Plastic, flint, and a half-tank of butane. It had seen many a journey and lit a few blazes itself. The warning label pasted to the side of its body had become faded, letters smudged or missing entirely. The edges of the label were pocket-chafed and frayed at the edges. Its blue-green plastic, just clear enough to view the remaining fuel had a small crack near the top, a small tell of the penchant for fumbling possessed by its handler. The circular flint piece sparked, and the gas lever ever-so-faithfully released the payload stored in its belly. The butane caught the sparks, a dance performed a hundred times. No matter how one looked, not a speck of diminished beauty could be detected - a fact of which the tool remained proud - as a flame spouted from the tip. First try.