Trimming the Shaft

I sat cross-legged on the thick timber mantel, pulling the gray owl feather from my belt as dusk darkened the rafters. A sharp flake of dry hearth slate rested by my knee. Holding the stiff quill steady against the rough wood grain, I scored the hollow tip with firm, measured pressure. The outer casing yielded cleanly, leaving a notched, balanced point that sits flush against cordage. I brushed away a speck of feather dust, feeling the weight settle true across my knuckles. When the time comes to lash it, the seam will hold fast.