Disclaimer: I do not own Percy Jackson. If I did, Piper would not exist, and Jason wouldn't have died.
Chapter 2: My Grandpa Commits Suicide
"Kronos." I said flatly. "Not long enough."
His sneer once more turned into a smirk, his eyes gleaming with malice. "Now, now, that's no way to address your beloved grandpa."
"Oh really?" I deadpanned. "So where is he then? Oh wait, you? I think you lost that right when you tried to kill me. Five times."
He frowned. "I'm sure it was at least six."
"Exactly!" I screamed, before I realised something, and began to giggle.
He froze, a crease of confusion crossing his forehead. "What?" His confusion quickly turned to anger. "WHAT?"
I snorted. "Zeus once called me the biggest annoyance he had ever met. Athena too. Ares probably thought it. And now, you are strapped there, and I can just annoy you till I get bored!"
His face paled. "Oh dear."
"I know a song that'll get on your nerves-" I could feel my lips turning up at the corners.
"Silence, you pathetic worm!" That's a new one.
"-get on your nerves-" It probably wasn't the best idea to mock my evil grandfather.
"Silence!" Was it just me, or were his eyes slightly brighter than usual?
"-get on your nerves-"
"Shut up!" Yep, this was a really bad idea.
"-get on your nerves-" Well, can't stop now.
"Will you shut your incessant nattering?" Actually, why would I stop now? He's just getting creative.
"I know a song that will get on your nerves-"
"If you say one more word-"
"All day long!"
He sighed, slumping backwards. "Finally. You've finished. Now, leave me in peace. We have tortured each other enough."
I cleared my throat, drawing my knife. "Oh, 99 green bottles, sitting on a wall, 99 green bottles, sitting on a wall, one fell-"
His face turned a furious red as his eyes glowed with power. "SHUT IT!"
I smirked. "Temper temper. Now, where was I - oh yes, three thousand green bot-"
"1 year, 7 months, 2 weeks, 4 days, 3 hours, 45 minutes 12 and a half seconds."
I frowned, utterly lost. "What?"
"1 year, 7 months, 2 weeks, 4 days, 3 hours, 45 minutes and 14 seconds. That is how long you have been in the pit."
I shook my head. "Nah, it's not. It's been, what, two months? Three, max."
"Time is hard enough to judge without a daylight cycle. Add that to extended sleep times, more than one coma and so much pain you aren't completely sane? I mean, you were in a coma on that ledge for about a month and a half alone - you're just lucky the monsters all think you're dead like that. Dead meat gets sort of, well, poisoned down here. Yep, that's the only reason you've survived down here over a year and a half."
"It's not true." Yet, I could not deny the dread that was building in my chest. "It's not."
"And for your friends? Three days. It has been three days since they left Rome. They have only just passed the town of Cortona, on their way to Bologna. They're taking the long way to Epirus."
I shook my head, denying what he had said. "No. It's not true. It's not." But my hand moved to my face, covered in stubble. Except it wasn't stubble any longer: it was a knotted mess of curled hair, a messy moustache and beard that wouldn't look out of place on a homeless person. My hand moved to my hair. Where once was short, tousled hair was unruly, shoulder length hair, folded in upon itself, surely longer than the length at which it hung. I touched the spear wounds, where before had been shiny scar tissue, but now lay skin just as rugged as the rest. No, it couldn't be. No.
He smiled a toothy grin. "I bless you Perseus Jackson, son of Poseidon, son of me. I bless you so that for however long you live, you are aware of how long time has passed where you are, and how long that is in comparison with mortal time. Oh yes, I bless you."
And the sudden knowledge struck me in my thoughts, the very nature of time itself stripping away what little denial still survived, as I doubled over, panting and wheezing. It was true. It was completely true. And worse, it had been three quarters of an hour since the conversation began. Was I so out of it, my psyche so tortured, that I had spaced out that badly, completely oblivious to my hellish surroundings? And worse, the knowledge of time outside the pit, where only a minute passed for every three torturous days passed in this section of the pit. I collapsed on my side, gasping for breath. No. No. No! Even if I survived the pit, I would be alone, isolated from my peers.
"And that is another half hour spent in a panic attack, for which less than a second has passed for your friends. By the way, you have been 19 for a while now, almost six months. Happy birthday." And there was that crooked smile.
