NAIA
Speech | 41st of Winter, 515 AV | Thoughts
Naia had seen some of the performers do it before.
So why couldn't she?
"I've said it once, I've said it twice. I'll say it again. You're going to die."
Naia willfully ignored the man, and pulled her body close the ratlines as a gust of cool winter air swayed her. It was as gentle as the wind had been in the last dozen days, and as soft as the Svefra thought it'd get. "Then do make sure they give my body to the sea," the words were loud and clear, ringing out to the scurrying sailors below, tails and tags of bright fabric speckling the net like ladders below her. If she slipped, it was a drop of several meters, and one onto hard wood, though The Mischief that day painted itself in what many likened to skyglass, or, if she was far luckier, she would instead find herself Laviku's embrace. Either way, she'd get to see her own reflection before her death or late afternoon swim.
Such morbid musings were the last on her mind as she then calculated her next move. The task she'd been completing until then was the noting and tagging of fraying and damaged ropes and knots, and she'd found herself in a patch of well kept netting when a memory had struck her. Naia brought her hands down several holds, so that her body was bunched together, before trying to recall how the acrobat had done it.
He'd... hooked his legs up in the ropes a little bit. As though a child hooking themselves over handle bars, or a fence. Right. Naia had done that, too, when she was small, but the man had held himself with only his ankles. There was... well, there was simply no way that the Svefra was going to be able to do it. So she elected for what she thought to be the easiest option.
And so, she slung herself into a seated position, her legs dangling through the ratlines on the other side, and the tense, hard rope cut into her hamstrings as she perched in the position for a breath. She'd sat in the lines like such before, but not often, and for good reason, and another bellow of wind reminded her why. Someone from below made a complaint, though glancing to the other side of the ship showed that the other sailor was still a good meter behind her own work, and she inched herself forward, just enough for the top of her foot to hook under the ratline below, securing her position.
She tested the strength of her little set up, wiggling slightly, before inching herself back so the crook of her knee was cut by the ratline. Her hands grasped the nearby lines so tightly her knuckles burned white, and her heart rate soon hammered in her throat. Had she been less headstrong, perhaps she'd have turned back.
That, however, would be very unlike her.
Gingerly, she released her grasp on the rope, and ignored the slight shake she most certainly did not see in her hands, and let her eyes find the sky above, slowly, but surely, letting her weight go as she attempted to let herself hang upside down. Her attempts were found to have moderate success, and soon enough her vision was nothing but the upside-down sails and sky above. The rushing of her blood to her head was nonetheless euphoric, and she envisioned the blanket of stars that doing such in the night’s sky would.
Pain overshadowed the joy and interest in her new perspective, her abs, slight as they were, burned, and she could feel the pain and tension already growing in her feet and knees, the slipping of her shirt meaning that only a single hand could be spent clinging ever so tightly to the ropes. She’d only be able to see the upside down world for a moment, but it seemed like that was all she could afford that day.
She’d try again at night, she promised herself. That time with a skin tight shirt, and long boots, and something soft for the back of her knee.
So why couldn't she?
"I've said it once, I've said it twice. I'll say it again. You're going to die."
Naia willfully ignored the man, and pulled her body close the ratlines as a gust of cool winter air swayed her. It was as gentle as the wind had been in the last dozen days, and as soft as the Svefra thought it'd get. "Then do make sure they give my body to the sea," the words were loud and clear, ringing out to the scurrying sailors below, tails and tags of bright fabric speckling the net like ladders below her. If she slipped, it was a drop of several meters, and one onto hard wood, though The Mischief that day painted itself in what many likened to skyglass, or, if she was far luckier, she would instead find herself Laviku's embrace. Either way, she'd get to see her own reflection before her death or late afternoon swim.
Such morbid musings were the last on her mind as she then calculated her next move. The task she'd been completing until then was the noting and tagging of fraying and damaged ropes and knots, and she'd found herself in a patch of well kept netting when a memory had struck her. Naia brought her hands down several holds, so that her body was bunched together, before trying to recall how the acrobat had done it.
He'd... hooked his legs up in the ropes a little bit. As though a child hooking themselves over handle bars, or a fence. Right. Naia had done that, too, when she was small, but the man had held himself with only his ankles. There was... well, there was simply no way that the Svefra was going to be able to do it. So she elected for what she thought to be the easiest option.
And so, she slung herself into a seated position, her legs dangling through the ratlines on the other side, and the tense, hard rope cut into her hamstrings as she perched in the position for a breath. She'd sat in the lines like such before, but not often, and for good reason, and another bellow of wind reminded her why. Someone from below made a complaint, though glancing to the other side of the ship showed that the other sailor was still a good meter behind her own work, and she inched herself forward, just enough for the top of her foot to hook under the ratline below, securing her position.
She tested the strength of her little set up, wiggling slightly, before inching herself back so the crook of her knee was cut by the ratline. Her hands grasped the nearby lines so tightly her knuckles burned white, and her heart rate soon hammered in her throat. Had she been less headstrong, perhaps she'd have turned back.
That, however, would be very unlike her.
Gingerly, she released her grasp on the rope, and ignored the slight shake she most certainly did not see in her hands, and let her eyes find the sky above, slowly, but surely, letting her weight go as she attempted to let herself hang upside down. Her attempts were found to have moderate success, and soon enough her vision was nothing but the upside-down sails and sky above. The rushing of her blood to her head was nonetheless euphoric, and she envisioned the blanket of stars that doing such in the night’s sky would.
Pain overshadowed the joy and interest in her new perspective, her abs, slight as they were, burned, and she could feel the pain and tension already growing in her feet and knees, the slipping of her shirt meaning that only a single hand could be spent clinging ever so tightly to the ropes. She’d only be able to see the upside down world for a moment, but it seemed like that was all she could afford that day.
She’d try again at night, she promised herself. That time with a skin tight shirt, and long boots, and something soft for the back of her knee.
