The unforgiving grey slate of the weather may do the roads out of Kirkwall no favors, but it is fine air for sailing in so long as one dresses for the cold cut of the wind.
In deference to it, Flint wears both a sturdy pair of gloves and the fur lined collar of his winter-heavy coat turned high as the skiff shears along across dark and weather beaten waters. They are going East. The wind is blowing well for it and even with its heavy metal centerboard the small craft's draw is shallow enough that it will be some time before there is any question of tricky navigation ahead of them. Kirkwall, and the channels which surround it, were made for trapping heavy merchant ships and fighting vessels; not for inconveniencing fishermen and other inconsequential craft like the one in which they ride.
If anything, it is the wind rather than the waterway which is their enemy. It comes in gusts and starts, demanding they sail at broad points rather than close hauled where a change in the weather gauge might knock them flat aback and tumble them over. It's the spirited sort of sailing which demands they both ride the same side of the boat, one foot set against the opposing bench to keep steady against the craft's hard heel.
The tiller is quiet under his hand though, pleasantly true. And there is a rhythm to the working of lines which allows for conversation even despite the gusting--the keen of the wind over the sail and line.
"Would you like to discuss Antiva," he asks her. And, in a different and infinitely more particular staccato: "Take in your portside sheet. Another two inches."
She's done this once before, but only once. Her hand finds the sheet, with a glance back at Flint to confirm, and she pulls the rope in a few inches and recleats it the way she'd been shown.
It isn't a quick, practiced movement on its own, and it's only further hampered by the chill. Madi has taken to over-dressing when in doubt of how best to dress for any given weather, but even in her winter traveling garb she can feel the bite of the cold gusts of wind and the spray from the water makes her squint as much as the sun ever could. She turns the squint back towards Flint, raising her voice just loud enough to be heard — which doesn't take much, they aren't a whole ship's length away or anything.
"It sounds like you would like to," she says, a smile tucked neatly in the corner of her mouth. "I do not have any plans as yet, if that is what concerns you."
Concerned? Him? Please, he hardly knows the word's meaning.
—wordlessly quips the rise and subsequent fall of his eyebrows as his hand, steady on the boat's tiller, makes some minor adjustment in keeping with the sail's setting so that when next the wind flutters about them, gusts first pulling then pushing, they cut a line through it which is more or less direct. Maker, Waking Sea fishermen must be made of stern stuff.
"We might talk about the weather if you'd prefer. There's plenty of it."
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Madi. Early cloudreach;
In deference to it, Flint wears both a sturdy pair of gloves and the fur lined collar of his winter-heavy coat turned high as the skiff shears along across dark and weather beaten waters. They are going East. The wind is blowing well for it and even with its heavy metal centerboard the small craft's draw is shallow enough that it will be some time before there is any question of tricky navigation ahead of them. Kirkwall, and the channels which surround it, were made for trapping heavy merchant ships and fighting vessels; not for inconveniencing fishermen and other inconsequential craft like the one in which they ride.
If anything, it is the wind rather than the waterway which is their enemy. It comes in gusts and starts, demanding they sail at broad points rather than close hauled where a change in the weather gauge might knock them flat aback and tumble them over. It's the spirited sort of sailing which demands they both ride the same side of the boat, one foot set against the opposing bench to keep steady against the craft's hard heel.
The tiller is quiet under his hand though, pleasantly true. And there is a rhythm to the working of lines which allows for conversation even despite the gusting--the keen of the wind over the sail and line.
"Would you like to discuss Antiva," he asks her. And, in a different and infinitely more particular staccato: "Take in your portside sheet. Another two inches."
no subject
It isn't a quick, practiced movement on its own, and it's only further hampered by the chill. Madi has taken to over-dressing when in doubt of how best to dress for any given weather, but even in her winter traveling garb she can feel the bite of the cold gusts of wind and the spray from the water makes her squint as much as the sun ever could. She turns the squint back towards Flint, raising her voice just loud enough to be heard — which doesn't take much, they aren't a whole ship's length away or anything.
"It sounds like you would like to," she says, a smile tucked neatly in the corner of her mouth. "I do not have any plans as yet, if that is what concerns you."
no subject
—wordlessly quips the rise and subsequent fall of his eyebrows as his hand, steady on the boat's tiller, makes some minor adjustment in keeping with the sail's setting so that when next the wind flutters about them, gusts first pulling then pushing, they cut a line through it which is more or less direct. Maker, Waking Sea fishermen must be made of stern stuff.
"We might talk about the weather if you'd prefer. There's plenty of it."