// closed for @grantgustins // wren & ollie
Every day was a working day, but the evenings were generally one’s own, and Ollie was laid back upon his hammock, leg hanging over the edge and allowing it to swing, his toe on the ground as he tuned his machete. It wasn’t laziness, and it wasn’t idling, per say, it was simply...down-time.
The already darkened (side effect of being below deck) crewmen’s quarters were illuminated by candlelight, which, frankly, wasn’t really conducive to his already shitty eyesight. Still, when footsteps occurred and the bunk nearest his was swiftly occupied by a heavily sighing individual, Ollie squinted to make them out. Wren, maybe? M a y b e. Probably. Maybe?
Eh, didn’t matter who it was, cue an internal shrug. It wasn’t like his sense of self-preservation was terribly high.
“-- Want to talk about it?”
