[ IP ] Unsheathed

He took the blade from her and flicked the hilt an inch out of the sheath with his thumb. He half-drew it, staring at his reflection in the mirrored steel. A narrow fuller, erroneously labeled a blood-groove by the less informed, ran down the length of metal towards the tip. Acid-etched into the steel was an elaborate set Elven glyphs, swirling and curling like vinework. He peered at the edge, examining for any nicks or scratches before sliding the blade back into its scabbard. 
 
 `` This is a good sword...'' Hilary Flint murmured. He cocked an eye. `` You know how to use it?'' 
 
 Faith nodded, wary. `` I do. Tybin the Younger, my grandfather's *Blade* taught me.'' 
 
 A sardonic grin drew itself across Flint's lips, his eyes narrow and lean as he spoke. `` Really? *Tybin? * Tell me, when last has the *Red Death* taken to the field? How long ago was his last lethal duel? He's a showman, a performer. He would n't last an hour on the battlefield.'' 
 
 `` Tybin Dua-Eriilloq is a far greater swordmaster than you could ever hope to be!'' Faith said sharply. `` He was a champion of the blade far before your grandfather's grandfather had even been born. There's none who can defeat him in a fair fight.'' 
 
 Flint chuckled and patted the pistol holstered at his hip. `` Fair fights are for suckers, kid. Or dead men. And I do n't care to belong to either category.'' 
 
 `` But you carry a sword,'' said Faith, pointing to the saber sheathed opposite the pistol. 
 
 `` Yeah, because it's silent and you never have to reload it. Trust me, kid. If I had to choose between a sword and a Smith & Wesson, I'd take the latter nine times out of ten.'' 
 
 `` And the tenth time?'' she asked. 
 
 Flint's grin widened and there was a flashing twinkle in his eye. `` Their gun's a muzzle loader...''
