Ezekiel's approach was not unnoticed, and Aemon paused in his work to glance up at his half-brother as the breeze brought that smoky-sweet scent to him. Red eyes fell shortly back to his work, having almost finished removing the bark from the handle. He moved the blade carefully over the wood, thankful for having use of thumbs. When he was nearer, the golden Aquila spoke. Smiling a greeting, Aemon folded the knife and pocketed it, brushing off the last of the shavings from the crimson fabric of his tunic. Then, he held out the smoother rod to show. A spear, he said simply, my weapon of choice. Then bent to retrieve the jagged, rough stone from his satchel. It still needed to be shaped and sharpened, but it was perfect. This will be it's tip, he said, holding the stone out in his palm. It was large and heavy, cold to the touch and the perfect roughness.
Dropping the stone back into his bag with a thunk, Aemon took his seat on the ledge again, running his hand over the surface of the spear's body. It would need sanding yet, but now was not the time. "How are you?" he started pleasantly, tossing a fallen dreadlock back behind his head.
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