The room was well lit, tools and supplies scattered across the work surfaces which lined the walls of the room. Strips of wood and leather littering the table tops to the left as one entered while on the right side of the room, Stones large and small, some in flat flakes others already taking the long sharp edged shape of an arrow head. Long slender pieces of wood were clamped together and hanging from various hooks and arms that protruded from the walls above the table tops. These held the various, partially finished, bows that were drying or being slowly manipulated into the shapes needed. In the center of the room was an Island work top roughly three feet squared. Laid over the table was a velvet drape that hung almost to the floor and a second that looked as if it was covering something between the two. Unlike the work areas, these cloths were clean and looked to be high quality. There on the right, between the island and the wall workspace, he sat working over the small stone.
The stone already looked to be a finished arrowhead, not your typical flat V shaped head, but three sided, three cutting edges. The center of the head was a cylinder coming to a point. It was standing, point down, in a device to hold it steady. He was slowly, rhythmically, tapping away at what looked to be a metal pick, with a small soft headed Cobbler. To most it would appear he was getting nothing done, even to those schooled in making such weapons. Around the head he was working on were many pieces of rock, some looked like half or quarters of the same type head he was currently tapping away at. He mumbled low to himself as he worked. The sound of metal scraping across stone could be heard shortly after each tap. Over and over the tiny instrument fell and again and again the grinding noise rung out in the shop. Beneath the stone head what looked like grains of sand had piled up beneath into a tiny mountain of stone. This continued for almost an hour, then silence...
“I did it... finally!” he dropped the tools on the table with a loud thud and scooped the arrow head up and started turning it slowly, looking carefully down its length. He blew into the now hollow cylinder to clear the stone powder and a thin cloud burst into the lamp light. He grabbed a leather swatch and started rubbing the stone, smoothing the surfaces which had been scarred by hundreds of tiny chiseled valleys. This took much more time than usual, the stone he was working with was lined with fissures and prone to catastrophic flaking if too much pressure was applied. Each stroke cleared away more and more miniscule stone flakes until the Arrow head appeared to be one smooth rock again. Holding it up before the lamp light, he turned it slowly about, checking for any visible cracks or malformations. When he was done he moved to and opened a drawer which hung under the worktop. Inside were many different types, colors and lengths of fabrics, one of which he pulled out and gently wrapped around the head. Then he reached up and pulled a small box off of a shelf, inside was lined with thick wool. He placed the wrapped head in the box and closed it, securing it with the leather buckle attached to the front. When he got the time, he would have to go find the man that could help him finish the project. Leo was the name he was given when he had asked about poisons... a name and some accusing looks he had ignored.
Setting the box on the shelf he fell on to the stool and groaned. Slowly he rotated his shoulders, flexing his arms, the muscles beneath the skin protesting each rotation. After a quick respite he sighed heavily and pulled what looked to be the beginnings of a composite bow from the wall. Standing from the stool he bent over the wood and grabbing a thin flat bladed tool began stripping away the excess resin down the length of the wood. Anyone passing down the corridor towards the Craft hall common room would be able to see him in his workshop, thus employed for many more hours before fatigue or hunger forced him to lay down his tools.
The stone already looked to be a finished arrowhead, not your typical flat V shaped head, but three sided, three cutting edges. The center of the head was a cylinder coming to a point. It was standing, point down, in a device to hold it steady. He was slowly, rhythmically, tapping away at what looked to be a metal pick, with a small soft headed Cobbler. To most it would appear he was getting nothing done, even to those schooled in making such weapons. Around the head he was working on were many pieces of rock, some looked like half or quarters of the same type head he was currently tapping away at. He mumbled low to himself as he worked. The sound of metal scraping across stone could be heard shortly after each tap. Over and over the tiny instrument fell and again and again the grinding noise rung out in the shop. Beneath the stone head what looked like grains of sand had piled up beneath into a tiny mountain of stone. This continued for almost an hour, then silence...
“I did it... finally!” he dropped the tools on the table with a loud thud and scooped the arrow head up and started turning it slowly, looking carefully down its length. He blew into the now hollow cylinder to clear the stone powder and a thin cloud burst into the lamp light. He grabbed a leather swatch and started rubbing the stone, smoothing the surfaces which had been scarred by hundreds of tiny chiseled valleys. This took much more time than usual, the stone he was working with was lined with fissures and prone to catastrophic flaking if too much pressure was applied. Each stroke cleared away more and more miniscule stone flakes until the Arrow head appeared to be one smooth rock again. Holding it up before the lamp light, he turned it slowly about, checking for any visible cracks or malformations. When he was done he moved to and opened a drawer which hung under the worktop. Inside were many different types, colors and lengths of fabrics, one of which he pulled out and gently wrapped around the head. Then he reached up and pulled a small box off of a shelf, inside was lined with thick wool. He placed the wrapped head in the box and closed it, securing it with the leather buckle attached to the front. When he got the time, he would have to go find the man that could help him finish the project. Leo was the name he was given when he had asked about poisons... a name and some accusing looks he had ignored.
Setting the box on the shelf he fell on to the stool and groaned. Slowly he rotated his shoulders, flexing his arms, the muscles beneath the skin protesting each rotation. After a quick respite he sighed heavily and pulled what looked to be the beginnings of a composite bow from the wall. Standing from the stool he bent over the wood and grabbing a thin flat bladed tool began stripping away the excess resin down the length of the wood. Anyone passing down the corridor towards the Craft hall common room would be able to see him in his workshop, thus employed for many more hours before fatigue or hunger forced him to lay down his tools.
