Unfortunate hero with a cursed weapon they've grown attached to.
The swordsman paused midstroke, looking up from the rusty, beaten up sword he was sharpening. He laughed ruefully. "Yeah, maybe. You're probably right. But..." He held it up, looking at the ugly thing in the firelight. "It was my dad's, you know? And grandmother's too." He returned to drawing the stone carefully down the length of the dull, chipped edge, which stubbornly refused to grow any keener.
"I know there are sharper swords, and maybe it brings bad luck, but that's okay - I've never been a gambler. It's part of our story. And we're part of its story, too. A cursed sword is still a magical sword, and in a thousand years some other fool might be carrying it. A little part of us will be there with them. And maybe the time we spent caring for this blade can shape it into something better."
The camp settled back into near silence. The crackle of the fire, the movement of the night air through the tall grass, the gentle drag of stone over metal.