At least a dozen men drew entirely, letting their blades hang by their sides.

The bright blade the Fool had given me was still hanging on the wall.

A blade hung from the left side of his worn and broad belt, matched by a knife on the right.

The space at her side where her blade should have hung let in the cold as if a child had left open a door in winter.

Their blades hung at their hips, as open invitations.

The blades were hanging over the stone ledge Ready to drop.

Scott, too, stood up, fixing his sword so the blade hung easily at his side.

Her blade and shield hung from one of the westerly stones, more to give strength to the child than to provide protection for the mother.

The cane was so tall the blades hung over the ditches and over the road.

The big blade hung heavily, awkwardly, cool against her fingers and palm.