"No, no, no," I muttered pitifully, trying to convince myself. "This cannot be happening."
"Oh, but it is! And it gets better! As you get further down, the time on this side of the equation increases - how fun!"
I collapsed to my knees, my breath ragged, like gravel pouring down my throat, my heart racing nineteen to the dozen as I realised just what this meant. Not only would I be separated by maturity, but by death. I would die decades before any of them. I would live in the underworld, waiting for decades for them to join me. And there went another half an hour, spent pondering tortured thoughts.
"I see you understand my blessing. Thing is, it won't help you stop phasing out - it will just be a nagging reminder after you have lost precious time. How fun is that?"
"You bastard!" I screamed, lunging at him in blind rage, sinking my knife into his shoulder. I felt a deep seated sense of satisfaction as he led out a howl of pain, before I was sent tumbling backwards, his head having collided with my stomach.
"Well, grandson, I have grown bored of this game. Unfortunately for you, I am under no such delusion that I believe I will ever be free. So I shall leave you with one last thing."
I froze, my soul chilled by the malice present in his voice. "What?"
"I curse you, Perseus, with my entire essence. I curse that for as long as you live, you will never find peace, that you shall always be pulled into the strife and struggle of the immortals. I curse you, Titanslayer, by the power of Erebus!"
As soon as he finished his declaration, he flung his head back in a mighty roar, an unholy mixture of agony and triumph, as his facial orifices began to pool with a harsh, golden light, steadily growing in volume and harshness until I was force to slam my hands over my eyes and screw my eyes shut, my body recoiling from the sheer power being forced from his body.
As soon as I grew used to this chaotic presence, it changed, the harsh light turning a ghastly purple and the feeling of power seemingly drawing back into the body of the Titan Lord. The two stages lasted over the course of a day, a day in which I could do naught but lay in waiting, desperately defending myself from the sheer force of Kronos' power.
When finally the roar died away, fading into a gentle croak, and the golden light had vanished along with the suffocating aura, I gingerly lowered my arms, slowly cracking my eyes open. Where once the Titan King had stood, wrapped in chains, was a void, a thin crack in the fabric of reality sitting among the empty prison, before even that snapped shut, leaving nothing.
"A Death Curse," an excitable, slightly jittery voice uttered from behind me. "It's been ages since the last Death Curse! Ouranus's had been so much fun!"
I whipped around, seeing a man - no, being - more terrible than any I had ever seen. Floating about two inches of the ground, the thing was wrapped in a tattered black cloak, holding an ebony clipboard. He was, to put it simply, a glowing skeleton.
It was tall, far taller than any mortal being at about ten foot tall, with gleaming white bones so bright it seemed to illuminate the air around it. However, even that was not its most terrible feature. Whereas most immortals seemed powerful because they emitted power, this being seemed to consume power, tugging at my very essence, my soul.
I dropped my knife.
The sudden sound caused the being to freeze, tilting its skull down, so that its eye sockets could observe me - both of which were filled with a dull purple light. It screamed.
I screamed back.
It continued to scream.
I continued to scream.
It fainted.
I fainted.
| -|o |
As I woke up, I was immediately struck by the realisation that since I had last been awake, three months had passed for me and thirty minutes had passed for the earth. Damn Kronos!
Of course, I then froze again (for 45 minutes). The skeleton. I slowly tilted my head up. Sure enough, leaning at the back of the cave was the skeleton, now awake.
"Ah, you're awake. Sorry, you gave me a shock. Wasn't expecting anyone but the essence of Kronos, see?"
I gulped, feeling the beings' aura tugging at my power. "Wh- who are you?"
"Me?" He cocked his head to the side. "Oh, I'm Erebus, Primordial of Death. And you?"
My throat dry, it took several minutes to force the words out. "Percy. Percy Jackson."
"Percy? As in Perseus?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
His eyes dulled slightly. "Shit."
I frowned. "What?"
"Well, I was called here for a Death Curse on Perseus the Titanslayer, you by the way, but I didn't expect it to be Percy Jackson, hero of Olympus! Who, now that I think about it, was also given the title Titanslayer, among others. Damn, my daughter Ananke would kill me if I ruined your life after all the work she and her triplets had put into it!"
"Ananke?" I said, my throat drying even further. "Like, the Primordial of the Fates?"
"Yeah, and she loves you! She gives you so many opportunities to prove yourself. She even planned for you to fight Gaia one on one!"
