"Well," he says wryly, gently patting the fore-mast, "she's not going anywhere."
If his hand lingers for a moment, fingers fitted to whorls in the dark wood, it's probably only because Crowley is charting his way down.
After a moment, he shifts his grip to the ratlines and steps off the footrope, beginning the short descent with one hand and one foot to either side of the folded sail. Halfway to the lower yard he stops, and reaches forward to pull himself and the ratlines closer in to the mast - whilst the other hand adjusts the heavy canvas where it lies against his shoulder.
As an afterthought, Crowley winches in his wings; his shirt flickers briefly as the dark feathers vanish into his back.
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2006-09-21 02:30 am (UTC)If his hand lingers for a moment, fingers fitted to whorls in the dark wood, it's probably only because Crowley is charting his way down.
After a moment, he shifts his grip to the ratlines and steps off the footrope, beginning the short descent with one hand and one foot to either side of the folded sail. Halfway to the lower yard he stops, and reaches forward to pull himself and the ratlines closer in to the mast - whilst the other hand adjusts the heavy canvas where it lies against his shoulder.
As an afterthought, Crowley winches in his wings; his shirt flickers briefly as the dark feathers vanish into his back.
"Right," he calls up. "Er, ready whenever."