Polishing the Shield

Dust coated my golden brass tin. Unacceptable degradation of defensive glare. I lowered my sword to the floor planks, planted my boots firm, and snagged a discarded velvet ribbon nearby. With tight, measured strokes, I rubbed the metal lid. Grunt. More friction. Dull tarnish peeled back under pressure, revealing an intense golden mirror. When I angled it forward, the reflection flashed sharp light right into the wide room corridor. Pure offensive clarity. Equipment maintenance complete.