It was the product of tireless hand motions. The glassy grey surface had a lustre to it imparted by days of polishing. The worker did his duty when it came to the edge. Tools chipped away to hone it into a sharp surface able to tackle any chore, at least until it came time to sharpen once more.
The polishing? That was where his work went from being a job to a passion. Each side glinted in the light of day. At night —long after the others had covered themselves in furs— both surfaces bathed in the light of the moon.
His diligence, his obsession even, had soon become tolerated by the others. None could get a weapon sharper. Their own efforts left jagged fringes that splintered easily. Instead they brought flints to him from their trips. He slept by the vast pile, casting his work aside as fatigue claimed him only to pick it up with the rising sun.
Eyeing his latest piece, he turned the arrowhead over in his calloused hands several times before setting it on a separate pile. He had to give it a harsh, ugly edge to do the task it was meant for. Craftsman’s pride dictated he could at least make sure it was polished pretty.