It depends on the outfit (we forest people can be surprisingly fashion conscious), the activity, and the season!
The 3# obsidion short axe with the fire-hardened digging point (as long as the long bone of my leg) slings just as easily from the back as it hangs from the hip, making it ideal for most daily activities in warmer months and light leathers. It all but disappears under a water bladder or a skin of mead as long as the lower half of the haft is sheathed (don't ask about the time the mead skin got punctured while I was at camp roasting rabbits and fish!) securely.
The light pair of bolas (each three starting with mouse-sized round river rocks dipped repeatedly in heated sap mixed with ground elk horn until twice the size and then wrapped in scraps of elk belly to keep them quiet on their braided cords of gut) hang beneath the wrap of my skirt on each hip under a slit concealed by the caste and tribe feathers and paint required of all.
Four throwing blades are a pair on each upper arm, beneath the loose tunic of the season, the shorter sleeves split under the arm to the crook of the elbow, hilts down in sheathes of boiled, sueded badger. They are my personal treasures, having been passed down through my family for a span of generations the numbers to the counting of the fingers of the hand to the width my thumb marches down my arm! They are priceless. . .
The common long sheath knife of folded iron from the lands of the snows, where the peoples eat jellied dried fishes as often as we feast on bison and elk and the fleet, striped dun eltella of the high plateau is in plain view at the small of my back, the leaf-shaped blade the length of my forearm to the point nesting in the flesh of my palm and its hand-and-a-half hilt of birch burl sheathed in dun kydex braided with silk and familial cordings of each generation of my mother, and hers.
Firearms I carry, the blued Colt in a crossdraw at my waist beneath the sash with which I belt my tunic and its sister in the dailes bag I carry everywhere when arising from sleep.
Of the forest peoples, we are not as is common among the cities folks who only look at the ground and almost scurry in endless efforts to be preoccupied, demanding their polices and their payments in tax (a pox on all that levy any tax!) substitute for a spine and a beating heart that loves!
Are you answered?
