At once, he's awake. A beat follows in which his subconscious struggles to inform the rest of him as to why. Something against the window, he thinks, and is upright a moment later in the dark cabin with a bare knife in hand. He waits, listening in the dark, attention fixed on the warped glass of the stern windows. The panes aren't so flawless as to present anything like a clear picture in the daylight and here, just barely past two bells, the world past them is one of shadow and outlines - darker marks against the light flecked black of the smudged backdrop of Kirkwall's docks.

The Walrus murmurs at anchor. She shifts, flexing as an animal breathes. His hand finds the latch, pops it. In one smooth motion, Flint snatches the figure from the stern balcony and hauls it into the pitch dark of the cabin - drives them back to the paper strewn table and pins them there. The knife sets to the dark throat and--

Flint balks as he makes out the woman's face in the streaked moonlight.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"