Your Celtic Leaf Sword cuts down another goblin, leaving him in a pile of his buddies. They miscalculated your massive strength, and are reeling backwards on the retreat. They have learned too late that betraying a noble of the Black Water Clan would mean death. It’s too bad they won’t be able to share the word with their kin.

You adjust your sword, letting out a battle cry of rage as another goblin aims for your ankles. This one goes flying fifteen paces.

You have traveled an impossible distance in search of the dragon’s lair, and now you stand before its entrance. You can feel the heat radiating from inside and smell the sulfur. This will be the greatest battle of your life.

You pull your Crusader sword from its sheath and continue forward to meet your destiny. Whether you succeed or fail, you will go forth with the confidence of a seasoned knight.

The Pirate City be dangerous, even when minding your own business in the corner o’ a tavern. Despite the Pirate’s Code, you be surrounded by cutthroats, scoundrels, and buccaneers alike.

Hangin’ from your shoulders and against your hip, your baldric keeps your Cutlass at the ready just in case things should turn ugly. But you be feelin’ lucky. The quality of your Cutlass’ blade be the sharpest you’ve ever owned. To all the would-be troublemakers, it’s a sure sign that you’re skilled enough to steal from the best...and if they’re smart, they’ll leave you to your ale.

The dark crevices of society is your domain. In the safety of your lair you review the bounties you have collected, considering your next target. When night falls upon the land, you will emerge.

The cityfolk have come to fear you and the silence in which you strike. With your leather gear and Dark Elven Blade, you are able to maneuver in the shadows until your target is exactly where you want him. You are formidable. You are the assassin.

Your elven ears hear the rustle of footsteps behind you. A smile crosses your delicate lips as you realize a stranger is attempting to sneak up on someone as lithe and alert as you. You are the kindred of the immortals, having honed your skills for hundreds of years. No normal mortal being can surprise you.

“Come out of hiding,” you call over your shoulder. “I know you are there.”

As you hear the ‘thwap!’ of an archer’s bow, you spin and dodge the incoming arrow, unsheathing your Elven Blade in one fluid motion. The fight has begun.

Your elven ears hear the rustle of footsteps behind you. A smile crosses your delicate lips as you realize a stranger is attempting to sneak up on someone as lithe and alert as you. You are the kindred of the immortals, having honed your skills for hundreds of years. No normal mortal being can surprise you.

“Come out of hiding,” you call over your shoulder. “I know you are there.”

As you hear the ‘thwap!’ of an archer’s bow, you spin and dodge the incoming arrow, unsheathing your Elven Short Sword in one fluid motion. The fight has begun.

Your elven ears hear the rustle of footsteps behind you. A smile crosses your delicate lips as you realize a stranger is attempting to sneak up on someone as lithe and alert as you. You are the kindred of the immortals, having honed your skills for hundreds of years. No normal mortal being can surprise you.

“Come out of hiding,” you call over your shoulder. “I know you are there.”

As you hear the ‘thwap!’ of an archer’s bow, you spin and dodge the incoming arrow, unsheathing your Elven Sword in one fluid motion. The fight has begun.

With luck--and some skill--you manage to catch a deer with one of your arrows. You think to yourself that it’s a wonder that some wolf hasn’t already caught such a fat morsel. The beast is not completely dead from your shot, and you quickly give the creature a reprieve with the help of your Hunting Sword.

As you sling the beast’s legs over your shoulder and head home, you expect your own family is going to be thrilled at the wolf’s loss.

The sunrise peeks over the horizon long after you are already awake and practicing your sword drills. A jianke must practice daily with the Jian sword to become a true master, and you take your duty as a soldier seriously.

As you finish the thousandth practiced cut, slicing through the air with perfect form, you feel a certain peace overcome you. Practicing with your sword is like a form of meditation.

Your Kriegsmesser cuts down another goblin, leaving him in a pile of his buddies. They miscalculated your massive strength, and are reeling backwards on the retreat. They have learned too late that attacking your group in the night would mean death. It’s too bad they won’t be able to share the word with their kin.

You adjust your shortsword, letting out a battle cry of rage as another goblin aims for your ankles. This one goes flying into several different places.

Into the forgotten ruins you carefully tred, your Orc Cleaver grasped tight in your barbaric fist. The wind whips through the walls, cold and ruthless.

While there might be old traps and the danger of frostbite, you continue with no hint of fear. You are a brave northern warrior, and you’ve come to hunt down the elusive winter stag now hiding within these walls. You will slay it with your sword and bring it home to your people.

War is all that you know. For your clan, war is a permanent state of being. Just as you need meat to sustain you and leather armour to protect your leathery green skin, war keeps your thirst for chaos and violence sated.

Your clan now gathers to prepare for the war against the goblins. The creatures used to be your allies, but in the last battle they became cowardly and ran. Now there is nothing more to be done than to hunt down every one of them and serve them over your fire.

You begin by picking up your Orc Short Sword.

Your kingdom has been occupied by an evil force. Cruel rulers have dethroned you and sent you into hiding while your people are used as slaves and tortured. As the princess, you cannot allow this to continue.

You look the part of a queen, armed with your Princess Sword and decorated in a fine set of golden armour. You are meeting with your warriors in secret, plotting a way to free your kingdom from tyranny. Together you will ignite the fire that will begin a war. You will not stand down. You are prepared to do everything it takes to win back what is rightfully yours.