I blinked. "What?"
"But if I ruin your life with his curse, it will all be for naught. You'd never get the happy ending."
"Well…" I drawled, testing my luck a bit. I never said I was smart! "You could just… not place the curse."
"No," he said, shaking his he-, uh, skull. "It's a Death Curse, the second ever one, the first being Ouranos cursing Kronos. It sacrifices their essence, basically suicide - sends them to the void with Chaos, see - in order to pass one final act against their enemy. It is an immortal's right, see? The Ancient Laws order me to."
I sighed, hanging my head in resignation. "Fine. Just get on with it."
He sighed. "Sorry about this. Really, I am. You seem like such a nice guy. Not like Kronos at all! I had to freeze his soul, hold him in place to place the curse. I hope for your sake that the immortals take a break till you die. You deserve some peace." And then he placed his bony finger against my forehead. And it hurt.
Radiating from that one point was the worse pain that I had felt, worse even than the River Styx. It only lasted a second, thankfully, but that second seemed to stretch out into an eternity and back.
As soon as he removed his finger, I collapsed to the ground, my vision fading as I passed into unconsciousness once more.
| -|o |
One month, one week and three days later, I woke straight back up, surprised to see Erebus still lounging in the cave.
"You sure are unconscious a lot," he noted.
"Thanks, I'm going for a personal best," I drawled, surprised at how relaxed I was suddenly around him. Then again, I wasn't the smartest fish in the bucket.
"By the way, happy birthday kid, you're twenty today." As he said that, he tossed me a thin, blue package, about 30 inches long, 12 inches longer than Riptide had been. I frowned as I caught it. It was fairly weighty, as if it was made of metal, but not realistic if it was metal.
Erebus saw me frowning and his aura let off a feeling of him rolling his eyes. "Open it then!"
I tore at the edge of the sea blue paper, revealing a leather scabbard with golden ends, in which a sword was sheathed. Pulling it out, I found a traditional, mediaeval broadsword, silver in colour with a golden, leather wrapped hilt. "A broadsword?"
"Technically it's an arming sword - the Victorians got it wrong - but yeah!"
I tilted my head. "Thanks, I guess. Why, though?"
"As I said, my daughter would be mightily upset if I let you die. I saw that you lost Anaklusmos, so figured I'd get you a replacement."
"I'm more used to a xiphos, or a gladius. I don't know how to use a broadsword."
"Like a xiphos combined with a gladius, with more blocking. Slice, stab, block. Simple as one two three. Can be one or two handed, depending on whether you need speed or strength, or if you want a second weapon or shield. Besides, that's not just any old broadsword. That's Animacarcerous, the Soulsword. I mean, technically the name means Soul Prison, but whatever."
"The Soulsword?" I asked, raising the blade, examining the inscription: Cavete, Spritus Damnatorum - Beware, Spirits of the Damned.
"Uh huh. It's unbreakable, can cut almost anything, and will always return to that sheath, just as the sheath will always return to wherever you carry it."
"It's so light. About the weight of a smaller sword, like Riptide. What is it made of?"
"Void stuff."
"Void stuff?"
"Void stuff. The literal essence of nothingness. Officially called Inanisium. That is currently one of three things made of it in the mortal and immortal realms. Oh! Forgot the best bit!"
"It gets better?" I asked incredulously, pushing aside my curiosity as to just what else was made of the peculiar metal, and whether I was likely to encounter it. Instead, I focussed on the blade itself, a gift from Death himself. Sure, it was no Xiphos, but it seemed to be one hell of a sword.
"Yeah! See, the sword is void stuff, right, the literal essence of nothing, so it can absorb the metaphysical. As in, the absorb can absorb the spirits of those you slay."
"Like Stygian Iron?" I seemed to remember Nico saying something similar about his sword.
"Nah, that stuff destroys the spirit. This? This imprisons it."
"What's the difference?"
"What's the difference?" Erebus cried out offended. "What's the point in destroying the spirit when you can re-use it?"
I froze, my brain whirring. "Does that mean what I think it does?"
His skeletal face broke into a gruesome grin. "Yup."
"I can summon the remains of monsters I have slain, and wield them against my enemies?"
"Yup!" he grinned, before his face fell. "Though once freed, you will have to re-imprison them. Some might not be worth freeing."
