salt-water. He knew that this day would come, he'd forged a blade for it, stored up shells, packed bags. It had been twenty years, he'd grown older, and perhaps a little slower. He'd tried to keep sharp, shooting his .45 every night and keeping in shape, and made a meager living hewing out coffins to feed his adopted daughter. He'd been their pillar. He'd schooled the girl at home. He'd practiced working iron, steel, and copper, and wood, making tools and weapons as practice. He'd kept himself sane talking to Skynet.
His .45, clean, greased, and accurate, carried in a deer hide holster on the front of his belt, crossdraw. [You must be registered and logged in to see this image.]
A plain knife, carbon steel, razor sharp 6 3/4". [You must be registered and logged in to see this image.]
His favorite razor. [You must be registered and logged in to see this image.]
A shortsword, with a 5160 blade, 29 inches overall, eight inch handle. [You must be registered and logged in to see this image.]
A canvas possibles bag, containing a ball peen hammer, tongs, a zippo lighter, his whetstones (Wrapped in thick cloth to pad them against almost anything but a sledgehammer blow.), matches, flint and steel, a multitool, a surgical scalpel, and a bag of cornstarch. [You must be registered and logged in to see this image.][img][/img]
Subject: Old North 
Sat Sep 08, 2012 2:08 am
