Veracity
I am a forged fixed blade knife.
I was forged by the knife gods of iron and carbon, elements created in the nuclear furnace of stars which burned out in brilliant flash, spewing energy and matter all over the universe. To make me tougher than most things found in the natural world, I was heated in a forge until I glowed. I was transitioned through many states of matter and mind, then suddenly enveloped in a bath of salt, blood, and oil to quench the fire. Once I had cooled my crystalline and inflexible state needed to be tempered. I was warmed by the breath of the knife gods who bestowed their differential treatment upon me. I was sharpened and honed for many years, always striving for the perfect edge.
I show the marks of the hammer that pounded my flesh into form. Age has first tarnished, and then corroded my surface. I show the pits, marks, scratches, and scars of a life long lived. I have worn out many different handles over time. My edge is still hard, but is losing some of sharpness. I am a tool, and I am a weapon. I bend when I need to, and can be firm and stalwart if called upon. I try to be ready for any task that might be asked of me.
I am trying to honor the gods who made me, and to be the best knife I can be. To do otherwise is to be without purpose, or meaning. And that is not what being a knife is all about.
Paracelsus, oft Mystooken Shaman of the Terrible Ironic Horde