I nodded solemnly. "Got it. So don't free Typhon if I somehow capture him."
He nodded. "And don't free anyone already in that sword. There is a reason they are in there."
I looked at the blade curiously, wondering what was in there. I shook the thought away, sheathing the blade in its scabbard. It would do me no good to ponder such thoughts. Once I had strapped the scabbard over my back, I turned to the primordial. "Thank you, Lord Erebus." I looked back down at the swirling mist that seemed to form inside the blade. "Hey, Erebus?"
His skull tilted back down to me. "Yes, Perseus?"
"What happens if you die in Tartarus?"
His eyes dulled, turning nearly black, as he slid down the wall, his very being seeming to exude desolation. "Oh, Perseus, I am so sorry. Even if you die down here, you shall never see her again. Her soul has been consumed by the flames of the Pit's Primordial himself, and whatever remained sent to the void of Chaos. There will be nothing for you to find, ever. Only an empty shell, an astral form suspended in the deepest reaches of the void."
I hung my head, silently taking it all in. I had to live. For her. I could not let her die in vain. For it was more like death than death itself. And I knew - I was talking to him right now. And if he said I would never see her again, I would never see her again. No. I couldn't die for her. But I could live for her. Live the life she could never have. But first, I had to get out. I had to escape.
"One last thing," he said, bending back down, placing his bony finger on my forehead once more. After a minute, he released it, and his skull did a vague approximation of a weary smile. "There. One last gift. I have pushed Kronos' 'gift'-" here he did air quotes with his fingers. "-to the back. No constant reminders, just the occasional flash of knowledge. I'm just sorry I couldn't do anything else."
I shook my head, smiling despite the situation I found myself in. "No worries, Lord Erebus. You have done more than I could ever hope for."
He simply nodded in response. "Farewell, Perseus Jackson. For your sake, I hope we never meet again." And then he vanished, his presence folding in upon itself, the aura no longer pulling at what I assume was my soul.
And then the pit's curse returned, having been warded off by the aura, and my world exploded into pain as I tipped forwards, my eyes rolling backwards as Morpheus greeted me once more.
| -|o |
As I woke up, I was relieved to find that it wasn't to the immediate intrusion of a date, something that I was not interested in finding out. I collapsed on my knees, crying with joy and sadness, peace and pain. Joy, for I had been given a weapon, a way to fight my way to the end of my journey, to rejoin my friends, albeit far older than when I left. Sadness, for Annabeth was once again separated from me, yet this time I wouldn't find her, chained on a mountain, nor would she come to my rescue, aboard a flying warship.
I broke down again there, collapsing on my side, gasping for breath.
Peace, for I was free, for now at least, from the dreadful reality that was the nature of time. And pain, for that was inevitable. I was in Tartarus.
I got to my knees, and then my feet, reaching a hand up to the hilt of Animacarcerous, pondering my quest. For it was a quest now. It was not simply a journey, implying simply going from A to B, but a trial, a challenge. It was a quest, and my goal was vengeance. Vengeance for Annabeth.
But to do that, I had to survive. So, first things first. Stop being so cocky in a fight, at least against the more challenging once. I underestimated the Minotaur, and I underestimated Kronos. Neither would happen again.
And secondly, I needed to get better. Stronger. I had a new sword, perfectly balanced much like Riptide once had been, but the Soulsword was different, and I had to use it differently.
I tugged at the hilt, sliding it back and forth, getting a feel for the draw action. After a moment, I sped it up to full speed, unsheathing in one, fluid movement. I frowned. I was drawing it like a xiphos, not waiting long enough for the end to allow the end to leave the sheath. That could cost me my life in a fight.
After a little while longer (ha! I didn't know the exact time! 28 min- Damn it to Hades!), I had mastered the technique, whipping the sword out in a second flat, a rapid response that would hopefully save my life.
I soon turned to the blade itself, not just the act of drawing it. I tilted it up, holding the hilt before my chest, the blade pointing directly up so as to hold the razor sharp edges of the Inanisium blade directly between my eyes.
It was thinner than Riptide had been, but longer, and straighter. It would be able to slide along its entire length, and would probably be better for disarming - especially with a wider hilt, so as to prevent the opposing blade reaching his hand.
I whipped it to the side, getting a feel for the weight of the broadsword. It was lighter than I expected, but perfectly balanced, and still heavier than Riptide. I spun it in a flourish, feeling how the centre of mass moved in relation with my hand.
