And I'm split in half, but that'll have to do
The oars sliced through the warm turquoise shallows with a smooth, unhurried rhythm, each stroke deliberate, even meditative. The sun hung high and bright in the sky—a proper Flowerbirth sun, coaxing the air into something soft and humid, fragrant with salt and blooming things.
Everest had rolled up the sleeves of his linen shirt to his elbows, the pale fabric already sticking slightly to his forearms. He’d abandoned boots entirely in favor of bare feet planted against the wooden braces of the rowboat, and his usual layered attire had been traded in for light, breathable clothing in ocean-washed blues and creams, rolled cuffs and an unbuttoned collar that let the breeze thread its way across his collarbone.
A woven bag nestled between his ankles held a folded hammock, three books—one of which had been carefully bookmarked halfway through—and a tin-wrapped picnic of fresh bread, sliced tropical fruits, salted cheese, and something that smelled faintly sweet and roasted. There was also a map, though given the nature of the Kuali’i Isles, it was more for his own sense of order than actual navigation.
"I prefer to think of it as being prepared, rather than overpacking," he murmured, glancing toward Isla with a small smile. "This way if you decide you would like to hunt instead of read, I have things to clean up with after, and if you decide you'd like to go searching for shells, I have something soft to keep them protected for the trip back."
Everest had rolled up the sleeves of his linen shirt to his elbows, the pale fabric already sticking slightly to his forearms. He’d abandoned boots entirely in favor of bare feet planted against the wooden braces of the rowboat, and his usual layered attire had been traded in for light, breathable clothing in ocean-washed blues and creams, rolled cuffs and an unbuttoned collar that let the breeze thread its way across his collarbone.
A woven bag nestled between his ankles held a folded hammock, three books—one of which had been carefully bookmarked halfway through—and a tin-wrapped picnic of fresh bread, sliced tropical fruits, salted cheese, and something that smelled faintly sweet and roasted. There was also a map, though given the nature of the Kuali’i Isles, it was more for his own sense of order than actual navigation.
"I prefer to think of it as being prepared, rather than overpacking," he murmured, glancing toward Isla with a small smile. "This way if you decide you would like to hunt instead of read, I have things to clean up with after, and if you decide you'd like to go searching for shells, I have something soft to keep them protected for the trip back."
