"It's just a knife," Bellamy says, without looking around at her. He's caught sight of her in his periphery, standing just at the threshold leading to this smaller courtyard. Good enough to start a conversation. In profile, the shape of his smile suggests more of a smirk than he actually means it to be.

One last time, he draws the whetstone along the edge of the knife in question. The blade is already razor-sharp; this attention isn't likely to get it much sharper. But what Bellamy does with his time is, he occupies it. And if this sounds extra forceful, that's because it kind of is.

The courtyard is chilly, but he's down to his shirt anyways, sleeves racked up around his elbows, leather armor unbuckled and hanging loose or stripped off entirely. He's been at this for awhile. There's a shallow cut over his left eyebrow, a trophy from a scuffle earlier this morning. An organized scuffle.

When Bellamy finally deigns to face her head on, the shape of his smile becomes easier to read as something almost friendly. He pinches the knife between the flat of forefinger and his thumb and holds it up for her viewing pleasure.

"Never seen one before?"

It's more teasing than it is him trying to be an asshole. His flat accent suggests that he was raised by dwarves. He wasn't raised by dwarves.