Looks just like that guy^^
Blade had never taken 'inanimate' as an insult, not really. He knew that was how people meant the word, when they spit it at him as he crossed the road or whispered it as they pulled their children away. But Blade had always figured that lots of good things were inanimate- blankets, for example, or toys. It was just that his kind of inanimate was... different.
Blade's dad had been a great swordsmith. This much was evident in Blade himself- or at least, half of him.
You see, Blade was a Twain Soul; one living soul tied to one inanimate one. This process wasn't well understood, because it was 'corrupt magic', and thus feared.
When Blade was just a baby, and called Jacob instead, his father had been commissioned to make a sword for the king. The king had been warned of grave trouble by his spies and oracles, and his exact words to Blade's father were as follows:
"Make me a sword that can cut through breastplates like butter. Make me a sword that will save my life. I don't care what magic you use, or what laws you break. Just build. That. Weapon."
And then, almost as a afterthought,
"If I die using your sword, those still loyal to me will kill you, and your family."
Terrified, Blade's father remembered a technique he had theorized about in his early career, but had deemed too dangerous.
He cast his mind back to Twain Souls, recalling that adding a human consciousness to an already-effective inanimate tool would strengthen the tool a thousand times over.
As he thought this, his eyes fell on his newborn son.
Blade had no memory or knowledge of any of this. All he knew was that sometimes he was human, and sometimes- specifically, when his hand touched the hand of someone he trusted- he was a sword.
Unfortunately, it wasn't quite that simple. Bits and pieces of human leaked into his sword, and the other way around. The sword's blade had an intricate human body etched onto it, which resembled Blade turned away.
The sword-to-human spillover was more annoying. His teeth and fingernails were as sharp as steel, and the same color. Anyone who knew what they were looking for could recognize him immediately as an Twain Soul. More often, though, people simply called him inanimate.
Blade was about sixteen, by his count, and it had been years since he'd been a sword. Something deep inside him itched to take that form again, like an artist who had been away from his brushes. He'd even woken up like that a few times, as his sleeping mind tried to compensate for what he purposefully squashed. It scared him. People had only seen him in sword-form twice, and neither time had ended well. A few people knew he could be a sword, but knowing he could and seeing him do it were two different things.
Blade had only been used in one fight- the assassination of the king. He had been young, very young, but he remembered the feeling of blood running over him like sugar in the mouth. He wanted to spill blood again. Some days, he felt that he needed to spill blood again. When mobs drove him out of town, when drunk men attacked him, as if fighting a Twain Soul was a thing to brag about, he wished he could wield himself. But there was no one in the world who would.
Until he went to the freak show.
Blade was driven to the traveling show for the same reasons anyone would- curiosity, boredom, the need for a laugh in a dreary world. Blade had been picking apples for a month or two, and had saved some money. He didn't know what the money was for, but spending some of it on a ticket to a freak show seemed as good a reason as any.
Blade wore work gloves and a tight-liped smile to the show, both in place to hide his steely aspects.
Blade gawked along with everyone else at the unicorn, cripples, bearded women, dwarfs, and other curiosities. Determined to get his money's worth, he lingered a long time at every exhibit. Perhaps his favorite was a skeletorn with a eerie mix of animal and human bones.
Almost at the end of the row, one of the presenters explained the creature in the cage labeled 'The meaningless oracle of Vice City'.
Blade didn't pay much attention to the presenter, but caught that the oracle had been cursed to speak only in prophesy, and all of it meaningless.
At the end of his shpeal, the guide asked if anyone was willing to pay to have the oracle predict their future. Two men stepped forward with coins, and the presenter picked up a pole to knudge the oracle in the back.
Until this point, she had huddled at the back of the cage, hidden in shadow. Now she turned around, standing hunched over and frightened. Everything about her was weak and dirty, from her whisp of hair left on her head to her bare, calloused feet and hands.
Her eyes met Blade's at once, and he shivered. He felt like she was seeing straight through him.
He turned to leave. This was creepy.
"Grand tool of heroes!"
Blade froze. He somehow knew she was talking to him.
"Not him!" Snapped the man with the pole, jabbing at her again. "He never paid!"
The girl ignored the pokes in her side and continued to stare penetratingly at Blade.
"Tool of heroes," she repeated, "At home on the cot, at home in the sheath."
The girl took on a regal position in her raggy clothes, and her eyes burned with passion. The presenter stopped poking her, though out of respect or because he thought it was a good show, Blade didn't know.
"Blood will spill. Can't you taste it, tool of heroes? Blood. Innocent, guilty, evil or good- you care not!" She hesitated, then shouted louder. "Tool of murderers! Tool of spies!"
She pointed a finger at Blade. It shook.
"You will kill. No one really cares who. Don't you agree?"
Blade shook his head. Why was he even taking this crackpot seriously? But even as he said this, he realized his mouth was watering at the talk of blood.
"All right, that's enough of this," the guide said, looking very nervous. "Let's close this up," he said, pulling a curtain across the cage.
Undettered, she shouted through the curtain,
"Find me tonight, grand tool. Find me, and you shall get your blood."
Blade stared at the frayed curtain in horror. His heart pounded, and it was all he could do not to drool. Blood. His own, someone else's, whatever. He was about willing to just sink his metal teeth into his neighbor spectator's shoulder, when the guide's apology pulled him out of his trance.
"So sorry, sir, she isn't usually like that. Usually much more- calm. I hope you feel better. No refunds."
And then Blade found himself being shepherded out of the show, possibly to cool off, but more likely so he wouldn't cause any more disturbances.
As he stood there panting, he knew one thing.
He was coming back to this show tonight.
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