Even as his quarry rudely leaps over his head, Loxley lets the forward rush of wind propel him faster for the ship wheel in its absence, which had just begun to spin with the helmsman now lying on his front. There's a moment to sheath his blade just as he gets there, steadying himself, and then it, grasping onto the handles and hauling it back out of misalignment.

Almost imperceptibly, the subtle tilt of an aimless turn restores itself to balance, a problem solved before it could properly manifest.

Next to Flint, the half-orcish woman grabs the back of his shirt in instinct when the wooden barrier behind them is stripped clean away.