03-23-2012, 06:53 PM
It was a botched job. Caprica wasn't ashamed to admit that. She had gotten nowhere reading metalworking books - the kinds of weapons they spoke about just weren't put together in the same way as her inadequate katana. And even within these simpler tomes lot of the materials were specific to humans, and she had never heard of most of the words. It was too much for her brain to learn in this manner, and even when she forced herself through the paragraphs, dragging her eyes unwillingly along the lines, she still felt no more near enlightenment as to the steps she could take to repair the shoddy weapon. She was beginning to see that she was going to have to become a truly expert metal-worker first, and she had only just decided to make wood her study. Was she going to change her entire aspirations around for the single reason of proving Alaki wrong?
Then there was the time it would take. Months - or years. She didn't know, but it wasn't going to be simple. Simply, she could not be bothered with the idea of having the tension hanging in the air between them for all that time. It seemed much more efficient to eat her words. And it would give her an excuse to go and ask the Angelo to honour his offer of getting her her own, fully functional katana.
Or, she could hang onto her stubborn pride regarding the repairs, just wing it and hope for the best.
Not entirely sure deep down she was doing the right thing, but squashing the niggling notion, Caprica had set to: she'd split the sword hilt with a chisel, removed the blunt blade and sharpened it with her rather too-small stones: and then remade the hilt from two pieces of wood. This bit she was proud of: they were carved to match perfectly, using skills Ayasha had shown her. To strengthen them, she'd bound leather around them after enclosing the tang of the blade between the pair. Into the cracks she'd poured melted pine resin, the kind she used for varnish. It was unlikely to be strong, but she didn't yet know how to make glue, nor could she think of a better way to fix together the hilt, and so she could only pray it worked.
When dry, the sword looked okay, except for the dull metal of the blade where she'd scraped it - and the dribbles of amber liquid at the top, staining the wood which would not come off. Well, never mind. As long as she could swing it, it would be fine. She could paint over those mistakes.
Her den was so full of trinkets and clutter these days that there was barely room to stand up, let alone swing a sword. She headed for Thackary village, knowing the expanse of grass was often deserted. When she arrived, Caprica set up a straw-filled sack tied to a post and began to practice lunges and passes. The sword seemed perfectly serviceable. It cut through the air with a satisfying whistling sound. Emboldened, the craftswoman swung it around her head several times, before letting out a yell and bringing the weapon down on the top of the sack. The blow carried such weight that she sliced through the fabric and straw, and the sword struck the post sending a violent jolt up her arms: it glanced aside and then to her horror, she felt the tang graze through her fingers where it broke the pine resin seal and the hilt disintegrated in her hands. The momentum of the sword sent it flying, spinning as it went across the field, mowing a long swathe out of the longer grass before it finally came to ground, spinning neatly to a halt underneath the verandah of one of the village buildings, where nobody could retrieve it. Caprica stared after it, feeling pale. What if a child had been playing there, or another Anatheman wandering past? She had been such a fool.
Almost without hesitating for one moment, she marched straight down to the caverns again: directly to where she knew the Angelo kept his quarters. Although she had nothing but grovelling to look forward to, surely, there was a spring in her step and a lift to her jaw which spoke of unfounded expectations. She had been disappointed once this week in getting to spend some time with the brusque leader, mistaking a newcomer for him. She was rather looking forward to experiencing the real thing, now. Despite all evidence that their relationship was at best indifferent. Caprica could not explain this whim of her heart if she'd tried, and she wasn't even thinking about such things. She stopped outside his den entrance, noting wryly the still-heavier presence of Alexander: it was kind of sweet how the longer those two were together the more inseparable they seemed to become. Lucky them.
"Okay, wise guy," she called, taking a step towards the entrance to listen for a presence inside. "You there? I wanna talk." Frustration and a little resentment coloured her words: they weren't the most ingratiating start, it had to be said.
Then there was the time it would take. Months - or years. She didn't know, but it wasn't going to be simple. Simply, she could not be bothered with the idea of having the tension hanging in the air between them for all that time. It seemed much more efficient to eat her words. And it would give her an excuse to go and ask the Angelo to honour his offer of getting her her own, fully functional katana.
Or, she could hang onto her stubborn pride regarding the repairs, just wing it and hope for the best.
Not entirely sure deep down she was doing the right thing, but squashing the niggling notion, Caprica had set to: she'd split the sword hilt with a chisel, removed the blunt blade and sharpened it with her rather too-small stones: and then remade the hilt from two pieces of wood. This bit she was proud of: they were carved to match perfectly, using skills Ayasha had shown her. To strengthen them, she'd bound leather around them after enclosing the tang of the blade between the pair. Into the cracks she'd poured melted pine resin, the kind she used for varnish. It was unlikely to be strong, but she didn't yet know how to make glue, nor could she think of a better way to fix together the hilt, and so she could only pray it worked.
When dry, the sword looked okay, except for the dull metal of the blade where she'd scraped it - and the dribbles of amber liquid at the top, staining the wood which would not come off. Well, never mind. As long as she could swing it, it would be fine. She could paint over those mistakes.
Her den was so full of trinkets and clutter these days that there was barely room to stand up, let alone swing a sword. She headed for Thackary village, knowing the expanse of grass was often deserted. When she arrived, Caprica set up a straw-filled sack tied to a post and began to practice lunges and passes. The sword seemed perfectly serviceable. It cut through the air with a satisfying whistling sound. Emboldened, the craftswoman swung it around her head several times, before letting out a yell and bringing the weapon down on the top of the sack. The blow carried such weight that she sliced through the fabric and straw, and the sword struck the post sending a violent jolt up her arms: it glanced aside and then to her horror, she felt the tang graze through her fingers where it broke the pine resin seal and the hilt disintegrated in her hands. The momentum of the sword sent it flying, spinning as it went across the field, mowing a long swathe out of the longer grass before it finally came to ground, spinning neatly to a halt underneath the verandah of one of the village buildings, where nobody could retrieve it. Caprica stared after it, feeling pale. What if a child had been playing there, or another Anatheman wandering past? She had been such a fool.
Almost without hesitating for one moment, she marched straight down to the caverns again: directly to where she knew the Angelo kept his quarters. Although she had nothing but grovelling to look forward to, surely, there was a spring in her step and a lift to her jaw which spoke of unfounded expectations. She had been disappointed once this week in getting to spend some time with the brusque leader, mistaking a newcomer for him. She was rather looking forward to experiencing the real thing, now. Despite all evidence that their relationship was at best indifferent. Caprica could not explain this whim of her heart if she'd tried, and she wasn't even thinking about such things. She stopped outside his den entrance, noting wryly the still-heavier presence of Alexander: it was kind of sweet how the longer those two were together the more inseparable they seemed to become. Lucky them.
"Okay, wise guy," she called, taking a step towards the entrance to listen for a presence inside. "You there? I wanna talk." Frustration and a little resentment coloured her words: they weren't the most ingratiating start, it had to be said.