[ Charcoal, and a bellows, and red-hot metal being pounded into shape. It's an abstract idea more than a memory but it still makes him ache. Flynn hesitates for just a moment, then uncurls his arm and pulls from the belt at his hips a little piece of metal that was stashed there, mostly hidden by his jacket.

It is, now that it's out in the light, very clearly the hilt of a sword. Nothing fancy: just a wrapped steel grip and a flat crossguard, blackened across the top, with a little twisted bit of melted metal right where the blade should be. ]

Something better than this. I was hoping... but it doesn't matter anyway, because I seem to have forgotten how to...

[ He makes a rough little sound and looks away, sharp, annoyed at his own emotion. His knuckles are white on the sad little grip. ]

I was a swordsman, I think, except that if you handed me that poker I wouldn't know what to do with it anymore, so it's much better in your hands.