[ WP ] Describe a physical object . At the same time , use it to tell a story .

The sun had set hours ago and all the stars in the heavens above were bright. In a small clearing within the forest a fire crackled against the darkness, casting long shadows across rock and elm. Their horses were tethered nearby, her white mare and his rough dun having been watered and fed and curry-combed. A small metal pot rested ready for the coals, filled with oatmeal for tomorrow morning's breakfast. 
 
 There was cloud to be sen, the air warm enough that a blanket was all that needed to sleep with. The calls of owl and frog surrounded them, proof that even in the darkness the forest was more than alive. 
 
 A cup of chicory rested in Faith's hands, its contents gently steaming. Her sleeping bag was undone so that she might sit upright. Next to her Hilary Flint leaned against his saddle, his worn cloak of green draped across his legs. His sword belt laid next to him, its scabbard empty and its sword resting in Flint's hands. She watched him sharpen it, grinding a whetstone across the blade as black as night. His eyes were focused on the task, his motions certain and deliberate. Faith had n't seen the edge ever dull despite constant use, and she suspected she never would. 
 
 It was no Human blade, anyone could see that. Its metal was too pure, too perfect, the subtle curve to the fuller and hilt unlike anything any mortal smith had ever forged. The blade itself was unadorned with script or decoration, instead its mirrored surface was art itself. Faith could see her reflection in it, her eyes staring back at her unblinking. Its hilt was cruder still, at least to her. It might have been made from an iron nail for all its appearance, its image cold and distant. The hilt had been wrapped by Flint with thin layers of rawhide, the brown leather stained with sweat and salt. It was only the pommel that bore anything akin to creativity, its weighted end decorated with miniature scenes of ancient battle. Ethereal beings waged war against one another, brother murdering brother in an ecstasy of violence. 
 
 `` Where did you get that?'' she found herself asking. Flint gave a tired sigh, never once ceasing in his ministrations. 
 
 `` Does it matter? It's a sword just like any other.'' 
 
 Faith shook her head. `` No. It's not like any other. That sword is powerful.'' 
 
 He laughed at her words, his lips drawing back in a half-sneer. `` A weapon is only as powerful as the one who wields it. Trust me, it did n't do its previous owner any good.'' 
 
 `` How did you get it then?'' Faith asked again. Flint looked up at her, punctuating it with a final stroke of the whetstone. He took his time putting the stone away, his gaze never leaving hers, measuring hers. 
 
 `` Years ago, over towards the Thumb I was leading a patrol of Rangers against a Chevauchée of Spriggans. There were twenty of us, twenty against two thousand Fae. The... Order I guess you might call it, it was small then, barely three hundred all in told. Stretched thin as it was across the whole Lower Peninsula it was hell scourging up even a score. 
 
 `` They'd burnt a dozen villages before we caught up with them, nearly killing our horses to get in front of them and lay an ambush. We dug in at the only bridge in a dozen miles large enough to carry an entire brigade across, placing what landmines and caltrops we had everywhere we could. We had a machine gun, an old M60 liberated from god knows where, probably from one of the the National Guard units that got torched in the early days of your Arrival. Jim Evans, an old buddy of mine and built like an ox, he was the one to carry it. He also carried most of the ammunition himself, whole boxes of the stuff hanging off him. 
 
 `` We waited for two days, sitting there in front of that bridge. We dug in like moles, too nervous to do anything else. And when they finally came we were too scared to be afraid. It's like we forgot that we were dead men walking. We allowed their scouts to pass across the bridge, a full dozen Spriggans never knew we were there. They rode on and disappeared from sight. Ten minutes after them, their main body arrived. We held our fire, and waited for them to start crossing that bridge, waiting until their hobnail boots started to shake the ground. 
 
 `` I fired first, turning some highborn officer's head to bloody chunks with my rifle. Evans opened up with his machine gun, cutting through them at the waist. Dozens fell in the first five seconds, scores the first thirty. One bullet who hit one Fae and pass through six more. There was no room on that bridge, the press of those trying to flee colliding with those surging forwards and crushing those in between. Then we activated the Claymores, and the air literally misted blood, the blood of their comrades showering on those behind them. Mortars, grenades, Molotovs... We rained everything we had on their heads. Hundreds died before their officers could react. 
 
 `` Their cavalry tried to ford the river, and the air filled with the screams of their horses as they stepped on caltrops or else impaled themselves on sharpened stakes embedded into the riverbank. Their riders drown in their heavy armor, pulled under by the currents. Three times they charged that bridge and three times we threw them back. But by then we had ran out of ammunition and they ran out of patience. They brought up a mage skilled in earth magic and turned our defenses into a landslide. Half of us were buried alive in the ground or else crushed by broken trees and rocks. The rest were killed trying to retreat, cut down by arrow fire or else lanced through by their horsemen.'' 
 
 Faith's eyes were distant as she spoke. `` How did you escape?'' 
 
 Flint frowned and sheathed the blade, setting it aside before pulling his cloak up to his chest and pulling his hat over his eyes. 
 
 `` The same way I got this sword...''