I lunged forward, slicing a gouge in the cave's wall, spinning in a complete motion, before thrusting, a stab right below the slash. It was clumsy, though, the blade catching the wall before I was ready. Right. Longer. Got it.
I spun around the cavern, going through the motions, adapting both Greek and Roman styles of fighting to fit the blade, incorporating them into some strange hybrid. I was well aware that it was probably not the most effective way of using the mediaeval blade, but I had to make do with what I had.
I raised the blade in a traditional Greek block, frowning as I realised the blade was simply not wide enough. I was defending against more than just spears and slashes. I held it outwards, at a forty five degree angle so that the tip of the sword was level with my head as my hand was level with my torso. Closing my eyes, I imagined myself in a fight against, say, Frank, an opponent who relied on strength, rather than speed, for his bulky frame was too awkward for sharp turns and fluid movements. I stood tense, weary, my sword gently tilting back and forth to preserve momentum. And then he lunged, and overhead strike cleaving down at me. My own blade answered in kind, easily crossing the imaginary attack, allowing me to strike out with a kick at an opponent that was not there.
I imagined another strike, from the left side, allowing me to turn the blade downwards, vertical so that the point faced the ground. Another strike, from the right, blocked with the same, but with the blade upright. A stab forward, redirected to my side. And every attack led to a chance to kick, or disarm, or lung in with my dagger. I twirled through the imaginary attacks, rolling off the strikes, flourishes thrown in to preserve momentum of both myself and the sword. Every movement was carefully sculpted to preserve movement and moment; a choreographed dance of fluidity and grace, for fluidity was the essence of speed, and through speed you could topple a stronger opponent, if I was fast enough.
My hand reached into my pocket, gripping my dagger in an offensive reverse grip, the blade tilted down and to the left. I continued my imaginary dance of death, parrying and slashing, with every turn a lunge with the blade, using my momentum to propel the blade forward, a secondary attack to get under the guard of my stronger opponent.
I readjusted my stance, holding the hilt in two hands, my feet planted firmly. This was no longer about speed, but strength. My imaginary opponent changed to Nico, a much faster fighter, for his scrawny stature would prevent him from summoning enough strength to combat most attacks, thus allowing me to perform simpler blocks each strike, hammering against his blade each time, trying to throw him off balance, to create a gap in his rapid strikes. And when he faltered? My sword would cleave down upon him, or perform a powerful, piercing strike, but never a slash, for slashes were fast, and that was not my focus. Every imaginary block would result in the slightest shifting of my feet, always keeping my feet as stable as possible, for stability lent itself to strength, and through strength one could overcome speed, if skilled enough.
I opened my eyes, slowly returning my blade to its sheath, feeling the familiar burn in my muscles, the familiar hum of adrenaline running through my veins. It was comforting, in a way. For the first time since I had entered the pit, a remnant of my old life could be felt, the thrill of practice. I was not relaxed, not by a long shot, for I was still in the pit, surrounded by fire and death, torture and malice, but I was no longer panicked, no longer acting purely from fear, for I was now prepared, and knew what to expect. I expected to fight, fight harder than I ever had before.
I walked up to the edge of the tunnel, my eyes scanning the ghastly pit below. There were many caves in the walls, many hideaways that could be teeming with monsters. There were also many membranes, some larger than others. Hopefully, I could avoid the inhabited ones, like the arena, but I doubted I would with my luck. But I tried to be optimistic, searching for somewhere to head towards. I could see the sickly pustules that lined the walls, the hatching points of monsters, just ready to spew their contents in an attempt to kill me. For that was the purpose of the pit: to spawn monsters and kill trespassers, but not before torturing them to their breaking point. But I would not break. For I had a goal, a purpose. A reason to push on, to continue fighting. A reason to endure the tortures, a reason to survive.
The problem with my search, my striving for a destination, was that every cave could contain another, unforeseen problem, and even if it was safe, it was another stop on my journey, another place to further the age gap. Climbing was also very dangerous, where every second I could be subjected to another attack, an attack I couldn't fight at my full strength, and it was too long, too tedious, extending my journey by unnecessary amounts. And somehow I doubted they would keep the nice(r) prisoners further down. I shuddered, as if some imaginary wind had just blown across me. What could be worse than Kronos?