Wherever you may roam and wander, your Ranger Sword is always by your side. Where you lay your head is home, and with your trusty steel by your side, you are always safe.

Your sword has seen you through countless battles, lain upon hundreds of stones, and been the last thing many orcs have ever seen. A ranger’s life is a hard one, but with a good sword at your side, it will always be yours.

You’re not very good with a gun. Missing an eye, your aim is terrible! That’s why you rely instead on your Ripper Chainsaw.

This recycled masterpiece keeps all of your enemies at bay--with just one clean sweep you’re free to be on your way (regardless of whether or not you can see the path).

Hedgerow is an never ending maze within the fae realms, twisting and turning and leading the unsuspecting to the unknown. The hedges themselves are beautiful, however, as many dangerous things are.

You are native to these lands and so you do not have fear, but you are still careful not to damage the shrubbery with your Royal Elf Sword while traversing the maze. It is never wise for even a Fae Lord to threaten that which has a mind of its own.

The dark crevices of society are your domain. In the safety of your lair you review the bounties you have collected, considering your next target. When night falls upon the land, you will emerge.

The cityfolk have come to fear you and the silence in which you strike. With your leather gear and Sabre, you are able to maneuver in the shadows until your target is exactly where you want him. You are formidable. You are the assassin.

Your Scramasax cuts down another goblin, leaving him in a pile of his buddies. They miscalculated your massive strength, and are reeling backwards on the retreat. So much for supposed alliances. They have learned too late that betraying an Orc of the Black Water would mean death. It’s too bad they won’t be able to share the word with their kin.

You adjust your sword, letting out a battle cry of rage as another goblin aims for your ankles. This one goes flying fifteen paces.

Some consider you crazed. Perhaps you are not in your right mind, but then--who cares? No one dares to insult you to your face. You are too powerful. Too frightening.

With your Dark Elven Shadow Blade, you are a deadly and respected figure in the underground community. When you pass by, all pause and hold their breath.

Your squire buckles the straps of your custom-fit armour, adjusting it to be comfortable and snug over your gambeson. Then you are handed your piece-de-resistance: the Small Sword. You paid top coin for this sword, and you expect people will be impressed when they see how it shines on the battlefield.

Your blacksmith assured you that the Small Sword’s design was both effective and awe-inspiring, and you’re one to agree. You are a mighty warrior, indeed, to be the owner of such fine craftsmanship. A fitting symbol of your godly-given status.

The horn blows, a sharp sound that precedes the legion’s march in perfect synchronicity. Armour rattles, shields thunder, and the Spatha sword in your belt begs to be used.

Every man in the army has an identical sword, but this one is yours--given to you when you joined the great army to bring civilization to the barbarian hordes. Your sword, same as the many like it, helps in this endeavor.

As a squire, you are up before dawn serving your Master. You are expected to have your Master’s armour polished and ready at a moment’s notice. There isn’t a moment to yourself that isn’t being spent thinking about your work. Without your Master’s blessing, you’ll never become a Knight.

Only sparingly do you have the opportunity to train your actual knightly skills, however. What personal weapon you own, a single Squire Sword, is easy enough for you to wield as you practice your cuts. One day you will be a fearsome knight. For now, you must continue to work hard.

The street is a hard place to conduct business, but it’s a way of life you’ve become very good at keeping. Unfortunately, a poor ol’ sap hasn’t paid his dues. You’re an understanding sort, but you can’t risk looking soft. Not on the street.

So, you decide to give the ol’ sap a visit. Pulling out your Trench Knife and preparing your most intimidating look, you don’t expect this meeting to last very long. You’ll get your money today or the chap will be missing a few teeth. You’ll let him decide.

You admire the Viking Sword that belonged to your father. The great warrior sailed his last voyage, but your brethren still managed to bring back his weapon specially for you. For that, at least, you are grateful.

Looking down upon the sharpened, freshly cleaned steel, you wonder what this sword has seen. Carried on countless travels, this sword may have shed blood raiding the English coast, been tarnished under the sun of Spain, and been drawn in defense of Miklagard.

One day you will add to its story.

The best made blades are forged by the most skilled swordsmiths, the metal worked with such precision and care that the edge can cut through flesh so cleanly that a person might not even know they have been cut.

You have commissioned a swordsmith to craft you such a Wakizashi. Before he is paid you want to be certain it is a properly made blade, and so you conduct a test. You produce a silken sheet, allowing it to descend lightly onto the Wakizashi’s edge. The sheet is cut cleanly, not a thread mismatched.

The blade is perfect.

The best made blades are forged by the most skilled swordsmiths, the metal worked with such precision and care that the edge can cut through flesh so cleanly that a person might not even know they are dead.

You have commissioned a swordsmith to craft you a Wakizashi. Before he is paid you want to be certain it is a properly made blade, and so you conduct a test. You produce a silken sheet, allowing it to descend lightly onto the Wakizashi’s edge. The sheet is cut cleanly, not a thread mismatched.

The blade is perfect.

The dangers of the underdark are numerous and cruel. To live in a world of unending darkness requires the constitution of a stronger, resilient being. It is for this reason you have trained to become such a lethal warrior.

Your Dark Elven Hunter Blade is an extension of yourself, glinting as it is used to cut through your prey. The sword dances in shadow, a graceful killer.