I once wrote about a legendary Battle-rifle, the modern-day incarnation of Sir Lancelot's legendary sword Arondight.
A massive, feminine, long-nailed hand burst from the surface of the lake, trailing weeds and moss, I drew back onto the boat, to worried gasps and murmurs from my guides. The fingers opened, each as long as my arm, something lethal was revealed.
Long and elegant, Arondight gleamed copper in the gloom, dark verdigris casting the seams and rivets into deep, turquoise shadow. Covered with intricately-tooled scenes of ancient battle and deeds, the owners from throughout the ages depicted in beautiful realism. From heroic knights to lonely soldiers in the trenches, a view of the weapon's history. Sometimes a magical blade, others a long musket, eventually an antique bolt-action rifle, firing barely four shots before its owner was mercilessly gunned-down by Germans, driven on into the meat-grinder of the Somme for King and Country.
The weapon seemed to cry for every owner it had lost, always looking to replace them. The gun wanted companionship, wanted not just a master who could direct its immense destructive power, but a partner with whom it could share its glory and magnificence.
I closed my fingers about the smooth leather grip, the gun forming into my hand.