A Sentimental Value
Before I left my home, my father's house, my mother's home, I picked up the old shield and sword used to belong to my father when he was my age. I know he would be happy for me to have them.
The protector metal is lighter than what great warriors wield in war and a little smaller, too.
There is no paint on it, and only a crafted cross and partial skull figures. I know the cross represents the protection of our God; the skulls are to impress fear into the enemies souls in close combat while holding it up in defence so the weapon, on the other hand, can strike.
The sword is simple, also smaller and lighter than the one my father used in battle, but its double blades sharpened and could easily cut both ways held in one hand. The craft includes a scull on the handguard, too, making a great match to the shield.
The rest of the hilt is the grip wrapped with black leather, ending with an iron knob that helps with the perfect balance of the sharp two-sided blade with clear signs of age and wear.
The weapon wasn't made for big battles or fights against stronger foes. Still, its decoration, style and the way to wear it visibly may make bandits and thieves reconsider their intention upon encounter, and I could avoid bloodshed.
I bear my sword and shield with pride, for it was my father's and may protect me in this murderous world against those who want to rob, kill, and take.