How many swords could a person carry without getting ridiculous?
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I just had to post this, because as soon as I read the thread title, I thought of it.
“He sighed and opened the black box and took out his rings and slipped them on. Another box held a set of knives of Klatchian steel, their blades darkened with lamp black. Various cunning and intricate devices were taken from velvet bags and dropped into pockets. A couple of long-bladed throwing tlingas were slipped into their sheaths inside his boots. A thin silk line and folding grapnel were wound around his waist, over the chain-mail shirt. A blowpipe was attached to its leather thong and dropped down the back of his cloak; Teppic picked a slim tin container with an assortment of darts, their tips corked and their stems braille-coded for ease of selection in the dark.
He winced, checked the blade of his rapier and slung the baldric over his right shoulder, to balance the bag of lead slingshot ammunition. As an afterthought he opened his sock drawer and took a pistol crossbow, a flask of oil, a roll of lockpicks and, after some consideration, a punch dagger, a bag of assorted caltrops and a set of brass knuckles.
Teppic picked up his hat and checked it's lining for the coil of cheesewire. He placed it on his head at a jaunty angle, took a last satisfied look at himself in the mirror, turned on his heel and, very slowly, fell over.”
― Terry Pratchett, Pyramids
“He sighed and opened the black box and took out his rings and slipped them on. Another box held a set of knives of Klatchian steel, their blades darkened with lamp black. Various cunning and intricate devices were taken from velvet bags and dropped into pockets. A couple of long-bladed throwing tlingas were slipped into their sheaths inside his boots. A thin silk line and folding grapnel were wound around his waist, over the chain-mail shirt. A blowpipe was attached to its leather thong and dropped down the back of his cloak; Teppic picked a slim tin container with an assortment of darts, their tips corked and their stems braille-coded for ease of selection in the dark.
He winced, checked the blade of his rapier and slung the baldric over his right shoulder, to balance the bag of lead slingshot ammunition. As an afterthought he opened his sock drawer and took a pistol crossbow, a flask of oil, a roll of lockpicks and, after some consideration, a punch dagger, a bag of assorted caltrops and a set of brass knuckles.
Teppic picked up his hat and checked it's lining for the coil of cheesewire. He placed it on his head at a jaunty angle, took a last satisfied look at himself in the mirror, turned on his heel and, very slowly, fell over.”
― Terry Pratchett, Pyramids
Only as a comedy sidekick. When knocked down, he won't be able to get up.I, er, really love the idea of a kilt made of scabbards. How delightfully extra.
I'd be tempted to keep that in, in some capacity, just for the awesome-quotient of it. Maybe one psycho swordsman who wears one?
Bards the land over sing the sad song of Ulric Forty-swords, who traveled the countryside doing heroic deeds, till he fell from his horse and, unable to move for the weight of his swords, was eaten alive by stoats.
:thinking: I feel like you can get away with 2 swords, max. But knives? You can never have too many knives.
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In one of the books in Richard Morgan's A Land Fit for Heroes series, there's a character who suddenly starts fighting. You're sort of aware, as a reader, that she's a good fighter, but it's the first time the author has actually turned her loose on the page.
She starts pulling swords and knives out of everywhere. Out of her boots, out of her her arm-bands, off of her back -- and the weapons all have names; she's listing them off as she kills people with them. And she proceeds to mow down the baddies like they're crabgrass. It's glorious.
I never did get a grip on how many weapons she had, but it was such a batshit, entertaining scene, I didn't care.
So -- as with all writing -- you can get away with a lot of dodgy choices, provided you keep the reader happy.
She starts pulling swords and knives out of everywhere. Out of her boots, out of her her arm-bands, off of her back -- and the weapons all have names; she's listing them off as she kills people with them. And she proceeds to mow down the baddies like they're crabgrass. It's glorious.
I never did get a grip on how many weapons she had, but it was such a batshit, entertaining scene, I didn't care.
So -- as with all writing -- you can get away with a lot of dodgy choices, provided you keep the reader happy.
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And the tale of his daughter, Alba Stoatslayer, who ate many still-living stoats and died of consumption.
Except when it's a matter of your life being on the line, necessity quickly weeds out the impractical solutions. After the first few attempts at hammering in a nail with a screwdriver fail, while some oddball solutions may be affected, success is going to direct people to try things more like a hammer.
In this case literally: A hammer would be much more practical against this type of enemy.