Pushing the thought from my brain, I continued to survey the area, before I found a large cave entrance almost directly below him, just off to the right, with a small platform formed out of the fleshy membrane in front of it. But that wasn't what was important. From out of the cave poured a torrent of some dark substance, pooling on the membrane before continuing its journey downwards in a cascading waterfall. A river.
I could survive rivers.
For Annabeth.
I stood at the edge of the cave, crossing my arms, staring into the pit below, focussing on my destination. And then I leapt.
A/N: And that was chapter 2! Slightly lighter than the last chapter, but I hope it fits the tone of the story.
To answer the question from reviewer IRanOutOfIdeasForMyUsername, Percy will eventually get a happy ending, but he has a world of hurt first. This brief moment of peace? Yeah, not gonna last. The hurt is coming next chapter.
Anyone like my portrayal of Erebus? I think he's quite cool, and I needed an excuse to replace Riptide (sorry) with the Soulsword. Plus, who liked the sword? I quite like mediaeval weaponry, and haven't read anything where Percy gets a broadsword before. What about 'void stuff'? Like the idea? Its important for a later instalment, though, so even if you don't, its here to stay.
On the subject of the Soulsword, I have realised that their seems to be a real absence of mediaeval swords in Percy Jackson fanfiction. There are tons of versions of Percy who use either a xiphos, gladius or ulfberht (Viking sword), plus an obscene amount with katanas (seriously - what's the obsession? If you want katanas, go to anime!), but there aren't many shortswords, broadswords (actually arming swords - look it up), bastardswords, longswords, greatswords or Claymores! And BTW, swords are not the only ancient/mediaeval weapon! There are spears, javelins, pikes, knives, daggers, throwing blades, slingshots, knuckle weapons and tons of other things! Not just swords and bows! (Rant over)
Also, the lengths I described are accurate. I'm very interested in ancient and mediaeval weaponry, so I researched them in length. I've put down the names, descriptions and lengths of typical swords at the bottom of the page, many of which may feature in my writing at some point.
So, how was the chapter? Please let me know in a review, and if you have any quest in a PM, which I will answer as promptly as possible.
Please review, favourite and follow, as those things help demonstrate your support for my story, and will help motivate me to persevere with this story.
See you next time.
This is JaguarAJG, signing off.
Here are the measurements, as promised (I'm Bri'ish so the measurements are in centimetres):
Xiphos (Greek leaf blade): about 45 to 60 centimetres
Makhaira (Greek cavalry sword, curved, one cutting edge): around 45 centimetres
Scimitar (Persian sword, curved, one handed, one cutting edge): from 60 to 90 centimetres
Gladius (Roman short sword): about 60 to 85 centimetres
Spatha (Roman cavalry sword, one handed): about a metre in length
Khopesh (Egyptian curved sword): about 50 to 60 centimetres
Ulfberht (Norse sword): about 90 centimetres long
Shortsword (Mediaeval one handed sword): 30 to 50 centimetres
Broadsword/Arming sword (Mediaeval standard sword, one or two hands): around 75 centimetres
Bastardsword (Mediaeval short, two handed sword): around 100 to 115 centimetres
Longsword (Mediaeval medium, two handed sword): around 115 to 130 centimetres
Claymore (Mediaeval, wide, long two handed sword): around 140 centimetres
Greatsword (Mediaeval long two handed sword): around 170 centimetres, though the longest could be up to 215 centimetres
Falchion (Late Mediaeval, Early Modern hacking sword): about 90 to 100 centimetres
Cutlass (Late Mediaeval, Early Modern Naval sword, one handed, wide blade, one cutting edge): around 70 to 80 centimetres
Rapier (Late Mediaeval, Early Modern land sword, one handed, thin blade - no cutting edge): around 105 centimetres
Sabre (Late Mediaeval, Early Modern cavalry sword, one handed, one cutting edge, curved)
Katana (Eastern sword, one or two handed, one cutting edge): around 90 centimetres
Machete (Modern hacking blade): about 30 to 45 centimetres
Fencing Foil (Modern rapier): 110 centimetres (standard)
There are many other styles of sword out there, such as the foil and the Bearing sword (imagine a claymore on steroids), but these are the most common in Europe (plus the Katana - I mean, I had to include it), and the ones I am likely to use in my work.
Please review, favourite and follow.
Bye!