"Moi?" Conor asked, the very picture of wounded innocence. "How very dare you, sir. I demand satisfaction." Then he winked and walked off in search of some of the larger crystals and icicles that sometimes formed on branches and things.
"This one can have a necklace," he murmured, stringing crystals together on a length of frost. It was delicate work, but that was one of the things he prided himself on. Conor oversaw changes down to the finest details, which in turn gave him control over his abilities that extended beyond simply calling up a snowstorm or driving sleet.
He draped it around the neck of his creation, then looked at the icicle in his hand. "Probably too big," he said, mostly to himself. He broke it into pieces, filing the edges down so they were flat instead of sharp. "I'm thinking walking stick," he said to Bri, as he worked the chunks of ice. "What do you think?"